תמונות בעמוד

Most souls, 'tis true, but peep out once an age,
Dull fullen prisoners in the body's cage:
Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years
Useless, unseen, as lamps in fepulchres:
Like eastern kings, a lazy state they keep,
And, close confin'd to their own palace, fleep.

From these, perhaps, (ere Nature bade her die)
Fate snatch'd her early to the pitying sky.
As into air the purer fpirits fow,
And sep'rate from their kindred dregs below;
So flew the soul to it's congenial place,
Nor left one virtue to redeem her race.

But thou, falfe guardian of a charge too good,
Thou mean deserter 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 breast which warm'd the world before;
And those love-darting eyes must roll no more.
Thus, if eterdial Justice rules the ball,
Thus hall your wives and thus your children fall;
On all the line a sudden vengeance waits,
And frequent hearses fall besiege your gates;
There paffengers shall stand, and pointing, say,
(While the long fun’rals blacken all the way)
Lo! these were they whose fouls the Furies steel'd,

And curs'd with harts unknowing how to yield.'
Thus, unlamented, pass 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 shade!)
Thy fate unpity'd, and thy rites unpaid ?
No friend's complaint, no kind domestick tear,
Pleas’d thy pale ghost, or grac'd thy mournful bier,
By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos'd,
By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd;

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By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd,
By strangers honour'd, and by strangers 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 alhes 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 rising flowers be dress’d,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breaft:
There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow,
There the firit roses of the year shall blow;
While angels with their filver wings o'ershade
The ground, now sacred by thy relicks made.

So peaceful rests, 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 themselves must fall like thofe they sung,
Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue :
E’en he whose 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 shall tear thee from his heart;
Life's idle bus'ness at one gasp be'o'er,
The Muse forgot, and thou belov'd no more!








The Castle hight of Indolence,
And it's false luxury;
Where for a little time, alas !
We liv'd right jolily.


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Mortal man! who livelt here by toil,

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

Is a sad fentence of an ancient date : And certes there is for it reason great ;

For tho' sometimes it makes thee weep and wail, And curse thy ftar, and early drudge and late,

Withouten that would come an heavyer bale, Loose life, unruly paffions, and diseases pale.

In lowly dale, fast by a river's side,

With woody hill o'er hill encompass'd round, A most 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 season atween June and May,
Half prank'd with spring, with summer half imbrown’d,

A listless climate made; where, sooth to say,
No living wight could work, ne cared e’en for play.

Was nought around but images of reft,

Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns between, And flow'ry beds that slumbrous influence keft : From poppies breath’d, and beds of pleasant green,



Where never yet was creeping creature seen.

Mean-time unnumber'd glitt'ring streamlets play'd,
And hurled ev'ry-where their waters sheen,

That as they bicker'd thro' the funny glade,
Tho' restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made

Joind to the prattle of the purling rills

Were heard the lowing herds along the vale, And focks loud-bleating from the distant hills,

And vacant shepherds piping in the dale; And now and then sweet Philomel would wail,

Or stock-doves plain amid the forest deep,
That drowzy ruitled to the sighing gale;

And still a coil the grashopper did keep:
Yet all these founds yblent inclined all to fleep.

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Fall in the passage of the vale, above,

A sable, filent, folemn forest stood,
Where nought but shadowy forms were seen to move,

As Idless fancy'd in her dreaming mood;

up the hills, on either fide, a wood Of blackening pines, aye waving to and fro, Sent forth a sleepy horror thro' the blood:

And where this valley winded out below, The murmuring main was heard, and scarcely heard, to flow.

A pleasing land of drowzy-head it was,

Of dreams that wave before the half-lhut eye, And of gay castles in the clouds that pass,

For ever fushing round a summer-sky; There eke the soft Delights, that witchingly

Instil a wanton sweetness thro? the breast, And the calm Pleasures always hover'd nigh;

But whate'er smack'd of noyance or unreft, Was far, far off expelld, from this delicious neft.


The landscape such, inspiring perfect ease,

Where Indolencé (for so the wizard hight) Close-hid his Castle mid embowering trees,

That half fhut out the beams of Phoebus bright, And made a kind of checquer'd day and night;

Mean-while, unceasing, at the maffy gate,
Beneath a spacious'palm, the wicked wight

Was plac'd, and to his lute of cruel fate
And labour harsh complain'd, lamenting man's estate,

Thither continual pilgrims crouded still,
: From all the roads of earth that pass there by ;.
For as they chaunc'd to breathe on neighbouring hill,

The freshnefs of this valley (mote their eye,
And drew them ever and anon more nigh;

'Till clustering round, th' enchanter false they hung, Ymolten with his Syren melody;

While o'er th' enfeebling late his hand he flung,
And to the trembling chords thefe tempting verses sung.

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Behold! ye pilgrims of this earth, behold!

• See all but man with unearn'd pleasure gay; • See her bright robes the butterfly unfold,

• Broke from her wintry tomb in prime of May! • What youthful bride can equal her array?

• Who can with her for easy pleasure vie? • From mead to mead, with gentle wing to stray,

From flow'r to flow'r, on balmy gales, to fly, • Is all she has to do beneath the radiant sky.

: Behold the merry, minstrels of the morn,

• The swarming fongsters of the careless grove, 1 Ten thousand throats that from the flowering thorn

Hymn their good God, and carol-fweet of love,

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• Such

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