Yet had he slept there, one supreme command Could cause the fervid flames to lose their pow He who saved others by his mighty hand, Could him preserve in that tremendous hour. hy THE AUTHOR'S JOURNEY TO WOODBRIDGE AFTER THE STORM. The worthless author of these simple rhymes But losses, crosses, and these trying times, In April, he from Ipswich did retire, O'er verdant meads, in much distress of mind, Woodbridge to see was his intense desire, Firmly believing he should friendship find; Replete with keen remorse and discontent, Quite penny-less 'mongst men superb he stray'd, Contemptuous smiles from cynicks did resent, Yet did not quite distrust celestial aid. At length some gentlemen beneficent, That these plain verses might in print appear, Which he on that dread thunder storm compos'd; May all who read them serve their God with fear, Ere by death's chilling hand their eyes are clos'd. THE Poor Phytologist, OR THE AUTHOR GATHERING HERBS, When bright Aurora gilds the eastern skies, Brisk Philomela tunes her dulcet lay, The plumed choirs with cheerful accents rise, A sacred anthem to celestial praise. I rise invested with my tatter'd dress, Grateful sensations could to heaven express; (Was I enrob'd with ornaments divine, Garments that all superb attire outshine :) My clothes in sleeping hours my covering were Yet much 1 felt-the light I gladly see; I suffer much, perhaps for some good end, Then walk the mead and dew bespangled field; And warm my languid mind with sacred fire, Be this my topic, this my aim and end, Heaven's will t'obey, and seek t'oblige a friend. C I walk'd in vernal hours o'er meadows gay, The yellow flowers in clusters stand complete, The roots, or seeds a special powder make, |