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On the gale's pinion, with a lover's care,
Ee'n with the speed of thought, did I not go
Explore the cottage of thy abfent fair,

And eas'd thy fick'ning bofom of its woe?

And when that doubting heart ftill felt alarm,
Throbbing alternate with its hope and fear,
Did I not bear thee fafely to her arms,

Affure thy faith, and dry up ev'ry tear?

And, ah! forget not when the fever's power
Rag'd fore, how swift I fought the zephyr's wing,
To cool thy pulfes in the fragrant bower,

And bathe thy temples in the clearest spring.

Friend to thy love, and health, and not a foe
E'en to the mufe who led thee on to fame ;
Yes, e'en thy lyre to me fome charms may owe,
And fancy kindles into brighter flame.

And haft thou fix'd my doom, fweet master, fay-
And wilt thou kill thy fervant, old and poor?
A little longer let me live, I pray,

A little longer hobble round thy door.

Nor could'ft thou bear to fee thy fervant bleed,
Tho' weeping pity has decreed his fate;
Yet, ah! in vain, thy heart for life fhall plead,
If Nature has deny'd a longer date.

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,
Call'd clear blank paper ev'ry infant mind;
When ftill, as ep'ning fenfe her dictates wrote,
Fair virtue put a seal, or vice a blot.

The thought was happy, pertinent, and true;
Methinks a genius might the plan pursue.
I (can you pardon my prefumption), I-
No wit, no genius, yet for once will try.

Various the papers, various wants produce,
The wants of fashion, elegance, and use.
Men are as various; and, if right I scan,
Each fort of paper represents fome man.

Pray not the fop-half powder and half lace-
Nice as a bandbox were his dwelling place:
He's the gilt-paper, which apart you store,
And lock from vulgar hands in the 'scrutoire.

Mechanics, fervants, farmers, and fo forth,
Are copy paper of inferior worth;

Lefs priz'd, more useful, for your desk decreed,
Free to all pens, and prompt at ev'ry need.

The wretch whom av'rice bids to pinch and spare,
Starve, cheat, and pilfer, to enrich an heir,
Is coarse brown paper, such as pedlars choose
To wrap up wares, which better men will use.

Take next the mifer's contraft, who destroys
Health, fame, and fortune, in a round of joys.
Will any paper match him? Yes, throughout,
He's a true finking paper, paft all doubt.
Ff

The retail politician's anxious thought

Deems this fide always right, and that stark nought;
He foams with cenfure; with applause he raves-
A dupe to rumours, and a tool of knaves;
He'll want no type his weakness to proclaim,
While fuch a thing as foolfcap has a name.

The hafty gentleman whose blood runs high,
Who picks a quarrel, if you step awry,
Who can't a jeft or hint, or look endure:
What's he? What? Touch paper to be sure,

What are our poets, take them as they fall,
Good, bad, rich, poor, much read, not read at all!
Them and their works in the fame clafs you'll find;
They are the mere waste paper of mankind.

Obferve the maiden, innocently sweet,
She's fair white paper, an unfullied sheet;
On which the happy man, whom fate ordains,
May write his name, and take her for his pains.

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:
True genuine royal paper in his breast:
Of all the kinds most precious, purest, best.

FRANKLIN.

The World.

THE world's a book, writ by the eternal art
Of the great author: printed in man's heart.

'Tis falfely printed, tho' divinely penn'd,
And all th' errata will appear at th end.

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On the Loss of the Royal George.

OLL for the brave?

The bravel that are no more!

All funk beneath the wave,
Faft by their native shore !

Eight hundred of the brave,
Whose courage well was tried,
Had made the veffel heel,
And laid her on her fide.

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Her timbers yet are found,
And she may float again,

Full charg'd with England's thunder,
And plough the distant main.

But Kempenfelt is gone,

His victories are o'er;

And he and his eight hundred men,
Shall plough the wave no more.

COWPER.

To Mr Pope on his Translation of Homer.

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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.

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