I'll feek a readier path, and go
Where wisdom's furely taught below.
How deep yon azure dies the sky!
Where orbs of gold unnumber'd lye,
While thro' their ranks, in filver pride,
The nether crefcent feems to glide.
The flumb'ring breeze forgets to breathe,
The lake is fmooth, and clear beneath,
Where once again the fpangled fhow
Defcends to meet our eyes below.
The grounds which on the right aspire,
In dimnefs from the view retire :
The left presents a place of graves,
Whofe wall the filent water laves.
That steeple guides thy doubtful fight
Among the livid gleams of night.
There pafs, with melancholy ftate,
By all the folemn heaps of fate,
And think, as, foftly-fad, you tread
Above the venerable dead,

“Time was, like thee they life possest,
And time fhall be, that thou shalt rest."
Thofe graves, with bending ofier bound,
That, nameless, heave the crumbled ground,
Quick to the glancing thought difclofe,
Where toil and poverty repose.

The flat smooth ftones that bear a name,
The chiffel's flender help to fame,
(Which ere our set of friends decay
Their frequent fteps may wear away ;)

A middle

A middle race of mortals own,
Men, half ambitious, all unknown.
The marble tombs that rise on high,
Whose dead in vaulted arches lye,
Whofe pillars fwell with fculptur'd ftones,
Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones,
Thefe, all the poor remains of ftate,
Adorn the rich, or praife the great;
Who while on earth in fame they live,
Are fenfeless of the fame they give.

Ha! while I gaze pale Cynthia fades,
The bursting earth unveils the shades!
All flow, and wan, and wrap'd with shrouds,
They rise in vifionary crouds,

And all with fober accent cry,

"6 'Think, mortal, what it is to die."
Now, from yon black and fun'ral yew,
That bathes the charnel-house with dew,
Methinks, I hear a voice begin;

(Ye ravens, cease your croaking din,
Ye tolling clocks, no time refound
O'er the long lake and midnight ground)
It fends a peal of hollow groans,
Thus fpeaking from among the bones.

"When men my fcythe and darts supply,

How great a King of Fears am I!

They view me like the laft of things;

They make, and then they dread my ftings.
Fools! if you lefs provok'd your fears,
No more my spectre-form appears.

Death's but a path that must be trod,
If man wou'd ever pass to God:
A port of calms, a state of ease
From the rough rage of fwelling seas.
Why, then, thy flowing fable ftoles,
Deep pending cyprefs, mourning poles,
Loose scarfs to fall athwart thy weeds,
Long palls, drawn herfes, cover'd fteeds,
And plumes of black, that, as they tread,
Nod o'er the 'fcutcheons of the dead?

Nor can the parted body know,
Nor wants the soul, these forms of woe:
As men who long in prifon dwell,
With lamps that glimmer round the cell,
When-e'er their fuff'ring years are run,
Spring forth to greet the glitt'ring fun:
Such joy, tho' far tranfcending fenfe,
Have pious fouls at parting hence.
On earth, and in the body plac'd,
A few, and evil years, they waste :
But, when their chains are cast aside,
See the glad scene unfolding wide,
Clap the glad wing, and tow'r away,
And mingle with the blaze of day.

A FAIRY

FAIRY

A.

TALE.

BY DR. PARNELL.

Never was the old manner of speaking more happily applied, or a tale better told, than this.

'N Britain's ifle, and Arthur's days,

IN

When midnight Fairies daunc'd the maze,
Liv'd Edwin of the Green;

Edwin, I wis, a gentle youth,

Endow'd with courage, fenfe, and truth,

Tho' badly fhap'd he been.

His mountain back mote well be said,
To measure height against his head,
And lift itfelf above;

Yet, fpite of all that Nature did
To make his uncouth form forbid,

This creature dar'd to love.
He felt the charms of Edith's eyes,
Nor wanted hope to gain the prize,

Cou'd ladies look within ;
But one Sir Topaz drefs'd with art,
And, if a fhape cou'd win a heart,

He had a shape to win.

Edwin, if right I read my fong,
With flighted paffion pac'd along
All in the moony light;

"Twas near an old inchanted court,
Where sportive fairies made refort,
To revel out the night.

His heart was drear, his hope was crofs'd, 'Twas late, 'twas far, the path was lost

That reach'd the neighbour-town;
With weary steps he quits the fhades,
Refolv'd, the darkling dome he treads,
And drops his limbs adown.

But fcant he lays him on the floor,
When hollow winds remove the door,
A trembling rocks the ground:
And, well I ween to count aright,
At once an hundred tapers light
On all the walls around.

Now founding tongues affail his ear,
Now founding feet approachen near,
And now the founds increase:
And, from the corner where he lay,
He fees a train profufely gay

Come prankling o'er the place.
But (trust me gentles!) never yet
Was dight a mafquing half fo neat,

Or half fo rich, before;

The country lent the fweet perfumes,
The fea the pearl, the fky the plumes,

The town its filken ftore.

Now