When Fate extends its gathering gripe,
Fall off like fruit grown fully ripe,
Quit a worn being without pain,
Perhaps to blossom soon again.

But now more serious see me grow, And what I think, my Memmius, know.

Th' enthusiast's hope, and raptures wild,
Have never yet my reason foil'd.
His springy soul dilates like air,

When free from weight of ambient care,
And, hush'd in meditation deep,
Slides into dreams, as when asleep;
Then, fond of new discoveries grown,
Proves a Columbus of her own,

Disdains the narrow bounds of place,
And through the wilds of endless space,
Borne up on metaphysic wings,
Chases light forms and shadowy things,
And, in the vague excursion caught,
Brings home some rare exotic thought.
The melancholy man such dreams,
As brightest evidence, esteems;
Fain would he see some distant scene
Suggested by his restless Spleen,

And Fancy's telescope applies

With tinctur'd glass to cheat his eyes. Such thoughts, as love the gloom of night, I close examine by the light;

For who, though brib'd by gain to lie,
Dare sunbeam-written truths deny,
And execute plain common sense
On faith's mere hearsay evidence?

That superstition mayn't create, And club its ills with those of fate, I many a notion take to task, Made dreadful by its visor-mask. Thus scruple, spasm of the mind, Is cur'd, and certainty I find; Since optic reason shews me plain, I dreaded spectres of the brain; And legendary fears are gone, Though in tenacious childhood sown. Thus in opinions I commence Freeholder in the proper sense, And neither suit nor service do, Nor homage to pretenders shew, Who boast themselves by spurious roll Lords of the manor of the soul; Preferring sense, from chin that's bare, To nonsense thron'd in whisker'd hair.

To thee, Creator uncreate,

O Entium Ens! divinely great
Hold, Muse, nor melting pinions try,
Nor near the blazing glory fly,
Nor straining break thy feeble bow,
Unfeather'd arrows far to throw ;

Through fields unknown nor madly stray,
Where no ideas mark the way.

With tender eyes, and colours faint,
And trembling hands forbear to paint.
Who, features veil'd by light, can hit?
Where can, what has no outline, fit? -
My soul, the vain attempt forego,
Thyself, the fitter subject, know.
He wisely shuns the bold extreme,
Who soon lays by th' unequal theme,
Nor runs, with wisdom's sirens caught,
On quicksands swall'wing shipwreck'd thought;
But, conscious of his distance, gives
Mute praise, and humble negatives.
In one, no object of our sight,
Immutable, and infinite,

Who can't be cruel, or unjust,
Calm and resign'd, I fix my trust;
To him my past and present state
I owe, and must my future fate.
A stranger into life I'm come,
Dying may be our going home,
Transported here by angry Fate,
The convicts of a prior state.
Hence I no anxious thoughts bestow
On matters I can never know;

Through life's foul way, like vagrant, pass'd,

He'll grant a settlement at last;

And with sweet ease the wearied crown,

By leave to lay his being down.

If doom'd to dance th' eternal round
Of life no sooner lost but found,

And dissolution soon to come,

Like spunge, wipes out life's present sum,
But can't our state of pow'r bereave
An endless series to receive;

Then, if hard dealt with here by fate,
We balance in another state,
And consciousness must go along,
And sign th' acquittance for the wrong.
He for his creatures must decree.
More happiness than misery,
Or be supposed to create,
Curious to try, what 'tis to hate :
And do an act, which rage infers,
'Cause lameness halts, or blindness errs.

Thus, thus I steer my bark, and sail On even keel with gentle gale; At helm I make my reason sit, My crew of passions all submit. If dark and blust'ring prove some nights, Philosophy puts forth her lights; Experience holds the cautious glass, To shun the breakers, as I pass, And frequent throws the wary lead, To see what dangers may be hid: And once in seven years I'm seen At Bath or Tunbridge, to careen. Though pleas'd to see the dolphins play, I mind my compass and my way.

With store sufficient for relief,
And wisely still prepar'd to reef,
Nor wanting the dispersive bowl
Of cloudy weather in the soul,
I make (may heav'n propitious send
Such wind and weather to the end)
Neither becalm'd, nor overblown,
Life's voyage to the world unknown.

GEORGE LILLO.

BORN 1693.-DIED 1739.

GEORGE LILLO was the son of a Dutch jeweller, who married an English woman, and settled in London. Our poet was born near Moorfields, was bred to his father's business, and followed it for many years. The story of his dying in distress was a fiction of Hammond, the poet; for he bequeathed a considerable property to his nephew, whom he made his heir. It has been said that this bequest was in consequence of his finding the young man disposed to lend him a sum of money at a time when he thought proper to feign pecuniary distress, in order that he might discover the sincerity of those calling themselves his friends. Thomas Davies, his biographer and editor, professes to have got this anecdote from a surviving partner of Lillo. It bears however an intrinsic air of improbability. It is not usual for sensible tradesmen to affect being on the