"That, piercing thro' the Mask of Mortal Things,
"Might scale the cloudless Battlements of Light,
"And in its Immaterial Robe detect

"The Spirit, stript of the encumbring Clay."

Alas, Eugenio! Life, Deception's Child,
Gives us her fairer Side, and gives no more;
The rest we seek in our reflecting View
Of Self, and Guilt's o'erheard Soliloquy.

How smiles the World in pain, and smiles believ'd!
Yon Wretch who, muffled in the Garb of Night,
Gave her the Tortures of a weary Soul,
Meets-may he not?-the jovial Eye of Day,
With a depictur'd Laughter in his Cheek,
Or the smoothe Visage of habitual Ease?

How have I mourn'd my Lot, as if the Fates
Cull'd me, the vilest from their pitchy Stores
That ere in Mortal Bosom planted Woe,

And pain'd the Care-fraught Soul! I'll grieve no more,
But take it patient with a sober hope,

That soon Distress may vary his assault,

Or soon the Welcome Tomb exclude Distress.

But see another Son of Night and Care,
A Shepherd watching o'er his frozen Fold,
Himself benumb'd and murmuring at his Fate.
Sigh not, fond Man; thy bosom only feels
The gentler Blows of Nature, and receives
The Common Visit of Calamity.

-

480

490

500

T

[A FAREWELL.]

[1779?]

HE hour arrived! I sigh'd and said,
How soon the happiest hours are fled!
On wings of down they lately flew,
But then their moments pass'd with you;
And still with you could I but be,
On downy wings they'd always flee.

Say, did you not, the way you went,
Feel the soft balm of gay content?
Say, did you not all pleasures find,
Of which you left so few behind?
I think you did for well I know
My parting prayer would make it so.

"May she," I said, "life's choicest goods partake;
"Those, late in life, for nobler still forsake-

"The bliss of one, th' esteem'd of many live,

10

"With all that Friendship would, and all that Love can give!"

“T

TIME.

London, February, 1780.

HE clock struck one! we take no thought of Time,"
Wrapt up in Night, and meditating rhyme.

All big with vision, we despise the powers

That vulgar beings link to days and hours-
Those vile, mechanic things that rule our hearts,
And cut our lives in momentary parts.

That speech of Time was Wisdom's gift, said Young. Ah, Doctor! better, Time would hold his tongue: What serves the clock? "To warn the careless crew, "How much in little space they have to do; "To bid the busy world resign their breath, "And beat each moment a soft call for death— "To give it, then, a tongue, was wise in man." Support the assertion, Doctor, if you can. It tells the ruffian when his comrades wait; It calls the duns to crowd my hapless gate; It tells my heart the paralysing tale

Of hours to come, when Misery must prevail.

ΤΟ

THE CHOICE.

London, February, 1780.

HAT vulgar title thus salutes the eye,
The schoolboy's first attempt at poesy?

The long-worn theme of every humbler Muse,
For wits to scorn and nurses to peruse;
The dull description of a scribbler's brain,

And sigh'd-for wealth, for which he sighs in vain;
A glowing chart of fairy-land estate,

Romantic scenes, and visions out of date,

Clear skies, clear streams, soft banks, and sober bowers,
Deer, whimpering brooks, and wind-perfuming flowers?

Not thus! too long have I in fancy wove
My slender webs of wealth, and peace, and love;
Have dream'd of plenty, in the midst of want,
And sought, by Hope, what Hope can never grant;
Been fool'd by wishes, and still wish'd again,
And loved the flattery, while I knew it vain!
"Gain by the Muse!"-alas! thou might'st as soon
Pluck gain (as Percy honour) from the moon;
As soon grow rich by ministerial nods,
As soon divine by dreaming of the gods,
As soon succeed by telling ladies truth,
Or preaching moral documents to youth;
To as much purpose, mortal! thy desires,
As Tully's flourishes to country squires;
As simple truth within St. James's state,
Or the soft lute in shrill-tongued Billingsgate.
"Gain by the Muse!" alas, preposterous hope!
Who ever gain'd by poetry-but Pope?

And what art thou? No St. John takes thy part;

No potent Dean commends thy head or heart!
What gain'st thou but the praises of the poor?
They bribe no milkman to thy lofty door,

They wipe no scrawl from thy increasing score.
What did the Muse, or Fame, for Dryden, say?
What for poor Butler? what for honest Gay?
For Thomson, what? or what to Savage give?
Or how did Johnson-how did Otway live?
Like thee, dependent on to-morrow's good,
Their thin revénue never understood;

Like thee, elate at what thou canst not know;
Like thee, repining at each puny blow;

Like thee they lived, each dream of Hope to mock,
Upon their wits-but with a larger stock.

No, if for food thy unambitious pray'r,
With supple acts to supple minds repair;
Learn of the base in soft grimace to deal,
And deck thee with the livery genteel;
Or trim the wherry, or the flail invite,
Draw teeth, or any viler thing but write.
Writers, whom once th' astonish'd vulgar saw
Give nations language, and great cities law;
Whom gods, they said-and surely gods-inspired,
Whom emp'rors honour'd, and the world admired,
Now common grown, they awe mankind no more,
But vassals are, who judges were before.
Blockheads on wits their little talents waste,
As files gnaw metal that they cannot taste;
Though still some good the trial may produce,
To shape the useful to a nobler use.
Some few of these a statue and a stone

Has Fame decreed-but deals out bread to none.
Unhappy art! decreed thine owner's curse,
Vile diagnostic of consumptive purse;
Members by bribes, and ministers by lies,
Gamesters by luck, by courage soldiers rise:
Beaux by the outside of their heads may win,
And wily sergeants by the craft within:
Who but the race, by Fancy's demon led,
Starve by the means they use to gain their bread?