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There pafs, with melancholy ftate,

By all the folmen heaps of fate;
And think, as foftly fad you tread
Above the venerable dead,

"Time was, like thee they life poffeft,
"And time fhall be that thou shalt reft."

Thofe graves, with bending ozier bound, That namelese heave the crumbl'd ground, Quick to the glancing thought difclofe, Where toil and poverty repofe.

The flat fmooth ftones that bear a name,
The chiffel's flender help to fame,
(Which 'ere our fet of friends decay
Their frequent fteps may wear away,)
A middle race of mortals own,
Men half ambitious, all unknown.
The marble tombs that rife on high,
Whofe dead in vaulted arches lie.
Whofe pillars fwell with fculptur'd ftones,
Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones ;
Thefe, all the poor remains of ftate,
Adorn the rich or praise the great ;
Who, while on earth in fame they live,
Are fenfelefs of the fame they give

Ha! while I gaze pale Cynthia fades,
The bursting earth unveils the shades!
All flow and wan, and wrapp'd with shrouds,
They rife in vifionary crowds,

And all with fober accent cry,
"Think, mortal, what it is to die."

Now, from yon black and fun'ral yew, That bathes the charnel-house with dew, Methinks I hear a voice begin

Ye ravens, cease your croaking din,
(Ye toiling clocks, no time refound
O'er the long lake and midnight ground)-
It fends a peal of hollow groans,
Thus fpeaking from among the bones.
"When men my fcythe and darts fupply,

How great a King of fears am I!
They view me like the laft of things,
They make, and then they dread, my ftings
Fools! if you lefs provok'd your fears,
No more my spectre form appears.
Death's but a path that must be trod,
If man would ever pass to God:
A port of calms, a ftate of eafe,
From the rough rage of (welling feas.

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Why then thy flowing fable ftoles, Deep pending cyprefs, mourning poles, Loose scarfs to fall athwart thy weeds, Long palls, drawn hearfes, cover'd steeds, And plumes of black, that, as they tread, Nod o'er the fcutcheons of the dead?

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Nor can the parted body know,

Nor wants the foul, thefe forms of woe:
As men who long in prifon dwell,
With lamps that glimmer round the cell:
Whene'er their fuffering years are run,
Spring forth to greet the glittering fun:
Such joy, tho' far transcending sense,
Have pious fouls at parting hence.
On earth, and in the body plac'd,
A few and evil years they waste:
But, when their chains are cast aside,
See the glad fcene unfolding wide;
Clap the glad wing, and tow'r away,
And mingle with the blaze of day.

THE

W

PASSIONS.

BY COLLINS.

HEN Mufic, heavenly maid was young,
While yet in early Greece fhe fung,

The paffions oft, to hear her fhell,
Throng'd around her magic cell,

Exultiug, trembling, raging, fainting,
Poffeft beyond the Mufe's painting;
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd,

'Till once, 'tis faid, when all were fir'd,
Fill'd with fury, rapt, infpired,

From the supporting myrtles round
They fnatch'd her inftruments of found.

And as they oft had heard apart
Sweet leffons of her forceful art,
Each, for madness rul'd the hour,
Would prove his own expreffive power.

First Fear his hand, its fkill to try

Amid the chords bewilder'd laid, And back recoil'd, he knew not why, Ev'n at the found himself had made.

Next Anger rufh'd, his eyes on fire,
In light'nings own'd his fecret ftings,
In one rude clash he ftruck the lyre,
And fwept, with hurried hand, the ftrings.

With woful measures, wan Defpair-
Low fullen founds his grief beguil'd,
A folemn, ftrange, and mingled air,
'Twas fad by fits, by ftarts 'twas wild.

But thou O, Hope, with eyes fo fair,

What was thy delighted Measure?
Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail !
Still would her touch the scene prolong,
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,

She call'd on Echo, ftill thro' all the fong;

A foft refponfive voice was heard at every close, And hope enchanted fmil'd, and wav'd her golden hair,

And longer had the fung,-but, with a frown,
Revenge impatient rose,

He threw his blood-ftain'd fword in thunder down,
And with a withering look,

The war denouncing trumpet took, And blew a blast fo loud and dread,

Where ne'er prophetic founds fo full of woes,

And ever and anon he beat

The doubling drum with furious heat:

And tho' fometimes, each dreary pause between, Dejected Pity at his fide,

Her foul-fubduing voice applied,"

Yet ftill he kept his wild unalter'd mein, While each ftrain'd ball of fight feem'd brufting from

his head.

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