How here, how there the tides of fortune roll;
How foon impending death concludes the whole;
Compose thy mind; and free from anxious ftrife,
Endure thy portion of the ills of life:
Though still the good man stands fecure from harms,
Nor can misfortune wound whom virtue charms.
Difcourfe in common converfe, thou wilt find,
Some to improve, and some to taint thy mind:
Grateful to that a due obfervance pay;
Beware, left this entice thy thoughts aftray;
And untruths bold, which thou art forc'd to hear,
Receive difcreetly with a patient ear.
Would't thou be justly rankt among the wife?
Think, ere thou do; ere thou refolve, advise.
Still let thy aims with thy experience square,
And plan thy conduct with fagacious care.
So fhalt thou all thy courfe with pleasure run,
Nor wish an action of thy life undone.
Among the various ends of thy defires,
"Tis no inferior place thy health requires.
Firmly for this from all accefs refrain ;
Thy cups be mod'rate, and thy diet plain.
Nor yet inelegant thy boards fupply;
But fhun the naufeous pomp of luxury.
Of spleen by chearful converfe, fem the flood:
Let honeft labour purify thy blood.
Each night, ere needful flumber feal thy eyes,
Home to thy foul let these reflexions rife :
"How has to-day my duty been expreit?
"What have I done, omitted, or tranfgreft ?"
Then mourn the moments thou hast idly spent,
The reft will yield thee comfort and content.
Be thefe good rules thy study and delight:
Practife by day, and ponder them by night.
ADIEU, ye groves-adieu, ye plains!
All nature mourning lies;
See gloomy clouds, and thick'ning rains,
Obfcure the lab'ring fkies.
See from afar th' impending storm,
With fullen haste appear;
See Winter comes, a dreary form,
To rule the falling year.
No more the lambs with gamefome bound,
Rejoice the gladden'd fight;
No more the gay enamell'd ground,
Or Sylvan fcenes delight.
Thus, O Maria! much lov'd maid,
Thy earthly charms fhall fail;
The rofe must droop, the lily fade,
And Winter foon prevail.
Again, the lark, fweet bird of day,
May rife on active wing:
Again, the fportive herds may play,
And hail reviving Spring.
But youth, my fair, fees no return,
The pleafing bubbles o'er ;
In vain its fleeting joys you mourn,
They fall, to bloom no more.
Hafte then, dear girl! that time improve,
Which art can ne'er regain ;
In blissful fcenes of mutual love,
With fome diftinguish'd fwain.
So fhall Life's fpring, like jocund May,
Pafs fmiling and ferene;
Thus Summer, Autumn, glide away,
And Winter close the scene!
The balmy zephyrs breath'd their store,
And wav'd the gentle breeze;
The bufy day of toil was o'er,
And Nature fought for eafe.
"Twas near a daisy-sprinkled mead,
A blushing rose I found,
Wafting its odours in the air,
Its sweetness on the ground.
Sweet flow'r, I cry'd, how short thy bloom!
And fnatch'd it to my
Here may'st thou shed thy last perfume,
And find eternal rest.
Yet no,-to Delia's bofom fteal,
Who boasts her youthful prime,
And tell her plainly that her charms
Too foon muft fade like thine.
Then on her bofom breathe thy last,
While I thy fate deplore!
And mark with forrow at thy doom,
That thou shalt bloom no more!
ADDRESSED TO YOUNG LADIES.
SEE how this painted, fmiling toy,
Gives little mifs a mighty joy,
To make it gaily shine!
Sometimes fhe rocks it in her arms,
And ftrives to foothe, with utmost charms.
Her baby, grown fo fine.
With ribbons she adorns its hair,
To make its beauty look more fair,
And decks the head with lace;
Sometimes fhe lays it on a bed,
Where crimson curtains round are spread, To guard the quiet place.
Soon after, as the humour turns,
Against this babe her anger burns,
And she begins to chide;
Threatens her plaything with a rod,
And makes the image look but odd,
Stripp'd of its borrow'd pride.
We smile at this diverting scene;
We think fuch entertainment mean,
And trifling this affair :
Yet, when advanc'd to riper years,
More folly in our lives appears,
And unavailing care.
Some tempting idol we admire ;
Perhaps to airy fame aspire,
Because we think it bright;
Or, tempted elfe with glitt'ring ore,
Our wand'ring fancies vainly foar
In fearch of falfe delight.
The darlings which we entertain,
Not only empty are, and vain,
But often deeply hurt;
Whereas the child's delightful play,
Helps her to pass each harmless day,
In fancy's various fport.
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