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While ftill another, and another race
Shall now fupply, and now give up the place:
From earth all came, to earth must all return;
Frail as the cord and brittle as the urn.

But be the terror of these ills fupprefs'd:
And view we man with health and vigor bleft,
Home he returns with the declining fun,
His deftin'd task of labour hardly done;
Goes forth again with the afcending ray,
Again his travel for his bread to pay,
And find the ill fufficient to the day.
Haply at night he does with horror fhun
A widow'd daughter, or a dying fon:
His neighbour's off-fpring he to-morrow fees;
And doubly feels his want in their increase:
The next day, and the next he must attend
His foe triumphant, or his buried friend,
act and turn of life he feels

In every
Publick calamities, or houshold ills:

The due reward to just desert refus'd:
The truft betray'd, the nuptial bed abus'd:
The judge corrupt, the long depending caufe,
And doubtful iffue of mifconftrued laws,
The crafty turns of a dishonest state,
And violent will of the wrong-doing great:
The venom'd tongue injurious to his fame,

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Which nor can wisdom fhun, nor fair advice reclaim. Efteem we thefe, my friends, event and chance, Produc'd as atoms form their fluttering dance?

Or

Or higher yet their effence may we draw
From deftin'd order, and eternal law?
Again, my Mufe, the cruel doubt repeat:
Spring they, I fay, from accident, or fate?
Yet fuch, we find, they are, as can controul
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 release;
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 thro' 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 shows
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 description happiest he,
Who ne'er muft roll on Life's tumultuous fea;
Who with blefs'd freedom from the general doom
Exempt, muft never force the teeming womb,
Nor fee the fun, nor fink into the tomb.

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Who

Who breathes, muft fuffer; and who thinks, muft

mourn;

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

"Yet in thy turn, thou frowning preacher, hear: "Are not thefe general maxims too severe? "Say: cannot Power fecure its owner's blifs? ." And is not Wealth the potent fire of peace? "Are victors blefs'd with fame, or kings with ease?

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:
Yet ftill must covet life, and be deceiv'd:
Your very fear of death shall make ye try
To catch the fhade of immortality;
Wishing on earth to linger, and to fave
Part of its prey from the devouring grave;
To those who may furvive ye, 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:

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Wretches,

Wretches, ftill taught, ftill will ye think it ftrange,
That all the parts of this great fabric change;
Quit their old station, and primæval frame;
And lose their shape, their effence, and their name?
Reduce the fong: our hopes, our joys are vain:
Our lot is forrow; and our portion pain.

What pause 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 publick 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 eftrang'd from truth:
At home furrounded by a fervile croud,
Prompts to abuse, and in detraction loud:
Abroad begirt with men, and fwords, and fpears;
His very state acknowledging his fears:
Marching amidst a thousand guards, he shows
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 carr are ty'd:
The joyful citizens tumultuous tide
Echoing his glory, gratify his pride.

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What

What is this triumph? madnefs, fhouts, and noife,
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 spoils and trophies borne before him, show
National lofs, and epidemick woe,
Various distress, 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 wolfe's portion, or the vulture's prey?
Does he not weep the lawrel, which he wears,
Wet with the foldier's blood, and widows tears?
See, where he comes, the darling of the war!
See millions crouding round the gilded car!
In the vast joys of this ecftatic hour,

And full fruition of fuccessful power,

One moment and one thought might let him scan
The various turns of life, and fickle ftate of man.
Are the dire images of fad diftrust,

And popular change obfcur'd amid the dust,
That rifes from the victor's rapid wheel?
Can the loud clarion, or fhrill fife repel

The inward cries of care? can Nature's voice
Plaintive be drown'd, or lessen'd in the noise;
Tho' fhouts as 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

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