Puslapio vaizdai
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Their rich Reversion, and (what fhares its Fate)
Their native Freedom, to the Prince who fways
This nether World. And when his Payments fail,
When his foul Basket gorges them no more;
Or their pall❜d Palates loath the Basket full ;
Are inftantly, with wild demoniac Rage,
For breaking all the Chains of Providence,
And bursting their Confinement; tho' faft barr'd
By Laws divine and human; guarded strong
With Horrors doubled to defend the Pafs,
The blackeft, Nature, or dire Guilt can raife;
And moated round, with fathomlefs Deftruction,
Sure to receive and whelm them in their Fall.

Such, Britons! is the Caufe, to you unknown,
Or worse, o'erlook'd; o'erlook'd by Magiftrates,
Thus, Criminals themselves. I grant the Deed
Is Madness; but the Madness of the Heart.
And what is that? Our utmoft Bound of Guilt.
A fenfual, unreflecting Life is big

With monftrous Births, and Suicide, to crown
The black infernal Brood. The Bold to break
Heav'n's Law fupreme, and defperately rush
Thro' facred Nature's Murder, on their own,
Because they never think of Death, they die.
'Tis equally Man's Duty, Glory, Gain,
At once to fhun, and meditate, his End.
When by the Bed of Languishment we fit,
(The Seat of Wisdom! if our Choice, not Fate)

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Or,

Or, o'er our dying Friends, in Anguish hang,
Wipe the cold Dew, or ftay the finking Head,
Number their Moments, and, in ev'ry Clock,
Start at the Voice of an Eternity;

See the dim Lamp of Life juft feebly lift
An agonizing Beam, at us to gaze,
Then fink again, and quiver into Death,

That most pathetic Herald of our own!
How read we fuch fad Scenes? As fent to Man
In perfect Vengeance? No; in Pity fent,

To melt him down, like Wax, and then impress,
Indelible, Death's Image on his Heart;
Bleeding for others, trembling for himself.

We bleed, we tremble; we forget, we fmile.
The Mind turns Fool, before the Cheek is dry.
Our quick-returning Folly cancels all ;

As the Tide rushing rafes what is writ

In yielding Sands, and fmooths the letter'd Shore.

LORENZO! haft thou ever weigh'd a Sigh?

Or ftudy'd the Philofophy of Tears?

(A Science, yet, unlectur'd in our Schools!)
Haft thou defcended deep into the Breaft,
And feen their Source? If not, defcend with me,
And trace these briny Riv❜lets to their Springs.

Our Fun'ral Tears, from diff'rent Causes, rise.
As if from feparate Cifterns in the Soul,
Of various Kinds, they flow. From tender Hearts,

By

By foft Contagion call'd, fome burft at once,
And stream obfequious to the leading Eye.
Some afk more Time, by curious Art diftill'd.
Some Hearts in fecret hard, unapt to melt,
Struck by the Magic of the Public Eye,
Like MOSES' fmitten Rock, gufh out amain.
Some weep to share the Fame of the Deceas'd,
So high in Merit, and to them fo dear.

They dwell on Praises, which they think they share;
And thus, without a Blush, commend Themselves.
Some mourn in Proof, that fomething they could love.
They weep not to relieve their Grief, but shew.
in perfect Justice to the Dead,
As confcious all their Love is in Arrear.

Some

weep

Some mischievously weep, not unappriz'd,

Tears, fometimes, aid the Conquest of an Eye.
With what Addrefs the foft Epheftans draw
Their Sable Net-work o'er entangled Hearts?
As feen thro' Crystal, how their Rofes glow,
While liquid Pearl runs trickling down their Cheek?
Of hers not prouder Egypt's wanton Queen,
Caroufing Gems, herself diffolv'd in Love.
Some weep at Death, abftracted from the Dead,
And celebrate, like CHARLES their own Decease.
By kind Conftruction some are deem'd to weep,
Because a decent Veil conceals their Joy.

Some weep in Earneft; and yet weep in Vain; As deep in Indifcretion, as in Woe.

Paffion,

Paffion, blind Paffion! impotently pours

Tears, that deferve more Tears; while Reafon fleeps;

Or gazes, like an Idiot, unconcern'd;

Nor comprehends the Meaning of the Storm;
Knows not it speaks to Her, and her alone.
Irrationals all Sorrow are beneath,

That noble Gift! that Privilege of Man!
From Sorrow's Pang, the Birth of endless Joy.
But These are barren of that Birth divine:
They weep impetuous, as the Summer-Storm,
And full as fhort! The cruel Grief foon tam'd,
They make a Paftime of the ftinglefs Tale;
Far as the deep-refounding Knell, they spread
The dreadful News, and hardly feel it more.
No Grain of Wisdom pays them for their Woe.

Half round the Globe, the Tears pumpt up by Death Are spent in wat'ring Vanities of Life;

In making Folly flourish still more fair.

When the fick Soul, her wonted Stay withdrawn,
Reclines on Earth, and forrows in the Duft;
Inftead of learning, there, her true Support,
Tho' there thrown down her true Support to learn,
Without Heav'n's Aid, impatient to be bleft,

She crawls to the next Shrub, or Bramble vile,
Tho' from the ftately Cedar's Arms fhe fell,
With ftale, forefworn Embraces, clings anew,
The Stranger weds, and bloffoms, as before,
In all the fruitless Fopperies of Life:

Prefents

Prefents her Weed, well-fanfied, at the Ball,
And raffles for the Death's-Head on the Ring.

So wept AURELIA, till the deftin'd Youth
Stept in, with his Receipt for making Smiles,
And blanching Sables into bridal Bloom.
So wept LORENZO fair CLARISSA's Fate;
Who gave that Angel Boy, on whom he doats;
And dy'd to give him, orphan'd in his Birth!
Not fuch, NARCISSA, my Diftrefs for Thee.
I'll make an Altar of thy facred Tomb

To facrifice to Wifdom.-What waft Thou?
"Young, Gay, and Fortunate !" Each yields a Theme.
I'll dwell on each, to fhun Thought more fevere;
(Heav'n knows I labour with feverer still!)

I'll dwell on each, and quite exhauft thy Death.
A Soul without Reflection, like a Pile

Without Inhabitant, to Ruin runs.

And, First, thy Youth. What fays it to Grey Hairs! NARCISSA, I'm become thy Pupil nowEarly, Bright, Tranfient, Chafte, as Morning Dew, She fparkled, was exhal'd, and went to Heaven: Time on this Head has fnow'd; yet still 'tis borne Aloft; nor thinks but on another's Grave. Cover'd with Shame I fpeak it, Age fevere Old worn-out Vice fets down for Virtue fair. With graceless Gravity, chaftifing Youth, That Youth chaftis'd furpaffing in a Fault,

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Father

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