« ПретходнаНастави »
“ Ah, luckless train! ah, fate-devoted race;
“ This day, fell man, whose unrelenting hate
“ I, who so oft have 'scap'd th’impending snare,
She said ; when lo! the pointer winds his prey,
In vain the mother wings her whirring light,
THE SCULL'S ADDRESS,
ON BEING LOOKED ON.
WHY start! this case will yours be very soon,
In some few years, perhaps the coming moon, Life, at its utmost length, is scarce a breath, And those who longest dream, must wake in death, Like you, I once thought ev'ry bliss secure, And gold of ev'ry ill the certain cure; Till plung’d in sorrow, and besieg’d with pain, Too late I found all earthly riches vain. Disease made fruitless quite the sordid fee, And death ftill answer'd, “What is gold to me?" Fame, titles, honours, next I vainly fought, And fools, obfequious, nurs'd each childish thought, Elate with brib'd applause, and purchas'd praise, I built on endless grandeur, endless days; Till death awoke ine from my dream of pride, And laid a prouder beggar by my side. Pleasure I courted, and indulg'd my taste, The banquet smil'd, and smil'd the gay repast. A loathsome carcase was my only care, And worlds were ransack'd but for me to share. Go on, vain man! to luxury be firm, Yet know I feasted but to feast a worm.
Already sure less terrible I seem,
a dream, Farewell! remember! nor my words despise, “ The only happy are the early wise."
THE EASY CHAIR,
COME, thou indulgent friend to fost repose,
grove, Or under shade to tufted trees, alone Indulge in solitude his weary hours; When chilling damps, or winter's nipping frost, Denies access to filent hawthorn bow'rs : Oh grant him heav'n! grant him your next best
Mother of meditation, and the nurse
[The following well-imagined and affecting elegy,
was written by a young gentleman of fashion, upon the loss of a mot amiable wife.]
AN E L E G Y.
In every varied posture, place, and hour,
By Charlctte's death! oft let me devious rove Indulging grief; where glad some once I rang’d,
In sweet society with peace and love.
Oft in the silent evening, all alone,
When solemn twilight shades the face of day, The plaintive muse shall hither waft her moan;
With tendereft paffion here inspire my lay.
These hours, allotted to that muse's hand,
To latest time thy memory shall endear; While soft ideas rise at her command,
And in luxurious forrow prompt the tear.
Recall, soft fame of gentleness and love!
-And are those eyes for ever set in death?
One more and then-farewell ! one lingering
fond soul from all it held so dear : 'Twas o'er !-fareweil-my joys : sweet hope,
No! in the still of night, my restless thought
Pursues thy image thro' its change unknown; Steals oft unnotic'd to the dreary vault,
And in that vale of sorrow pours my own :