Lady's Poetical Magazine, Or Beauties of British Poetry

He fends the all-devouring flame,

And cities hardly boast a name:

Or wings the peftilential blast,

And lo! ten thousands breathe their laft.
He speaks-obedient tempefts roar,
And guilty nations are no more:
He fpeaks-the fury, Difcord, raves,
And sweeps whole armies to their
Or Famine lifts her mildew'd hand,
And hunger howls thro' all the land.

graves:

Oh! what a wretch is man!' I cry'd;
Expos'd to death on ev'ry fide!
And fure as born, to be undone

By evils which he cannot fhun!
Befides a thousand baits to fin,
A thousand traitors lodg'd within!
For foon as Vice affaults the heart,
The rebels take the dæmon's part.'
I figh, my aching bofom bleeds;
When straight the milder plan fucceeds:
The lake of tears, the dreary fhore,
The fame as in the piece before.
But gleams of light are here difplay'd,
To chear the eye and gild the shade :
Affliction speaks a fofter ftyle,
And Disappointment wears a smile.
A group of virtues bloffom near;
Their roots improve by ev'ry tear.

Here Patience, gentle maid! is nigh,
To calm the ftorm, and wipe the eye;
Hope acts the kind phyfician's part,
And warms the folitary heart:
Religion nobler comfort brings,
Difarms our griefs, or blunts their flings;
Points out the balance on the whole,
And Heav'n rewards the ftruggling foul.

But

But while these raptures I pursue,

The Genius fuddenly withdrew.

TIS

DE AT H.

VISION THE LAST.

IS thought my vifions are too grave * ;
A proof I'm no defigning knave.
Perhaps if int'reft held the scales,
I had devis'd quite diff'rent tales ;
Had join'd the laughing, low buffoon,
And scribbled fatire and lampoon ;
Or ftirr'd each source of foft defire,
And fann'd the coals of wanton fire:
Then had my paltry vifions fold,

Yes, all my dreams had turn'd to gold;
Had prov'd the darlings of the town,
And I-a poet of renown!

Let not my awful theme furprize;

Let no unmanly fears arise.

I wear no melancholy hue,

No wreaths of cypress or of yew.
The shroud, the coffin, pall, or hearse,
Shall ne'er deform my softer verse.
Let me confign the fun'ral plume,
The herald's paint, the fculptur'd tomb,
And all the folemn farce of graves,
To undertakers and their flaves.

You know, that moral writers fay,

The world's a stage, and life a play:
That in this drama to fucceed,

Requires much thought and toil, indeed!

* See the Monthly Review of new books, for February 1751.

There

There ftill remains one labour more,
Perhaps a greater than before.

Indulge the fearch, and you fhall find
The harder task is ftill behind:
That harder task, to quit the stage
In early youth, or riper age;
To leave the company and place,
With firmness, dignity, and grace.

Come, then, the clofing fcenes furvey,
'Tis the last act which crowns the play.
Do well this grand decifive part,
And gain the plaudit of your heart.
Few greatly live in Wisdom's eye-.
But, oh! how few, who greatly die!
Who, when their days approach an end,
Can meet the foe, as friend meets friend.
Inftructive heroes! tell us whence

Your noble fcorn of flesh and fenfe!
You part from all we prize fo dear,
Nor drop one foft, reluctant tear:
Part from thofe tender joys of life,
The friend, the parent, child, and wife.
Death's black and ftormy gulph you brave,
And ride exulting on the wave;

Deem thrones but trifles all !-no more

Nor fend one wifhful look to fhore.

For foreign ports, and lands unknown,
Thus the firm failor leaves his own;
Obedient to the rifing gale,

Unmoors his bark, and fpreads his fail;
Defies the ocean, and the wind,
Nor mourns the joys he leaves behind.
Is Death a pow'rful monarch? True-
Perhaps you dread the tyrant too!
Fear, like a fog, precludes the light,
Or fwells the object to the fight.

Attend

Attend my vifionary page,

And I'll difarm the tyrant's rage.
Come, let this ghaftly form appear,
He's not fo terrible when near.
Distance deludes th' unwary eye,
So clouds feem monsters in the sky:
Hold frequent converse with him now,
He'll daily wear a milder brow.

Why is my theme with terror fraught?
Because you fhun the frequent thought.
Say, when the captive pard is nigh,
Whence thy pale cheek and frighted eye!
Say, why dismay'd thy manly breast,
When the grim lion shakes his crest!
Because these savage fights are new ;
No keeper fhudders at the view:
Keepers, accuftom'd to the scene,
Approach the dens with look ferene;
Fearless their grifly charge explore,
And fmile to hear the tyrants roar.
Aye-but to die! to bid adieu !

An everlasting farewel too!

• Farewel to ev'ry joy around!

Oh! the heart fickens at the found.' Stay, ftrippling-thou art poorly taught Joy, didft thou fay! difcard the thought. Joys are a rich celestial fruit,

And scorn a fublunary root:

What wears the face of joy below,
Is often found but fplendid woe.
Joys here, like unfubftantial fame,
Are nothings with a pompous name;
Or elfe, like comets in the sphere,
Shine with deftruction in their rear.
Paffions, like clouds, obfcure the fight,
Hence mortals feldom judge aright.

The

The world's a harsh unfruitful foil,
Yet ftill we hope, and ftill we toil;
Deceive ourselves with wond'rous art,
And disappointment wrings the heart.
Thus when a mist collects around,
And hovers o'er a barren ground,
The poor deluded trav❜ler fpies
Imagin'd trees and ftructures rife ;
But when the fhrouded fun is clear,
The defart and the rocks appear.