Ye sages, who with anxious care,
Rov'd thro' the fleeting tracks of air,

A vacuum to find;
Wiser had ye employ'd your skill,
With solid sense, and worth to fill,

The vacuum of the mind !
Let choice, not wrinkled spleen, engage
The mind, to quit the world's gay ftage,

Where folly's scenes are play'd ;
Sour discontent, and pining care,
Attaint the fragrance of the air,

Disturb the filent Thade.
Not wounded by misfortune's dart,
I seek to ease the rankling smart

Of thorny-fest'ring woe ;
But får remote from crowds and noise,
To reap fair virtue's placid joys;

In wisdom's soil they grow.
I ask not pageant pomp, nor wealth,
For bleft with competence and health,

'Twere folly to be great!
May I thro’ life serenely side,
As yon clear streams, which filent glide,

Nor quit this lov'd retreat.
Beneath this leafy arch reclind,
I taste more true content of mind,

Than frolic mirth can give;
Here to the busy world unknown,
I feel each blissful hour my own,

And learn the art to live!
While turning nature's volume o’er,
Fresh beauties rise, unseen before.

To strike the astonish'd soul !
Our mental harmony improves,
To mark each planet how it moves,

How all in order roll !
From Nature's fix’d, unerring laws,
I'm lifted to th' Eternal Cause,

· Which moves this lifeless clod! This wond'rous frame, this vast design, Proclaims the workmanship divine,

The architect, a God!
Oh! sacred bliss! thy paths to trace,
And happiest they of human race,

To whom this pow'r is given.
Each day, in some delightful shade,
By Contemplation's foft'ring aid,

To plume the soul for heaven!


Wrote on a tomb ftone, where is laid the full of a man.


HY start! The case is yours, or will be soon,

Some years perhaps,-- perhaps another moon.
Life in its utmost span is but a breath,
And they who longest dream, must wake in deach.
Like you I once thought ev'ry bliss secure,
And gold of ev'ry ill the certain cure;
Till steep'd in forrows and besieg'd with pain,
Too late I found all earthly riches vain.
Disease with scorn threw back the sordid fee,
And Death ftill answer'd, What is gold to me?
Fame, titles, honours next I vainly fought,
And fools obfequious nurs'd the childish thought.
Circled with brib'd applause and purchas'd praise,
I built on endless grandeur endless days ;
But death awak'd me from a dream of pride,
And laid a prouder beggar by my side.
Pleasure I courted and obey'd my taste,
The banquet smild, and smild the gay repaste
A loathsome carcase was my constant care,
And worlds were ransack'd but for me to share.
Go on, vain man, in luxury be firm,
Yet know I feasted, but to feast a worm.
Already sure less terrible I seem,
And you like me can own that life's a dream.
Whether that dream may boast the longest date,
Farewel, remember left you wake too late.

Wrote on another tomb flore where is laid the skull of a woman.

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LUSH not, ye fair, to own me, but be wise,

Nor turn from fad mortality your eyes.
Fame says, and Fame alone can tell how true,
I once was lovely, and belov'd like you.
Where are my vot'ries_where my flatt'rers now ?
Gone with the subject of each lover's vow.
Adieu the roses red, and lilies white,
Adieu those eyes, which made the darkness light.
No more alas! that coral lip is seen,
Nor longer breathes the fragrant gale between.
Turn from your mirror, and behold in me,
At once what Thousands can't, or dare not see.

U varnish'd

Unvarnish'd I the real truth impart,
Nor here am plac'd but to direct the heart.
Survey me well-ye fair ones, and believe,
The grave may terrify—but can't deceive.
On beauty's fragil base no more depend,
Here youth and pleasure, age and forrow end;
Here drops the mak-here shuts the final scene,
Nor differs grave threescore, from gay fifteen.
All press alike to that same goal, the tomb,
Where wrinkled Laura (miles at Chloe's bloom.
When coxcombs flatter, and when fools adore
Learn here the lesson to be vain no more.
Yet virtue ftill against decay can arm,
And even lend mortality a charm.

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Secluded far from human fight,

Attend my fleecy care,
But till my eyes are seald in night,
Thou shalt partake my pray'r.

My cottage on a rising ground,

Near to a friendly shade,
A ruin shall my prospect bound,

With greens that never fade.
Some murm'ring brooks within my view,

That not too lifelefs flow,
Whilft I the paths of truth pursue,
Both time and chance will thew.

• IV: ".
But if thou bring 'st thy heart again,

Untainted and sincere,
I'll laugh at all my present pain,

And banish every fear.
Then like a ship the tempeft tot,

I'll bless the friendly shore,
Forget the dangers that are past,

But venture out no more.

SONG, wrote to a Lady.


HEN the nymphs were contending for beauty and fame,

Fair Sylvia stood foremost in right of her claim, When to crown the high transports dear

conquest excites, At court she was envy'd end toasted at White's.

But how shall

I whisper this fair one's sad case?
A cruel disease has spoil'd her sweet face;
Her vermillion is changed to a dull settled red,
And all the gay graces of beauty are fled.

Yet take heed all ye fair how you triumph in vain,
For Sylvia, tho'alter'd from pretty to plain,
Is now more engaging since reason took place,
Than when the poffefied the perfections of face.

Convinc'd she no more can coquet it and teaze,
Instead of tormenting—the studies to please ;
Makes truth and discretion the guides of her life,
And tho' spoil'd for a toaft, she's well form'd for a wife.

A Copy

A copy of Verses, ,on seeing a boy walk on ftilts, by



Forgetful of the rod :
Tott'ring on stilts, through mire, and dirt,

The 1chool boy ftroles abroad.
Why does this innocent delight

Provoke the pedant's spleen;
Look round the world, thou fool and see

The use of this machine.
The tricking statesman, prop'd by these,

His virtues boasts aloud ;
And on his guilded Ailts, sublime,

Steps o'er the murmuring crowd.
Through fields of blood, the general stalks,

And fame sits on his hilt;
The sword, or gun, at length bestows

An honourable stilt.
When quite deserted by the Muse,

The finking sonneteer,
Hammers in vain a thoughtless verse,

To please Belinda's ear:
The mighty. void of wit he stops

With a successful chime;
On stilts poetic rises quick,

And leans upon his rhime.
With well diffembled anguish, fee!

The canting rascal beg,
And by a counterfeit gain more

Than by a real leg.
Yet on the boy's instructive sport,

Is this contrivance built:
The source from whence his gains arise,

What is it, but a ftilt?
Corinna fair, of stature low,

Yet, this defect supplies,
By heels, like stilts, which may affilt

The conquest of her eyes.
See! in his second childhood faint,

The old man walks with pain;
On crutches imitates his stilts,

And acts the boy again.

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