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In tatter'd plight the Muses prompt my tongue,

While heart-wrung tears in doleful concert flow.

These still are true, nor fear a tyrant's frown,

These still, unaw'd, my lonely steps attend ; Pride of my soul, when youth and fortune shone!


age and grief their soothing aid they lend.

For, urg'd by grief, I feel the blight of Age;

His tyrant-hand hath seiz'd his feeble prey,

O'er my poor head he pours his hoary rage;

And my shrunk frame now trembles with decay.

Welcome is Death, when life is pain and care,

Who comes, invok'd, to stop the wretch's cries :

But ah ! too oft his ear rejects our pray’r,

Nor deigns his hand to close our weeping eyes.


Faithless, yet kind, when fortune smild serene,

Fate threaten’d then t' eclipse my noon-tide ray;

Now black’ning clouds deform the varied scene,

Life lingers still, with odious, dull delay.

Ah! is it bliss, when near ally'd to woe?

A shadowy joy so vainly could

ye call ?

Ah! is it bliss, which fortune can o'erthrow ?

Say, was he firm, who thus was doom'd to fall ?


LAS! in dark despondence lost,


By blasts of worldly passions tost,
Far from the light of truth astray,
His mind pursues her dreary way ;
His mind, which once could freely foar,

And heav'n's sublimest 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


yon azure fields above;

His skill, his great enlarged soul,

Knew by what fixed rules they roll.

Why o'er the regions of the deep

The winds with roaring fury sweep;
What unseen 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,

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To know, and solve each latent cause,

With care he study'd nature's laws.

But now, no more he views the skies ;

His groveling soul inactive lies,

Of all her inward light bereav’d,

By sorrow's galling load enslav’d.




"HE man, whose days in peaceful currents flow,

Who scorns the smiles or frowns of fate,

Who looks unmov'd on either state,

Nor dreads the sad reverse, from high to low :

Not raging feas, when storms their billows roll,

Or all their frightful depths disclose,

Nor hot Vesuvius' lab’ring throes,

Nor Heaven's own flaming bolts can shake his soul.

Why Why should the wretch to ruthless tyrants kneel,

Whose pow'r can work so little harm?

Thou mayst their fiercest rage difarm,

If neither fears nor hopes thy bosom feel.

But he, whom hope transports, or fear appals,

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