One scene of toil, of suff'ring, and of fate,"
Vice in his high career would stand appall'd,
And heedless rambling Impulse learn to think;
The conscious heart of Charity would warm,
And her wide wish Benevolence dilate;
'The social tear would rise, the social sigh;
And into clear perfection, gradual bliss,
Refining still, the social passions work.
REFLECTIONS ON A FUTURE STATE:
"Tis done!-dread Winter spreads his latest glooms,
And reigns tremendous o'er the conquer❜d year,
How dead the vegetable kingdom lies!
How dumb the tuneful! Horror wide extends.
His desolate domain. Behold, fond Man!^
See here thy pictur'd life: pass some few years,
Thy flow'ring Spring, thy Summer's ardent strength
Thy sober Autumn fading into age,
And pale concluding Winter comes at last,
And shuts the scene.. Ah!.whither now are fled
Those dreams of greatness? those unsolid hopes.
Of happiness? those longings after fame?
Those restless cares? those busy bustling days? Those gay-spent festive nights? those veering. thoughts,
Lost between good and ill, that shar'd thy life?
All now are vanish! Virrue sole survives,
Immortal never failing friend of Man,
His guide to happiness on high.-And see!
'Tis come, the glorious morn! the second birth
Of heav'n, and earth! awakʼang Nature hears
The new creating word, and starts to life,
In ev'ry heighten'd form, from pain and death
For ever free The great eternal scheme
Involving all, and in a perfect whole
Uniting as the prospect wider spreads,
To Reason's eye refin'd clears up apace.
Ye vainly wise! ye.blind presumptuous! now,
Confounded in the dust, adore that Pow'r,
And Wisdom oft arraing d: see now the cause,
Why unassuming Worth in secret liv'd,
And died neglected: why the good man's share
In life was gall and bitterness of soul:
Why the lone widow, and her orphans, pin'd
In starving solitude; while Luxury
In palaces lay straining her low thought,
To form unreal wants why heav'n born Truth,
And moderation fair, wore the red marks.
Of Superstition s scourge: why licens'd Pain,
That cruel spoiler, that embosom'd foe,
Imbitter'd all our bliss, Ye good distress'd!
Ye noble few! who here unbending stand
Beneath life's pressure, yet bear up awhile,
And what your bounded view, which only saw
A litle part, deem'd Evil, is no more.
The storms of Wintry Time will quickly pass,
And one unbounded Spring encircle all.
Be wise to day; 'tis madness to defer :
Next day the fatal precedent will plead;
Thus on, till wisdom is` push'd out of life.
Procrastination is the thief of time;
Year after year it steals, till all are fled,
And to the mercies of a moment leaves
The vast concerns of an eternal scene..
Of man's miraculouts mistakes this bears The palm, That all men are about to live," For ever on the brink of being born.
All pay themselves the compliment to think,
They, one day, shall not drivel; and their pride
On this reversion takes up ready praise;
At least, their own; their future selves applauds ;
How excellent that life they ne'er will lead !
Time lodg'd in their own hands is Folly's vails;
That lodg'd in Fate's, to Wisdom they consign;
The thing they can't but purpose, they postpone;
'Tis not in Folly, not to scorn a fool :
And scarce in human Wisdom to do more.
All promise is poor dilatory man,
And that through every stage. When young, indeed,
In full content, we, sometimes, nobly rest,
Unanxious for ourselves; and only wish,
As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise.
At thirty man suspects himself a fool ;
Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan ;
At fifty chides his infamous delay,
Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve :
In all the magnanimity of thought
Resolves, and re resolves; then dies the same,
And why? Because he thinks himself immortal. All men think all men mörtal, but themselves; Themselves, when some alarming shock of fate Strikes thro' their wounded hearts the sudden dread, But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air, Soon close, where past the shaft, no trace is found. As from the wing no scar the sky retains, The parted wave no furrow from the keel; So dies in human hearts the thought of death, Ev'a with the tender tear which nature sheds O'er those we love, we drop it in the grave,
THE PAIN ARISING FROM VIRUOUS EMOTIONS ATTENDED WITH PLEASURE.
BEHOLD the ways
Of Heav'ns eternal destiny to man,
For ever just, benevolent and wise
That VIRTUE's av ful steps, howe'er pursued
By vexing fortune and intrusive PAIN,
Should never be divided from her chaste,
Her fair attendant, PLEASURE. Need I urge
Thy tardy thought through all the various round
Of this existence, that thy soft'ning soul
At length may learn, what energy the hand
Of virtue mingles in the bitter tide
Of passion swelling with distress and pain,
To mitigate the sharp with gracious drops
Of cordial pleasure? Ask the faithful youth,
Why the cold urn of her whom long he lov'd
So often fills his arms; so often draws
His lonely footsteps at the silent hour,
To pay the mournful tribute of his tears?
O! he will tell thee, that the wealth of worlds
Should ne'er seduce his bosom to forego
That sacred hour, hen stealing from the noise
Cf care and envy, sweet remembrance sooths
With virtue's kirdest looks his aching breast
And turns his tears to rapture? Ask the crowd
Which flies impatient from the village walk
To climb the neighbo'ring cliffs, when far below→
The cruel winds have huil'd upon the coast
Some hapless bark; while sacred pity melts
The genral eye, or terror's icy hand
Smites their distorted limbs and horrent hair;
While ev'ry mother closer to her breast
Catches her child, and pointing where the waves
Foam through the shatter d vessel shrieks aloud,
As one poor wretch, that spreads his piteous arms
For succour, swallow'd by the roaring surge,
As now another, dash'd against the rock,
Drops lifeless down O! deemest thou indeed
No kind endearment here by Nature giv'n
To mutual terror and Compassion's tears?
No sweetly melting softness, which attracts,
O'er all that edge of pain, the social pow'rs
To this their proper action and their end?—
Ask thy own heart; when, at the midnight hour,
Slow through that studious gloom thy pausing eye,
Led by the glimm'ring taper, moves around
The sacred volumes of the dead, the songs
Of Grecian bards, and records writ by Fame
For Grecian heroes, where the present pow'r
Of heav'n and earth surveys th' immortal page,
E'en as a father blessing, while he reads
The praises of his son; if then thy soul,
Spurning the yoke of these inglorious days,
Mix in their deeds and kindle with their flame :
Say, when the prospect blackens on thy view,
When rooted from the base, heroic states
Mourn in the dust and tremble at the frown
Of curs'd Ambition ;-when the pious band
Of youths that fought for freedom and their sires
Lie side by side in gore ;-when ruffian Pride
Usurps the throne of Justice, turns the pomp
Of public pow'r, the majesty of rule,
The sword, the laurel, and the purple robe,
To slavish empty pageants, to adorn
A tyrant's walk, and glitter in the eyes
Of such as bow the knee ;-when honour'd urns
Of patriots and of chiefs, the awful bust.
And storied arch, to glut the coward rage
Of regal envy, strew the public way
With hallow'd ruins!-when the muse's haunt,
The marble porch where Wisdom, wont to talk
With Socrates or Tully, hears no more,
Save the hoarse jargon of contentious monks,
Or female Superstition's midnight pray'r ;--
When ruthless Rapine from the hand of Time
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