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Whofe lips grew pale, and cold as clay :
I thought the chit would fwoon away.
The god was ftudious to employ
His cares to aid the vanquith'd boy;
And therefore ilued his decree,
That the two parties ftraight agree:
When both obey'd the god's commands,
And Love and Riches jin'd their hands.

What wondrous change in each was wrought, Believe me, fair, furpatles thought.

If Love had many charms before, He now had charms ten thousand more: If Wealth had ferpents in his breaft, They now were dead, or lull'd to reft. Beauty, that vain, affected thing, Who join'd the hymencal ring, Approach'd, with round unthinking face; And thus the trifler ftates her cafe:

She faid that Love's complaints, 'twas known,
Exactly tallied with her own:
That Wealth had learn'd the felon's arts,
And robb'd her of a thoufand hearts;
Defining judgment against Wealth,
For falichood, perjury, and stealth:
All which the could on oath depofe;
And hop'd the court would flit his nofe.

But Hymen, when he heard her name,
Call'd her an interloping dame;
Look'd through the crowd with angry ftate,
And blam'd the porter at the gate
For giving entrance to the fair,
When the was no eflential there.

To fink this haughty tyrant's pride, He order'd Fancy to prefide. Hence, when debates on beauty rife, And each bright fair difputes the prize, To Fancy's count we straight apply, And wait the fentence of her eye; In Beauty's realms fhe holds the feals, And her awards preclude appeals.

§ 118. Vision VIII. Life. LET not the young my precepts thun; Who flight good counfels are undone. Your poet fung of love's delights, Of halcyon days and joyous nights; To the gay fancy lovely themes; And fain I'd hope they 're more than dreams. But, if you pleafe, before we part, I'd fpeak a language to your heart. We 'll talk of Life, tho' much I fear Th' ungrateful tale will wound your car. You raite your fanguine thoughts too high, And hardly know the reafon why But fay, Life's tree bears golden fruit, Some canker fha'l corrode the root; Some unexpected form fhall rife, Or fcorching funs, or chilling skies; And (if experienc'd truths avail) All your autumnal hopes fhall fail.


But, poet, whence fuch wide extremes ? Well may you ftyle your labours dreams. A fon of forrow thou, I ween,

• Whofe Vifions are the brats of Spleen.

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Think not I tread on fairy ground;

Think not your pulfe alone beats true

Mine makes as healthful mufic too.

Our joys, when Life's foft fpring we trace, Put forth their early buds apace.

See the bloom loads the tender shoot; The bloom conceals the future fruit.

Yes, manhood's warm meridian fun Shall ripen what in fpring begun. Thus infant roles, ere they blow, In germinating clusters grow; And only wait the fummer's ray, To burft, and bloffom to the day.' What faid the gay unthinking boy? Methought Hilario talk'd of joy! Tell, if thou canft, whence joys arife, Or what thofe mighty joys you prize. You'll find (and truft fuperior years) The vale of life a vale of tears. Could wifdom teach where joys abound, Or riches purchase them when found, Would fceptred Solomon complain That all was fleeting, falfe, and vain ? Yet fceptred Solomon could fay, Returning clouds obfcur'd his day. Thofe maxims, which the preacher drew, The royal fage experienc'd true. He knew the various ills that wait Our infant and meridian ftate; That toys our earliest thoughts engage, And diff'rent toys maturer age; That grief at ev'ry stage appears, But diff'rent griefs at diff'rent years; That vanity is feen, in part, Infcrib'd on ev'ry human heart; In the child's breaft the park began, Grows with his growth, and glares in man. But when in life we journey late, If follies die, do griefs abate? Ah! what is life at fourfcore years? [tears One dark, rough road, of fighs, groans, pains, and Perhaps you'll think I act the fame As a fly tharper plays his game: You triumph ev'ry deal that 's past, He's fure to triumph at the laft! Who often wins fome thoufands more Than twice the fums you won before. But I'm a lofer with the reft; For life is all a deal at beft, Where not the prize of wealth or fame Repays the trouble of the game(A truth no winner e'er denied, An hour before that winner died). Not that with me thefe prizes fhine; For neither fame nor wealth is mine. My cards, a weak plebeian band, With fcarce an honour in my hand!

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And, fince my trumps are very few,
What have I inore to boast than you?
Nor am I gainer by your fall;
That harlot Fortune bubbles all!
'Tis truth (receive it ili or well),
'Tis melancholy truth I tell.
Why should the preacher take your pence,
And fmother truth to flatter fenfe?
I'm fure phyficians have no merit,
Who kill thro' lenity of spirit.

That life's a game, divines.confefs;
This fays at cards, and that at chefs:
But, if our views be centred here,
'Tis all a lofing game, I fear.

Sailors, you know, when wars obtain,
And hoftile veffels crowd the main,
If they difcover from afar

A bark as diftant as a star,
Hold the peripective to their eyes,
To learn its colours, ftrength, and fize;
And, when this fecret once they know,
Make ready to receive the foe.
Let you and I from failors learn
Important truths of like concern.

I clos'd the day, as cuftom led, With reading, till the time of bed; Where Fancy, at the midnight hour, Again difplay'd her magic pow'r(For know that Fancy, like a fprite, Prefers the filent fcenes of night.) She lodg'd me in a neighb'ring wood, No matter where the thicket flood; The Genius of the place was nigh, And held two pictures to my eye. The curious painter had portray'd Life in each juft and genuine fhade. They, who have only known its dawn, May think thefe lines too deeply drawn; But riper years, I fear, will fhew The wifer artifts paint too true.

One piece prefents a rueful wild,
Where not a fummer's fun had fmil'd:
The road with thorns is cover'd wide,
And Grief fits weeping by the fide;
Her tears with conftant tenor flow,
And form a mournful lake below;
Whofe fi'ent waters, dark and deep,
Thro all the gloomy valley creep.

Paffions that flatter, or that lay,
Are beafts that fawn, or birds that prey.
Here Vice affumes the ferpent's thape;
There Folly perfonates the ape:
Here Av rice gripes with harpy's claws;
There Malice grins with tiger's jaws :
While fons of Mifchief, Art and Guile
Are alligators of the Nile.

E'en Pleasure acts a treach'rous part;
She charms the fenfe, but ftings the heart:
And when the gulls us of our wealth,
Or that fuperior peal, our health,
Reftores us nought but pains and woe,
And drowns us in the lake below.

There a commiffion'd angel ftands, With defolation in his hands! He fends the all-devouring flame, And cities hardly boaft a name: Or wings the peftilential blaft, And, lo! ten thousands breathe their last. He fpeaks-obedient tempefts roar, And guilty nations are no more: He fpeaks the fury Difcord raves, And fweeps whole armies to their graves : Or Famine lifts her mildew'd hand, And Hunger howls thro' all the land.

6 Oh! what a wretch is man!' I cried, 'Expos'd to death on ev'ry fide!

And fure as born to be undone


By evils which he cannot fhun! Befides a thousand baits to fin, A thousand traitors lodg'd within ! For foon as Vice affaults the heart, The rebels take the dæmon's part.' I figh, my aching bofom bleeds; When straight the milder plan fucceeds. The lake of tears, the dreary fhore, The fame as in the piece before: But gleams of light are here difplay'd, To cheer the eye, and gild the shade; Affliction fpeaks a fofter ftyle, And Difappointment wears a fmile: A group of virtues blossom near; Their roots improve by ev'ry tear.

Here Patience, gentle maid! is nigh, To calm the ftorm, and wipe the eye: Hope acts the kind phyfician's part, And warms the folitary heart: Religion nobler comfort brings, Difarms our griefs, or blunts their stings; Points out the balance on the whole, And Heaven rewards the struggling foul But while thefe raptures I purfue, The Genius fuddenly withdrew,

§ 119. Vifion the laft. Death. 'TIS thought my Vifions are too grave * A proof I'm no defigning knave. Perhaps, if int'reft held the scales, I had devis'd quite diff'rent tales; Had join'd the laughing, low buffoon, And fcribbled fatise and lampoon; Or ftirr'd each fource of foft defire, And fann'd the coals of wanton fire: Then had my paltry Visions fold; Yes, all my dreams had turn'd to gold Had prov'd the darlings of the town, And I-a poct of renown!

Let not my awful theme furprise; Let no unmanly fears arise. I wear no melancholy hue; No wreaths of cypress, or of yew. The shroud, the coffin, pall, or hearfe, Shall ne'er deform my fofter verfe. Let me confign the fun'ral plume, The herald's paint, the fculptur'd tomb,

See the Monthly Review of New Books, for February 1751.


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For foreign ports, and lands unknown, Thus the firm failor leaves his own; Obedient to the rifing gale, Unmoors his bark, and fpreads his fail; Defies the ocean and the wind, Nor mourns the joys he left behind.

Is Death a pow'rful monarch True: Perhaps you dread the tyrant too! Fear, like a fog, precludes the light, Or fwells the object to the fight. Attend my vifionary page, And I'll difarm the tyrant's rage. Come, let this ghaftly form appear; He's not fo terrible when near. Diftance deludes th' unwary eye; So clouds feem monfters in the fky: Hold frequent converfe with him now, He'll daily wear a milder brow. Why is my theme with terror fraught Because you fhun the frequent thought. Say, when the captive pard is nigh, Whence thy pale cheek and frighted cye? Say, why difmay'd thy manly breaft, When the grim lion fhakes his creft ? Because thefe favage fights are new; No keeper thudders at the view: Keepers, accuftom'd to the fccne, Approach the dens with look ferene! Fearlets their grilly charge explore, And fimile to hear the tyrants roar.

• Ave—but to die! to bid adieu! An overlafting farewel too!

'Farewel to ev'ry joy around!

Oh, the heart fickens at the found!' Stay, ftripling-thou art poorly taught: Joy, didft thou fay? difcard the thought. Joys are a rich celeftial fruit, And fcorn a fublunary root: What wears the face of joy below, Is often found but fplendid woe. Joys here, like unfubftantial fame, Are nothings with a pompous name; Or elfe, like comets in the fphere, Shine with deftruction in their rear.

Paffions, like clouds, obfcure the fight,
Hence mortals feldem judge aright.
The world 's a harfh unfruitful foil,
Yet ftill we hope, and ftill we toil;
Deceive ourfelves with wondrous art,
And difappointment wrings the heart.

Thus, when a mist collects around,
And hovers o'er a barren ground,
The poor deluded trav'ller fpies
Imagin'd trees and ftructures rife;
But, when the fhrouded fun is clear,
The defert and the rocks appear.

Ah-but when youthful blood runs high, Sure 'tis a dreadful thing to die! To die! and what exalts the gloom, I'm told that man furvives the tomb ! O! can the learned prelate find What future fcenes await the mind? Where wings the foul, diflodg'd from clay? Some courteous angel point the way! That unknown fomewhere in the skies, Say, where that unknown fomewhere lies; And kindly prove, when life is o'er, That pains and forrows are no more: For, doubtlefs, dying is a curfe, If prefent ills be chang'd for worfe.' Huth, my young friend, forego the theme, And liften to your poct's dream.

Ere while I took an ev ning walk, Honorio join'd in focial talk. Along the lawns the zephyrs fweep; Each ruder wind was lull'd afleep. The fky, all beauteous to behold, Was freak'd with azure, green, and gold; But, tho' ferenely foft and fair, Fever hung brooding in the air; Then fettled on Honorio's breaft, Which thudder'd at the fatal guest. No drugs the kindly with fulfil; Difeafe eludes the doctor's fkill: The poifon, spread thro' all the frame, Ferments, and kindles into flame. From fide to fide Honorio turns, And now with thift infatiate burns: His eyes refign their wonted grace, Thole friendly lamps expire apace! The brain's an ufelefs organ grown; And Reafon tumbled from his throne.

But, while the purple furges glow, The currents thicken as they flow: The blood in cv'ry diftant part Stagnates, and difappoints the heart;


Defrauded of its crimson ftore,
The vital engine plays no more.

Honorio dead, the fun'ral bell
Call'd ev'ry friend to bid farewell.
I join'd the melancholy bier,
And dropp'd the unavailing tear.

The clock ftruck twelve-when nature fought
Repofe from all the pangs of thought;
And, while my limbs were funk to rest,
A Vifion footh'd my troubled breast.

I dream'd the spectre Death appear'd !
I dream'd his hollow voice I heard!
Methought th' imperial tyrant wore
A ftate no prince affum'd before;
All nature fetch'd a general groan,
And lay expiring round his throne.

I gaz'd-when ftraight arofe to fight
The most detefted fiend of night.
He fhuffled with unequal pace,
And confcious fhame deform'd his face.
With jealous leer he fquinted round,
Or fix'd his eyes upon the ground.
From hell this frightful monfter came;
Sin was his fire, and Guilt his name.

This fury, with officious care,
Waited around the fov'reign's chair;
In robes of terror drefs'd the king,
And arm'd him with a baneful fting;
Gave fierceness to the tyrant's eye,
And hung the fword upon his thigh.
Difeafes next, a hideous crowd!
Proclaim'd their mafter's empire loud
And all, obedient to his will,
Flow in commiffion'd troops to kill.


A rifing whirlwind fhakes the poles, And lightning glares, and thunder rolls. The monarch and his train prepare To range the foul tempeftuous air. Straight to his fhoulders he applies Two pinions of enormous fize! Methought I faw the ghaftly form Stretch his black wings, and mount the storm: When Fancy's airy horfe I ftrode, And join'd the army on the road. As the grim conqu’ror urg'd his way, He fcatter'd terror and difmay. Thousands a penfive aspect wore, Thoufands who fneer'd at death before. Life's records rife on ev'ry fide, And Confcience fpreads thofe volumes wide; Which faithful regifters were brought By pale-eyed Fear and bufy Thought. Thofe faults which artful men conceal, Stand here engrav'd with pen of steel, By Confcience, that impartial fcribe! Whofe honeft palm difdains a bribe : Their actions all like critics view, And all like faithful critics too. As Guilt had ftain'd life's various ftage, What tears of blood bedew'd the page!

All fhudder'd at the black account,
And scarce believ'd the vaft amount!
All vow'd a fudden change of heart,
Would death relent, and fheath his dart.
But, when the awful foe withdrew,
All to their follies fled anew.

So when a wolf, who fcours at large,
Springs on the fhepherd's fleecy charge,
The flock in wild diforder fly,
And cast behind a frequent eye;
But, when the victim's borne away,
They rush to pasture and to play.

Indulge my dream, and let my pen Paint thofe unmeaning creatures, men.

Carus, with pain and ficknets worn, Chides the flow night, and fighs for morn. Soon as he views the caftern ray, He mourns the quick return of day; Hourly laments protracted breath, And courts the healing hand of death.

Verres, opprefs'd with guilt and fhame, Shipwreck'd in fortune, health, and fame l'ines for his dark, fepulchral bed, To mingle with th' unheeded dead.

With fourfcore years grey Natho bends, A burden to himfelf and friends! And with impatience seems to wait The friendly hand of ling ring Fate. So hirclings with their labour done, And often eye the western fun.

The monarch hears their various grief; Defcends, and brings the wifh'd relief. On Death with wild furprise they star'd; All feem'd averfe! all unprepar'd!

As torrents fweep with rapid force, The grave's pale chief purfued his course. No human pow'r can or withftand, Or fhun, the conquefts of his hand. Oh! could the prince of upright mind, And as a guardian angel kind, With ev'ry heart-felt worth befide, Turn the keen fhaft of Death afide, When would the brave Auguftus join The afhes of his facred line?

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*Referring to the death of his late Royal Highness Frederic Prince of Wales.
+ Archbishop of Canterbury,
Late Bishop of Durham.

I 2

HBishop of Oxfərd.


Why this address to peerage all ?
Untitled Allen's virtues call!
If Allen's worth demands a place,
Lords, with your leave, 'tis no difgrace.
Though high your ranks in heralds rolls,
Know, Virtue too ennobles fouls.
By her that private man's renown'd
Who pours a thousand bleffings round.
While Allen takes Affliction's part,
And draws out all his gen'rous heart,
Anxious to feize the fleeting day,
Left unimprov'd it steal away;
While thus he walks, with jealous ftrife,
Through goodnefs, as he walks through life;
Shall not I mark his radiant path-
Rife, Mufe, and fing the Man of Bath!
Publish abroad, could goodness fave,
Allen would difappoint the grave;
Tranflated to the heavenly fhore,
Like Enoch, when his walk was o'er.

Nor Beauty's pow'rful pleas reftrain:
Her pleas are triding, weak, and vain;
For women pierce with thricks the air,
Smite their bare breafts, and rend their hair;
All have a doleful tale to tell,

How friends, fons, daughters, husbands fell!
Alas! is life our fav'rite theme-
'Tis all a vain or painful dream;
A dream which fools or cowards prize,
But flighted by the brave or wite.
Who lives, for others ills must groan,
Or bleed for forrows of his own;
Muft journey on with weeping eve,
Then pant, fink, agonize, and die.

And fhall a man arraign the skies,
Because man lives, and mourns, and dies?'
Impatient reptile!' Reafon cried;
Arraign thy paffion and thy pride:
Retire, and commune with thy heart;

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And make thee grateful, good, and wife.
Why do you roam to foreign climes,
To ftudy nations, modes, and times;
A fcience often dearly bought,

⚫ And often what avails

Afk whence thou can't, and what thou art?

Explore thy body and thy mind,

Thy ftation too why here allign'd.
The fearch fhall teach thee life to prize,

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you nought? Go, man, and act a wifer part,

Study the fcience of your heart:
This home philofophy, you know,
Was priz'd fome thousand years ago
Then why abroad a frequent guelt?
Why fuch a stranger to your breast ?
Why turn fo many volumes o'er,
• Till Dodfley can fupply no more?
Not all the volumes on thy fhelf
Are worth that fingle volume, Self:
For who this facred bock declines,
Howe'er in other arts he thines,
Tho' fmit with Pindar's noble rage,
• Or vers'd in Tully's manly page;

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Afk the young rake (he 'll answer right),
Who treats by day, and drinks by night,
What makes his entertainments shine?
What gives the relish to his wine?
He'll tell thee (if he fcorns the beast)
That focial pleafures form the feaft.
The charms of beauty too shall cloy,
Unless the foal exalts the joy.

The mind muft animate the face,

What! muft the foul her pow'rs difpense,

To raise and fwell the joys of fenfe?

Know, too, the joys of fenfe controul

She boafts within a golden mine;

But, like the treafures of Peru,

Her wealth lies deep, and far from view.

Say, fhall the man who knows her worth,

Debafe her dignity and birth?

Or e'er repine at Heaven's decree,

Can't but applaud his Maker's choice ;
Pleas'd with that first and sov’reign cause,
Pleas'd with unerring Wifdom's laws:
Secure, fince fov'reign goodnefs reigns;
Secure, fince fov'reign pow'r obtains.

With curious eyes review thy frame;
This fcience thall direct thy claim.
Doft thou indulge a double view,
A long, long life, and happy too?
Perhaps a farther boon you crave-
To lie down eafy in the grave.

Know, then, my dictates must prevail,
Or furely cach fond wifh fhall fail.
Come, then, is happiness thy aim?
Let mental joys be all thy game.

Know thyself;' a celebrated saying of Chile, one of the Seven Wife Men of Gruese.

Who kindly gave her leave to be;

Call'd her from nothing into day,

And built her tenement of clay?

Hear and accept me for your guide

(Reafon fhall ne'er defert your side):
Who liftens to my wifer voice,


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