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THE BRITISH

POETICAL MISCELLANY.

NIGHT THOUGHTS

AMONG

THE TOMBS.

BY THE REV. MR. MOORE.

TRUCK with religious awe and folemn dread,

SI view thefe gloomy manfions of the dead;

Around me tombs in mixt disorder rife,

And, in mute language, teach me to be wife.
Time was these afhes liv'd; a time must be
When others thus may ftand and look at me.
Here, blended, lie the aged and the. young,
The rich and poor, an undistinguish'd throng:
Death conquers all, and time's fubduing hand,
Nor tombs nor marble ftatues can withstand.

Mark yonder afhes, in confufion spread!
Compare earth's living tenants with her dead!
How ftriking the refemblance! yet how juft!
Once life and foul inform'd this mafs of duft:
Around these bones, now broken and decay'd,
The ftreams of life in various channels play'd:
Perhaps that fkull, fo horrible to view,

Was fome fair maid's, ye belles, as fair as you;
These hollow fockets two bright orbs contain❜d,
Where the loves fported, and in triumph reign'd:
Here glow'd the lips; there, white as Parian ftone,
The teeth, difpos'd in beauteous order, fhone,
This is life's goal-no farther can we view;
Beyond it, all is wonderful and new.

O fay, ye fpirits, in a future ftate,
Why do ye hide the secrets of your fate,
And tell your endless pains or joys to none:-
Is it that men may live by faith alone?

The grave has eloquence, its lectures teach,
In filence, louder than divines can preach:
Hear what it fays-ye fons of folly hear;
It fpeaks to you-lend an attentive ear:
It bids you lay all vanity afide;

A humbling lecture this for human pride.

The clock ftrikes twelve-how folemn is the found! Hark, how the strokes from hollow vaults rebound! They bid us haften to be wife, and fhow

How rapid in their course the minutes flow.

Now airy fhapes and hideous spectres dance
Athwart imagination's vivid glance;
The felon now attack's the mifer's door,
And ruthless murder prints her steps with gore:
Dull fancy now her dreary path purfues,
'Midft groves of cyprefs, and unhallow'd yews,
Poetic vifions vanifh from my brain,

And my pulfe throbs as feebly as my ftrain.

What means this fudden, ftrange, unusual start,
This folemn fomething creeping to my heart?
Why fear to read a gracious God's decree?
Why fear to look on what I foon must be?
Can man be thoughtless of his end? or proud
Of charms that claim the coffin and the shroud?
Come, let him read thefe fculptur'd tomb-ftones o'er,
Here fix his thoughts, and then be vain no more.

Let proud ambition learn this leffon hence,
Howe'er diftinguifh'd, dignify'd for fenfe;
Whate'er the honour'd enfigns of renown,
The cap, the hood, the mitre, or the crown,
Death levels all: nor parts nor pow'rs can fave;
Milton himfelf muft moulder in the grave,
Who fung and prov'd, with infpiration ftrong,
The foul immortal, in immortal fong.

Hark! thus death fpeaks; ingenious fon of men,
Why boaft the chiffel, pencil, or the pen?

Will fame, who oft denies her children bread,
Deceive the living, difcompofe the dead?
No; fame's a breath, it cannot life supply,
Nor yield you comfort when you come to die;
dark realms all oppofites agree,

In

my
The heirs of wealth, and fons of poverty.

Whose tomb is this? It fays 'tis Mira's tomb,
Pluck'd from the world in beauty's faireft bloom:
Attend, ye fair, ye thoughtless, and ye gay!
For Mira dy'd upon her nuptial day!

The grave, cold bridegroom! clasp'd her in his arms,
And kindred worms deftroy her pleasing charms.

In yonder tomb the old Avaro lies;

(Once he was rich, the world efteem'd him wife.)
Schemes unaccomplish'd labour'd in his mind,
And all his thoughts were to this world confin'd;
Death came unlook'd for, from his grasping hands
Down dropp'd his bags, and morgages of lands.

Beneath that fculptur'd pompous marble stone,
Lies youthful Florio aged twenty-one:
Cropp'd like a flow'r, he wither'd in his bloom,
Though flatt'ring life had promis'd years to come.
Ye filken fons, ye Florio's of the age!
Who tread, in giddy maze, life's flow'ry stage,
Mark here the end of man! in Florio, fee
What you and all the fons of earth must be.

There low in duft the vain Hortenfio lies,
Whose splendour was beheld with envious eyes;
Titles and arms his pompous marble grace,
With a long hift'ry of his noble race:
Still after death his vanity furvives,
And on his tomb, all of Hortenfio lives!

Around me, as I turn my wand'ring eyes,
Unnumber'd graves in awful profpect rife,
Whofe ftones fay only when their owners dy'd,
If young, or aged, and to whom ally'd;
On others, pompous epitaphs are fpread,
In mem❜ry of the virtues of the dead;
Vain wafle of praife! fince, flatt'ring or fincere,
The judgment-day alone will make appear.

How filent is this little fpot of ground!
How melancholy looks each object round!
Here man, diffolv'd in fhatter'd ruin lies
So faft afleep-as if no more to rife;

'Tis ftrange to think, how these dead bones can live,
Leap into form, and with new heat revive!
Or how this trodden earth to life fhall wake,
Know its own place, its former figure take;

But whence these doubts? when the laft trumpet founds
Thro' heav'n's expanfe, to earth's remotest bounds,
The dead fhall quit these tenements of clay,
And view again the long-extinguifh'd day:
Cheer'd with this pleafing hope, I safely trust
Th' Almighty's pow'r to raise me from the duft;
On his unfailing promises rely,

And all the horrors of the grave defy;

Death! where's thy fting? Grave! where's thy victory?

THE BLIND BEGGAR.

BY PETER PINDar, esq.

WELCOME, thou Man of Sorrows, to my door!

A willing balm thy wounded heart shall find;
And, lo! thy guiding DoG my cares implore;
O hafte, and shelter from th' unfeeling wind!

Alas! fhall MIS'RY feek my cot with fighs,
And humbly fue for piteous alms my ear;
Yet difappointed go with lifted eyes,

And on my threshold leave th' upbraiding tear?

Thou boweft for the pity I beflow:

Bend not to me, because I mourn diftrefs;

I am thy debtor-much to thee I owe;
For learn the greatest bleffing is to bless.

Thy hoary locks, and wan and pallid cheek,
And quiv'ring lip to fancy feem to say,

"A more than common BEGGAR we bespeak;
"A form that once has known a happier day.”

Thy fightless orbs and venerable beard,

And, prefs'd by weight of years, thy palfy'd head,
Though filent, fpeak with tongues that must be heard,
Nay, must command, if VIRTUE be not dead.

Thy fhatter'd, yet thine awe-inspiring form
Shall give the village-lads the soften❜d foul,
To aid the victims of LIFE's frequent form,
And smooth the furges that around them roll;

Teach them that POVERTY may MERIT shroud;
And teach that VIRTUE may from MIS'RY fpring;
Flame like the lightning from the frowning cloud,
That spreads on NATURE'S fmile its raven wing.

O let me own the heart which pants to blefs;
That nobly scorns to hide the useless flore;
But looks around for objects of diftress,

And triumphs in a forrow for the poor!

When Heav'n on man is pleas'd its wealth to fhow'r,
Ah, what an envy'd blifs doth Heav'n bestow!
To raise pale MERIT in her hopeless hour,

And lead DESPONDENCE from the tomb of WOE!

Lo! not the little birds shall chirp in vain,

And, hov'ring round me, vainly court my care; While I poffefs the life-preferving grain,

Welcome, ye chirping tribe, to peck your share.

How can I hear your fongs at SPRING's return,
And hear while SUMMER fpreads her golden ftore;
Yet, when the gloom of WINTER bids ye mourn,
Heed not the plaintive voice that charm'd before!

Since FORTUNE, to my cottage not unkind,
Strews with fome flow'rs the road of life for me,
Ah! can HUMANITY defert my mind?

Shall I not foften the rude flint for thee?

Then welcome, BEGGAR, from the rains and snow,
And warring elements, to warmth and peace;

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