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Each look, each motion, wak'd a new-born grace,
That o'er her form it's transient glory caft: Some lovelier wonder foon usurp'd the place,
Chas'd by a charm still lovelier than the last. That bell again! It tells us what she is ;
On what he was, no more the strain prolong : Luxuriant Fancy pause! an hour like this,
Demands the tribute of a serious fong. Maria claims it from that fable bier,
Where cold and wan the slumb'rer rests her head; ; In still finall whispers to Reflection's eas,
She breathes the solemn dictates of the dead. O catch the awful notes, and lift them loud!
Proclaim the theme, by fage, by fool rever'd; Hear it, ye young, ye vain, ye great, ye proud!
'Tis Nature speaks, and Nature will be heard, Yes; ye shall hear, and tremble as you hear,
While, high with health, your hearts exulting leapi E'en in the midst of Pleasure's mad career,
The mental monitor shall wake and weep! For fay, than Coventry's propitious star,
What brighter planet on your births arose ; Or gave of Fortune's gifts an ampler share,
In life to lavih, or by death to lose !
Ye fip the nectar of each varying bloom :
The wint'ry storm that fweeps you to the tomb.
That led her hence, tho'foon, by steps so slow ; Long at her couch Death took his patient stand,
And menac'd oft, and oft witheld the blow; To give Reflection time, with lenient art,
Each fond delusion from her soul to steal ; Teach her from Folly peaceably to part,
And wean her from a world fhe lov'd fo well.
Say, are ye fure his mercy thall extend
To you so long a span? Alas, ye figh!
And learn with equal ease to sleep or die !
Contracts with bigot-frown her fullen brow; Casts round Religion's orb the mists of fear,
Or shades with horrors, what with smiles should glov, No; she would warm you with seraphick fire,
Heirs as ye are of heav'n's eternal day ;
Not sink and slumber in your cells of clay.
etherial founts of bliss to lave;
The sting from Death, the vict'ry from the Grave! Is this the bigot’s rant? Away, ye Vain,
Your hopes, your fears in doubt, in dulness steep: Go foothe your souls in fickness, 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.
Hear, Folly, hear! and triumph in the tale! Like you they reason, not like you enjoy
The breeze of bliss that fills your filken fail:
Your little course to cold Oblivion's shore ;
Stem the rough surge, and brave the torrent's roar.
Long must the warrior moulder in his shroud,
That lift the hero from the fighting crowd !
Is it his grasp of empire to extend ?
To curb the fury of insulting foes?
'Tis but a kingdom thou canst win or lose.
(If life be all ;) why Desolation lour,
That thou may'st Aame the meteor of an hour?
Crown with the mantling juice the goblet high ;
And live your moment, since the next ye die !
Who breath'd on man a portion of his fire,
To heav'n, to immortality aspire.
By vain philosophy be e'er destroy'd :
Shall be, by all, or suffer'd or enjoy'd !
NOTE, In a book of French verses, intitled, Oeuvres du Pbilosopbe de fans Souci, and lately reprinted at Berlin by authority, under the title of Poefies Diverses, may be found an Epifle to Marshal Keith, written professedly against the immortality of the soul. By way of specimen of the whole, take the following lines.
De l'avenir, cher Keith, jugeons par le parte:
cele It is to this Epistle, that the latter part of the Elegy alludes.
TH E S E A S O N s.
IN FOUR PASTORALS.
BY MR. BRE REWOO .
HEN, approach'd by the fair dewy fingers of Spring,
Swelling buds open first, and look gay;
And are danc'd by the breeze on each spray:
When gently descending, the rain in soft showers,
With it's moisture refreshes the ground;
Like rich gems beam a lustre around :
When the wood-pigeons fit on the branches and coo;
And the cuckoo proclaims with his voice,
And for all that can love to rejoice :
In a cottage at night may I spend all my time,
In the fields and the meadows all day,
Young as April, and blooming as May!
When the lark with frill notes fings aloft in the morn,
May my faireft and I sweetly wake,
Then arise, and our cottage forsake.
When the sun shines so warm, that my charmer and I
May recline on the turf without fear,
While we breathe the first sweets of the year.
Be this spot on a hill, and a spring from it's side
Bubble out, and transparently low, Creep gently along in meanders, and glide
Thro' the vale strew'd with daisies below.
While the bee flies from blossom to blossom, and lips,
And the violets their sweetness impart,
The rich cordial that thrills to the heart.
While the dove sits lamenting the loss of it's mate,
Which the fowler has caught in his snares,
To endure such an absence as theirs.
May I listen to all her soft, tender, sweet notes,
When the fings, and no founds interfere, But the warbling of birds, which in stretching their throats"
Are at itrife to be louder than her.
When the daisies, and cowslips, and primroses blow,
And chequer the meads and the lawns,
And pursue with our eye the young fawns.
When the lapwings, juft fledg'd; o'er the turf take their rün,
And the firstlings are all at their play,
Let us then be as frolick as they.