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- he drops his mask, Frowns out al full; they start, despair, erpie??
London: Pub? Jan. 1.1802.by Vernor & Hood, and the other Proprietons.
Their native freedom, to the prince who sways
This nether world. And when his payments fail,
When his foul basket gorges them no more,
Or their palld palates loath the basket full;
Are instantly, with wild demoniac rage,
For breaking all the chains of Providence, · And bursting their confinement; tho’ fast barr'd .
By laws divine and human; guarded strong With horrors doubled to defend the pass, The blackest, nature, or dire guilt can raise ; And moated round with fathomless destruction, Sure to receive, and whelm them in their fall. : Such, Britons ! is the cause, to you unknown, Or worse, o'erlook’d; o'erlook'd by magistrates, Thus criminals themselves. I grant the deed Is madness; but the madness of the heart. And what is that? Our utmost bound of guilt. A sensual, unreflecting life, is big With monstrous births, and Suicide, to crown The black infernal brood. The bold to break . Heav'n's law supreme, and desperately rush
Thro' sacred nature's murder, on their own, - Because they never think of death, they die.
'Tis equally man's duty, glory, gain,
At once to shun, and meditate his end.
When by the bed of languishment we sit,
The seat of wisdom ! if our choice, not fate)
Or, o'er our dying friends, in anguish hang,
Wipe the cold dew, or stay the sinking head,
Number their moments, and, in ev'ry clock,
Start at the voice of an Eternity;
See the dim lamp of life just feebly lift
An agonizing beam, at us to gaze,
Then sink again, and quiver into death,
That most pathetic herald of our own;
How read we súch sad scenes ? As sent to man
In perfect vengeance ? No; in pity sent,
To melt him down, like wax, and then impress,
Indelible, death's image on his heart;
Bleeding for others, trembling for himself.
We bleed, we tremble, we forget, we smile,
The mind turns fool, before the cheek is dry.
Our quick-returning folly cancels all;
As the tide rushing rases what is writ
In yielding sands, and smooths the letter'd shore,
LORENZO! hast thou ever weigh'd a sigh?
Or study'd the philosophy of tears
(A science, yet unlectur'd in our schools !)
Hast thou descended deep into the breast,
And seen their source? If not, descend with me,
And trace these briny riv'lets to their springs.
Our fun’ral tears, from diff'rent causes, rise. As if from sep'rate cisterns in the soul, Of various kinds, they flow. From tender hearts, By soft contagion call’d, some burst at once, And stream obsequious to the leading eye. Some ask more time, by curious art distilld. Some hearts, in secret hard, unapt to melt, Struck by the magic of the public eye, Like Moses' smitten rock, gush out amain.
Some weep to share the fame of the deceas'd,
So high in merit, and to them so dear.
They dwell on praises, which they think they share ;
And thus, without a blush, commend Themselves.
Some mourn, in proof, that something they could love:
They weep not to relieve their grief, but shew.
Some weep in perfect justice to the dead,
As conscious all their love is in arrear.
Some mischievously weep, not unappris'd
Tears, sometimes, aid the conquest of an eye.
With what address the soft Ephesians draw
Their sable net-work o'er entangled hearts !
As seen thro' chrystal, how their roses glow,
While liquid pearl runs trickling down their cheek?
Of her's not prouder Egypt's wanton queen,
Carousing gems, herself dissolv'd in love.
Some weep at death, abstracted from the dead,
And celebrate, like CHARLES, their own disease.
By kind construction some are deem'd to weep,
Because a decent veil conceals their joy.
Some weep in earnest, and yet weep in vain ;
As deep in indiscretion, as in woe.
Passion, blind passion ! impotently pours
Tears, that deserve more tears; while reuson sleeps;
Or gazes like an idiot, unconcern'd;
Nor comprehends the meaning of the storm;
Knows not it speaks to her, and her alone.
Irrationals all sorrows are beneath,
That noble gift! that privilege of man!
From sorrow's pang, the birth of endless joy.