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Did many talents gild thy fpan?
Or frugal Nature grudge thee one?
Tell them, and prefs it on their mind
As thou thyfelf must shortly find,
The fmile or frown of awful Heaven,
To Virtue or to Vice is given.
Say, to be juft, and kind, and wife,
There folid felf-enjoyment lies ;"
That foolish, felfifh, faithlefs ways,
Lead to be wretched, vile, and base.

Thus, refigned and quiet, creep
To the bed of lasting fleep;

Sleep, whence thou fhalt ne'er awake,
Night, where dawn fhall never wake,
Till Future Life, future no more,

To Light and joy the good restore,
To light and joy unknown before.

Stranger, go! Heaven be thy guide! Quoth the Beadfman of Nith-fide.

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O D

E,

SACRED TO THE MEMORY

MRS.

OF

DWELLER in yon dungeon dark,

Hangman of creation, mark!

Who in widow weeds appears,

Laden with unhonoured years,

Noofing with care a bursting purse,

Baited with many a deadly curfe!

STROPHE,

View the wither'd beldam's face-
Can thy keen inspection trace

Aught of Humanity's sweet melting grace?
Note that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows,

Pity's flood there never rofe.

See thofe hands, ne'er ftretch'd to fave,

Hands that took

but never gave.

Keeper of Mammon's iron cheft,

Lo, there fhe goes, unpitied and unbleft,

She goes,

but not to realins of everlasting reft!

ANTIS TROPHE.

Plunderer of Armies, lift thine eyes, (A while forbear, ye torturing fiends), Seeft thou whofe ftep, unwilling hither bends? No fallen angel, hurld from upper fkics; Tis thy trufty quondam Mate,

Doomed to fhare thy fiery fate,

She, tardy, hell-ward plies.

E PODE.

And are they of no more avail,
Ten thousand glittering pounds a year?
In other worlds can Mammon fail,
Omnipotent as he is here?

O, bitter mockery of the pompous bier,
While down the wretched vital part is driven !
The cave-lodged beggar, with a confcience clear,
Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to Heaven.

EL EGY,

ΟΝ

CAPT, MH

A Gentleman who held the Patent for his Honours immediately from Almighty God!

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But now his radiant course is run,
For Matthew's course was bright;
His Soul was like the glorious fur,
A matchlefs Heavenly Light!

DEATH! thou tyrant fell and bloody!

'I he meikle devil wi' a woodie

Haurl thee hame to his black fmiddie,

O'er hurcheon hides,

And like flock-fish come o'er his studdie

Wi' thy auld fides!

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