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

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

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.]

Ho

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

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

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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