On the gale's pinion, with a lover's care, And eas'd thy fick'ning bofom of its woe? And when that doubting heart ftill felt alarm, Affure thy faith, and dry up ev'ry tear? And, ah! forget not when the fever's power And bathe thy temples in the clearest spring. Friend to thy love, and health, and not a foe And haft thou fix'd my doom, fweet master, fay- A little longer hobble round thy door. Nor could'ft thou bear to fee thy fervant bleed, Alas! I feel 'tis Nature dooms my death, Ah me! I feel 'tis Pity gives the blowYet ere it falls, ah, Nature! take my breath, And my kind master shall no forrow know. Ere the laft morn of my allotted life, A fofter fate fhall end me old and poor, May timely fave me from the uplifted knife, And gently stretch me at my master's door. POTTER. Paper-A Poem. OME wit of old-fuch wits of old there were SOME Whofe hints fhow'd meaning, whofe allufions care, By one brave stroke to mark all human kind, The thought was happy, pertinent, and true; Various the papers, various wants produce, Pray not the fop-half powder and half lace- Mechanics, fervants, farmers, and fo forth, Lefs priz'd, more useful, for your desk decreed, The wretch whom av'rice bids to pinch and spare, Take next the mifer's contraft, who destroys The retail politician's anxious thought Deems this fide always right, and that stark nought; The hafty gentleman whose blood runs high, What are our poets, take them as they fall, Obferve the maiden, innocently sweet, One inftance more, and only one I'll bring; 'Tis the great man who scorns a little thing, Whofe thoughts, whofe deeds, whofe maxims, are his own, Form'd on the feelings of his heart alone: FRANKLIN. The World. THE world's a book, writ by the eternal art 'Tis falfely printed, tho' divinely penn'd, On the Loss of the Royal George. OLL for the brave? The bravel that are no more! All funk beneath the wave, Eight hundred of the brave, Her timbers yet are found, Full charg'd with England's thunder, But Kempenfelt is gone, His victories are o'er; And he and his eight hundred men, COWPER. To Mr Pope on his Translation of Homer. much, dear Pope, thy English Iliad charms, When pity melts us, or when paffion warms, That after ages fhall with wonder feek, Who 'twas tranflated Homer into Greek.. FINIS. NEWCASTLE UPON TYNE PRINTED BY S. HODGSON. |