When in soft calm the waves of Fortune roll,
A tempest of reflection storms the soul;
But what would make another man distrest,
Gives him tranquillity and thoughtless rest:
No disappointment can his peace invade,
Superior to all troubles not self-made-
This character let grey Oxonians scan,
And tell me of what species he's a man.
Or be it by young Yeatman criticized,
Who damns good English if not Latinized.
In Aristotle's scale the Muse he weigns,
And damps her little fire with copied lays!
Vers'd in the mystic learning of the schools,
He rings bob-majors by Leibnitzian rules.

Pulvis, whose knowledge centres in degrees,
Is never happy but when taking fees.

Blest with a bushy wig and solemn grace,
Catcott admires him for a fossile face.

When first his farce of countenance began,
Ere the soft down had mark'd him almost man,
A solemn dullness occupied his eyes,

And the fond mother thought him wond'rous wise:

-But little had she read in Nature's book,
That fools assume a philosophic look.

O Education, ever in the wrong,
To thee the curses of mankind belong;
Thou first great author of our future state,
Chief source of our religion, passions, fate:
On every atom of the Doctor's frame

Nature has stampt the pedant with his name;
But thou hast made him (ever wast thou blind)
A licens'd butcher of the human kind.

-

Mould'ring in dust the fair Lavinia lies; Death and our Doctor clos'd her sparkling eyes. O all ye Powers, the guardians of the world! Where is the useless bolt of vengeance hurl'd? Say, shall this leaden sword of plague prevail, And kill the mighty where the mighty fail! Let the red bolus tremble o'er his head, And with his cordial julep strike him dead.

But to return-in this wide sea of thought, How shall we steer our notions as we ought? Content is happiness, as sages say

But what's content? The trifle of a day.

Then, friend, let inclination be thy guide, Nor be by superstition led aside.

The Saint and Sinner, fool and wise attain An equal share of easiness and pain.

THE RESIGNATION.

From Love and Madness.

O God, whose thunder shakes the sky;

Whose eye

this atom globe surveys;

To thee, my only rock, I fly,
Thy mercy in thy justice praise.

The mystic mazes of thy will,
The shadows of celestial light,
Are past the pow'r of human skill,-
But what th' Eternal acts is right.

O teach me in the trying hour,
When anguish swells the dewy tear,
To still my sorrows, own thy pow'r,
Thy goodness love, thy justice fear.

If in this bosom ought but Thee
Incroaching sought a boundless sway,
Omniscience could the danger see,
And Mercy look the cause away.

Then why, my soul, dost thou complain? Why drooping seek the dark recess? Shake off the melancholy chain,

For God created all to bless.

But ah! my breast is human still;
The rising sigh, the falling tear,
My languid vitals' feeble rill,
The sickness of my soul declare.

But yet, with fortitude resign'd,
I'll thank th' inflicter of the blow;
Forbid the sigh, compose my mind,
Nor let the gush of mis'ry flow.

The gloomy mantle of the night, Which on my sinking spirit steals, Will vanish at the morning light, Which God, my East, my Sun, reveals.