Worn on the edge of days the brass consumes, Here all the mighty troublers of the earth, Who swam to sovereign rule through seas of blood; Th' oppressive, sturdy, man-destroying villains, Who ravag'd kingdoms, and laid empires waste, And in a cruel wantonness of power Thinn'd states of half their people, and gave up To want the rest; now, like a storm that's spent, Lie hush'd, and meanly sneak behind the covert.. Vain thought! to hide them from the general scorn That haunts and dogs them, like an injur'd ghost Implacable.-Here too the petty tyrant, Whose scant domains geographer ne'er notic'd, And, well for neighbouring grounds, of arm as short, Who fix'd his iron talons on the poor, And griped them like some lordly beast of prey; Deaf to the forceful cries of gnawing hunger, Now tame and humble like a child that's whip'd, Shakes hands with dust, and calls the worm his kinsman. Nor pleads his rank and birthright. Under ground Precedency's a jest ; vassal and lord, Grossly familiar, side by side consume. When self-esteem, or others' adulation, The grave gainsays the smooth-complexion'd flattery, Beauty!-thou pretty plaything, dear deceit, What hast thou more to boast of? Will thy lovers T' improve those charms, and keep them in repair, Look how the fair one weeps!—the conscious tears Honest effusion! the swol'n heart in vain Strength too-thou surly, and less gentle boast With greater ease, than e'er thou didst the stripling See how he tugs for life, and lays about him, Mad with his pain!-Eager he catches hold Of what comes next to hand, and grasps it hard, Lies still.-What mean'st thou then, Q mighty boaster To vaunt of nerves of thine? what means the bull, With study pale, and midnight vigils spent, And travelling through the boundless length of space, In ecstasy of thought. But, ah! proud man, Here the tongue-warrior lies, disabled now, Disarm'd, dishonour'd, like a wretch that's gagg'd, And cannot tell his ail to passers by. Great man of language!—whence this mighty change, This dumb despair, and drooping of the head? Though strong persuasion hung upon thy lip, And sly insinuation's softer arts In ambush lay about thy flowing tongue ; . Alas! how chop-fall'n now! Thick mists and silence Rest, like a weary cloud, upon thy breast Unceasing.-Ah! where is the lifted arm, The strength of action, and the force of words, Ah! fled for ever, as they ne'er had been, And warm with red resentment the wan cheek. Here the great masters of the healing art, These mighty mock defrauders of the tomb, Spite of their julaps and catholicons, Resign to fate.-Proud Esculapius' son! Where are thy boasted implements of art, And all thy well-cram'd magazines of health? Nor hill nor vale, as far as ship could go, Nor margin of the gravel-bottom❜d brook, Escap'd thy rifling hand;-from stubborn shrubs Thou wrung'st their shy-retiring virtues out, And vex'd them in the fire: nor fly, nor insect, Nor writhy snake, escap'd thy deep research. But why this apparatus? why this cost? Tell us, thou doughty keeper from the grave, Where are thy recipes and cordials now, |