* He looks celestial dignity and grace,

• And views with pity.wretched human race!'
« Forbear, rash man! nor curfe thy country's foes;
"Frail man to man forgiveness ever owes.

"When Moifafoor* the fell to earth's fair plain
"Brought his detefted offspring, Strife and Pain,
Revenge with them, relentless Fury, came,

"Her bosom burning with infernal flame!

" Her hair sheds horror, like the comet's blaze;
"Her eyes, all ghaftly, blaft where'er they gaze;
"Her lifted arm a poifon'd cricet sustains;

"Her garments drop with blood of kindred veins !
"Who asks her aid, muft own her endless reign,
"Feel her keen fcourge, and drag her galling chain !”
• The ftrains fublime in sweetest musick close,
And all the tumult of my foul compofe.
. Yet you, ye oppreffors! uninvok'd, on you,
Your steps, the fteps of Juftice will pursue!
• Go, spread your white fails, on the azure main;
• Fraught with our spoils, your native land regain;
• Go, plant the grove, and bid the lake expand,
• And on green hills the pompous palace stand:
Let Luxury's hand adorn the gaudy room,

• Smoothe the foft couch, and fhed the rich perfume
There Night's kind calm in vain fhall fleep invite,
• While fancied omens warn, and spectres fright;
• Sad founds fhall iffue from your guilty walls,
• The widow'd wife's, the fonless mother's calls;
And infant Rajahs' bleeding forms fhall rife,
And lift to you their fupplicating eyes;

• Remorfe intolerable your hearts will feel,

• And your own hands plunge deep th' avenging fteel:
(For Europe's cowards Heaven's command difdain;
• To Death's cold arms they fly for ease in vain.)

*Moifafoor: the Hindoo author of evil, fimilar to our Satan. Crice, an Indian dagger.

• For

For us, each painful tranfmigration o'er,
• Sweet fields receive us to refign no more;

• Where Safety's fence for ever round us grows,
•And Peace, fair flower, with bloom unfading blows;

Light's fun, unfetting, shines with chearing beam;

'And Pleasure's river rolls it's golden ftream!'

Enrapt he spoke—then ceas'd the lofty strain,
And Orel's rocks return'd the found again.
A British ruffian, near in ambush laid,

Rufh'd fudden from the cane-ifle's fecret fhade;
Go to thy gods!' with rage infernal cried,

And headlong plung'd the hapless fage into the foaming tide!

ELEGY,

TO THE MEMORY OF AN UNFORTUNATE LADY.

WHA

BY MR. POPE.

HAT beck'ning ghoft along the moon-light shade
Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade ?
'Tis fhe!-but why that bleeding bofom gor'd?
Why dimly gleams the vifionary sword?
Oh! ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell,
Is it in Heav'n a crime to love too well?
To bear too tender or too firm a heart,
To act a lover's or a Roman's part?
Is there no bright reverfion in the sky
For those who greatly think, or bravely die?

Why bade ye elfe, ye pow'rs! her foul afpire
Above the vulgar flight of low defire?
Ambition firft fprung from your blefs'd abodes,
The glorious fault of angels and of gods;
Thence to their images on earth it flows,
And in the breafts of kings and heroes glows.

3

Moft

Moft fouls, 'tis true, but peep out once an age,
Dull fullen prifoners in the body's cage:
Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years
Ufelefs, unfeen, as lamps in fepulchres:
Like eastern kings, a lazy ftate they keep,
And, clofe confin'd to their own palace, fleep.
From thefe, perhaps, (ere Nature bade her die)
Fate fnatch'd her early to the pitying fky.

As into air the purer fpirits flow,

And fep'rate from their kindred dregs below;
So flew the foul to it's congenial place,

Nor left one virtue to redeem her race.

But thou, falfe guardian of a charge too good,
Thou mean deferter of thy brother's blood!
See on these ruby lips the trembling breath,
These cheeks now fading at the blast of death:
Cold is that breaft which warm'd the world before,
And those love-darting eyes muft roll no more.
Thus, if eternal Juftice rules the ball,

Thus fhall your wives and thus your children fall:
On all the line a fudden vengeance waits,
And frequent hearfes fhall befiege your gates;
There paffengers fhall ftand, and pointing, fay,
(While the long fun'rals blacken all the way)

Lo! these were they whofe fouls the Furies fteel'd,
And curs'd with herts unknowing how to yield
Thus, unlamented, pafs the proud away;
The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day!
So perish all whose breast ne'er learn'd to glow
For others good, or melt at others woe.
What can atone, (Oh, ever-injur'd fhade!)
Thy fate unpity'd, and thy rites unpaid?
No friend's complaint, no kind domestick tear,
Pleas'd thy pale ghoft, or grac'd thy mournful bier.
By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos'd,
By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd;
RE

By

By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd,
By strangers honour'd, and by ftrangers mourn'd!
What tho' no friends in fable weeds appear,
Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year,
And bear about the mockery of woe

To midnight dances and the publick show!
What tho' no weeping loves thy ashe's grace,
Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face!
What tho' no facred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb!
Yet shall thy grave with rifing flowers be drefs'd,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:
There fhall the morn her earliest tears bestow,
There the first rofes of the year fhall blow;
While angels with their filver wings o'erfhade
The ground, now facred by thy relicks made.

So peaceful refts, without a stone, a name
That once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame.
How lov'd, how honour'd 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 shall be!
Poets themfelves muft fall like thofe they fung,
Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue :
E'en he whofe foul now melts in mournful lays,
Shall shortly want the gen'rous tear he pays;
Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part,
And the last pang fhall tear thee from his heart;
Life's idle bus'nefs at one gasp be o'er,
The Mufe forgot, and thou belov'd no more!

1

THE

THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE.

AN ALLEGORICAL POEM.

Mortal man! who liveft here by toil,

Do not complain of this thy hard eftate; That like an emmet thou must ever moil,

Is a fad fentence of an ancient date:

And certes there is for it reafon great;

For tho' fometimes it makes thee weep and wail, And curfe thy ftar, and early drudge and late, Withouten that would come an heavyer bale, Loofe life, unruly paffions, and diseases pale.

In lowly dale, faft by a river's fide,

With woody hill o'er hill encompass'd round,

A moft enchanting wizard did abide,

Than whom a fiend more fell is no where found.

It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground;

And there a feafon atween June and May,

Half prank'd with fpring, with fummer half imbrown'd,
A listless climate made; where, footh to say,
No living wight could work, ne cared e'en for play.

Was nought around but images of reft,

Sleep-foothing groves, and quiet lawns between,
And flow'ry beds that flumbrous influence keft
From poppies breath'd, and beds of pleasant green,