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Yon house, erected on the rising ground,
With tempting aspect drew me from my road;
For Plenty there a residence has found,
And Grandeur a magnifice:t abode.
Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor !
Here, as I crav'd a morsel of their bread,
A pamper'd menial drove me from their door,
To seek a shelter in an humbler shed.
O! take me to your hospitable dome;
Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold !
Short is my passage to the friendly tomb,
For I am poor and miserably old.
Should I reveal the sources of my griefs
If soft humanity e'er touch'd your breast,
Your hands would not withhold the kind relief,
And tears of pity would not be repress’d.
Heav'n sends misfortunes ; why should we repint?
'Tis Heav'n has brought me to the state you see ;
And your condition may be soon like mine,
The child of Sorrow, and of Misery.
A little farmi was my paternal lot,
Then like the lark I sprightly bail'd the morn;
But ah! Oppression furc'd me from iny cot,
My cattle died, and blighted was my corn.
My daughter, once the comfort of my age,
Lurd by a villain from her native home,
Is cast abandon’d on the world's wide stage,
And doom'd in scanty poverty to roam.
My tender wife, sweet soother of my

care!
Struck with sad anguish at the steru decree,
Fell, ling'ring fell, a victim to despair,
And left the world to wretchedness and me.
Pity the sorrows of a poor

old

man,
Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door,
Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,
O! give relief! and Heav'n will bless your store.

CHAP. IV.

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF AN UNFORTUNATE LADY.

What beck’ning ghost, along the moonlight shade
Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade?
"Tis she !--but why that bleeding bosom gord,
Why dimly gleams the visionary sword ?
O, 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 reversion in the sky,
For those who greatly think or bravely die?

Why bade ye else, ye pow'rs ! fier son aspire
Above the vulgar flight of low desire ?
Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes;
The glorious fault of Angels and of Gods :
Thence to their images on earth it flows,
And in the breasts of kings and heroes glows.
Most souls, 'tis true, but peep out once an age,
Dull sullen pris’ners in the body's cage:
Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years
Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres ;
Like Eastern kings a lazy state they keep,
And, close confin’d to their own palace, sleep.

From these perhaps (ere Nature bade her die)
Fate snatch'd her early to the pitying sky:
As into air the purer spirits flow,
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, false guardian of a charge too good,
Thou, mean deserter of thy brother's blood!
See on those ruby lips the trembling breath,
Those 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 Fiernal Justice rules the ball,
Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall :

On all the litie a sudden vengeance waits,
And frequent hearses shall besiege your gates.
There passengers shall stand, and pointing say,
(While the long fun'rals blacken all the way,)
Lo! these were they, whose souls the Furies steel'd,
And curs'd with hearts 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' wo.

What can atone (O, ever-injur'd shade!)
Thy fate unpitied, and thy rites unpaid?
No friend's complaint, no kind domestic 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,
By foreign hands thy humble grave adornd,
By strangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd!
What though no friends in sable weeds appear,
Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year,
And bear about the mockery of wo
To midnight dances, and the public show :
What though no weeping Loves thy ashes grace,
Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face;
What though no sacred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb ;
Yet shall thy grave with rising flow'rs be dressid,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast :
There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow,
There the first roses of the year shall blow:
While Angels with their silver wings o'ershade
The ground, now sacred by thy reliques made.

So peaceful resls, without a stone, a name,
What once had beauty, tiiles, wealth, and fame.
How lov’d, how honour'd once, avails thee not,
To whom related, or by whom begot;
A heap of dust alone remains of thee,
'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be !

Poets themselves must fall like those they sung, Deaf the prais’d ear, and mute the tuneful tongue. Ev'n he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays, Shall shortly want the gen'rous tear lre pays ;.

Tlien from his closing eyes thy form shall part,
And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart;
Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er,
The Muse forgot, and thou belov'd no more ! POPE.

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CHAP. V.

SATAN'S SOLILOQUY.

OTHOU that, with surpassing glory crown'd,
Look’st froni thy sole dominion like the God
Of this new world; at whose sight all the stars
Hide their diminish'd heads; to thee I call,
But with no friendly voice, and add thy name,
O Sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beanis,
That bring to my remembrance from what state
I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere !
Till pride, and worse ambition threw me down,
Warring in Heav'n against Heav'n's matchless King.
Ah, wherefore ? he deserv'd no such return
From me, whom he created what I was
In that bright eminence, and with his good
Upbraided none : nor was his service hard.
What could be less than to afford him praise,
The easiest recompense, and pay him thanks : 1
How due! yet all his good prov'd ill in me,
And wrought but malice; lifted up so high,
I’sdain'd subjection, and thought one step higher
Would set me bighest, and in a moment quit
The debt immense of endless gratitude,
So burdensonie, still paying, still to owe;
Forgetful what from him I still receiv'd;
And understood not that a grateful mind
By owing owes not, but still pays, at once
Judebted and discharg'd: what burden then?

had his pow'rful destiny ordain'd
Me soine interior angel, I had stood
Then happy; no unbounded hope bad rais'd
Ambition. Yet why not? some other pow'r

As great might have aspir'd ; and me, though mean,
Drawn to his part; but other pow'rs as great
Fell not, but stand unshaken, from within,
Or from without, to all temptations arı'd.
Had'st thou ihe same free will and pow'r to stand ?
Thou had'st. Whom hast thou then, or what t'accuse,
But Heav'n's free love, dealt equally to all ?
Be then his love accurs’d, since love or hate,
To me alike it deals eternal wo.
Nay, curs’d be thou; since against bis thy will
Chose freely what it now so justly rues.
Me miserable! wbich way shall I flee
Infinite wrath, and infinite despair?
Which way I flee is Hell; myself am Hell,
And in the lowest deep a lower deep,
Still threat'ning to devour me, opens wide,
To which the Hell I şuffer seems a Heav'n.
O then at last relent; is there no place
Left for repentance, none for pardon left?
None left brit by submission ; and that word
Disdain forbids me, and my dread of shame
Among the spirits beneath, whom I seduc'd,
With other promises, and other vaunts,
Than to submit, boasting I could subdue
Th' Omnipotent. Ah me, they little know
How dearly 1 abide that boast so vain,
Under what torments inwardly I groan,
While they adore me on the throne of Hell:
With diadem and sceptre high advanc'd,
The lower still I fall, only supreme
In misery; such joy ambition finds.

I could repent, and could obtain,
By act of grace, my former state; how soon
Would height recall high thoughts, how soon unsay
What feign'd submission swore! ease would recant
Vows nade in pain, as violent and void :
For never can true reconciienient grow
Where wounds of deadly hate have pierc'd so deep:
Which would but lead us to a worse relapse,
And heavier fail: so should I purchase dear
Short interinission, bought with double smart.

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