Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms :
And then, the whining SCHOOL-BOY with his fatchel, And fhining morning-face, creeping like fnail Unwillingly to fchool: And then, the LOVER; Sighing like Furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mifirefs'eye-brow: Then, the SOLDIER; Full of firange oaths, and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honour, fudden and quick in quarrel; Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth: And then, the JUSTICE; In fair round belly, with good capon lin'd, With eyes fevere, and beard of formal cut, Full of wife faws and modern inftances,
And fo he plays his part: The fixth age shifts Into the lean and flipper'd PANTALOON, With fpectacles on's nofe, and pouch on's fide; His youthful hofe well fav'd, a world too wide For his fhrunk fhank; and his big manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes And whiftles in his found: Laft fcene of all, That ends this strange eventful history,
Is fecond CHILDISHNESS, and mere oblivion; Sans teeth, fans eyes, fans tafte, fans every thing.
THE DYING INDIAN.
ON yonder lake I spread the fail no more! Vigour, and youth, and active-days are pafi-
Relentless demons urge me to that shore, On whofe black forefts all the dead are caft. Ye folemn train, prepare the fun'ral song, For I muft go, to fhades below, Where all is ftrange, and all is new; Sad companion to the airy throng; What folitary fireams,
In dull and dreary dreams,
All melancholy muft I rove along?
To what frange lands muft SHALUM take his way? Groves of the dead departed mortals trace ! No deer along those gloomy forefis ftray,
Nor huntfinen there take pleasure in the chase; But all are empty unsubstantial shades,
That ramble through thofe vifionary glades; No fpongy fruits from verdant trees depend; But fickly orchards there
Do fruits as fickly bear,
And apples a confumptive vifage thew. And wither'd hangs the hurtle-berry blue. Ah me! what mifchiefs on the dead attend ' Wand'ring a ftranger to the fhores below, Where Thall I brook or real fountain find? Lazy and fad deluding waters flow. Such is the picture in my boding mind! Fine tales indeed they tell
Of fhades and purling rills, Where our dead fathers dwell, Beyond the Western Hills; But when did ghoft return his ftate to fhew; Or who can promise half the tale is true? I, too, must be a fleeting ghoft-no more— None-none but shadows to thofe mansions go; I leave my woods, I leave my Huron fhore, For emptier groves below!
Ye charming folitudes,
Ye tall afcending woods,
Ye glaffy lakes, ye cool and prattling fireams, Whofe afpect ftill was fweet,
Whether the fun did greet,
Or the pale moon embrac'd you with her beams, Adieu to all!
To all that charmed me while I ftrayed, The winding ftream, the dark sequester'd shade, Adieu all triumph here!
Adieu the mountain's lofty fwell, Adieu, thou little verdant hill,
And feas, and ftars, and skies-farewell, For fome remoter sphere!
Perplex'd with doubts, and tortur'd with despair, Why fo dejected at this hapless fleep? Nature, at leaft, thefe ruins may repair,
When death's long dream is o'er, and the forgets to weep.
Some real world once more may be affign'd, Some new-born manfion for th' immortal mind!- Farewell, fweet lake; farewell furrounding woods; To other groves, through midnight glooms I ftray, Beyond the mountains, and beyond the floods, Beyond the Huron bay!
Prepare the hollow tomb, and place me low, My trufty bow and arrows by my fide, The cheerful bottle and the ven'fon ftore; For long the journey is that I must go, Without a partner, and without a guide!- Ah! I fhall come no more!-
He fpoke, and bid th' attending mourners weep- Then clos'd his eyes, and funk to endless fleep!
BLOW, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not fo unkind As man's ingratitude :
Thy tooth is not fo keen, Because thou art not feen,
Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh ho! fing, heigh ho! unto the green holly: Moft friendship is feigning, moft loving mere folly: Then, heigh ho, the holly! This life is moft jolly.
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, Thou doft not bite fo nigh As benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy fling is not fo fharp
As friend remember'd not.
Heigh ho! fing, heigh ho! unto the green holly: Moft friendship is feigning, moft loving mere folly: Then, heigh ho, the holly! This life is moft jolly.
YES, happy youths! on Cadmus' fedgy fide You feel each joy that friendship can divide, Each realm of fcience and of art explore, And with the ancient blend the modern lore, Studious alone to learn whate'er may tend To raife the genius, or the heart to mend; Now pleas'd along the cloifter'd walks you rove, And trace the verdant mazes of the grove, Where focial oft and oft alone ye choofe To catch the zephyr, and to court the mufe; Meantime at me (while all devoid of art Thefe lines give back the image of my heart) At me the pow'r that comes, or foon or late, Or aims, or feems to aim, the dart of fate; From you remote, methinks alone I ftand, Like fome fad exile in a defert land, Around no friends their lenient care to join In mutual warmth, and mix their heart with mine. Or real pains, or thofe which fancy raife, For ever blot the funfhine of my days; To fickness ftill, and fill to grief, a prey, Health turns from me her rofy face away.
Juft Heav'n! what fin, ere life begins to bloom, Dévotes my head untimely to the tomb? Did ere this hand against a brother's life Drug the dire bowl, or point the murd'rous knife? Did e'er this tongue the fland'rer's tale proclaim, Or madly violate my Maker's name?
Did e'er this heart betray a friend or foe,
Or know a thought but all the world might know? As yet juft ftarted from the lifts of time
My growing years have fcarcely told their prime;
Ufelefs as yet through life I've idly run, No pleasures tafted, and few duties done. Ah! who, ere Autumn's mellowing funs appear Would pluck the promife of the vernal year? Or ere the grapes their purple hue betray, Tear the crude clufter from the mourning spray? Stern pow'r of fate! whofe ebon fceptre rules The Stygian deferts and Cimmerian pools, Forbear, nor rafhly fmite my youthful heart, A victim yet unworthy of thy dart;
Ah! ftay till age fhall blaft my with'ring face, Shake in my head, and falter in my pace; Then aim the fhaft, then meditate the blow, And to the dead my willing fhade fhall go.
How weak is man to reafon's judging eye! Born in this moment, in the next we die; Part mortal clay, and part ethereal fire, Too proud to creep, to humble to aspire. In vain our plans of happiness we raife; Pain is our lot, and patience is our praife: Wealth, lineage, honours, conqueft, or a throne, Are what the wife would fear to call their own. Health is at beft a vain precarious thing, And fair-fac'd youth is ever on the wing: Tis like the ftream afide whofe wat'ry bed Some blooming plant exalts his flow'ry head, Nurs'd by the wave the fpreading branches rife, Shade all the ground, and flourish to the skies; The waves the while beneath in fecret flow, And undermine the hollow bank below; Wide and more wide the waters urge their way, Bare all the roots, and on their fibres prey; Too late the plant bewails his foolish pride, And finks untimely in the whelming tide. But why repine? Does life deferve my figh? Few will lament my lofs whene'er I die. For thofe, the wretches I defpife or hate, I neither envy or regard their fate.
For me, whene'er all-conquering death fhall fpread His wings around my unrepining head,
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