In full content, we fometimes nobly rest, Unanxious for ourselves; and only wish, As duteous fons, our fathers were more wife. At thirty, man fufpects himfelf a fool; Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan; At fifty, chides his infamous delay, Pushes his prudent purpose to Refolve; In all the magnanimity of thought, Refolves, and rerefolves, then dies the same.
And why? Because he thinks himself immortal. All men think all men mortal, but themselves; Themselves, when fome alarming fhock of fate Strikes through their wounded hearts the fudden dread; But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air, Soon clofe; where pafs'd the shaft, no trace is found. As from the wing no fear the sky retains, The parted wave no furrow from the keel, So dies in human hearts the thought of death. Ev'n with the tender tear which nature sheds O'er those we love, we drop it in the grave.
THE PAIN ARISING FROM VIRTUOUS EMOTIONS ATTENDED WITH PLEASURE.
BEHOLD the ways
Of Heav'n's eternal destiny to man,
For ever juft, benevolent, and wife :
That VIRTUE's awful fteps, howe'er pursued By vexing Fortune and intrufive Pain, Should never be divided-from her chaste,
Her fair attendant, PLEASURE. Need I urge Thy tardy thought through all the various round Of this exiftence, that thy foft'ning foul
*At length may learn what energy the hand
Of Virtue mingles in the bitter tide Of paffion fwelling with diftrefs and pain, To mitigate the fharp with gracious drops Of cordial Pleafure?-Afk the faithful youth, Why the cold urn of her whom long he lov'd So often fills his arms; fo often draws His lonely footsteps, at the filent hour, Το pay the mournful tribute of his tears? O! he will tell thee that the wealth of worlds Should ne'er feduce his bofom to forego 'That facred hour, when ftealing from the noife Of care and envy, sweet Remembrance foothes With Virtue's kindeft looks his aching breast, And turns his tears to rapture.—Afk the crowd Which flies impatient from the village-walk To climb the neighb'ring cliffs, when far below The cruel winds have hurl'd upon the coaft Some hapless bark; while facred Pity melts The gen'ral eye, or 'Terrour's icy hand Smites their diftorted limbs and horrent hair; While ev'ry mother closer to her breast Catches her child, and pointing where the waves Foam through the shatter'd veffel, fhrieks aloud As one poor wretch, that fpreads his piteous arms For fuccour, fwallow'd by the roaring furge, As now another, dafh'd against the rock, Drops lifeless down, O! deemeft thou indeed No kind endearment here by Nature giv❜n To mutual Terrour and Compaffion's tears? No fweetly-melting foftnefs 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 through that ftudious gloom thy pausing eye Led by the glimm'xing taper moves around
The facred volumes of the dead, the fongs Of Grecian bards, and records writ by fame For Grecian heroes, where the prefent pow'r Of Heav'n 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 these 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 ftates 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 majefty 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 giut the coward rage Of regal envy, firew the public way With hallow'd ruins!-when the mufe's haunt, The marble porch where Wildom, wont to talk With Socrates or Tully, hears no more, Save the hoarfe jargon of contentious monks, Or female Superstition's midnight pray'r;- When ruthless Rapine from the hand of Time Tears the destroying fcythe, with furer blow 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 through hoary weeds
That clafp the mould'ring column: thus defac'd, Thus widely mournful when the profpect 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 tafte The big diftrefs? Or wouldft thou then exchange Those heat 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 fhould 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.
SAY, what is tafte, but the internal powers Active and strong, and feelingly alive To each fine impulse? a difcerning sense Of decent and fublime, with quick disgust From things deform'd, or difarrang'd, or grofs In fpecies? This nor gems, nor ftores of gold, Nor purple ftate, nor culture can bestow; But God alone, when firft his active hand Imprints the facred bias of the foul.
He, Mighty Parent! wife and juft in all, Free as the vital breeze, or light of Heav'n, Reveals the charms of nature. Afk the fwain Who journeys homeward from a fummer-day's- Long labour, why forgetful of his toils And due repose, he loiters to behold
The funfhine gleaming as through amber clouds O'er all the western fky! Full foon, I ween, His rude expreffion, and untutor'd airs, Beyond the pow'r of language, will unfold The form of Beauty fmiling at his heart,
How lovely how commanding! But though Heav'n In every breast hath fown these early feeds Of love and admiration, yet in vain, Without fair Culture's kind parental aid, Without enliv'ning funs and genial fhow'rs, And shelter from the blast, in vain we hope The tender plant should rear its blooming head, Or yield the harveft promis'd in its fpring. Nor yet will every foil with equal stores Repay the tiller's labour; or attend His will, obfequious, whether to produce The olive or the laurel. Diff'rent minds Incline to diff'rent objects: one pursues The vaft alone, the wonderful, the wild; Another fighs for harmony and grace,
And gentleft beauty. Hence when lightning fires The arch of Heav'n, and thunders rock the ground; When furious whirlwinds rend the howling air, And ocean, groaning from his lowest bed, Heaves his tempeftuous billows to the sky; Amid the mighty uproar, while below The nations tremble, Shakspeare looks abroad From fome high cliff, fuperior, and enjoys The elemental war. But Waller longs,
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