Whene'er with soft serenity she smil'd, Or caught the orient blush of quick surprize, Each look, each motion wak'd a new-born grace, That bell again! It tells us what she is : MARIA claims it from that sable bier, Where cold and wan the slumberer rests her head; In still small whispers to reflection's ear, She breathes the solemn dictates of the Dead. O catch the awful notes, and lift them loud! Yes, ye shall hear, and tremble as you hear, The mental Monitor shall wake and weep. For say, Early to lose; while, born on busy wing, 40 Ye sip the nectar of each varying bloom : Think of her Fate! revere the heav'nly hand To give Reflection time, with lenient art, Each fond delusion from her soul to steal; 50 Say, are ye sure his Mercy shall extend To you so long a span ? Alas, ye sigh : Make then, while yet ye may, your God your friend, And learn with equal ease to sleep or die! Nor think the Muse, whose sober voice ye hear, Casts round Religion's orb the mists of fear, Or shades with horrors, what with smiles should b glow. No; she would warm you with seraphic fire, Heirs as ye are of heav'n's eternal day ; Would bid you boldly to that heav'n aspire, Not sink and slumber in your cells of clay. Know, ye were form'd to range yon azure field, Is this the bigot's rant? Away, ye Vain, Your hopes, your fears in doubt, in dulness steep : Go sooth your souls in sickness, grief, or pain, With the sad solace of eternal sleep. Yet will I praise you, triflers as ye are, More than those preachers of your fav'rite creed, Who proudly swell the brazen throat of War, Who form the phalanx, bid the battle bleed: Nor wish for more: who conquer, but to die. On Pleasure's glitt'ring stream ye gayly steer Your little course to cold oblivion's shore : They dare the storm, and, through th' inclement year, Stem the rough surge, and brave the torrent's roar. Is it for Glory? that just Fate denies. Long must the warrior moulder in his shroud, E'er from her trump the heav'n-breath'd accents rise, That lift the Hero from the fighting crowd. Is it his grasp of Empire to extend ? -90 'Tis but a Kingdom thou canst win or lose. And why must murder'd myriads lose their all, Go, wiser ye, that flutter Life away, Crown with the mantling juice the goblet high; Weave the light dance, with festive freedom gay, And live your moment, since the next ye die. Yet know, vain Sceptics, know, th' Almighty mind, To Heav'n, to Immortality aspire. Nor shall the pile of Hope, his Mercy rear'd, 100 ELEGY XVI. WRITTEN AT AMWELL, IN HERTFORDSHIRE, MD CCLXVIII. BY JOHN SCOTT, ESQ. THOUGH kindly silent thus my friend remains, I read enquiry in his anxious eye; Why my pale cheek the frequent tear distains, Why from my bosom bursts the frequent sigh.— Foe to the world's pursuit of wealth and fame, A few choice volumes there could oft engage, Life's calm unvary'd evening wore away. |