Catches her child, and pointing where the waves Foam thro' the fhatter'd veffel, fhrieks aloud, As one poor wretch that spreads his piteous arms For fuccour, fwallowed by the roaring furge, As now another, dafh'd against the rock, Drops lifelefs down: O deemeft thou indeed No kind endearment here by nature giv'n To mutual terror and compaffion's tears? No fweetly-melting foftness which attracts, O'er all that edge of pain, the focial pow'rs To this their proper action and their end? Afk thy own heart; when at the midnight hour, Slow thro' that ftudious gloom thy paufing eye Led by the glimm'ring taper moves around. The facred volumes of the dead, the songs Of Grecian bards, and records writ by fame For Grecian heroes, where the present pow'r Of heaven and earth furveys th' immortal page, E'en as a father bleffing, while he reads The praifes of his fon; if then thy foul, Spurning the yoke of thefe inglorious days, Mix in their deeds and kindle with their flame Say, when the profpect blackens on thy view, When rooted from the bafe, heroic states Mourn in the duft and tremble at the frown Of curft ambition;-when the pious band- Of youths that fought for freedom and their fires. Lie fide by fide in gore;-when ruffian-pride Ufurps the throne of juftice, turns the pomp Of public pow'r, the majesty of rule, The fword, the laurel, and the purple robe, To flavish empty pageants, to adorn
A tyrant's walk, and glitter in the eyes
Of fuch as bow the knee; when honour'd urns. Of patriots and of chiefs, the awful bust And ftoried arch, to glut the coward-rage Of regal envy, ftrew the public way.
With hallow'd ruins ;-when the mufe's haunt,. The marble porch where wisdom wont to talk. With Socrates or Tully, hears no more, Save the hoarfe jargon of contentious monks, Or female fuperftition's midnight pray'r;- When ruthless rapine from the hand of time Tears the deftroying scythe, with furer blow
To fweep the works of glory from their base; Till defolation o'er the grafs-grown street Expands his raven wings, and up the wall, Where fenates once the pride of monarchs doom'd, Hiffes the gliding fnake thro' hoary weeds
That clafp the mould'ring column ;-thus defac'd, Thus widely mournful when the profpećt thrills Thy beating bofom, when the patriot's tear Starts from thine eye, and thy extended arm In fancy hurls the thunderbolt of Jove To fire the impious wreath on Philip's brow, Or dash Octavius from the trophied car ;- Say, does thy fecret foul repine to taste
The big diftrefs? Or would'ft thou then exchange Thofe heart-ennobling forrows, for the lot Of him who fits amid the gaudy herd Of mute barbarians bending to his nod, And bears aloft his gold-invefted front,
And fays within himself, "I am a king,
"And wherefore thould the clam'rous voice of woe "Intrude upon mine ear?"-The baleful dregs Of thefe late ages, this inglorious draught Of fervitude and folly, have not yet, Bleft be th' eternal ruler of the world! Defil'd to fuch a depth of fordid shame The native honours of the human foul, Nor fo effac'd the image of its fire.
EGIN with gentle toils; and, as your nerves Grow firm, to hardier by juft fteps afpire. The prudent, even in every moderate walk, At first but faunter; and by flow degrees Increase their pace. This doctrine of the wife Well knows the mafter of the flying fteed. First from the gaol the manag'd courfers play On bended reins: as yet the fkilful youth Reprefs their foamy pride; but every breath The race grows warmer, and the tempeft fwells; Till all the fiery mettle has its way, And the thick thunder hurries o'er the plain. When all at once from indolence to toil
You fpring, the fibres by the hafty fhock Are tir d and crack'd, before their unctuous coats, Comprefs'd, can pour their lubricating balm.. Befides, collected in the paffive veins, Their purple mafs a fudden torrent rolls, O'erpowers the heart, and deluges the lungs With dangerous inundation: Oft the fource Of fatal woes; a cough that foams with blood, Afthma and feller * peripneumony,
Or the flow minings of the hectic fire.
LESSONS OF WISDO M. [ARMSTRONG.]
OW to live happieft; how avoid the pains, The difappointments, and difgufts of thofe Who would in pleasure all their hours employ; The precepts here of a divine old man
I could recite. Tho' old, he still retain'd His manly fenfe, and energy of mind. Virtuous and wife he was, but not fevere; He still remember'd that he once was young; His easy presence check'd no decent joy. Him even the diffolute admir'd; for he A graceful loofenefs when he pleas'd put on, And laughing could inftruct. Much had he read, Much more had feen; he ftudied from the life, And in th' original perus'd mankind.
Vers'd in the woes and vanities of life, He pitied man: and much he pitied thofe Whom falfely-fmiling fate has curs'd with means To diffipate their days in queft of joy. Our aim is Happinefs; 'tis yours, tis mine, He faid, 'tis the purfuit of all that live; Yet few attain it, if 'twas e'er attain'd. But they the wideft wander from the mark, Who thro' the flow'ry paths of faunt'ring joy Seek this coy Goddefs; that from ftage to ftage Invites us ftill, but fhifts as we pursue. For, not to name the pains that pleafure brings To counterpoife itself, relentless Fate Forbids that we thro' gay voluptuous wilds Should ever roam: And were the Fates more kind, Our narrow luxuries would foon be ftale.
Were these exhauftlefs, Nature would grow fick,
* The inflammation of the lungs.
And cloy'd with pleasure, fqueamishly complain That all was vanity, and life a dream. Let nature reft: Be bufy for yourself, And for your friend; be bufy even in vain Rather than teize her fated appetites. Who never fafts, no banquet e'er enjoys; Who never toils or watches, never fleeps. Let nature reft: And when the taste of joy Grows keen, indulge; but fhun fatiety.
'Tis not for mortals always to be bleft. But him the leaft the dull or painful hours Of life opprefs, whom fober Senfe conducts And Virtue, thro' this labyrinth we tread. Virtue and Senfe I mean not to disjoin; Virtue and Senfe are one: and truft me, he Who has not virtue is not truly wife. Virtue (for mere good-nature is a fool) Is fenfe and fpirit, with humanity:
'Tis fometimes angry, and its frown confounds; 'Tis even vindictive, but in vengeance juft.
Knaves fain would laugh at it; fome great ones dare 3
But at his heart the most undaunted fon
Of fortune dreads its name and awful charms. To nobleft ufes this determines wealth: This is the folid pomp of profperous days; The peace and shelter of adverfity.
And if you pant for glory, build your fame On this foundation, which the fecret fhock Defies of Envy and all-fapping Time. The gaudy glofs of Fortune only strikes The vulgar eye: The fuffrage of the wife, The praife that's worth ambition, is attain'd By Senfe alone, and dignity of mind.
Virtue, the ftrength and beauty of the foul, Is the beft gift of heaven: a happinefs
That even above the fmiles and frowns of fate Exalts great Nature's favourites: a wealth That ne'er encumbers, nor to bafer hands Can be transferr'd: it is the only good Man juftly boasts of, or can call his own. Riches are oft by guilt and baseness earn'd; Or dealt by chance, to fhield a lucky knave, Or throw a cruel fun-fhine on a fool. But for one end, one much-neglected ufe,
Are riches worth your care (for Nature's wants Are few, and without opulence fupplied) This noble end is, to produce the Soul: To Thew the virtues in their faireft light; To make Humanity the Minifter
Of bounteous Providence; and teach the breaft That generous luxury the Gods enjoy.
Thus, in his graver vein, the friendly Sage Sometimes declaim'd. Of Right and Wrong he taught Truths as refin'd as ever Athens heard;
And (strange to tell!) he practis'd what he preach'd. The PASSION of the GROVES. [THOMSON.]
S rifing from the vegetable world
My theme afcends, with equal wing afcend, My panting mufe; and hark, how loud the woods Invite you forth in all their gayeft trim. Lend me your fong, ye nightingales! oh pour The mazy-running foul of melody Into my varied verfe! while I deduce, From the first note the hollow cuckoo fings, The fymphony of fpring, and touch a theme Unknown to fame, the Paffion of the Groves. When firft the foul of love is fent abroad, Warm thro' the vital air, and on the heart Harmonious feizes, the gay troops begin, In gallant thought, to plume the painted wing; And try again the long-forgotten ftrain, At firft faint-warbled. But no fooner grows The foft infufion prevalent, and wide, Than, all alive, at once their joy o'erflows In mufic unconfin'd. Up fprings the lark,. Shrill-voic'd, and loud, the meffenger of morn ;. Ere yet the fhadows fly, he mounted fings Amid the dawning clouds, and from their haunts Calls up the tuneful nations. Ev'ry copfe Deep-tangled, tree irregular, and bush Bending with dewy moisture, o'er the heads Of the coy quirifters that lodge within, Are prodigal of harmony. The thrush And wood-lark, o'er the kind contending throng Superior heard, run thro' the fweetest length Of notes; when liftening Philomela deigns
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