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Brutus for absent Porcia fighs,
What is loose love? a tranfient gust,
And burn for ever one;
Oh fource of ev'ry focial tye,
While thousand grateful thoughts arise; 30
Or views his fmiling progeny;
What tender paffions take their turns,
His heart now melts, now leaps, now burns,'
Hence guilty joys, distastes, furmizes,
Fires that scorch, yet dare not shine:
Sacred Hymen! these are thine".
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 prosecute 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 afide all thoughts of that
ODE on SOLITUDE'.
APPPY the man, whose wish and care
Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire, Whose trees in fummer yield him shade, In winter fire.
Bleft, who can unconcern'dly find
Hours, days, and years slide soft away,
Sound fleep by night; study and ease,
Thus let me live, unfeen, unknown,
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.
This was a very early production of our Author, written at out twelve years old. P.
The dying Christian to his SOUL.
ITAL fpark of heav'nly flame:
Hark! they whisper; Angels say,
Sifter Spirit, come away.
This ode was written in imitation of the famous fonnet of Hadrian to his departing foul; but as much fuperior to his original in fenfe and fublimity, as the Chriftian Religion is to the