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Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind :
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame;
Or heap the shrine of luxry and pride,
With incense kindled at the muse's flame,
Far from the madd’ning crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learn’d to stray-
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life,
They kept the poiseless tenor of their way.
Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect,
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck’d,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply ;
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.
For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing, anxious being e'er resign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day;
Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind ?
On some fond hreast the parting soul relies
Some pious drops the closing eye requires ;
E’en from the tomb the voice of nature cries;
E’en in our ashes live their wonted sires.
For thee, who, mindful of the unhonour'd dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate,
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate.
Haply, some hoary headed swain may say,
« Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn,
Brushing, with hasty steps, the dews away,
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn;
There at the foot of yonder nodding beech,
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
His listless length at noontide would be stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
Hard by yon wood, now smiling, as in scorn, Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove;
Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn, ! Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.
One morn I miss'd him on th' accustom'd hill,
Along the heath, and near his fav’rite tree,
Another came, nor yet beside the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he.
The next, with dirges due, in sad array,
Slow through the church way path we saw him borne,
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay,
'Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.
HERE rests his head upon the lap of earth,
A youth to fortune and to fame unknown :
Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth,
And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere;
Heaven did a recompense as largely send.
He gave to mis’ry all he had a tear;
He gain'd from heaven ('twas all he wish'd)-a friend.
No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
(There they, alike, in treinbling hope repose)
The bosom of his Father and his God.
XI.-Scipio restoring the Captive Lady to her Lover.
THOMPSON WHEN to his glorious first essay in war, New Carthage fell; there all the flower of Spain Were kept in hostage; a full field presenting For Scipio's generosity to shine.- A noble virgin Conspicuous far oʻer all the captive dames, Was mark'd the general's prize. She wept and blushd, Young, fresh and blooming like the morn. As when the blue sky trembles through a cloud of purest white. A secret charm combin'd Her features, and infus'd enchantment through them. Her shape was harmony. But eloquence Beneath her beauty fails; which seem'd on purpose By nature lavish'd on her, that mankind Might see the virtue of a hero try'd, Almost beyond the stretch of human force. Soft as she pass'd along, with downcast eyes, Where gentle sorrow swelld, and now and then, Dropp'd o'er her modest cheeks a trickling tear, The Roman legions languish'd, and hard war
Felt more than pity ; e'en their chief himself,
As on his high tribunal rais'd he sat,
Turn’d from the dang’rous sight; and, chiding, ask'd
His officers, if by this gift they meant
To cloud his glory in its very dawn.
She, question'd of her birth, in trembling accents,
With tears and blushes, broken told her tale.
But when he found her royally descended;
Of her old captive parents the sole joy;
And that a hapless Celtiberian prince,
Her lover and belov'd, forgot his chains,
His lost dominions, and for her alone
Wept out his tender soul : sudden the heart
of this young, conquering, loving, godlike Roman,
Felt all the great divinity of virtue.
His wishing youth stood check'd, his tempting power,
Restrain'd by kind humanity.–At once,
He for her parents and her lover call'a.
The various scene imagine. How his troops
Look'd dubious on, and wonder'd what he meant;
While, stretch'd below, the trembling suppliant lay
Rack'd by a thousand mingling passions--fear,
Hope, jealousy, disdain, submission, grief,
Anxiety and love, in every shape.
To these as different sentiments succeeded,
As mix'd emotions, when the man divine,
Thus the dread silence to the lover broke.
"We both are young-both charm’d. The right of war
Has put thy beauteous mistress in my power ;
With whom I could, in the most sacred ties,
Live out a happy life. But, know that Romans,
Their hearts, as well as enemies can conquer;
Then, take her to thy soul! and with ber, take
Thy liberty and kingdom. In return,
I ask but this--when you behold these eyes,
These charms, with transport, be a friend to Rome.”
Ecstatic wonder held the lovers mute;
While the loud camp, and all the clust'ring crowd
That hung around, rang with repeated shouts ;
Fame took the alarm, and through resounding Spain,
Blew fast the fair report; which more than arms,
Admiring nations to the Romans gain'd.
XII.-Pope's humorous Complaint to Dr. Arbuthnot, of the
Impertinence of Scribblers.
SHUT, shut the door, good John !-fatigu'd, I said ;
Tie up the knocker-say, I'm sick, I'm dead.
Tbe dogstar rages ! Nay, 'lis past a doubt,
All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out.
Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand,
They rave, recite, and madden round the land.
What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide ?
They pierce my thickets; through my grot they glide :
By land, by water, they renew the charge;
They stop the chariot, and they board the barge :
No place is sacred ; not the church is free;
E’en Sunday shines no sabbathday to me.
Then, from the mint walks forth the man of rhyme
"Happy to catch me just at dinnertime."
Friend to my life! (which did not you prolong,
The world had wanted many an idle song).
What drop or nostrum can this plague remove !
Or which must end me, a fool's wrath or love ?
A dire dilemma!-either way I'm sped ;
If foes, they write; if friends, they read me dead.
Seiz'd and tir'd down to judge how wretched I !
Who can't be silent, and who will not lie,
To laugh were want of goodness and of grace;
And to be grave exceeds all power of face.
I sit, with sad civility ; I read,
With serious anguish and an aching head :
Then drop at last, but in unwilling ears,
This saving counsel" Keep your piece nine years.”
“ Nine years!” (cries he, high in Drurylane,
Lullid by soft zephyrs through the broken pane,
Rhyines ere he wakes, and prints before term ends,
Oblig'd by hunger, and request of friends ;)
* The piece, you think is incorrect. Why, take it;
I'm all submission, what you'd have it, make it.”
Three things another's modest wishes bound-
My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound.
Pitholeon sends to me" You know bis Grace:
I want a patron-ask him for a place.”
" Pitholeon libellid me."." But here's a letter
you, Sir, 'twas when he knew no better."
“Bless me! a packet!'Tis a stranger sues
A virgio tragedy, an orphan muse."
If I dislike it_ Furies, death and rage,”
If I approve-"Commend it to the stage.”
There, thank my stars, my whole commission ends;
The players and I are luckily, no friends,
Fir'd that the house reject him-"'Sdeath, I'll print it,
And shame the fools--Your interest, Sir, with Lintot."
* Lintot (dull rogue) will think your price too much."
“ Not if you, Sir, revise it, and retouch."
All my demurs but double his attacks;
At last he whispers~" Do, and we go snacks ;"
Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door-
“Sir let me see you and your works no more.'
There are, who to my person pay their court :
I cough like Horace, and thou: rlean, am short:
Ammon's great son one shoulder had too high ;
Such Ovidós nose; and,“ Sir you have an eye."
Go on, obliging creatures; make me see,
All that disgrac'd my betters met in me.
Say, for my comfort, languishing in bed,
Just so immortal Maro held his head;
And when I die, be sure you let me know,
Great Homer died-three thousand years ago.
XIII.— Hymn to Adversity.--GRAY.
DAUGHTER of Jove, relentless power,
Thou tamer of the human breast,
Whose iron scourge and torturing hour,
The bad affright, afflict the best !
Bound in thy adamantine chain,
The proud are taught to taste of paio ;
And purple tyrants vainly groari,
With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone.
When first thy sire to send on earth
Virtue, his darling child, designéd,
To thee he gave the heavenly birth,
And bade thee form her infant mind.
Stern, rugged nurse! thy rigid lore
With patience, many a year she bore;
What sorrow was, thou badóst her know,
And from her own she learn'd to melt at other's woe.
Scar'd at thy frown, terrific, iy Selfpleasing folly's idle brood,