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Nor you, ye poor, of letter'd scorn complain,
To the smoothest
you
is smooth in vain ;

song

O'ercome by labour and bow'd down by time,
Feel you the barren flattery of a rhyme?

Can poets sooth you, when you pine for bread,
By winding myrtles round your ruin'd shed?
Can their light tales your weighty griefs o'erpower,
Or glad with airy mirth the toilsome hour?

Lo! where the heath, with withering brake grown

o'er,

Lends the light turf that warms the neighbouring

poor;

From thence a length of burning sand appears,
Where the thin harvest waves its wither'd ears;
Rank weeds, that every art and care defy,
Reign o'er the land and rob the blighted rye:
There thistles stretch their prickly arms afar,
And to the ragged infant threaten war;
There poppies nodding mock the hope of toil,
There the blue bugloss paints the sterile soil;
Hardy and high, above the slender sheaf,
The slimy mallow waves her silky leaf;

O'er the young shoot the charlock throws a shade,
And clasping tares cling round the sickly blade;
With mingled tints the rocky coasts abound,
And a sad splendour vainly shines around..
Here joyless roam a wild amphibious race,
With sullen woe display'd in every face;
Who, far from civil arts and social fly,
And scowl at strangers with suspicious eye.

Here too the lawless merchant of the main
Draws from his plough th' intoxicated swain;
Want only claim'd the labour of the day,
But vice now steals his nightly rest away.

Where are the swains, who, daily labour done, With rural games play'd down the setting sun; Who struck with matchless force the bounding ball, Or made the pond'rous quoit obliquely fall; While some huge Ajax, terrible and strong, Engag'd some artful stripling of the throng, And fell beneath him foil'd, while far around, Hoarse triumph rose, and rocks return'd the sound? Where now are these? Beneath yon cliff they stand, To shew the freighted pinnace where to land; To load the ready steed with guilty haste, To fly in terror o'er the pathless waste; Or, when detected in their straggling course, To foil their foes by cunning or by force; Or yielding part (which equal knaves demand) To gain a lawless passport through the land. Here wand'ring long, amid these frowning fields, I sought the simple life that Nature yields; Rapine and Wrong and Fear usurp'd her place, And a bold, artful, surly, savage race:

Who, only skill'd to take the finny tribe,

*

The yearly dinner, or septennial bribe, t

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Wait on the shore, and as the waves run high,
On the tost vessel bend their eager eye;
Which to their coast directs its vent'rous way,
Their's, or the ocean's miserable prey.

As on their neighbouring beach yon swallows stand,
And wait for favouring winds to leave the land;
While still for flight the ready wing is spread:
So waited I the favouring hour, and fled;
Fled from these shores where guilt and famine reign,
And cry'd, Ah! hapless they who still remain;

• Given by the Corporation at the election of its Annua! Officers + Aldeburgh is one of those mockeries of Representation, that sends two Members to Parliament.

Who still remain to hear the ocean roar,

Whose greedy waves devour the lessening shore;*
Till some fierce tide, with more imperious sway,
Sweeps the low hut and all it holds away;
When the sad tenant weeps from door to door,
And begs a poor protection from the poor.

A

PASTORAL SONG,

Written at Butley, 1792.

BY THE REV. JOHN BLACK.

The Rev. John Black was for many years a resident at Woodbridge, and died there Aug. 30th, 1813, in the 59th year of his age. He was licenced to the perpetual curacy of Butley in 1789; and to that of Ramsholt in 1807; and was highly respected for the excellency of his understanding, and the amiable qualities of his heart. He was a good classical scholar, and possessed a considerable share of poetical talent. The pious resignation of a christian supported him in the troubles and privations, which it was his hard lot to encounter in domestic life. In 1791, he published "A Sermon, occasioned by the death of the Rev. Tho "mas Carthen, F. S. A. late minister at Woodbridge, "&c." 4to. "Political Calumny refuted; addressed to "the Inhabitants of Woodbridge, containing an extract "of a sermon, preached at Butley, on the Fast Day," 1793: "A Sermon, preached at Otley, on the day ap"pointed for a General Thanksgiving on account of our "naval victories:" "Solitary Musings, in verse 8vo. in 1799, Poems," 8vo. which were honored by a very large subscription, and to which is prefixed his portrait; and in 1801, "The Free School, a Poem; to "which is added an Elegy on the Death of Edmund Jenney, esq. of Bredfield; and of Philip Bowes Broke, esq. of Nacton," who both died in that year.

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YE shepherds, round BUTLEY who stray,
Attending your sable-faced* sheep,
Drive sorrow and care far away!

Give your tears, and your sighs to the deep!
See, how the OLD ABBEY looks gay! +
No ivy now creeps o'er its wall;

Its columns of smoke curling play,
In honour of fair DONEGALL!

We have walk'd round the ruins and sigh'd,
And talk'd of its splendor and fame;

The sheep in Suffolk have black faces and legs.

At this place, which is about four miles from the sea and three from Orford, was a Priory of Black Canons of the order of St. Augustine, founded in 1171 by Ranulph de Glanvile, Chief Justice of England, who dedicated it to the Blessed Virgin, and amply endowed it with lands and churches. At the Dissolution, the annual income was estimated at 318. 17s. 2d. Its site was granted 32nd Henry VIII, to Thomas, Duke of Norfolk, and in the 36th of the of the same king to William Forth, in whose family it long remained. In 1737, George Wright, esq. whose property it then was, fitted up the Gate-House, and converted it into a handsome mansion, which has since been inhabited, as a shooting seat, by various persons of distinction. Mr. Wright, at his death, left it to his widow, from whom it decended to John Clyatt, a watchman in London, as heir-at-law; and was by him sold to Mr. Strahan, printer to his Majesty. It was afterwards the property of Lord Archibald Hamilton, the eldest son of James, the third duke of Hamilton, by Elizabeth, his third wife, the daughter and heir of Edward Spencer of Rendlesham, (esq. and who, on the decease of his elder brothers and nephews, became the seventh duke of Hamilton. He added two tasteless wings to it, which are as yet unfinished, and by him it was sold, with the Rendlesham estates, to the father of the present noble possessor.

The Priory was both large and magnificent; its walls and ruins occupy nearly twelve acres. The Gate-House was an elegant structure. Its whole front is embellished with coats of arms finely cut in stone; and between the interstices of the free-stone are placed square black flints, which, by the contrast of the colour, give a very beautiful and rich appearance. South of the gate-way are the remains of several buildings, particularly of an old chapel. The Mansion is now shut up; a part of the offices only being occupied by some laboring people. The Gate-House has been frequently engraved.

Barbara, the third wife of Arthur, first Marquis of Donegall. She was the daughter of the Rev. Dr. Godfrey, and was married to his Lordship, October 12th, 1790. They both resided Here occasionally, for some years. The Marquis's first wife was Anne, the only daughter of James, Duke of Hamilton, by Elizabeth, the daughter and heir of Edward Spencer, of Rendlesham, esq. by whom he had George Augustus, the present Marquis.

How the wants of the poor were supplied-
Each stranger made welcome that came.
Once more now flows BOUNTY's spring tide,
And cheerfulness reigns in the hall ;
The boast of our plains and the pride-
Is the sweet and the fair DONEGALL!

You have seen the bright star of the morn
From the bosom of ocean arise :

You have seen the dew-drops on the thorn
Reflecting a thousand bright dies:
You have seen silver CYNTHIA's soft ray
At eve on the wave sweetly fall :—
Can these then a lustre display,

Like the

eyes of the fair DONEGALL?

Her look is benignant and kind,
Her complexion outvies e'en the rose :
By her face you may see that her mind
Is the seat where the virtues repose.
Such beauty and goodness combin'd
Enraptures the bosoms of all :-

Our hearts, with our voices are join'd,
In the praise of the fair DONEGALL!

Long sorrow had stifled my voice;
My pipe on the willow was hung;
But DONEGALL bids us rejoice,
And DONEGALL's praise shall be sung:
Let her pardon a rustical Swain,
And accept of this tribute tho' small :—
Then, while we can pipe on the plain,
Our theme shall be fair DONEGALL!

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