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And, instant, lo, his dizzy eyeballs swim

Ghastly, and reddening dart a threatful glare; Pain with strong grasp distorts his writhing limbs,

And Fear's cold hand erects his bristling hair! Is this, O life, is this thy boasted prime?

And does thy spring no happier prospect yield? Why gilds the vernal sun thy gaudy clime,

When nipping mildews waste the flowery field? How memory pains ! Let some gay theme beguile

The musing mind, and soothe to soft delight. Ye images of woe, no more recoil;

Be life's past scenes wrapp'd in oblivious night. Now when fierce Winter, arm'd with wasteful

power, Heaves the wild deep that thunders from afar, How sweet to sit in this sequester'd bower,

To hear, and but to hear the mingling war! Ambition here displays no gilded toy

That terpts on desperate wing the soul to rise, Nor Pleasure's flower-embroider'd paths decoy,

Nor Anguish lurks in Grandeur's gay disguise. Oft has Contentment cheer'd this lone abode

With the mild languish of her smiling eye; Here Health has oft in blushing beauty glow'd,

While loose-robed Quiet stood enamour'd by.

E'en the storm lulls to more profound repose:

The storm these humble walls assails in vain; Screen'd is the lily when the whirlwind blows,

While the oak's stately ruin strows the plain.

Blow on, ye winds! Thine, Winter, be the skies,

Roll the old ocean, and the vales lay waste : Nature thy momentary rage defies;

To her relief the gentler seasons haste. Throned in her emerald car see Spring appear!

(As Fancy wills the landscape starts to view) Her emerald car the youthful Zephyrs bear,

Fanning her bosom with their pinions blue. Around the jocund hours are fluttering seen;

And lo, her rod the rose-lipp'd power extends ! And lo, the lawns are deck'd in living green, And Beauty's bright-eyed train from heaven

descends! Haste, happy days, and make all nature glad

But will all nature joy at your return?
Say, can ye cheer pale Sickness' gloomy bed,

Or dry the tears that bathe the' untimely urn? Will ye one transient ray of gladness dart

Cross the dark cell where bopeless slavery lies? To ease tired Disappointment's bleeding heart,

Will all your stores of softening balm suffice? When fell Oppression in his harpy fangs From Want's weak grasp the last sad morsel

bears, Can ye allay the heart-wrung parent's pangs, Whose famish'd child craves help with fruit

less tears? For, ah! thy reign, Oppression, is not passid :

Who from the shivering limbs the vestment rends? Who lays the once rejoicing village waste,

Bursting the ties of lovers and of friends?

VOL. IV.

AA

O ye, to Pleasure who resign the day,

As loose in Luxury's clasping arms you lie, 0, yet let pity in your breast bear sway,

And learn to melt at Misery's moving cry.

But hopest thou, Muse, vainglorious as thou art,

With the weak impulse of thy humble strain, Hopest thou to soften Pride's obdurate heart,

When Errol's bright example shines in vain ? Then cease the theme. Turn, Fancy, turn thine eye,

Thy weeping eye, nor further urge thy flight; Thy haunts, alas! no gleams of joy supply,

Or transient gleams, that flash, and sink in night. Yet fain the mind its anguish would forego

Spread then, historic Muse, thy pictured scroll; Bid thy great scenes in all their splendour glow,

And swell to thought sublime the' exalted soul. What mingling pomps rush boundless on the gaze!

What gallant navies ride the heaving deep! What glittering towns their cloud-wrapt turrets

raise ! What bulwarks frown horrific o'er the steep! Bristling with spears, and bright with burnish'd

shields, The'embattled legions stretch their long array; Discord's red torch, as fierce she scours the fields,

With bloody tincture stains the face of day. And now the hosts in silence wait the sign:

How keen their looks whom Liberty inspires ! Quick as the goddess darts along the line,

Each breast impatient burns with noble fires.

Her form how graceful! In her lofty mien

The smiles of Love stern Wisdom's frown con

trol;

Her fearless eye, determined though serene,
Speaks the great purpose,

and the' unconquer'd soul.

Mark, where Ambition leads the adverse band,

Each feature fierce and haggard as with pain! With menace loud he cries, while from his hand

He vainly strives to wipe the crimson stain.

Lo, at his call, impetuous as the storms,

Headlong to deeds of death the hosts are driven: Hatred, to madness wrought, each face deforms, Mounts the black whirlwind, and involves the

heaven.

Now, Virtue, now thy powerful succour lend,

Shield them for Liberty who dare to dieAh, Liberty! will none thy cause befriend!

Are these thy sons, thy generous sons, that fly!

Not Virtue's self, when Heaven its aid denies, Can brace the loosen'd nerves, or warm the

heart; Not Virtue's self can still the burst of sighs,

When festers in the soul Misfortune's dart.

See, where by heaven-bred terror all dismay'd

The scattering legions pour along the plain, Ambition's car with bloody spoils array'd Hews its broad way, as Vengeance guides the But who is he that, by yon lonely brook

rein.

With woods o'erhung and precipices rude*, Abandon'd lies, and with undaunted look

Sees streaming from his breast the purple flood ? Ah, Brutus! ever thine be Virtue's tear!

Lo, his dim eyes to Liberty he turns, As scarce supported on her broken spear

O'er her expiring son the goddess mourns. Loose to the wind her azure mantle flies,

From her disheveld locks she rends the plume; No lustre lightens in her weeping eyes,

And on her tear-stain's cheek no roses bloom. Meanwhile the world, Ambition, owns thy sway,

Fame's loudest trumpet labours in thy praise, For thee the Muse awakes her sweetest lay,

And Flattery bids for thee her altars blaze. Nor in life's lofty bustling sphere alone, [toil,

The sphere where monarchs and where heroes Sink Virtue's sons beneath Misfortune's frown, While Guilt's thrill’d bosom leaps at Pleasure's

smile; Full oft, where Solitude and Silence dwell,

Far, far remote amid the lowly plain, Resounds the voice of Woe from Virtue's cell.

Such is man's doom, and Pity weeps in vain. Still grief recoils—How vainly have I strove

Thy power, O Melancholy, to withstand ! Tired I submit; but yet, O, yet remove,

Or ease the pressure of thy heavy hand.
Such, according to the description given by Plutarch, was

the scene of Brutus's death.

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