With Thomson, now, o’er sylvan scenes we stray,
Or seek the lone church-yard, with pensive Gray: 
On Pope’s refin’d, or Dryden’s lofty strains,
Dwell, while their fire the lightest heart enchains. 
Through these and all our Bards to whom belong
The pow’rs transcendent of immortal song,
How difficult to steer t’avoid the cant
Of polish’d phrase, and nerve-alarming rant;
Each period with true elegance to round,
And give the Poet’s meaning in the sound. 
But, wherefore should the Muse employ her verse,
The peril of our labors to rehearse? 
Oft has your kind, your generous applause,
E’re now, convinc’d us, you approve our cause: 
Conscious it will again our task attend,
The Critic stern, we ask not to commend,
Who like inclement Winter’s hostile frown
Would beat th’infantine shrubs of Genius down.

By your kind sanction, spur’d to nobler aims,
Our country, now, the Muses’ tribute claims: 
When o’er fair Albion war destructive lours,
Oh! be those Patriot feelings ever ours,
Which from the public mind spontaneous burst
On that infuriate foe, by crimes accurst,
Who’d o’er our envied isle his vassals send,
And all the land with dire convulsions rend. 
Well! let their armies come, their locusts pour,
Each British heart shall welcome them on shore,
Each British hand is arm’d in Britain’s cause,
To guard their birth-right, liberty, and laws,
Rise!  Britons, rise! attend fair freedom’s cry,
The wretch who meanly fears deserves to die. 
His kind protection ’gainst each latent foe,
Still may that Pow’r Omnipotent bestow,
Which first Britannia’s sov’reign flag unfurl’d
So high, it flames a beacon to the World!

THE BEGGAR.

Of late I saw him on his staff reclin’d,
  Bow’d down beneath a weary weight of woes,
Without a roof to shelter from the wind
 His head, all hoar with many a winter’s snows. 
All tremb’ling he approach’d, he strove to speak;
  The voice of misery scarce my ear assail’d;
A flood of sorrow swept his furrow’d cheek,
  Remembrance check’d him, and his utt’rance fail’d. 
For he had known full many a better day;
  And when the poor-man at his threshold bent,
He drove him not with aching heart away,
  But freely shar’d what Providence had sent. 
How hard for him, the stranger’s boon to crave,
And live to want the mite his bounty gave!

TO .........

Come, Jenny, let me sip the dew,
  That on those coral lips doth play,
One kiss would every care subdue,
  And bid my weary soul be gay.

For surely, thou wert form’d by love
  To bless the suffrer’s parting sigh;
In pity then, my griefs remove,
  And on that bosom let me die!

THE RUNAWAY.

Ah! who is he by Cynthia’s gleam
  Discern’d, the statue of distress: 
Weeping beside the willow’d stream
  That bathes the woodland wilderness?