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* If Heav'n with children crowns your dwelling,
As mine its bounty does with you, In fondness fatherly excelling,
Th' example you have felt pursue.' He paus'd-for tenderly caressing
The darling of his wounded heart, Looks had means only of expressing
Thoughts language never could impart. Now night her mournful mantle spreading,
Had rob'd with black th' horizon round, And dank dews, from her tresses shedding,
With genial moisture bath'd the ground; - When back to city-follies flying
Midst Custom's slaves he liv'd resign'd, His face, array'd in smiles, denying
The true complexion of his mind; For seriously around surveying
Each character, in youth and age, Of fools betray'd and knaves betraying,
That play'd upon this human stage: (Peaceful himself and undesigning)
He loath'd the scenes of guile and strife, And felt each secret wish inclining
To leave this fretful farce of life.
Obediently he bow'd his soul;
AN ELEGY ON MAN. BEHOLD Earth's lord, imperial man,
. In ripen'd vigour gay; His outward form attentive scan,
And all within survey. Behold his plans of future life,
His care, his hope, his love, Relations dear of child and wife,
The dome, the lawn, the grove.
More generous passions share,
By turns engage his care.
O'er Earth from pole to pole,
Explore with daring soul.
And all his glory flies ;
He sickens, groans, and dies.
This all his boasted sway,
Amid the mouldering clay?
Life sickens at the sound;
Than run this empty round.
Hence, cheating Fancy, then away,
O let us better try,
What 'tis indeed to die.
It holds an embryo-brood;
And seek their leafy food.
Each forms a silken tomb,
To meet his final doom.
Anon you see him rise ;
But tenant of the skies.
Some more auspicious day,
As light and free as they ?
Our flesh in shades of night,
There was a time, when every sense
In straiter limits dwelt,
And times there are, when through the veins
The blood forgets to flow,
Though not in active show.
Soft charms the Senses bind,
And ranges' unconfin'd.
Though all the Senses wake,
Of no material make.
But nicer organs found,
The modes of shape, or sound?
And blows may maim, or time impair
These instruments of clay,
Completing their decay.
That thinks, compares, and rules ?
A workman is his tools.
That still survives his stroke,
Its present commerce broke.
But what connexions it may find,
Boots much to hope and fear ; And if instruction courts the mind,
'Tis madness not to hear.
ELEGY ON THE TOMB OF SHAKSPEARE.
Led forth the train of Phæbus and the Spring, And Zephyr mild profusely scatter'd flowers
On Earth's green mantle from his musky wing, The Morn unbarr'd th' ambrosial gates of light,
Westward the raven-pinion'd Darkness flew, The Landscape smil'd in vernal beauty bright,
And to their graves the sullen ghosts withdrew.
The nightingale no longer swelld her throat
With love-lorn plainings tremulous and slow, And on the wings of Silence ceas'd to float : The gurgling notes of her melodious wo: The god of sleep mysterious visions led
In gay procession, 'fore the mental eye ; And my freed soul awhile her mansion filed,
To try her plumes for immortality. Through fields of air, methought I took my flight
Through every clime, o'er every region pass'd, No paradise or ruin ’scap'd my sight,
Hesperian garden, or Cimmerian waste.