"Thy toil is light, thy recompense secure,
"I serv'd a prince whose smiles were never sure;
"Who fearless scorn'd all hazard to fulfill
"Some purpose of a wild ungovern d will.
"He who shall live to see with aged eyes
"The tombs of parents, children, friends arise,
"Shall often wish his ashes slept with theirs,
"And crave their pillow in his warmest prayers.
"But I tho' struggling in each moment's breath,
"Still wish'd to live, till sorrow welcom'd death,
"No change to misery can be a curse,
"The happy only fear a sad reverse.
"Yet let my royal master deign to hear,
"That Wolsey nam'd him, in his latest prayer.
"Ah, let him think on all the toil I bore,
"And weep for me, when I can weep no more."
Fate checks the rest; in vain they bend around:
Life pass'd his lips, and vanish'd with the sound.
On heav'n with anxious hope he fix'd his eye,
And breath'd, with lifted hands, his last sad sigh.
Still silence reigns; true grief ne'er spends its force
Like shallow streams that murmur in their course.
The deepest waters ever silent flow,
And heart-sick sorrow hates the noise of woe.
The holy father, rais'd by elder years,
And virtue more mature, commends their tears,
And strives to leave with lasting force impress'd,
These pious lessons on each soften'd breast.
"O ye, whom now the world's long-faded charms "Shall ne'er seduce from holy virtue's arms; "No longer toss'd in dreams of worldly care, "Ye pensioners of peace, and sons of prayer,
"Learn hence to prize your own secure retreat; "Subdued by you, still fortune rules the great. "Your frailest thoughts, ere truth confirm'd the breast, "Ne'er feign'd, what he whose fate you mourn possess❜d. "Yet, such was he, who here resign'd his breath, "Happy at length to go, tho' led by death, "Where base ingratitude must quit her aim;
Happy to lose the bitter sense of shame.
"Howe'er projected high, when fate shall call "Back to this common centre all must fall. "Grown stiff in death, the eye which glanc'd command, "Shall crave the office of a pious hand.
Perhaps that care unpay'd, deny'd a tomb "Till pitying winds the hated face consume. "So quickly vanish grandeur, wealth and power; "The giant shadows of life's sun-shine hour. "Behold how soon the supple slaves of state, "Thankless, forget the favours of the great, "Down fortune's fav'ring current still they glide, "But never turn to strive against the tide.
"The friends of power, like armies rais'd for show, "The practis'd forms of mimic duty know; "In gay review observe each nice command, "But in an hour of danger never stand.
"Yet think not that Adversity bestows
"No sun-shine ray, for all her show'rs of woes;
"That gift was her's which last his eyes confest,
"That beam of soft anticipated rest.
"The tears of sufferance are but the seeds
"Of future bliss; when joy to grief succeeds,
"Each drop shall purge from worldly film the sight, "And fit it for a brighter, purer light.
"Had fav'ring fortune still remain'd his guide,
"Nor e'er to life's last step forsook his side,
"Far other passions then had fill'd his eyes,
"Which wean'd at length from earth, now sought the
"skies.
"Then happy he who trembling on life's brink
66 Already bent, desires at once to sink ;
"And as his wrinkles lean to earth more near,
"Wishes to cover them for ever there.
"Be ours that fortitude; that bliss attend,
"And smooth the awful hour, when life must end;
"Still trust a Power, whose word can ne'er deceive,
"And ne'er repine a joyless world to leave;
"Where on a sea, by hourly tempest tost,
"All blindly steer, the helm of reason lost;
"Where many sink, and they who gain the shore,
"Think them as happy who were drown'd before;
"Where all are busied in some vain pursuit,
"Fair in its blossom, barren in its fruit.
"Till late they find when full possession cloys,
They earn'd disgust, but paid for real joys.'
EPIGRAM, IMITATED FROM MARTIAL.
HANG me outright, but I could spend
Whole days and nights with you, my friend.-
But two miles sever us, or more;
To go and come, I make them four.
You're often absent, oft denied,
Engag'd, or sick, or occupied :
Your sight's well worth a two-mile trudge
Four miles to miss you is the grudge!
THE OPTIMIST.
An Epistle to Robert Augustus Johnson, Esq.
BY MICHAEL WODHULL, ESQ.
Omnibus esse dedit, si quis cognoverit uti.
RESOLVED to snatch the present hour
Sacred to Chearfulness and you,
Tho' dull November skies yet lour,
From trivial converse I retire,
From joys on which the crowd attends;
And seated by a blazing fire,
With distant admiration view,
What borrow'd attitudes express
The rage of modish emptiness.
Lectur'd by those considerate friends,
Whose vows are pour'd at Wisdom's shrine
More fervently than your's or mine,
From idly tracing up and down
Each folly that besets the town,
Or haunts the cottage, I desist,
And, duely weighing in my thought
Each maxim honest* Pangloss taught,
Commence an errant Optimist.
Let the worn Beau of Anna's reign
Repeat what pleas'd in days of yore,
And act the Lover at fourscore,
All tottering and convuls'd with pain.
Let cards (ordain'd to break the fence
Which kept insipid ugliness
Apart from beauty and from sense)
Intrude on meditation's gloom,
Banish the Matron's sober dress,
And, paradox till now unheard!
Make hoary age no more rever'd,
Sink unregarded to the tomb.
Of old, as godly writers tell,
When her unwelcome looking-glass
Informed the antiquated Belle
The triumphs of her charms were o'er,
And every lover fled the door,
Conscious how swift life's minutes pass,
She order'd up her gravest pinners,
Exchanged brocade for decent furs,
And mixed with penitential sinners:
But now at Flavia's toilet, grac'd
With such refin'd display of taste
As might become her grand-daughters,
Midst Naples washes and carmine,
Spadille, great potentate, is seen,
With pomp to take his nightly stand;
Each eve, this idol to appease,
She dashes from her palsied hand,
Unread Devotion's fervent strain,
Penn'd by old Jeremy, Romaine,
Or any greater Saint you please.
Meanwhile at Fortune's spacious table
I take whatever seat I find,
Accommodating still my mind,
To feed as well as I am able,
Fond to persuade each grumbling guest,
The fare, which from her shaken urn
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