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Heedless what pointed cares pervert his way,
Whom caution arms not, and whom woes betray;
But now expos’d, and shrinking from distress,
I fly to shelter while the tempests press ;
My Muse to grief resigns the varying tone,
The raptuses languish, and the numbers groan.

O Memory! thou soul of joy and pain!
Thou actor of our passions o'er again!
Why didst thou aggravate the wretch's woe?
Why add continuous smart to every blow?
Few are my joys; alas ! how soon forgot!
On that kind quarter thou invad'st me not;
While sharp and numberless my sorrows fall,
Yet thou repeat'st and multiply'st them all.

Is chance a guilt? that my disasterous heart,
For mischief never meant, must ever smart?
Can self-defence be sin ?-Ah, plead no more!
What though no purpos'd malice stain'd thee o'er ?
Had Heaven befriended thy unhappy side,
Thou hạdst not been provok'd-or thou hadst died.

Far be the guilt of homeshed blood from all On whom, unsought, embroiling dangers fall! Still the pale dead revives, and lives to me, To me! through Pity's eye condemn'd to see. Remembrance veils his rage, but swells his fate; Griev'd I forgive, and am grown cool too late. Young, and unthoughtful then; who knows, one day, What ripening virtues might have made their way? He might have liv'd till folly died in shame, Till kindling wisdom felt a thirst for fame,

He might perhaps his country's friend have prov'd;
Both happy, generous, candid, and belovod,
He might have sav'd some worth, now doom'd to fall;
And I, perchance, in him, have murder'd all.

O fate of late repentance! always vain :
Thy remedies but lull undying pain.
Where shall my hope find rest?-No mother's care
Shielded

my

infant innocence with prayer :
No father's guardian hand my youth maintain’d,
Call’d forth my virtues, or from vice restrain'd.
Is it not thine to snatch some powerful arm,
First to advance, then screen from future harm?
Am I return’d from death to live in pain ?
Or would imperial Pity save in vain?
Distrust it not-What blame can mercy find,
Which gives at once a life, and rears a mind?

Mother, miscall’d, farewell—of soul severé,
This sad reflection yet may force one tear :
All I was wretched by to you I ow'd,
Alone from strangers every comfort flow'd!

Lost to the life you gave, your son no more,
And now adopted, who was doom'd before;
New-born, I may a nobler mother claim,
But dare not whisper her immortal name;
Supremely lovely, and serenely great!
Majestic mother of a kneeling state!
Queen of a people's heart, who ne'er before
Agreed-yet now with one consent adore !
One contest yet remains in this desire,
Who most shall give applause, where all admire.

ALEXANDER POPE.

BORN 1688.-DIED 1744.

The faults of Fope's private character have been industriously exposed by his latest editor and biographer, a gentleman whose talents and virtuous indignation were worthy of a better employment. In the moral portrait of Pope which he has drawn, all the agreeable traits of tender and faithful attachment in his nature have been thrown into the shade, while his deformities are brought out in the strongest, and sometimes exaggerated colours.

The story of his publishing a character of the Duchess of Marlborough, after having received a bribe to suppress it, rests on the sole authority of Horace Walpole: but Dr. J. Warton, in relating it, adds a circumstance which contradicts the statement itself. The duchess's imputed character appeared in 1746, two years after Pope's death; Pope therefore could not have himself published it; and it is exceedingly improbable that the bribe ever existed. Pope was a steady and fond friend. We shall be told, perhaps, of his treachery to Bolingbroke, in publishing the Patriot King. An explanation of this business was given by the late Earl of Marchmont to a gentleman still living, the Honourable George Rose, which is worth attending to. The Earl of Marchmont's account of it, first published by Mr. A. Chalmers, in the Biographical Dictionary, is the following.

“ The essay on the Patriot King was undertaken at the pressing instance of Lord Cornbury, very warmly supported by the earnest entreaties of Lord Marchmont, with which Lord Bolingbroke at length complied. When it was written it was shewn to the two lords and one other confidential friend, who were so much pleased with it that they did not cease their importunities to have it published, till his lordship, after much hesitation, consented to print it, with a positive determination, however, against a publication at that time; assigning as his reason, that the work was not finished in such a way as he wished it to be before it went into the world. Conforinably to that determination some copies of the essay were printed, which were distributed to Lord Cornbury, Lord Marchmont, Sir W. Wyndham, Mr. Lyttleton, Mr. Pope, and Lord Chesterfield. Mr. Pope put his copy into the hands of Mr. Allen, of Prior Park, near Bath, stating to him the injunction of Lord Bolingbroke; but that gentleman was so captivated with it as to press Mr. Pope to allow him to print a small impression at his own expense, using such caution as should effectually prevent a single copy getting into the possession of any one till the consent of the author should be obtained. Under a solemn engagement to that effect, Mr. Pope very reluctantly consented: the edition was then printed, packed up, and deposited in a separate warehouse, of which Mr. Pope had the key. On the circumstance being made known to Lord Bolingbroke, who was then a guest in his own house at Battersea with Lord Marchmont, to whom he had lent it for two or three years, his lordship was in great indignation, to appease which Lord Marchmont sent Mr. Grevenkop, (a German gentleman who had travelled with him, and was afterwards in the household of Lord Chesterfield, when lord lieutenant of Ireland) to bring out the whole edition, of waich a bonfire was instantly made on the terrace of Battersea."

THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL.
VITAL spark of heavenly flame,
Quit, oh quit this mortal frame:
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying,

Oh the pain, the bliss of dying !
Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life!

Hark! they whisper: Angels say,
Sister Spirit, come away!
What is this absorbs me quite ?

Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath?
Tell me, my soul, can this be death?
The world recedes; it disappears !
Heaven

my eyes! my ears
With sounds seraphic ring :
Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!
O Grave! where is thy victory?

O Death! where is thy sting?

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