Faithlefs, yet kind, when fortune fmil'd ferene,

Fate threaten'd then t' eclipfe my noon-tide ray; Now black'ning clouds deform the varied scene, Life lingers ftill, with odious, dull delay.

Ah! is it blifs, when near ally'd to woe?
A fhadowy joy fo vainly could ye call?

Ah! is it blifs, which fortune can o'erthrow?
Say, was he firm, who thus was doom'd to fall ?

A

FROM THE SAME.

LAS! in dark defpondence loft,

By blafts of worldly paffions toft,

Far from the light of truth aftray,

His mind purfues her dreary way;
His mind, which once could freely foar,
And heav'n's fublimeft heights explore,

High as the bright-hair'd Sun's abode,

Or paler Cynthia's starry road.

He view'd the wand'ring fires, that move

Amid yon azure fields above;

His fkill, his great enlarged foul,

Knew by what fixed rules they roll.

Why o'er the regions of the deep The winds with roaring fury sweep; What unfeen pow'r directs the ball, What active spirit breathes thro' all; Why on the eastern hills displays

The youthful Sun his morning rays;

And, as he leaves the world to night,

Sinks in the Weft his blushing light;

Why with the rofy buxom Hours

Spring decks anew the earth with flow'rs,

And why the plenteous, purple chear

Of Autumn crowns the ripen'd year;

Το

To know, and folve each latent caufe,

With care he ftudy'd nature's laws.

But now, no more he views the skies;

His groveling foul inactive lies,

Of all her inward light bereav'd,

By forrow's galling load enslav’d.

T

FROM THE SAME.

HE man, whofe days in peaceful currents flow,

Who fcorns the fmiles or frowns of fate,

Who looks unmov'd on either ftate,

Nor dreads the fad reverfe, from high to low :

Not raging feas, when ftorms their billows roll,

Or all their frightful depths disclose,

Nor hot Vefuvius' lab'ring throes,

Nor Heaven's own flaming bolts can fhake his foul.

Why

Why fhould the wretch to ruthless tyrants kneel,

Whofe pow'r can work fo little harm?

Thou mayst their fierceft rage difarm,

If neither fears nor hopes thy bofom feel.

But he, whom hope tranfports, or fear appals,
Left chance his fancy'd blifs o'erthrow,

Hath bar'd his breaft to ev'ry foe,

The barren Mufe no lay can bring,

Dry'd up is the Castalian spring

What-not a fpark of mental fire,

The fluggard Genius to inspire?
Must she with empty hand appear
Before the Porter of the year ?
Rather in paths untry'd before,

Let us what no where' is, explore.

Lo! whilst the undetermin'd mufe,

Now up, now down, the fearch purfues,
Turns here and there, and round and round;
Nay-do not smile-fhe's NOTHING found.

NOTHING more worth than gems we hold,
NOTHING more precious is than gold;
With kindness, Sir, your ears incline,

No hackney'd, ranfack'd theme is mine:

Grecian