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Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms:
And then, the whining school-Boy with his fatchel,
And Mining morning-face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school: And then, the LOVER;
Sighing like Furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mifirefs rye-brow: Then, the SOLDIER;
Full of firange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel;
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth: And then, the JUSTICE;
In fair round belly, with good capon lin’d,
With eves fevere, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise laws and modern instances,
And so he plays his part: The fixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd PANTALOON,
With tpectacles on’s nose, and pouch on’s fide;
His youthful hofe well fav’d, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whitiles in his found : Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is fecond CHILDISHNESS, and mere oblivion;
Sans teeth, fans eyes, fans tafie, fans every thing.
THE DYING INDIAN.
ON yonder lake I spread the fail no more!
Vigour, and youth, and active-days are pali-
Relentlets demons urge me to that shore,
On whose black foretis all the dead are caft.
Ye folemn train, prepare the fun’ral song,
For I must go, to iliades below,
Where all is strange, and all is new; Sad companion to the airy throng;
What folitary tireams,
In dull and dreary dreams, All melancholy inust i rove along?
To what strange lands mus SHALUM take his way?
Groves of the dead departed mortals trace!
No deer along those gloomy foretis stray,
Nor huntlinen there take pleasure in the chase;
But all are empty unsubstantial shades,
That ramble through those visionary glades;
No fpongy fruits from verdant trees depend;
But fickly orchards there
Do fruits as sickly bear,
And apples a consumptive visage shew.
And wither'd hangs the hurtle-herry blue.
Ah me! what mischiefs on the dead attend
Wand'ring a stranger to the shores below,
Where shall I brook or real fountain find ?
Lazy and fad deluding waters flow.
Such is the picture in my boding mind!
Fine tales indeed they tell
Of shades and purling rills,
Where our dead fathers dwell,
Beyond the Western Hills;
But when did ghost return his ftate to shew;
Or who can promise half the tale is true?
1, too, must be a fleeting ghoft-no more-
None-none but shadows to those mansions go;
I leave my woods, I leave my
For emptier groves below!
Ye charming folitudes,
Ye tall afcending woods,
Ye glasly lakes, ye cool and prattling streams,
Whofe aspect still was sweet,
Whether the fun did greet,
Or the pale moon embrac'd you with her beams,
Adieu to all!
To all that charmed me while I strayed,
The winding stream, the dark sequefter'd shade,
Adieu all triumph here!
Adieu the mountain's lofty swell,
Adieu, thou little verdant hill,
And feas, and stars, and skies--farewell,
For some remoter sphere!
Perplex'd with doubts, and tortur'd with despair,
Why so dejected at this hapless fleep? Nature, at least
, these ruins may repair, When death's long dream is o’er, and she forgets Some real world once more may be assign'd, Some new-born manfion for th’immortal mind! Farewell, sweet lake; farewell surrounding woods;
To other groves, through midnight glooms I liray, Beyond the mountains, and beyond the floods,
Beyond the Huron bay!
Prepare the hollow tomb, and place me low,
My trusty þow and arrows by my side,
The cheerful bottle and the ven’son store;
for long the journey is that I must go,
Without a partner, and without a guide!
Ah! I thall come no more!He spoke, and bid th' attending mourners weepThen clos'd his eyes, and sunk to endless sleep!
BLOW, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not fo unkind
As man's ingratitude :
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh ho! ting, heigh ho! unto the green holly:
Molt friendship is feigning, molt loving mere folly:
Then, heighi ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
Tlou doft not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy fling is not fo sharp
As friend remember'd not.
Heigh ho! fing, heigh ho! unto the green holly:
Moli friendship is feigning, moft loving mere folly :
Then, heigh ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.
YES, happy youths! on Cadmus' fedgy fide
You feel each joy that friendship can divide,
Each realm of science and of art explore,
And with the ancient blend the modern lore,
Studious alone to learn whate'er may tend
To raise the genius, or the heart to mend;
Now pleas’d along the cloister'd walks you rove,
And trace the verdant mazes of the grove,
Where social oft and oft alone choose
To catch the zephyr, and to court the mufe;
Meantime at me (while all devoid of art
These lines give back the image of my heart)
At me the pow'r that comes, or foon or late,
Or aims, or seems to aim, the dart of fate;
From you remote, methinks alone I ftand,
Like some sad exile in a desert land,
Around no friends their lenient care to join
In mutual warmth, and mix their heart with mine.
Or real pains, or those which fancy raise,
For ever blot the funshine of my days;
To fickness fiill, and fiill to grief, a prey,
Health turns from me her roly face away.
Juli Heav'n! what fin, ere life begins to bloom, Devotes
my head untimely to the tomb ? Did ere this hand against á brother's life Drug the dire bowl, or point the murd'rous knife? Did e'er this tongue the fand'rer's tale proclaim, Or madly violate my Maker's name? Die e'er this heart betray a friend or foe, Or know a thought but all the world might know ? As vet jusi fiarted from the lists of time My growing years have fcarcely told their prime;
Useless as yet through life I've idly run,
No pleasures tatted, and few duties done.
Ah! who, ere Autumn's mellowing funs appear
Would pluck the promise of the vernal year ?
Or ere the grapes their purple hue betray,
Tear the crude cluster from the mourning spray?
Stern pow'r of fate! whole ebon sceptre rules
The Stygian deserts and Cimmerian pools,
Forbear, nor rafhly fmite my youthful heart,
A victim yet unworthy of thy dart;
Ah! stay till age shall blaft my with’ring face,
Shake in my head, and falter in my pace;
Then aim the Thaft, then meditate the blow,
And to the dead my willing shade mall go.
How weak is man to reaton's judging eye!
Born in this moment, in the next we die;
Part mortal clay, and part ethereal fire,
Too proud to creep, to humble to aspire.
In vain our plans of happiness we raise;
Pain is our lot, and patience is our praise:
Wealth, lineage, honours, conqueft, or a throne,
Are what the wise would fear to call their own.
Health is at best a vain precarious thing,
And fair-fac'd youth is ever on the wing:
Tis like the stream afide whole wat’ry bed
Some blooming plant exalts his flow'ry head,
Nurs'd by the wave the fpreading branches rise,
Shade all the ground, and flourish to the skies;
The waves the while beneath in secret How,
And undermine the hollow bank below;
Wide and more wide the waters urge their way,
Bare all the roots, and on their fibres prey;
Too late the plant bewails his foolish pride,
And links untimely in the whelming tide.
But why repine? Does life deserve my figh? Few will lament my loss whene'er I die. For those, the wreiches I despise or hate, I neither envy or regard their fate. For me, whene'er all-conquering death mall spread This wings around my unrepining head,