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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
T'is true, was once in a superior state,

But losses, crosses, and these trying times,
Had lately him reduc'd to sufferings great.

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,
Excited by rich grace and love divine,
To sooth his fears and give his mind content,
To raise a small subscription did incline,

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,
I wake, and from my squalid couch arise;

Brisk Philomela tunes her dulcet lay,
The lark arising, hails the op'ning day,

The plumed choirs with cheerful accents rise,
And chant their matins to th' etherial skies,
The whole creation seems combin'd to raise

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
From chilling blasts, and from the inclement air,
These screen'd me from the cold in some degree,

Yet much 1 felt-the light I gladly see;
But why should I distrust, or e'er repine?
Let me my will to providence resign,
The Saviour slumber'd in as mean a bed,
He'd scarce a place to rest his sacred head:

I suffer much, perhaps for some good end,
To sooth my fears, kind heaven may raise a friend,
I'll bless his name who has my frame upheld,

Then walk the mead and dew bespangled field;
Bright Phoebus rising, darts a cheering beam,
Awakes the muse, I choose some fav'rite theme,
Urania fair my fainting mind inspire,

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,
And view'd bright florid scenes in smiling May;
Pastures o'erspread with Cowslips we behold,
Illum'd by solar rays like glist'ning gold;
These flowers are of narcotic parts possest,
They sooth to sleep, and give the patient rest;
I pluck them while bright Sol does fulgid shine,
Then dry them to procure heart-cheering wine.
Some herbs adorn the hills—some vales below
Where limpid streamlets in meanders flow,
Here's golden Saxifrage, in vernal hours,
Springs up when water'd well by fertile showers,
It flourishes in bogs where waters beat,

The yellow flowers in clusters stand complete,
Adorn'd with snowy white in meadows low,
White Saxifrage displays a lucid show,

The roots, or seeds a special powder make,
Which friends may as a diarrhotic take;

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