A MADRIGAL,

BY PETER PINDAR.

TO CHLOE.

CHLOE, prithee, why so coy?

Where's the danger of a kiss?

Loaded are thy lips with joy;
Wherefore then deny the bliss?

Budding, if they blush with pleasures,
Freely, freely let me take 'em :
If a sin t' enjoy their treasures,

NATURE was a fool to make 'em.

THE

VANITY OF FAME.

BY THE REV. H. MOORE.

As

vapours from the marsh's miry bed Ascend, and, gath'ring on the mountain head, Spread their long train in splendid pomp on high; Now o'er the vales in awful grandeur low'r; Now flashing, thund'ring down the trembling sky, Rive the tough oak, or dash th' aspiring tow'r; Then melting down in rain

Drop to their base original again;

Thus earth-born Heroes, the proud sons of praise, Awhile on Fortune's airy summit blaze,

The world's fair peace confound,

And deal dismay and death, and ruin round;
Then back to earth these Idols of an hour
Sink on a sudden, and are known no more.

Where is each boasted Favourite of Fame,
Whose wide-expanded name

Fill'd the loud echoes of the world around,

While shore to shore return'd the lengthen'd sound?
The Warriors where, who, in triumphal pride,

With weeping Freedom to the chariot tied,
To Glory's Capitolian temple rode ?
In undistinguish'd dust together trod,
Victors and vanquish'd mingle in the grave;
Worms prey upon the mould'ring God,
Nor know a Cæsar from his slave:

In empty air their mighty deeds exhale,
A school-boy's wonder, or an ev'ning tale.

In vain with various arts they strive
To keep their little names alive;

Bid to the skies th' ambitious tow'r ascend;
The cirque its vast majestic length extend;
Bid arcs of triumph swell their graceful round;
Or mausoleuins load th' encumber'd ground;
Or Sculpture speak in animated stone

Of vanquish'd Monarchs tumbled from the throne:
The rolling tide of years,

Rushing with strong and steady current, bears

The pompous piles, with all their fame, away
To black Oblivion's sea;

Deep in whose dread abyss the glory lies

Of empires, ages, never more to rise!

Where's now imperial Rome,

Who erst to subject Kings denounc'd their doom, And shook the sceptre o'er a trembling world? From her proud height by force barbarian hurl'd. Now, on some broken capital reclin❜d,

The Sage of classic mind

Her awful relics views with pitying eye,
And o'er departed Grandeur heaves a sigh;
Or fancies, wand'ring in his moon-light walk,
The prostrate fanes, and mould'ring domes among,
He sees the mighty ghosts of heroes stalk
In melancholy majesty along,

Or pensive hover o'er the ruins round,
Their pallid brows with faded laurels bound;
While Cato's shade seems scornful to survey
A race of Slaves, and sternly strides away.

Where old Euphrates winds his storied flood,
The curious traveller explores in vain
The barren shores, and solitary plain,
Where erst majestic Babel's turrets stood;
All vanish'd from the view her proud abodes,
Her walls, and brazen gates, and palaces of Gods!
A shapeless heap o'erspreads the dreary space,
Of mingled piles an undistinguish'd mass;
There the wild tenants of the desert dwell;
The serpent's hiss is heard, the dragon's yell;
And doleful howlings o'er the waste affright,
And drive afar the wand'rers of the night.

Yet, 'tis Divinity's implanted fire

Which bids the soul to glorious heights aspire; Enlarge her wishes, and extend her sight

Beyond this little Life's contracted round,

And wing her eagle flight

To grandeur, fame, and bliss without a bound. Ambition's ardent hopes, and golden dreams, Her tow'ring madness, and her wild extremes,

E