To raise Money with the Dead.

I.

'Tis no uncommon Thing, we know.
To move the Living-Race;
But by an Art, divinely rare !
The Dead must now give Place.

II.

Right Master T** L * R , root 'em up,
One Hole will well suffice;
What! single Graves for mould'ring Clay!
Parsons are now Ground wise.

III.

We want more Room, the Church's too small —
This our Whisler 's Plea;
But entre noas his dirty Soul,
Grasps at fresh Burial Fee.
IV.

Shame to such sacrilegious Acts!

Upon a certain charitable Divine , who, upon a pious Pretence of enlarging his Church, rooted up the Dead in order to effect this salutary Purpose .

I.

By living Means, most griping Elves,
Scrape precious Pelf to Chest;
But this Divine more subtle grown,
Won't let the Dead take Rest.

II.

Mount but to C — ft — n 's tow'ring Hill,
My weeping Friends, behold,
The pious T* Y ** R brings to Light
Your Dead — for Thirst of Gold.

Blind as the song of birds,
Feeling its way into the heart, —
Or as a thought ere it hath words, —
As blind thou art: —

Or as a little stream
A dainty hand might guide apart,
Or Love — young Love's delicious dream, —
As blind thou art: —

Or as a slender bark,
Where summer's varying breezes start —
Or blossoms blowing in the dark, —
As blind thou art: —

Or as the Hope, Desire
Leads from the bosom's crowded mart,
Deluded Hope, that soon must tire, —
As blind thou art: —

She came as comes the summer wind,
A gust of beauty to my heart;
Then swept away, but left behind
Emotions which shall not depart.

Unheralded she came and went,
Like music in the silent night;
Which, when the burthened air is spent,
Bequeaths to memory its delight;

Or, like the sudden April bow
That spans the violet-waking rain:
She bade those blessed flowers to grow
Which may not fall or fade again.

Far sweeter than all things most sweet,
And fairer than all things most fair,

Ever may England in it those retaine,
Duly regarding, that a most Stout vaine,
Warding the poore from wrong and violence,
Admiredly possest with Innocence,
Rightly indeed may a Stout ward befriend him,
Duly his countrey it at all times sending.

Stout ward are you Sir, therewith all indu'd,
Vertuously by manly fortitude:
Tend then for ever, as a most Stout ward ,
That nation which hath nourisht you, it guard.
O let your Stoutnesse it so bravely tend,
None may exceed your Nation to befriend.

Address'd to T. M ATHEWS , Esq. of Landaff, who had promis'd the Author an introductory Letter to Mr . F OOTE .

Fishing Subject for the Day,
As in sleepless Bed I lay,
" Jog L EANDER 's friendly Mind,
Touching Promise left behind. "
Thus my Muse — I must obey,
For her Commands brook no Delay.
Master F OOTE , that Prince of Wags,
Posting with his own Dun Nags,
Bath has left some Time ago,
(And indeed you hinted so)
Shortly I design for Town,
But shall soon again come down;
Send me then your promis'd Letter,

We lie at rest when the day is late, on stretchers set on verandahs wide,
With a clear canal by our garden gate, and fruit-trees growing on either side;
With native saplings that seem to look to a future grand with a faith that's blind,
And a clear canal like an English brook, with a rustic bridge to the lane behind;
And the pine-trees run by the long red road, straight to the rim where the sun went down —
And we, for a season, have dropped each load of care and sorrow by Leeton Town.

Address'd to a Lady at the H OR -W ELL , B RISTOL , wrote in Wales .

Pardon, Madam, this Intrusion,
But of Rhime I've such Profusion,
Write I must, in my own Way, —
Why to Me? — I hear you say:
Troth, because at friendly Board
You regal'd me like a Lord;
And your Treatment so polite,
Grateful thus my Muse will write:
Ever since I landed here,
Scarce a single Hour fair;
Rain and Wind without Cessation;
If a Moment's calm Vacation,
Quick a gloomy wint'ry Sky,
Hovers with malignant Eye,
Strait ensues a beating Rain,

From the early bells of morning,
Till the evening chimes resound,
In the busy world of labour,
For my daily bread I'm bound,
With no hopes of more possessions
Than six scanty feet of ground!

But lay soul hath found an empire,
Hid between two sister hills,
Where she dreams or roams at pleasure,
Finding whatsoe'er she wills;
There sweet Hope her fairest promise
With a lavish hand fulfils.

And the path that windeth thither,
There's no mortal foot may tread,
For it leads to charmèd valleys,

We nightly die ourselves to sleep,
Then wherefore fear we death?
'Tis but a slumber still more deep,
And undisturbed by breath.

We daily waken to the light,
When Morning walks her way,
Then wherefore doubt Death's longer night
Will bring a brighter day?