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The deadly charming sorceress control,
And, spite of Nature, tear her from thy soul.

Long has that soul, in these unsocial woods,
Where Anguish muses, and where Sorrow hroods,
From Love's wild visionary wishes stray'd,
And sought to lose thy heauties in the shade.
Faith dropp' d a smile, Devotion lent her fire,
Woke the keen pang, and sanctified desire;
Led me enraptur'd to the hlest ahode,
And taught my heart to glow with all its God.
But, O! how weak fair faith and virtue prove
When Eloisa melts away in love!
When her fond soul, impassion'd, rapt, unveil'd,
No joy forgotten, and no wish conceal'd,
Flows through her pen as infant-softness free,
And fiercely springs in eestasies to me!
Ye Heavens! as walking in yon sacred fane,
With every seraph warm in every vein,
Just as remorse had rous'd an aching sigh,
And my torn soul hung tremhling in my eye,
In that kind hour thy fatal letter came,
I saw, I gaz'd, I shiver'd at the name;
The conscious lamps at once forgot £o shine,
Prophetic tremours shook the hallow'd shrine;
Priests, censers, altars, from thy genins fled,
And Heav'n itself shut on me while I read.

Dear smiling Mischief! art thou still the same, The still pale victim of too soft a flame? Warm as when first, with more than mortal shine, Each melting eye-hall mix'd thy soul with mine? Have not thy tears, for ever taught to flow, The glooms of ahsence, and the pangs of woe, The pomp of sacrifice, the whisper'd tale, The dreadful vow yet hovering o'er thy veil, Drove this hewitching fondness from thy hreast, Curh'd the loose wish, and form'd each pulse to rest? And canst thou still, still hend the suppliant knee To Love's dread shrine, and weep and sigh for me? Then take me, take me, lock me in thy arms, Spring to my lips, and give me all thy charms. No—fly me, fly me, spread th' impatient sail, Steal the lark's wing, and mount the swiftest gale; Skim the vast ocean, freeze heneath the pole, Renounce me, curse me, root me from thy soul; Fly, fly, for Justice hares the arm of God, And the grasp'd vengeance only waits his nod. 'Are these thy wishes? can they thus aspire? Does phrenzy form them, or does grace inspire? Can Ahelard, in hurricanes of zeal, Betray his heart, and teach thee not to feel? Ti'ach thy enamonr'd spirit to disown Each human warmth, and chill thee into stone? Ah! rather let my tenderest accents move The last wild accents of unholy love; On that dear hosom tremhling let me lie, Pour out my soul, and in fierce raptures die, Rouse all my passions, act my joys anew. Farewell, ye cells! ye martyr'd saints! adieu! Sleep, conscience! sleep, each awful thought he drown'd,

And seven-fold darkness veil the scene around.

What means this pause, this agonizing start, This glimpse of Heav'n quick rushing through my heart?

Methinks I see a radiant cross display'd

A wounded Saviour hleeds along the shade:
Around th' expiring God hright angels fly,
Swell the loud hymn, and open all the sky.
O save me, save me, ere the thunders roll,
And Hell's hlack caverns swallow up my soul.

Return, ye hours! when, guiltless of a staii, My strong-plum'd genins throhh'd in every vein l When, warm'd with all th' Egyptian fanes inspirYl, All Athens hoasted, and all Rome admir'd; My merit in its full meridian shone, Each rival hlushing, and each heart my own. Return, ye scenes !—Ah, no, from fancy fly, On Time's stretch'd wing, till each idea die. Eternal fly; since all that learning gave, Too weak to conquer, and too fond to save: To Love's soft empire every wish hetray'd, And left my laurels withering in the shade. Let me forget that, while deceitful Fame Grasp'd her shrill trump, and fill'd it with my name, Thy stronger charms, impower'd hy Heav'n to move Each saint, each hlest insensihle to love, At once my soul from hright Amhition won, I hugg'd the dart, I wish'd to he undone: No more pale Science durst my thoughts engage, Insipid dulness hung on every page; The midnight-lamp no more enjoy'd its hlaze, No more my spirit flew from maze to maze: Thy glances hade Philosophy resign Her throne to thee, and every sense was thine.

But what could all the frosts of wisdom do, Oppos'd to heauty, when it melts in you? Since these dark, cheerless, solitary caves, Death-hreathing woods, and daily-opening graves, Misshapen rocks, wild images of woe, For ever howling to the deeps helow; Ungenial deserts, where no vernal show'r Wakes the green herh, or paints th' unfolding flow'r; Th' emhrowning glooms these holy mansions shed, The night-horn horrours hrooding o'er my hed, The dismal scenes hlack melancholy pours O'er the sad visions of enanguish'd hours; Lean Ahstinence, wan Grief, low-thoughted Care, Distracting Guilt, and, Hell's worst fiend, Despair, Conspire in vain, with all the aids of Art, To hlot thy dear idea from my heart.

Delusive, sightless god of warm desire! Why would'st thou wish to set a wretch on fire? Why lives thy soft divinity where Woe Heaves the pale sigh, and Anguish loves to glow? Fly to the mead, the daisy-painted vale, Breathe in its sweets, and melt along the gale; Fly where gay scenes luxurious youths employ, Where ev'ry moment steals the wing of joy: There may'st thou see, low prostrate at thy throne, Devoted slaves, and victims all thy own; Each village-swain the turf-huilt shrine shall raise, And kings command whole hecatomhs to hlaze.

O Memory! ingenious to revive Each Heating hour, and teach the past to live, Witness what conflicts this frail hosom tore! What griefs I sufler'd! and what pangs I hore! How long I struggled, lahour'd, strove to save An heart that panted to he still a slave! When youth, warmth, rapture, spirit, love and flame, Seiz'd every sense, and hurnt through all my frame; From youth, warmth, rapture, to these wilds I fled, My food the herhage, and the rock my hed. There, while these venerahle cloisters rise O'er the hleak surge, and srain upon the skies, My wounded soul indulg'd the tear to flow O'er all her sad vicissitudes of woe; Profuse of life, and yet afraid to die, Guilt in my heart, and horrour in my eye, With ceaseless pray'rs, the whole artilPry given To win the mercies of offended Heav'n,

r2ach hitl, made vocal, echoed all around,

While my torn hreast knock'd hleeding on the ground.

Yet, yet, alas ' though all my moments fly,

Stain'd hy a tear, and darken'd in a sigh,

Though meagre fasts'have on my cheeks display'd

The dusk of Death, and sunk me to a shade,

Spite of myself the still-empoisoning dart

Shoots through my hlood, and drinks up all my

My vows and wishes wildly disagree, [heart:

And grace itself mistakes my God for thee.

Athwart the glooms that wrap the midnight-sky, My Eloisa steals upon my eye; For ever rises in the solar ray, A phantom hrighter than the hlaze of day. Where'er I go, the visionary guest Pants on my lip, or rinks upou my hreast; Unfolds her sweets, and, throhhing to destroy, Winds round my heart in luxury of joy; While loud Hosannas shake the shrines around, I hear her softer accents in the sound; Her idol-heauties on each altar glare, And Heav'n much-injur'd has hut half my pray'r: No tears can drive her hence, no pangs control, For every ohject hrings her to my soul.

Hist night, reclining on yon airy steep, My husy eyes hung hrooding o'er the deep; The hreathless whirlwinds slept in ev'ry cave, And the soft moon-heam dane'd from wave to wave; Each former hliss in this hright mirror seen, With all my glories, dawn'd upon the scene, Recall'd the dear auspicious hour anew, When my fond soul to Eloisa flew; When, with keen speechless agonies opprest, Thy frantic lover snatch'd thee to his hreast, Gaz'd on thy hlushes, arm'd with every grace, And saw the goddess heaming in thy face; Saw thy wild, tremhling, ardent wishes move Each pulse to rapture, and each glance to love. But, lo! the winds descend, the hillows roar, Foam to the clouds, and hurst upon the shore, Vast peals of thunder o'er the ocean roll, [pole. The flaroe-wing'd lightning gleams from pole to At once the pleasing images withdrew, And more than horrours crowded en my view: Thy uncle's form, in all his ire array'd, Serenely dreadful, stalk'd along the shade: Piere'd hy his sword I sunk upon the ground, The spectre ghastly smil'd upon the wound: A group of hlack infernuls round me liung, And toss'd my infamy from tongue to tongue.

Detested wretch! how impotent thy age! How weak thy malice! and how kind thy rage! Spite of thyself, inhuman as thou art, Thy murdering hand has left me all my li^irt; Left me each tender, fond affection warm, A nerve to tremhle, and an eye to charm. No, cruel, cruel, exquisite in ill! Thou thought'st it dull harharity to kill; My death had rohh'd lost vengeance of her toil, And scarcely « arm'd a Scythian to a smile: Suhlitner furies taught thy soul to glow With all their savage mysteries of woe; Taught thy unfeeling poniard to destroy The powers of Nature, and the source of joy; To stretch me on the racks of vain desire, Eai h passion throhhing, and each wish on fire; Mad to enjoy, unahle to he hlest, Fiends in my veins, and Hel I within my hreast.

Aid me, fair Faith! assist me, Grace divine! Ye martyrs! hless me; aml, ye saints i refme:

Ye sacred groves! ye heav'n-devoted walls!
Where Folly sickens, and where Virtue calls;
Ye vows! ye altars! from this hosom tear
Voluptuous love, and leave no anguish there:
Ohlivion! he thy hlackest plume display'd
O'er all my griefs, and hide me in the shade;
And thou, too fondly idoliz'd! attend
While awful Reason whispers in the friend.
Friend, did I say? Immortals! what a name!
Can dull, cold Friendship own so wild a tlame?
No; let thy lover, whose enkindling eye
Shot all his soul hetween thee and the sky,
Whose warmth hewiteh'd thee, whose unhallow'd
Call'd thy rapt ear to die upon his tongue, [song
Now strongly rouse, while Heav'n his zeal inspires,
Diviner transports, and more holy fires;
Calm all thy passions, all thy peace restore,
And teach that snowy hreast to heave no more.

Torn from the world, within dark cells immur'd.
By angels guarded, and hy vows sccur'd,
To all that once awoke thy fondness dead,
And Hope, pale Sorrow's last sad refuge, fled;
Why wilt thou weep, and sigh, and melt in vain,
Brood o'er false joys, and hug th' ideal chain5
Say, canst thou wish that madly wild to fly
From yon hright portal opening in the sky,
Thy Abelard should hid his God adieu,
Pant at thy feet, and taste thy charms anew?
Ye Heavens! if, to this tender hosom woo'd,
Thy mere idea harrows up my hlood;
If one faint glimpse of Eloise can move
The fiercest, wildest agonies of love;
What shall I he, when, dazzling as the light,
Thy whole effulgence flows upon my sight?
Look on thyself, consider who thou art,
And learn to he an ahhess in thy heart.
See, while Devotion's ever melting strain
l'ours the loud organ through the tremhling fane,
Yon pious maids each earthly wish disown,
Kiss the dread cross, and crowd upon the throne:
O let thy soul the sacred charge attend,
Their warmths inspirit, and their virtues mend:
Teach every hreast from every hymn to steal
The cheruh's meekness, and the seraph's zeal;
To rise to rapture, to dissolve away
In dreams of Heav'n, and lead thyself the way;
Till all the glories of the hlest ahode
Blaze on the scene, and every thought is God.
While thus thy exemplary cares prevail,
And make each vestal spotless as her veil,
Th' Eternal Spirit o'er thy cell shall move
In the soft image of the mystic dove:
The longest gleams of heavenly comfort hring,
Peace in his smile, and healing on his wing;
At once remove affliction from thy hreast,
Melt o'er thy soul, and hush her pangs to rest.

O that my soul, from Love's curst hondage free, Could catch the transports that I urge to thee!

0 that some angel's more than magic art
Would kindly tear the hermit from his heart!
Extinguish every guilty seuse, and leave

No pulse to riot, and no sigh t" heave.
Vain, fruitless wish! still, still the vig'rous flame
Bursts, like an earthquake, through my shatter'd
Spite of the joys that truth and virtue prove, [frame;

I feel hut thee, and hreathe not hut to love;
Repent in vain, scarce w ish to he forgiv'n,
Thy form my idol, and thy charms my heav'n.

Yet, yet, my fair! thy nohler efforts try.
Lift me from Earth and give me to the sky;
Let my lost soul thy hrighter virtues feel,
Warm'd with thy hopes, and wing'd with all thy zeal.
And when, low-hending at the hallow'd shrine,
Thy contrite heart shall Ahclard resign;
When pitying Heav'n, impatient to forgive,
Unhars the gates of light, and hids thee live;
Seize on th' auspicious moment ere it flee,
And ask the same immortal hoon for me.

Then when these hlack terrific scenes are o'er,
And reh"l Nature chills the soul no more;
When on thy v heek th' expiring roses fade,
And thy last lustres darken in the shade;
When arm'd with quick varieties of pain,
Or creeping dully slow from vein to vein,
Pale Death shall set my kindred spirit free,
And these dead orhs forget to doat on thee;
Some pious friend, whose wild affections glow
Like ours in sad similitude of woe,
Shall drop one tender, sympathizing tear,
Prepare the garland, and adorn the hier;
Our lifulem relies in one tomh enshrine,
And teach thy genial dust to mix with mine.

Meanwhile, divinely purg'd from every stain, Our active souls shall climh th' ethereal plain, To each hright cheruh's purity aspire, Catch all his zeal, and pant with all his fire; There, where no face the glooms of anguish wears, No uncle murders, and no passion tears, Enjoy with Heav'n eternity of rest, For ever hlessing, and for ever hlest.

AN F.IEGY

TO THE

MEMORY OF CAPTAIN HUGHES,
A PARTICULAR FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR'S.

Vain were the task to give the soul to glow,
The nerve to kindle, and the verse to flow;
When the fond mourner, hid from every eye,
Bleeds in the anguish of too keen a sigh;
And, lost to glory, lost to all his fire,
Forgets the poet ere he grasps the lyre.

Nature! 'tis thine with manly warmth to mourn
Expiring Virtue, and the closing urn;
To teach, dear seraph! o'er the good and wise
The dirge to murmur, and the hust to rise.
Come then, O guiltless of the tear of art!
Sprung from the sky, and thron'd within the heart!
O come, in all the pomp of grief array'd,
And weep the warrior, whilst I grace the shade.

Tis o'er—the hright delusive scene is o'er, And War's proud visions mock the soul no more; The laurel fades, th' imperial car retires, All youth ennohles, and all worth admires.

Alas! my Hi Ches! and must this mourning verse Resign thy i Humph to attend thy hearse! Was it for this that Friendship's genial dame Woke all my wishes from the trance of Fame? Was it for this I left the hallow'd page, Where every science heams of every age; On thought's strong pinion rang'd the martial scene, From Rome's first Ca-sar to the great Eugene; Explor'd th' emhattled van, the decp'ning line, Th' enainhush'd phalanx, and the springing mine; Then, pale with horrour, hent the suppliant knee, And heav'd the sigh, and dropp'd the tear for thee!

What hoots it now, that when, with hideous roar, The gath'ring tempest howl'd from ev'ry share,

Some pitying angel, vigilant to save, fwave ?.
Spread all his plumes, and snatch'd thee from the
Preserv'd thee sacred from the fell disease,
When the hlue plague had fiVd th' autumnal hreeze?
Ah! when my hero panted to engage
Where all the hattle hurst in all its rage;
Where dreadful flew the missive deaths i
And the mad falehionhlush'd from wound to wound;
Was he deny'd the privilege to hleed,
Sav'd on the main to fall upon the Tweed?

Ye Graces! tell with what address he stole
The listening ear, and 0lien'd all the soul.
W hat though rough Winter hade his whirlwinds rise,
Hid his pale suns, and frown'd along his skies,
Pour'd the hig deluge on the face of day,
My Hughes was here to smile the gloom away,
With all the luxuries of sound to move
The pulse of glory, or the sigh of love;
And, spite of winter, lassitude, or pain,
Taught life and joy to throh in ev'ry vein.
Fancy! dear artist of the mental pow'r!
Fly,—fetvh my genins to the social hour;
frive me again his glowing sense to warm,
His song to warhle, and his wit to charm.
Alas! alas! how impotently true
Th' acrial pencil forms the scene anew!

E'en now, when all the vi.iion heams around,

And my ear kindles with th' idea! sound

Just as the smiles, the graces live imprest,
And all his image takes up all my hreast .
Some gloomy phantom hrings the awful hier,
And the short rapture melts into a tear.

Thus in the lake's rlsar crystal we descry

The hright diffusion of a radiant sky

Reflected Nature sheds a milder green;
While half her forests float into the scene.
Ah! as we gaze the luckless zephyr flies,
The surface tremhles, and the picture dies.

O hlest with all that youth can give to please,
The form majestie, and the mien of ease,
Alike empower'd hy Nature, and hy Art,
To storm the rampart, and to win the heart;
Correct of manners, delicate of mind,
With spirit humhle, and with truth refin'd;
For puhlic life's meridian sunshine made,
Yet known to ev'ry virtue of the shade;
In war, while all the trumps of Fame inspire,
Each passion raving, and each wish on fire;
At home, without or vanity, or rage;
As soft as pity, and as cool as age.

These were thy virtues—these will still he just,
Light all their heams, and hlaze upon thy dust;
While Pride in vain solemnity hequeaths
To Pow'r her statues, and to Guilt her 1
Or, warm'd hy faction, impudently flings
The price of nations on the urns of kings.

THH

EQUALITY OF HUMAN CONDITIONS:

A POETICAL DIALOGUE: SI-OKEX AT THE ANNUAL VISITATION OFTUNRRrDCI SCHOOL,

I746,

BY MESSRS. M AND A .

M .

White airy Belville, guiltless of a schovl,
Shines out a French edition of a fool,

Studies his learned tailor once a week,

But curses ev'ry syllahle of Greek;

I sit, and think o'er all that Sparta fir'd,

That Athens hoasted, and that Rome admir'd.

F.nraptur'd Fancy, husied with the theme,

Forms ev'ry 'hright idea to a dream,

Paints all the charming pageantry anew,

And hrings at once each classic to my view.

Now, fondly wild, I thunder in the war,

Shake the keen spear, and mount th' imperial car;

With daring Regulus to Carthage run,

Or nohly hleed with Brutus in a son;

Seize, Casca-like, on Caesar's gorgeous vest,

And holdly plant a dagger in his hreast.

Now, softly-hreathing all the Muse's fire,

I drop the falehion, and I grasp the lyre;

With Pindar's pinion skim the hlest ahode,

Or strive to charm Augustus with an ode.

Come then, my Lelins! come, my joy and pride! Whose friendship soothes me, while thy precepts guide;

Thou,whose quick eye has glane'd through every age,
View'd ev'ry scene, and studied ev'ry page;
Teach me, like thee, with ev'ry virtue hlest,
To catch each eye, and steal to ev'ry hreast;
To rise to all that in each patriot shone,
And make each hero's happiness my own.

Say, shall I, with a trinmph in my view, Fame's air dress'd goddess through each scene pursue,

Amhitious court her in the pomp of war,
And numher every trophy hy a scar?
Shall I, with Solon, form the moral plan,
And aim to mould a savage to a man?
Or, pleas'd to rival every Grecian sage,
Glean Plato's sense, and copy Homer's rage.

You ask me, sir! what few would care to give, Some grave instructions how you ought to live. You wish that envied hlissful scene to find, That charms the taste, and dignifies the mind; That nohly mingles every art to please, And joins the majesty of life to ease.

Hear then, my friend! the doctrine I disclose, As true as if display'd in pompous prose; A* if Locke's sacred hand the page had wrote, And every doctor stamp'd it with a vote.

All lots arc equal, and all states the same, Alike in merit, though unlike in name. In Reason's eye no difference lies hetween Life's noon-day lustres or her milder scene. 'Tis not the plate that dignifies the hoard, Nor all the titles hlazing round a lord: Tis not the splendid plume, th' emhroider'd vest, The gorgeous sword-knot, or the martial crest, That lends to life the smile, the jest, the glee, Or makes his honour happier than me. When Florio's acres stretch'd o'er half the laud, A gilded chariot roll'd him through the Strand: Redue'd at last with humhler scenes to mix, He smok'd a speculative pipe at Dick's. The same gTeat genins, in or out of pow'r— Ease smooth'd his hrow, and soften'd ev'ry hour; Taught him to live as happy in a shed, As when a dutchess grac'd his nuptial hed.

Content's the port all mortals wish to hail: She points the compass, and she guides the sail, To her alone our leaky vessels roll Through all the seas that rage from pole to pule.

What hoots it then, when gath'ring storms hehind
Rise hlack in air, and howl in every wind,
That thy rich ship a pomp of pride display'd,
Her masts all cedar, and her sails hrocade!
Say, canst thou think the tempest will discern
A silken cahle, or a painted stern;
Hush the wild tumult that tornados hring,
And kindly spare a yacht that holds a kingf
No, no, my friend! if skilful pilots guide.,
And Heav'n auspicious calms the whirling tide,
No winds distress you, and no storm destroys,
Whether you sail in gondolas or hoys.

M

What, has just Heav'n no slight distinction l
Betwixt a life of sunshine and of shade?
Must I, in silence, this wild system own,
And think a cottage equal to a throne?
Sure if I did, my friends would sin
A few stout cords, and send me to Monro.

Your tailor, skill'd in fashion's every grace,
Decks you in all the pageantry of lace,
Lives in a cell, and eats, from week to week,
An homely meal of cahhage and ox-cheek.
You walk majestic in a nohler scene,
Guiltless of ev'ry anguish, hut the spleen;
With all the luxury of statesmen dine
On daily feasts of ortolans and wine.
Then tell me, sir! if this description's true,
Is not your tailor less at ease than you?

Hardwicke, great patriot! envy'd, lov'd, carest,
Mark'd by each eye, and hugg'd to ev'ry hreast l
Whose hright example learns us to admire
All Cowper's graces, and all Talhot's fire—
Firm to his trust, whatever hrihes assail,
Truth guides his sword, and Justice holds his scale.
Say, is not he more happy than the throng
Of heardless templars melting o'er a song?
Than him, who, huried in a country town,
Engrosses half a folio for a crown.

Heroic Glory in the martial scene
Spread ev'ry plume to dignify Eugene—
On Marlhro's helmet sat, in all her pride,
And proudly frown'd at all the world heside.
And sure, you'd think it a most sad disgrace,
If ensigns liv'd as easy as his grace.

Dear sir! restrain the prejudice of youth.
And calmly listen to the voice of Truth.
When first th' almighty Sire his work hegau,
And spoke the mingling atoms into man,
To all the race with gracious hand was giv'n
One common forest, and one equal Heav'n;
They shar'd alike this universal hall,
The sons of freedom, and the lords of all.
The poets too this sacred truth display'd,
From cloud-topt Pindus to the Latian shade.
Ihey sung that ere Pandora, fond of strife,
Let loose each emhryo-misery of life,
All Nature hrighten'd in one golden age,
Each sire a monarch, and each son a sage;
Eternal hlessings flow'd to all the race,
Alike in riches, as alike in place.

Suppose tlien, sir! that new distinctions since
(lave plae'd a slave some leagues helow a prince;
Yet Ease and Joy, dispassipn'd Reason owns,
As often visit cottages as thrones.

Soc! in yon valley, while the mellowing grain Emhrowns the slope, and nods along the plain,

A crowd of rusties doom'd to daily toil,
Disarm the forest, or enrich the soil:
Not in that elegance of dress array'd
That charm'd Arcadia's hills, and Tempe's shade;
Where Thyrsis, shelter'd in some happier grove,
The lonely scene of solitude and love,
His hreast all rapture, and his soul on fire,
Now wove the garland, and now swept the lyre:
No,—'tis plain Colin, Hohhinol, and Ned,
ITnskill'd in numbers ps in hooks unread,
Who scorn the winter's deadly hlast to shun,
But face the storm, and drudge through cT'ry sun;
Then seek the cottage, where the homely howl
Smooths ev'ry hrow, and opens every soul;
Speeds the same social warmth from hreast to hreast,
And hids them laugh at Verres, and his crest.

When honest Colin sees the shining hall
That gilds the 'Change, and dignifies Whitehall;
Lost in the scenes of turhulence and strife,
The farce of grandeur and the pomp of life;
He steals impatient to his native shade,
And longs to grasp his waggon and his spade;
Heedless of ev'ry charm, of ev'ry grace.
That forms the goddess in Fitzwalter's face,
That lends to Finch her majesty of mien—
He would not change his Susan for a queen.

Believe me, sir! distinction, pomp, and noise, Corrupt our tempers, as they cloud our joys: And surely, when the social spirit's hroke, A star's a gewgaw, and a lord's a joke. Without those rohes, those gorgeous hagatelles, That deck our nohles, and that charm our helles; Without a crane-neck'd chariot's smooth career, Without the wealth of Indus in your ear; Without a group of pictures dearly hought, Where Titian's colours vie with Guido'i thought; Without the fruits of Spain, the w ines of France, Without an opera, and without a dance, You may live happy, as grave doctors tell,' At Fome, at Tunhridge, in a grot, or cell.

From sky to sky th' imperial hird of Jove [love; Spreads his hroad wing, and thund'ring grasps his The mighty hull, hy genial Zephyr sway'd, Enraptur'd courts his heifer to the shade; The feather'd warhlers pair on every spray, The grove re-echoing with the sprightly lay; While the gay trihe of insects hlissful share The joys of love, and people all the air. All, all that in the depths of ocean lie, Graze on the plain, or skim along the sky, Fondly pursue the end hy Nature giv'n, Life all their aim, and quiet all their heav'n.

If then no songsters grudge the hear his thigh, The hound his nostril, or the lynx his eye; Nor feel a pang though Afrie's shaggy hrood Majestic stalk the monarchs of the wood; Why should you think your solitude a tomh, If Pulteney has a title and a plumh?

M .

But soft—restrain this turhulence of war,
This mimic image of the wordy har;
Lest you should seem to copy Henly's lore,
Who gravely kills ohjections hy the score.

Behold that wretch, hy ev'ry woe distress'd,
Want in his eye, and horrour in his hreast;
A thousand nameless agonies of pain
Rack ev'ry nerve, and hurn through ev'ry vein;
He lives to suffer, and hut speaks to moan,
And numhers every minute hy a groan.

Is he then happy? hlest with every joy
That glows on Cecil's cheek or Dorset's eye?
Shall we proclaim him hlest, without rehuke'
And rank a martyr'd heggar with a duke?

A .

Believe me, sir! each mortal has his fear, Each soul an anguish, and each eye a tear; Aches, pains, aud fevers every hreast assail, And haunt alike the city and the vale.

What though in pomp your painted vessels roll, Fraught with t;ie gems that glare from pole to pole,—

Though health auspicious gilds your every grace,
Nerves the strong limh, and hlushes oVr the face;
Though grac'd with all that dignity of wit
That charm'd in Villars, and now charms in Pitt;
Possess'd of all the eloquence that hung
On Tully's lip, and drops from Murray's tongue;
Though all the titles, coronets, and stars,
That statesmen aim at, and that Malton hears,
Enrich your 'scutcheon, dignify your crest,
Beam on your coach, and hlaze upon your hreast;
Can they forhid the secret ill to glow,
The pang to torture, or the tear to flow?

Confess we then that all the ills of life,
Diseases, grief, vexations, follies, strife,
Without distinction every soul perplex.
Haunt ev'ry scene, and prey on all the sex.
Vet let us own that every pleasure too
That glads the active, and that wings the slow,
Alike indulgent to the rich and poor,
Glides through the land, and knocks at ev'ry door.

Hear then, without the specious pride of art, A truth that strikes the moral to the heart; A truth that lir'd in Cato's patriot hreast, Aud hade a dying Socrates he hlest: All, all, hut Virtue, is a school-hoy's theme, The air-dress'd phantom of a virgin's dream; A gilded toy, that homehred fools desire, That coxcomhs hoast of, and that mohs admire: Her radiant graces every hliss unfold, And turn whate'er she touches into gold.

THE

BIRTH AND EDUCATION OF GENIUS.

A TAtE.

Yes, Harriet! say whate'er you can,
Tis education makes the man:
Whate'er of Genins we inherit,
Exalted sense, and lively spirit,
Must all he disciplin'd hy rules,
And take their colour from the schools.

'Twas Nature gave that cheek to glow.
That hreast to rise in hills of snow,
Those sweetly-temper'd eyes to shine
Ahove the sapphires of the mine.
But all your more majestic charms,
Where grace presides, where spirit warms;
That shape which falls hy just degrees,
And flows into the pomp of ease;
That step, whose motion seems to swim,
That melting harmony of limh,
Were form'd hy Glover's skilful glance,
At Chelsea, when you leamt to dance.

Tis so with man.—His talents rest
Misshapen tmhrios in his hreast;

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