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Yet fuch we find they are as can control
The fervile actions of our wavering foul :
Can fright, can alter, or can chain, the will;
Their ills all built on life, that fundamental ill.
O fatal fearch! in which the labouring mind,
Still prefs'd with weight of woe, ftill hopes to find
A fhadow of delight, a dream of

peace,

From years of pain one moment of releafe ;
Hoping at least she may herself deceive,
Against experience willing to believe,
Defirous to rejoice, condemn'd to grieve.
Happy the mortal man, who now at last
Has through this doleful vale of misery past;
Who to his deftin'd stage has carry'd on
The tedious load, and laid his burden down ;
Whom the cut brafs, or wounded marble, fhews
Victor o'er Life, and all her train of woes.
He happier yet, who, privileg'd by Fate
To shorter labour and a lighter weight,
Receiv'd but yesterday the gift of breath,
Order'd to-morrow to return to death.
But O! beyond defcription happiest he,

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Who ne'er muft roll on Life's tumultuous fea;

Who, with blefs'd freedom, from the general doom
Exempt, must never force the teeming womb,

Nor fee the fun, nor fink into the tomb!

Who breathes, muft fuffer; and who thinks, muft

mourn;

And he alone is blefs'd, who ne'er was born.

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"Yet

"Yet in thy turn, thou frowning Preacher, hear: Are not thefe general maxims too fevere ? "Say: cannot Power fecure its owner's blifs ?

44 And is not Wealth the potent fire of Peace? £45}

I tell thee, Life is but one common care;
And Man was born to fuffer, and to fear.
"But is no rank, no ftation, no degree,
"From this contagious taint of forrow free?"
None, mortal! none! Yet in a bolder ftrain
Let me this melancholy truth maintain.
But hence, ye worldly and prophane, retire:
For I adapt my voice, and raise my lyre,
To notions not by vulgar ear receiv'd :
Ye ftill muft covet life, and be deceiv'd:
Your very fear of death shall make you try
To catch the fhade of immortality;

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Wishing on earth to linger, and to save
Part of its prey from the devouring grave;
To those who may furvive you to bequeath
Something entire, in fpite of Time and Death;
A fancy'd kind of being to retrieve,
And in a book, or from a building, live.
Falfe hope! vain labour! let fome ages fly
The dome fhall moulder, and the volume die :
Wretches, ftill taught, ftill will ye think it strange,
That all the parts of this great fabric change,
Quit their old station and primæval frame,

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And lose their shape, their effence, and their name? 270

Reduce

Reduce the fong: our hopes, our joys, are vain; Our lot is forrow; and our portion pain.

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What paufe from woe, what hopes of comfort bring
The name of wife or great, of judge or king?
What is a king- -a man condemn'd to bear
The public burden of the nation's care;
Now crown'd fome angry faction to appease;
Now falls a victim to the people's ease;
From the first blooming of his ill-taught youth,
Nourish'd in flattery, and estrang'd from truth;
At home furrounded by a fervile croud,
Prompt to abuse, and in detraction loud;
Abroad begirt with men, and swords, and spears;
His very state acknowledging his fears;
Marching amidst a thousand guards, he fhews
His fecret terror of a thousand foes;

In war, however prudent, great, or brave,
To blind events and fickle chance a slave;
Seeking to fettle what for ever flies ;

Sure of the toil, uncertain of the prize.

But he returns with conqueft on his brow ;
Brings up the triumph, and abfolves the vow:
The captive generals to his car were ty’d;
The joyful citizens tumultuous tide,
Echoing his glory, gratify his pride.

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What is this triumph? madness, fhouts, and noise,
One
great collection of the people's voice.

The wretches he brings back in chains relate

What

may to-morrow be the victor's fate;

The

The spoils and trophies, borne before him, fhew 300
National lofs, and epidemic woe,

Various diftrefs, which he and his may know.
Does he not mourn the valiant thousands flain;
The heroes, once the glory of the plain,

Left in the conflict of the fatal day,

Or the wolf's portion, or the vulture's prey?
Does he not weep the laurel which he wears,
Wet with the foldiers blood, and widows tears ?
See, where he comes, the darling of the war!
See millions crouding round the gilded car!
In the vaft joys of this ecftatic hour,

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And full fruition of fuccefsful power,

One moment and one thought might let him fcan

The various turns of Life, and fickle state of Man.

Are the dire images of fad distrust,

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And popular change, obfcur'd amid the duft
That rifes from the victor's rapid wheel ?
Can the loud clarion or shrill fife repel
The inward cries of care? can Nature's voice
Plaintive be drown'd or leffen'd in the noife ;

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Though fhouts of thunder loud afflict the air,

Stun the birds now releas'd, and shake the ivory chair? Yon' croud (he might reflect) yon' joyful croud,

Pleas'd with my honours, in my praises loud,

(Should fleeting victory to the vanquifh'd go,

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Should the depress my arms, and raise the foe)
Would for that foe with equal ardour wait
At the high pakce, or the crouded gate;

With reftless rage would pull my ftatues down,
And caft the brafs anew to his renown.

O impotent defire of worldly fway!
That I, who make the triumph of to-day,
May of to-morrow's pomp one part appear,
Ghaftly with wounds, and lifelefs on the bier!
Then (vileness of mankind!) then of all these,
Whom my dilated eye with labour fees,
Would one, alas ! repeat me good, or great,
Wash my pale body, or bewail my fate?
Or, march'd I chain'd behind the hoftile car,
The victor's paftime, and the fport of war;
Would one, would one his pitying forrow lend,
Or be fo poor, to own he was my friend?

Avails it then, O Reason, to be wife;
To fee this cruel fcene with quicker eyes;
To know with more distinction to complain,
And have fuperior sense in feeling pain?

Let us revolve that roll with ftricteft eye,
Where fafe from Time distinguish'd actions lie;
And judge if greatnefs be exempt from pain,
Or pleasure ever may with power remain.

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Adam, great type, for whom the world was made, The fairest bleifing to his arms convey'd, A charming wife; and air, and fea, and land, And all that move therein to his command Render'd obedient: fay, my penfive Muse, What did thefe golden promifes produce? Scarce tafting life, he was of joy bereav'd: One day, I think, in Paradise he liv'd; VOL. II.

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