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years the western breeze had not once fanned his blood he had seen no sun, no moon, in ali that time-por had the voice of friend or kiusman breathed through his lattice. His children

But here my heart began to bleed—and I was forced to go on with another part of the portrait.

He was sitting upon the ground upon a lit le síraw, in the farthest corner of his dungeon, which was alternately his chair and bed : a little calendar of small sticks were laid at the head, notched all over with the dismal days and nights he bad passed there he had one of these little sticks in his hand, and with a rusty nail he was etching another day of misery to add to the hear. As I darkened the little light he had, he lifted up a hopeless eye towards the door, then cast it down-sh: ok his head, and went on with his work of affliction. I heard his chains


his legs, as he turned his body to lay his little stick upon the bundle He gave a deep sigh- I saw the iron enter into his soul-I burst into tears--I could not sustain the picture of confinement which my fancy had drawn.




- My young master in Londen 'is dead, said Obas, diah

- Here is sad news, Trim, cried Susannah, wiping her reyes as Trim stepped into the kitchen--master Bobby is dead.

I lament for him from my heart and my soul, saici Trin, fetching a sigh---poor creature! poor boy! poor gentleman !

He was alive last Whitsuntide, said the coachman. Whitsuntide! alas! cried Trim, extending his right arm, and falling instantly into the same attitude in which he read the sermon,- what is Whitsantide, Jonathan, (for that was the coachman's name,) or Shrovetide, or any tide

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or time past, to this ? Are we not here now, continued the corporal, (striking the end of his stick perpendicularly upon the floor, so as to give an idea of health and stability,) are are we not (dropping bis hat upon the ground) gone

! in a moment! - It was infinitely striking! Susannah burst into a flood of tears. We are not stocks and stones Jonal han, Obadiah, the cook-maid, all melted.---The foolish fat scullion herselt, who was scouring a fish-kettle upon her knees, was roused with it.-- The whole kitchen crowded about the corporal.

Are we not here now,--and gone in a moment?”. There was nothing in the sentence-it was one of your self-evident ruths we have the advantage of hearing every day; and if Trim had not trusted more to his hat ihan bis head, he had madle nothing at all of it.

“Are we not here row," continued the corporal, “and are we not” (dropping his hat plump upon the ground -and pausing, before he pronounced the word) “ gone! “ in a moment?” The descent of the hat was as if a heavy lump of clay had been kntaded into the crown of it.-Nothing could have expressed the sentiment of mortality, of which it was the type' and forerunner, like it; his hand seemed to vanish from under it, it fell dead, the corporai's eye fixed upon it, as upon a corpse,—and Susannah' burst juto a tlood of tears.




All our praises why should Lords engross?
Rise, honest Muse! and sing the Man of Ross:
Pleas'd Vaga echoes through her winding bounds,
And rapid Cerern hoarse applause resounds.
Who'hung with woods yon innuntain's sultry brow:
From the dry rock wbo bade the waters flow?
Not to the skies in useless coluinns tost,
Or in proud falls magnificently lust,

But clear and artless, pouring through the plain
Health to the sick, and solace to the swain.
Whose causeway parts the vale with shady rows ?-
Whose seals the weary traveller repose ?
Who taught that heav'n-directed spire to rise ?
The Man of Ross,' earh Bisping babe replies.

Behold the market-place with poor o'erspread!
The Man of Ross divides the weekly bread :
He feeds

yon alıns-house, beat, but void of stale,
Where Age and Wanı sit smiling at the gate :
Him portion'd maids, apprentic'd orphans blest,

young who labour, and the old who rest,
Is any sick? The Man of Ross relieves,
Prescribes, attends, the med’cine makes, and givesi
Is there a variance? Enter but his door,
Balk’d are the courts, and contest is no more.
Despairing quacks with curses fled the place,
And vile attorneys, now an useless-race.
Thrice happy man! enabled to pursue
What all so wish, but want the power to do!
Oh, say, what sums that generous hand supply?-
What mines, to swell that boundless charity?

Of debts and taxes, wife and children clear,
This man possess'd-five hundred pounds a year.
Blush Grandeur, blush! proud Courts, withdraw your

blaze! Ye little stars ! hide

your diminish's

rays. :
And what! no monument, inscriptioi), stone?
His race, his form, his name almost unknown?
Who builds a church to God, and not to fame,
Will never mark the marble with his name :
Gů search it there, where to be born and die,
Ofxich and poor makes all the history;
Enough, that virtue fillid the space between ; -
Proy'd, by the ends of being to have been.






Near yonder copse, where once the garden smilt,
And still where many a garden flower grows wild,
There, where a few jorn shrubs thie place discluse,
The village preacher's mouest mansion rose.
A man he was to all the country dear,
And passing rich with forty pounds a year;
Remote from towns he ran bis godly race,
Nor e'er had chang'd, nor wish'd to change his place;
Unpractis'd he to fawo, or seek for pow'r,
By doctrines fashion’d to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learn’d to prize,
More bent to raise the wretched ihan to rise.
His house was known to all the ragrant train,
He chid their wand'rings, but relier'd their pain.
'The long remember'd beggar was his guest,
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast :
The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claim'd kindred there, and had bis claims allow'd :
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,
Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away;
Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done,
Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won.
Pleas'd with his guests, the good man learu'd to glow,
And quite forgot their vices in their wo;
Careless their merits, or their faults to scan,
His pity gave tre charity began.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And ev'n his failings lean'd to Virtue's sidle :
But in his duty prompt at ev'ry call,
He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all.
And, as a bird each find endearment tries,
To tempt its new-fledg'd offspring to the skies;
He try'd each art, repror'd each du!l delav,
Allur'l to brigtiger worlds, and led the way.

Beside the best whore parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd,

The rev'rend champion stood. At his control
Despair and anguish fled the struggling sout;
Comfort came down, the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last falt'ring accents whisper's praise.

At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorn'd the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevail'ul with double sway,
And fools, who came to scoff, remain’d to pray.
The service past, around the pious man,
With ready zeal each honest rustic ran :
E'en children follow'd with endearing wile,
And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile ;
His ready smile a parent's warmth express?d,
Their welfare pleas’d him, and their cares distress'd;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were gir'n,
But all his serious thoughts had rest in Heav'n.
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal sunshine setties on its head.




CONTENTMENT, parent of delight,
So much a stranger to our sight,
Say, goddess, in what happy place
Mortals behold thy blooming face ; ;
Thy gracious auspices impart,
And for thy temple choose heart,
They, whom thou deignest to inspire,
Thy science learn, to bound desire ;
By happy alchymy of mind
They turn to pleasure all they find;
They both disdain in outward inien
The grave and solemn garb of spleen,


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