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• Thou beauteous Vision! on my soul impress'd,
When most my reason would appear to rest,
'Twas sure with pencils dipt in various lights
Some curious Angel limn'd thy sacred sights;
From blazing suns his radiant gold he drew,
White moons the silver gave, and air the blue.
I'll mount the roving winds' expanded wing,
And seek the sacred hill, and light to sing ;
('Tis known in Jewry well) I'll make my lays,
Obedient to thy summons, sound with praise,

But still I fear, unwarm'd with holy flame,
I take for truth the flatteries of a dream;
And barely wish the wondrous gift I boast,
And faintly practise what deserves it most

• Indulgent Lord! whose gracious love displays
Joy in the light, and fills the dark with ease!
Be this, to bless my days, no dream of bliss ;
Or be, to bless the nights, my dreams like this."

Parnell.

THE HERO's schooL OF MORALITY.
THERON, amongst his travels, found
A broken statue on the ground;
And searching onward as he went
He trac'd a ruin'd monument.
Mould, moss, and shades, had overgrown
The sculpture of the crumbling stone;
Yet ere he pass'd, with much ado,
He guess'd, and spelt out Sci-pi-o.

• Enough, he cried, I'll drudge no more
In turning the dull stoics o’er ;
Let pedants waste their hours of ease,
To sweat all night at Socrates ;

And feed their boys with notes and rules,
Those tedious recipes of schools,
To cure ambition: I can learn
With greater ease the great concern
Of mortals; how we may despise
All the gay things below the skies.

Methinks a mould'ring pyramid
Says all that the old sages said ;
For me these shatter'd tombs contain
More morals than the Vatican.
The dust of heroes cast abroad,
And kick'd, and trampled in the road,
The relics of a lofty mind,
That lately wars and crowns design'd,
Tost for a jest from wind to wind,
Bid me be humble ; and forbear
Tall monuments of fame to rear,
They are but castles in the air.
The towering heights, and frightful falls,
The ruin'd heaps, and funerals,
Of smoking kingdoms and their kings,
Tell me a thousand mournful things
In melancholy silence............

............. He
That living could not bear to see
An equal, now lies torn and dead;
Here his pale trunk, and there his head:
Great Pompey! while I meditate,
With solemn horror thy sad fate,
Thy carcass scatter'd on the shore
Without a name, instructs me more
Than my whole library before.

* Lie still, my Plutarch, then, and sleep; And my good Seneca may keep

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Your volumes clos'd for ever too;
I have no further use for you:
For when I feel my virtue fail,
And my ambitious thoughts prevail,
I'll take a turn among the tombs,
And see whereto all glory comes :
There the vile foot of every clown
Tramples the sons of honour down ;
Beggars with awful ashes sport,
And tread the Cæsars in the dirt.

Watts.

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE WORLD, A PILGRIM,

AND VIRTUB.

Pilgrim. What darkness clouds my senses ! Hath the day Forgot his season, and the Sun his way? Doth God withdraw his all-sustaining might, And works no more with his fair creature, Light, While Heav'n and Earth for such a loss complain, And turn to rude unformed heaps again? My paces with entangling briers are bound, And all this forest in deep silence drown'd, Here must my labour and my journey cease, By which in vain I sought for rest and peace, But now perceive that man's unquiet mind In all his ways can only darkness find. Here must I starve and die, unless some light Point out the passage from this dismal night.

World. Distressed pilgrim, let no causeless fear Depress thy hopes, for thou hast comfort near,

Which thy heart with splendour shall inspire,
And guide thee to the period of desire.
Clear up thy brows, and raise thy fainting eyes,
See how my glittring palace open lies
For weary passengers, whose desp’rate case
I pity, and provide a resting place.

Pilgrim.
O thou whose speeches sound, whose beauties

shine,
Not like a creature, but some pow'r divine,
Teach me thy style, thy worth and state declare,
Whose glories in this desert hidden are.

World.

I am thine end, Felicity my name; The best of wishes, pleasures, riches, fame, Are humble vassals, which my throne attend, And make you mortals happy when I send : In my left hand delicious fruits I hold, To feed them who with mirth and ease grow old: Afraid to lose the fleeting days and nights, They seize on time, and spend it in delights. My right hand with triumphant crowns is stor'd, Which all the kings of former times ador'd: These gifts are thine : then enter where no strife, No grief, no pain, shall interrupt thy life.

Virtue. Stay, hasty wretch! here deadly serpents dwell And thy next step is on the brink of Hell : Would'st thou, poor weary man, thy limbs repose ? Behold my house, where true contentment grows:

Not like the baits which this seducer gives,
Whose bliss a day, whose torment ever lives.

World.
Regard not these vain speeches, let them go i
This a poor worm is, my contemned foe,
Bold threadbare Virtue; who dare promise more
From empty bags, than I from all my store:
Whose counsels make men draw unquiet breath,
Expecting to be happy after death.

Virtue. Canst thou now make, or hast thou ever made, Thy servants happy in those things that fade? Hear this my challenge: one example bring Of such perfection; let him be the king Of all the world, fearing no outward check, And guiding others by his voice and beck: Yet shall this man at ev'ry moment find More gall than honey in his restless mind. Now, monster, since my words have struck thee

dumb, Behold this garland, whence such virtues come, Such glories shine, such piercing beams are thrown, As make thee blind, and turn thee to a stone. And thou, whose wand'ring feet were running

down Th’infernal steepness, look upon this crown: Within these folds lie hidden no deceits, No golden lures, on which perdition waits : But when thine eyes the prickly thorns have paste See in the circle boundless joys at last.

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