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VERSES BY ALEXANDER SELKIRK. 179
Religion! what treasure untold
Ye winds that have made me your sport,
Some cordial endearing report
Of a land I shall visit no more.
O tell me I yet have a friend,
Though a friend I am never to see.
How fleet is a glance of the mind!
And the swift-winged arrows of light.
But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest,
And I to my cabin repair.
And reconciles man to his lot
ON THE PROMOTION OF
EDWARD THURLOW, ESQ.
To the Lord High Chancellorship of England.
ROUND Thurlow's head, in early youth,
And in his sportive days,
Fair Science pour'd the light of truth
See! with united wonder, cried
Ambition in a boy supplied
With all the skill of age!
Discernment, eloquence, and grace,
The balance in the highest place,
And bear the palm away.
The praise bestow'd was just and wise,
Secure of conquest, where the prize
So the best courser on the plain
ODE TO PEACE.
COME, peace of mind, delightful guest!
Where wilt thou dwell, if not with me,
And pleasure's fatal wiles?
For whom, alas! dost thou prepare
The great, the gay, shall they partake,
That murmurs through the dewy mead,
For thee I panted, thee I priz'd,
Whate'er I lov'd before;
And shall I see thee start away,
WEAK and irresolute is man;
The purpose of to-day, Woven with pains into his plan,
To-morrow rends away.
The bow well bent, and smart the spring, Vice seems already slain;
But Passion rudely snaps the string,
And it revives again.
Some foe to his upright intent
Finds out his weaker part;
Virtue engages his assent,
But Pleasure wins his heart.
Tis here the folly of the wise
Through all his heart we view; And, while his tongue the charge denies, His conscience owns it true.
Bound on a voyage of awful length
And dangers little known,
Man vainly trusts his own.
But oars alone can ne'er prevail,
To reach the distant coast;
The breath of Heav'n must swell the sail, Or all the toil is lost.
THE MODERN PATRIOT.
REBELLION is my theme all day:
(As who knows but perhaps it may ?)
Yon roaring boys, who rave and fight
I always held them in the right,
When lawless mobs insult the court,
If breaking windows be the sport,
But, O! for him my fancy culls
Who constitutionally pulls
Your house about your ears.
Such civil broils are my delight,
Though some folks can't endure them,
Who say the mob are mad outright,
And that a rope must cure them.
A rope! I wish we patriots had
Such strings for all who need 'emWhat! hang a man for going mad! Then farewell British freedom.