Dangers, doubts, delays, furprizes; Fires that scorch, yet dare not fhine: 40 Pureft love's unwafting treasure, Constant faith, fair hope, long leisure, Days of eafe, and nights of pleasure; Sacred Hymen! these are thine. REMARK S. a These two Chorus's are enough to fhew us his great talents for this fpecies of Poetry, and to make us lament he did not profecute his purpose in executing fome plans he had chalked out; but the Character of the Managers of Playhouses was what (he faid) foon determined him to lay aside all thoughts of this nature. + I z ODE on SOLITUDE. APPY the man, whose wish and care HA A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air, In his own ground. Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, Bleft, who can unconcern'dly find Hours, days, and years flide foft away, In health of body, peace of mind, Quiet by day, Sound fleep by night; ftudy and ease, And innocence, which moft does please With meditation. Thus let me live, unfeen, unknown, Thus unlamented let me die, Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie. 6 10 15 This was a very early production of our Author, written at about twelve years old. P. り The dying Christian to his SOUL. OD E. I. VITA ITAL fpark of heav'nly flame! Oh the pain, the blifs of dying! II. Hark! they whisper; Angels fay, Sifter Spirit, come away. What is this absorbs me quite? Steals my fenfes, shuts my fight, Drowns my fpirits, draws my breath? Tell me, my Soul, can this be Death? REMARKS. 5 This ode was written in imitation of the famous fonnet of Hadrian to his departing foul; but as much fuperior in sense and fublimity to his original, as the Chriftian Religion is to the Pagan. |