FROM THE AUTHOR

TO A

your

fun;

CELEBRATED METHODIST PREACHER.

HYPOCRISY's Son!
No more

of
A truce with fanatical raving:
Why censure the stage ?
'Tis known to the age

That both of us thrive by–deceiving.
'Tis frequently said
That two of a trade

Will boldy each other bespatter:
But trust me, they're fools
Who play with edged tools ;

So let's have no more of the matter.

FROM A

TRUANT TO HIS FRIENDS. 'Tis not in cells, or a sequester'd cot,

The mind and morals properly expand; Let Youth step forward to a busier spot,

Led by Discretion's cool conducting hand. To learn some lessons from the schools of man,

(Forgive me!) I forsook my darling home; Not from a light, an undigested plan,

Nor from a youthful appetite to roam. In your affections—(let resentment fly!)

Restore me to my long-accustom'd place; Receive me with a kind forgiving eye,

And press me in the parent's fond embrace.

G

VERSES

WRITTEN ABOUT THREE WEEKS BEFORE HIS DEATH.

DEAR lad, as you run o'er my rhyme,

And see my long name at the end, You'll cry, And has Cunningham time

To give so much verse to his friend ?' 'Tis true, the reproof (though severe)

Is just from the letters I owe; But blameless I still may appear,

For nonsense is all I bestow. However, for better, for worse,

As Damons their Chloes receive, E’en take the dull lines I rehearse

They're all a poor friend has to give. The Drama and I have shook hands,

We've parted, no more to engage; Submissive I met her commands

For nothing can cure me of age. My sunshine of youth is no more!

My mornings of pleasure are fled ! 'Tis painful my fate to endure

A pension supplies me with bread! Dependant at length on the man

Whose fortunes I struggled to raise !
I conquer my pride as I can-

His charity merits my praise.
His bounty proceeds from his heart;

'Tis principle prompts the supplyHis kindness exceeds my desert,

And often suppresses a sigh.

But like the old horse in the

song, I'm turn’d on the common to grazeTo Fortune these changes belong,

And contented I yield to her ways ! She ne'er was my friend; through the day

Her smiles were the smiles of deceitAt noon she'd her favours display,

And at night let me pine at her feet. No longer her presence I court,

No longer I shrink at her frowns ! Her whimseys supply me with sport

And her smiles I resign to the clowns! Thus lost to each worldly desire,

And scorning all riches-all fameI quietly hope to retire

When Time shall the summons proclaim. I've nothing to weep for behind !

To part with my friends is the worst ! Their numbers, I grant, are confined,

But you are still one of the first,

MORNING. In the barn the tenant cock,

Close to partlet perch'd on high, Briskly crows (the shepherd's clock !)

Jocund that the morning's nigh. Swiftly from the mountain's brow,

Shadows, nursed by night, retire : And the peeping sunbeam now

Paints with gold the village spire. Philomel forsakes the thorn,

Plaintive where she prates at night; And the lark, to meet the morn,

Soars beyond the shepherd's sight. From the low-roof'd cottage ridge,

See the chattering swallow spring; Darting through the one-arch'd bridge,

Quick she dips her dappled wing. Now the pine-tree's waving top

Gently greets the morning gale ; Kidlings now begin to crop

Daisies in the dewy dale.

From the balmy sweets, uncloy'd

(Restless till her task be done), Now the busy bee's employ'd,

Sipping dew before the sun. Trickling through the creviced rock,

Where the limpid stream distils, Sweet refreshment waits the flock

When 'tis sundrove from the hills.

Colin, for the promised corn

(Ere the harvest hopes are ripe) Anxious, hears the huntsman's horn,

Boldly sounding, drown his pipe. Sweet,-0 sweet the warbling throng,

On the white emblossom'd spray! Nature's universal song

Echoes to the rising day.

NOON.

FERVID on the glittering flood,

Now the noontide radiance glows : Drooping o'er its infant bud,

Not a dewdrop's left the rose. By the brook the shepherd dines;

From the fierce meridian heat Shelter'd by the branching pines, Pendent o'er his

grassy

seat. Now the flock forsakes the glade,

Where, uncheck’d, the sunbeams fall; Sure to find a pleasing shade By the ivy'd abbey wall.