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Go to the wayward world; compleat the rest;

Be, what the purest Muse wou'd wish to sing. Be still thyself; that open path of Truth,

Which led thee here, let Manhood fiim pursue;
Retain the sweet simplicity of Youth,

And all thy virtue dictates, dare to do.
Still scorn, with conscious pride, the mask of Art;

On Vice's front let fearful Caution lour,
And teach the diffident, discreeter part

Of knaves that plot, and fools that fawn for power. So, round thy brow when age's honours spread,

When death's cold hand unstrings thy Mason's lyre, When the green turf lies lightly on his head,

Thy worth shall some superior bard inspire; He to the amplest bounds of Time's domain,

On Rapture's plume shall give thy name to fly; For trust, with rev'rence trust this Sabine strain:

"The Muse forbids the virtuous Man to die."





AH little think the gay licentious proud,

Whom pleasure, power, and affluence surround;

They, who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth,

And wanton, often cruel, riot waste;

Ah little think they, while they dance along,

How many feel, this very moment, death,

And all the sad variety of pain :.

How many sink in the devouring flood,

Or more devouring flame: how many bleed,

By shameful variance betwixt Man and Man:

How many pine in want, and dungeon glooms j

Shut from the common air, and common use

Of their own limbs: how many drink the cup

Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread

Of misery: sore pierc'd by wintry winds,

How many shrink into the sordid hut

Of cheerless poverty : how many shake

With all the fiercer tortures of the mind,

Unbounded passion, madness, guilt, remorse;

Whence tumbling headlong from the height of life,

They furnish matter for the tragic muse:

Even in the vale, where wisdom loves to dwell,

With friendship, peace, and contemplation join'd,

How many rack'd, with honest passions droop . ^

In deep retir'd distress: how many stand

Around the death bed of their dearest friends

And point the parting anguish.—Thought fond man

Of these, and all the thousand nameless ills,

That one incessant struggle render life,

One scene of toil, of suffering, 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.




'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 flowering Spring, thy Summer's ardent strength,

Thy sober autumn fading into age,
Ina pale concluding Wjjite
And shuts the scene. /'Ah! whither now are fled,

Ana pale concluding Winter comes at last,

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 fate?

All now now are vanish'd I/virtue 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 heaven, and earth! awakning Nature hears

The new-creating word, and starts to life,

In every heightened 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 Pouter,

And Wisdom oft arraign'd j see now the cause,

Why unassuming worth irt secret liv'd,

And dy'd, 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 heaven-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 distrest!

Ye noble few! who her6 unbending stand

Beneath life's pressure, yet bear up awhile,

And what your bounded view, which only saw

A little part, deem'd Evil, is no more.

The storms of Wintry Time will- quickly pass,

And one unbounded Spring encircle all.


6N Procrastination.

BE wise to day; 'tis madness to defer;
Next day the fatal precedent wilf 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 miraculous mistakes, this bears
The palm, " That all men are about to live,"
For ever on the brink of being born,
All pay themselves the comoliment 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 thro' every stage. When young indeed,
In full content, we sometimes nobly re«t,
Un-anxious 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 plain i
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 mortal 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 fountL
As from the wing no scar the sky retains!
The parted wave no furrow from the keel j
So dies in human hearts the thought of death.
Ev'n with the tender tear which nature sheds
O'er those we lave, we drop it in their grave.


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