Death! great proprietor of all! 'tis thine

To tread out empire, and to quench the stars.
The fun himself by thy permiffion fhines;

And, one day, thou shalt pluck him from his fphere.
Amid fuch mighty plunder, why exhaust

Thy partial quiver on a mark fo mean?

Why thy peculiar rancour wreck'd on me?
Infatiate archer! could not one fuffice?

Thy fhaft flew thrice; and thrice my peace was flain;
And thrice, ere thrice yon moon had fill'd her horn.
O Cynthia! why fo pale? Doft thou lament.
Thy wretched neighbour? grieve to fee thy wheel
Of ceafelefs change outwhirl'd in human life?
How wanes my borrow'd blifs? From fortune's fmile,
Precarious courtesy! not virtue's fure,
Self-given, folar, ray of found delight.

In every vary'd posture, place, and hour,
How widow'd every thought of every joy!
Thought, bufy thought! too bufy for my peace!
Thro' the dark poftern of time long claps'd,
Led foftly, by the stilnefs of the night,
Led, like a murderer, (and fuch it proves!)
Strays (wretched rover!) o'er the pleafing paft;
In queft of wretchedness perverfely strays;
And finds all defart now; and meets the ghosts
Of my departed joys; a numerous train!
I rue the riches of my former fate!
Sweet comfort's blafted clusters I lament;
I tremble at the bleffings once fo dear;
And every pleasure pains me to the heart.

Yet why complain? or why complain for one?
Hangs out the fun his luftre but for me,
The fingle man? are angels all befide?
I mourn for millions: 'tis the common lot;
In this shape, or in that, has fate entail'd
The mother's throws on all of woman born,
Not more the children, than fure heirs of pain.
War, famine, peft, volcano, storm, and fire,
Inteftine broils, oppreffion, with her heart
Wrapt up in triple brafs, befiege mankind.
GOD's image difinherited of day,

Here, plung'd in mines, forgets a fun was made.
There, beings deathless as their haughty lord,
Are hammer'd to the galling oar for life;
And plow the winter's wave, and reap despair.
Some, for hard mafters, broken under arms,
In battle lopt away, with half their limbs,
Beg bitter bread thro' realms their valour fav'd,
If fo the tyrant, or his minion, doom.
Want, and incurable disease, (fell pair!)
On hopeless multitudes remorfeless seize
At once; and make a refuge of the grave:
How groaning hofpitals eject their dead!
What numbers groan for fad admiffion there!
What numbers, once in fortune's lap high-fed,
Solicit the cold hand of charity!

To fhock us more, folicit it in vain!

Ye filken fons of pleasure! fince in pains

You rue more modifh vifits, vifit here,

And breathe from your debauch: give, and reduce

Surfeit's dominion o'er you: but fo great
Your impudence, you blush at what is right.
Happy! did forrow feize on fuch alone.
Not prudence can defend, or virtue fave;
Disease invades the chafteft temperance;
And punishment the guiltlefs; and alarm,
Thro' thickeft fhades, pursues the fond of peace,
Man's caution often into danger turns,
And his guard falling, crushes him to death.
Not happiness itself makes good her name;
Our very wishes give us not our wish.
How distant oft the thing we doat on moft,
From that for which we doat, felicity?
The fmootheft course of nature has its pains;
And truest friends, thro' error, wound our rest,
Without misfortune, what calamities?

And what hoftilities, without a foe?

Nor are foes wanting to the best on earth,
But endless is the lift of human ills,
And fighs might fooner fail, than cause to figh.
A part how small of the terraqueous globe
Is tenanted by man? the rest a waste,

Rocks, defarts, frozen feas, and burning fands!
Wild haunts of monfters, poifons, ftings, and death.
Such is earth's melancholy map! But far

More fad! this earth is a true map of man:

So bounded are its haughty lord's delights
To woe's wide empire; where deep troubles tofs,
Loud forrows howl, envenom'd paffions bite,
Ravenous calamities our vitals feize,

And threatning fate wide-opens to devour.
What then am I, who forrow for myself?
In age, in infancy, from others aid
Is all our hope; to teach us to be kind.
That, nature's first, last lesson to mankind;
The selfish heart deferves the pain it feels.
More generous forrow, while it finks, exalts;
And confcious virtue mitigates the pang.
Nor virtue, more than prudence, bids me give
Swoln thought a fecond channel; who divide,
They weaken too the torrent of their grief.
Take then, O world! thy much indebted tear:
How fad a fight is human happiness,

To those whose thought can pierce beyond an hour!
O thou! whate'er thou art, whose heart exults!
Would'st thou I should congratulate thy fate?

I know thou would'ft; thy pride demands it from me.
Let thy pride pardon, what thy nature needs,
The falutary cenfure of a friend.

Thou happy wretch! by blindness thou art bleft;
By dotage dandled to perpetual smiles.

Know, fmiler! at thy peril art thou pleas'd;

Thy pleasure is the promise of thy pain.
Misfortune, like a creditor fevere,
But rifes in demand for her delay;
She makes a fcourge of paft profperity,
To fting thee more, and double thy distress.

Lorenzo, fortune makes her court to thee.
Thy fond heart dances, while the Syren fings.
Dear is thy welfare; think me not unkind;

I would not damp, but to fecure thy joys.
Think not that fear is facred to the ftorm.
Stand on thy guard against the smiles of fate.
Is heaven tremendous in its frowns? Moft fure;
And in its favours formidable too:

Its favours here are trials, not rewards;
A call to duty, not discharge from care;
And fhould alarm us full as much as woes;
Awake us to their caufe and confequence;
And make us tremble, weigh'd with our defert;
Awe nature's tumult, and chastise her joys,
Left while we clafp, we kill them; nay, invert
To worse than fimple mifery, their charms.
Revolted joys, like foes in civil war,
Like bofom-friendships to refentment four'd,
With rage envenom'd rife against our peace.
Beware what earth calls happiness; beware
All joys, but joys that never can expire.
Who builds on lefs than an immortal base,
Fond as he feems, condemns his joys to death.

Mine dy'd with thee, Philander! thy last figh
Diffolv'd the charm; the difinchanted earth
Loft all her luftre. Where, her glittering towers?
Her golden mountains, where? all darken'd down
To naked waste; a dreary vale of tears:
The great magician's dead! Thou poor, pale piece
Of out-caft earth, in darknefs! what a change
From yesterday! Thy darling hope fo near,
(Long-labour'd prize!) O how ambition flush'd
Thy glowing cheek! ambition truly great,