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But in the field, alas! as in the ſtate,
The greateſt merit meets the hardeſt fate;
Wolfe falls, Britannia’s Genius gave a groan.
And Fame immortal ſeal’d him for her own,
Streaming in blood he rolls his livid eyes,
And hearing ſhouts, has England loſt? he cries,
O no! I view the Victor's Colours fly,
My country conquers, and in peace I die.
Yet ere his ſoul it’s deſtin’d journey ſped,
He ſigh’d, and thus to his attendants ſaid.
A I R.
Farewel, my friends. Britannia now adieu,
I die contented, ſince ! bleed for you;
Victory now his wings expands,
To ſmooth the trachiefs way,
And peace immortal opes its hands,
To lead me up to day.
My country’s ſerv’d. I ask no greater ſame,
Thou is contained in a Briton’s name.
A SMILING FULL BOWL.
WIll you credit a Miſer, ’tis gold makes us wiſe,
The bliſs of his life, the joy of his eyes:
And aſk a fond lever, where wiſdom he places,
To be ſure in his miſtreſs her charms her graces;
But let the free lad ſpeak the joy of his ſoul,
T’is a ſparkling Glaſs, and a ſmiling full Bowl.
The Miſer is wretched, unhappy and poor;
He ſuffers great want in the midſt of his ſtore:
The lover’s diſconſolate,-mopiſh, and fad,
Fortbat which when gain’d will ſoon make him mad,
The Miſer's a Fool, and the Lover's an Aſs,
And be only’s Wiſe, who adores the full Glaſs.
