Beauty! thou pretty play-thing! dear deceit!
That fleals fo foftly o'er the ftripling's heart,
And gives it a new pulfe unknown before;
The Grave difcredits thee*: thy charms expung'd,
Thy rofes faded, and thy lilies foil'd,
What haft thou more to boast of? Will thy lovers
Flock round thee now, to gaze and do thee homage?
Methinks, I fee thee with thy head laid low;
Whilft furfeited upon thy damask cheek,
The high fed worm in lazy volumes roll'd
Riots unfcar'd. For this was all thy caution?
For this thy painful labours at the glass,
T'improve those charms, and keep them in repair,
For which the fpoiler thanks thee not? foul feeder}
Coarse fare and carrion, please thee full as well,
And leave as keen a relish on the fenfe.
Look how the fair one weeps! the conscious tears
Stand thick as dew drops on the bells of flow'rs:
Honeft effufion! the fwolen heart in vain
Works hard to put a gloss on its distress +.
* Beauty is vain, and often quickly fades ; Difeafe and death laugh all her charms to fcorn. + How lov'd, how valued once, avails thee not To whom related, or by whom begot:
A heap of duft alone remains of thee,
Tis all thou art, and all the proud fhall be.
HERVEY'S MEDITATIONS.
Strength too! thou furly, and lefs gentle boast
Of thofe that laugh loud at the village ring!
A fit of common fickness pulls thee down,
With greater ease than ere thou didst the stripling
That rafhly dar'd thee to th' unequal fight.
What groan was that I heard? deep groan indeed!
With anguish heavy laden, let me trace it!
From yonder bed it comes, where the strong man
By ftronger arm belabour'd,
Like a hard hunted beast.
How his great heart Beats thick! his roomy cheft by far too scant
To give the lungs full play! what now avail
The ftrong built finewy limbs and well spread shoulders? See how he tugs for life, and lays about him
Mad with his pain! eager he catches hold
On what coines next to hand, and grafps it hard,
Juft like a creature drowning! hideous fight!
Oh how his eyes ftand out, and stare full ghastly!
Whilft the diftemper's rank and deadly venom
Shoots like a burning arrow cross his bowels,
And drinks his marrow up. Heard you
that groan?
It was his laft. See how the great Goliah,
Juft like a child that brawl'd itself to reft,
Lies ftill! What mean'ft thou then, O mighty boafter!
To vaunt of nerves of thine? What means the bull,
* Thy ftrength is weakness, and thy boafting vain,'
Death o'er the ftrongeft will a vict'ry gain:
All foon or late muft by his dart be flain.-Sol. Walks..
Unconscious
Unconcious of his ftrength, to play the coward,
And flee before a feeble thing like man?
Who knowing well the flackness of his arm,
Trufts only in the well-invented knife.
With ftudy pale, and midnight vigils spent,
The far-furveying fage clofe to his eye
Applies the fight-invigorating tube; *
And trav❜ling thro' the boundless length of spacej
Marks well the courses of the far feen orbs,
That roll with regular confufion there,
In extafy of thought. But ah! proud man!
Great heights are hazardous to the weak head:
Soon, very foon, thy firmeft footing fails;
And down thou dropp'ft into that darkfome place
Where not device nor knowledge ever came t.
Here the tongue-warrior lies! difabled now,
Difarm'd, dishonor'd, like a wretch that's gagg'd,
And cannot tell his ails to paffers by.
Great man of language! whence this mighty changes
This dumb defpair, and drooping of the head?
Though ftrong perfuafion hung upon thy lip,
And fly infinuation's fofter arts
In ambash lay about thy flowing tongue;
Alas! how chop-fall'n now! thick mifts and filence Reft, like a weary cloud, upon thy breast Unceafing. Ah! where is the lifted arm,
The frength of action, and the force of words,
The well-turn'd period, and the well-tun'd voice,
With all the leffer ornaments of phrase?
Ah! fled for ever, as they ne'er had been!
Raz'd from the book of fame: or, more provoking,
Perhaps fome hackney hunger-bitten scribbler
Infults thy memory, and blots thy tomb
With long flat narrative, or duller rhymes
With heavy halting pace that drawl along *;
Enough to rouze a dead man into rage,
And warm with red refentment the wan cheek.
Here the great mafters of the healing art,
Thefe mighty mock defrauders of the tomb!
Spite of their juleps and catholicons,
Refign to fate. + Proud Æfculapius' fon!
Where are thy boafted implements of art,
And all thy well cramm'd magazines of health?
Nor hill, nor vale, as far as thip could go,
Nor margin of the gravel-bottom'd brook,
Efcap'd thy rifling hand! from ftubborn fhrubs
*Yet e'en thefe bones from infult to protect, Some frail memorial fill erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and fhapeless fculpture deck'd
Implores the paffing tribute of a figh.
The best phyficians cannot fave
Themfelves or patients from the grave.
Thou wrung'ft their fhy retiring virtues out
And vex'd them in the fire; nor fly, nor infect,
Nor writhy fnake, efcap'd thy deep research.
But why this apparatus? why this coft?
Tell us, thou doughty keeper from the grave!
Where are thy recipes and cordials now,
With the long lift of vouchers for thy cures?
Alas! thou fpeak'ft not. The bold impoftor
Looks not more filly, when the cheat's found out.
Here the lank-fided mifer, worft of felons,
Who meanly flole, difcreditable fhift!
From back and belly too their proper cheer
Eas'd of a tax it irk'd the wretch to pay
To his own carcafe, now lies cheaply lodg'd;
By clam'rous appetites no longer teaz'd,
Nor tedious bills of charges and repairs;
But ah! where are his rents, his comings in?
Aye! now you've made the rich man poor indeed:
Robb'd of his gods, what has he left behind?
O! curfed luft of gold! when for thy fake
The fool throws up his int'reft in both worlds,
Firft ftarv'd in this, then damn'd in that to come.
How fhocking muft thy fummons be, O death!
To him that is at eafe in his poffeffions!
* Mifers often farve themfelves thro' fear of ftarv ing!!!
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