Puslapio vaizdai
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Catches her child, and pointing where the waves
Foam thro' the shatter'd veffel, shrieks aloud,
As one poor wretch that spreads his piteous arms
For succour, swallowed by the roaring surge,
As now another, dash'd against the rock,
Drops lifeless down : deemest thou indeed
No kind endearment here by nature giv'n
To mutual terror and compassion's tears?
No sweetly-melting softness which attracts,
O'er all that edge of pain, the social pow'rs
To this their proper action and their end?
Ask thy own heart; when at the midnight hour,
Slow thro' that studious gloom thy pausing 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 surveys th’immortal page,
E'en as a father blefling, while he reads
The praises of his fon; if then thy soul,
Spurning the yoke of these inglorious days,
Mix in their deeds and kindle with their flame;
Say, when the prospect blackens on thy view,
When rooted from the bafe, heroic states
Mourn in the dust and tremble at the frown
Of curft ambition ;-when the pious band-
Of youths that fought for freedom and their fires.
Lie side by side in gore;-when ruffian-pride
Usurps the throne of justice, turns the pomp:
Of public pow'r, the majesty of rule,
The sword, the laurel, and the purple robe,
To lavish empty pageants, to adorn
A tyrant's walk, and glitter in the eyes
Of such as bow the knee;-when honour'd urns,
Of patriots and of chiefs, the awful bust
And storied arch, to głut the coward-rage
Of regal envy, strew the public way.
With hallow'd ruins ;--when the muse's haunt,
The marble porch where wisdom wont to talk
With Socrates or Tully, hears no more,
Save the hoarse jargon of contentious monks,
Or female superstition's midnight pray'r;
When ruthless rapine from the hand of time
Tears the destroying scythe, with furer blow.

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To fweep the works of glory from their base;
Till defolation o'er the grass-grown street
Expands his raven wings, and up the wall,
Where senates once the pride of monarchs doom'd,
Hifles the gliding snake thro' hoary weeds
That clasp the mould'ring column ;-thus defac'd,
Thus widely mournful when the prospect thrills
Thy beating bosom, 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 distress? Or would'st thou then exchange
Those heart-ennobling sorrows, for the lot
Of him who fits amid the gaudy herd
Of mute barbarians bending to his nod,
And bears aloft his gold-invested front,
And says within himself, “ I am a king,
“And wherefore thould the clam'rous voice of woe
“ Intrude upon mine ear?”—The baletul dregs
Of these late ages, this inglorious draught
Of servitude and folly, have not yet,
Bleft be th'eternal ruler of the world!
Defil'd to such a depth of fordid shame
The native honours of the human foul,
Nor so effac'd the image of its fire.

ON EXERCISE.

[ AR MSTRONG.]
EGIN with gentle toils; and, as your nerves
The prudent, even in every moderate walk,
At first but faunter ; and by flow degrees
Increase their pace. This doctrine of the wise
Well knows the master of the flying steed.
First from the gaol the manag'd courfers play
On bended reins : as yet the skilful youth
Repress 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 plaini,
When all at once from indolence to toil

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You spring, the fibres by the hafty shock
Are tir d and crack'd, before their unctuous coats,
Comprefs'd, can pour their lubricating balm.
Besides, collected in the paflive veins,
Their purple mass a sudden 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,
Asthma and feller peripneumony,
O, the slow minings of the hectic fire.
L E S S O N S OF W IS DO M.

[ARMSTRONG.]
OW to live happiest; how avoid the pains,

The disappointments, and disgusts of those
Who would in pleasure all their hours employ i
The precepts here of a divine old man
I could recite. Thu'old, he still retain'd
His manly sense, and energy of mind.
Virtuous and wise he was, but not severe;
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 looseness when he pleas'd put on,
And laughing could instruct. Much had he read,
Much more had seen; he studied 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 those
Whom falfely-smiling fate has curs'd with means
To diffipate their days in quest of joy.
Our aim is Happiness; 'tis yours, tis mine,
He said, 'tis the pursuit 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 Goddess; that from stage to stage
Invites us still, but shifts as we pursue.
For, not to name the pains that pleafure brings
To counterpoise itself, relentless Fate
Forbids that we thro' gay voluptuous wilds
Should ever roam: And were the Fates more kind,
Our narrow luxuries would soon be ftale.
Were these exhaustless, Nature would grow fick,

And * The inflammation of the lungs.

And cloy'd with pleasure, squeamishly complain
That all was vanity, and life a dream.
Let nature rest: Be busy for yourself,
And for your friend; be busy even in vain
Rather than teize her fated appetites.
Who never fafts, no banquet e'er enjoys;
Who never toils or watches, never sleeps.
Let nature rest: And when the taste of joy
Grows keen, indulge ; but fhun satiety.

'Tis not for mortals always to be blest.
Buc him the least the dull or painful hours
Of life oppress, whom sober Sense conducts
And Virtue, thro' this labyrinth we tread.
Virtue and sense I mean not to disjoin;
Virtue and Sense are one: and trust me, he
Who has not virtue is not truly wise.
Virtue (for mere good-nature is a fool)
Is fense and spirit, with humanity:
'Tis sometimes angry, and its frown confounds;
'Tis even vindi&tive, but in vengeance just.
Knaves fain would laugh at it; some great ones dare ;
But at his heart the most undaunted son
Of fortune dreads its name and awful charms.
To noblest uses this determines wealth:
This is the solid pomp of prosperous days;
The peace and shelter of adversity.
And if you pant for glory, build your fame
On this foundation, which the secret shock
Defies of Envy and all-fapping Time.
The gaudy gloss of Fortune only strikes
The vulgar eye: The suffrage of the wise,
The praise that's worth ambition, is attain'd
By Sense alone, and dignity of mind.

Virtue, the strength and beauty of the foul,
Is the best 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 baser hands
Can be transferr'd: it is the only good
Man justly boasts of, or can call his own.
Riches are oft by guilt and baseness earn'd;
Or dealt by chance, to shield a lucky knave,
Or throw a cruel fun-fhine on a fool.
But for one end, one much-neglected use,

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Are riches worth your care (for Nature's wants
Are few, and without opulence supplied)
This noble end is, to produce the Soul:
To Thew the virtues in their faireft light;
To make Humanity the Minister
Of bounteous Providence; and teach the breast
That generous luxury the Gods enjoy..

Thus, in his graver vein, the friendly Sage
Sometimes declaim'd. Or Right and Wrong he taught
Truths as refind as ever Athens heard;
And (strange to tell!) he practis'd what he preach'd.
The PASSION of the GROVES.

(THOMSON.)
S rising from the vegetable world

My theme ascends, with equal wing ascend,
My panting muse; and hark, how loud the woods
Invite you forth in all their gayeft trim.
Lend me your song, ye nightingales! oh pour
The mazy-running foul of melody
Into my varied verle! while I deduce,
From the first note the hollow cuckoo fings,
The symphony of spring, and touch a theme
Unknown to fame, the Pallion of the Groves.

When first the soul of love is sent 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 straing
At first faint-warbled. But no sooner grows
The soft infusion prevalent, and wide,
Than, all alive, at once their joy o'erflows
In music unconfin'd. Up springs the lark,
Shrill-voic'd, and loud, the messenger of morn s.
Ere yet the shadows fly, he mounted sings
Amid the dawning clouds, and from their haunts
Calls up the tuneful nations. Ev'ry copse
Deep-tangled, tree irregular, and bush
Bending with dewy moisture, o'er the heads
Of the coy quiristers that lodge within,
Are prodigal of harmony. The thrush
And wood-lark, o'er the kind contending throng
Superior heard, run thro' the sweetest length
Of notes; when listening Philomcla deigns

To

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