Army Corps on the March, An

With its cloud of skirmishers in advance,
With now the sound of a single shot snapping like a whip, and now an irregular volley,
The swarming ranks press on and on, the dense brigades press on;
Glittering dimly, toiling under the sun--the dust-cover'd men,
In columns rise and fall to the undulations of the ground,
With artillery interspers'd--the wheels rumble, the horses sweat,
As the army corps advances.

Epitaph upon a Sober Matron, An

With blameless carriage I lived here
To th' (almost) seven and fortieth year.
Stout sons I had, and those twice three;
One only daughter lent to me,
The which was made a happy bride,
But thrice three moons before she died;
My modest wedlock, that was known
Contented with the bed of one.

On the Benefactions in the Late Frost

"Yes, ' is the time,' I cried, "impose the chain
Destined and due to wretches self-enslaved!'
But when I saw such charity remain,
I half could wish this people might be saved.
Faith lost, and hope, their charity begins;
And 'tis a wise design on pitying Heaven,
If this can, cover multitudes of sins,
To take the only way to be forgiven

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