Still, in Life's Fafti, you prefume
Eternal holidays will come;
But, in its highest, happiest lot,
O! let it never be forgot,
Life is not an Olympic game,
Where sports and plays muft gain the fame;
Each month is not the month of May,
Nor is each day a holiday.
Tho' wit may gild Life's atmosphere,
When all is lucid, calm, and clear,
In bleak Affliction's dreary hour,
The brightest flash muft lofe its power;
While Temper, in the darkest skies,
A kindly light and warmth fupplies.
Divine GOOD-NATURE! 'tis decreed,
The happiest still thy charm fhou'd need.
Sweet Architect! rais'd by thy hands:
Fair Concord's Temple firmly ftands:
Tho' Senfe, tho' Prudence rear the pile,
Tho each approving Virtue smile,
Some fudden guft, nor rare the cafe,
May shake the building to its base,
Unless, to guard against furprifes,
On thy firm arch the ftructure rifes. -
ODE TO DEATH.
HOU, whofe remorseless rage
Nor vows nor tears affuage,
TRIUMPHANT DEATH!-to thee I raise
The bursting notes of dauntlefs praise !
Methinks on yonder murky cloud
Thou fit'ft, in majefty fevere;
Thy regal robe a ghastly shroud!
Thy right arm lifts the infatiate spear!
Such was thy glance, when, erst as o'er the plain
Where Indus rolls his burning fand,
Young Ammon led the victor train,
In glowing luft of fierce command:
As, vain he cried with thundering voice,
"The World is mine! Rejoice, rejoice!
"The World I've won!-THOU gav'ft the withering
Thy FIATfmote his heart,--he funk,--a fenfelefs clod! "And art thou great?-Mankind replies, With fad affent of mingling fighs!
Sighs that fwell the biting gales
Which sweep o'er Lapland's frozen vales!
And the red Tropics' whirlwind heat
Is with the fad affent replete !
How fierce yon tyrant's plumy creft!
A blaze of gold illumes his breast ;
In pomp of threat'ning pow'r elate,
He madly dares to fpurn at Fate !
But-when Night with shadowy robe
Hangs upon the darken'd globe,
In his chamber,-fad, -alone,
By ftarts, he pours the fearful groan!
From flatt'ring crowds retir'd-he bows the knee, And mutters forth a pray'r-because HE THINKS
Gayly fmiles the Nuptial Bow'r,
Bedeck'd with many an od'rous flow'r;
While the fpoufal pair advance,
Mixing oft the melting gazė,
In fondeft extacy of praife.
Ah! short delusive trance!
What tho' the feftival be there ;-
The rapt Bard's warblings fill the air;
And joy and harmony combine!
Touch but the talifman, and all is thine!
Th' infenfate lovers fix in icy fold,
Andon his throbbing lyre the Minstrel's hand is cold! "Tis THOU canit quench the Eagle's fight,
That ftems the cataract of light!
Forbid the vernal buds to blow
Bend th' obedient foreft low
And tame the monsters of the main.
Such is thy potent reign!
O'er earth, and air, and fea!
Yet, art thou ftill difdain'd by me.
And I have reafon for my fcorn; -
Do I not hate the rifing morn;
The garish noon; the eve ferene;
The fresh'ning breeze; the sportive green;
The painted pleasures' throng'd refort;
And all the fplendors of the court?
And has not Sorrow chose to dwell
hot heart's central cell?
And are not Hope's weak vifions o'er,
Can Love or rapture reach me more? Then tho' I fcorn thy ftroke-I call thee Friend, For in thy calm embrace my weary woes fhall end.
VERSES.Made at Sea in a Heavy Gale.
APPY the man who, fafe on fhore,
Now trims, at home, his evening fire;
Unmoy'd, he hears the tempefts roar,
That on the tufted groves expire:
Alas! on us they doubly fall,
Our feeble bark must bear them all.
Now to their haunts the bird's retreat,
The fquirrel feeks his hollow tree,
Wolves in their fhaded caverns meet,
All, all are bleft but wretched we
For, doom'd a stranger to repose,
No reft th' unfettled ocean knows,
While o'er the dark abyfs we roam,
Perhaps whate'er the pilots fay,
We faw the fun's defcending gloom,
No more to fee his rifing lay,
But, bury'd low, by far too deep,
On coral beds unpity'd fleep!
But what a ftrange uncoafted ftrand
Is that where Death permits no day!
No charts we have to mark that land,
No compafs to direct that way.
What pilot fhall explore that realm?
What new Columbus take the helm?
While death, and darkness both furround,
And tempefts rage with lawless power,
Of friendship's voice I hear no found,
No comfort in this dreadful hour-
What friendship. can in tempefts be?
What comforts on this angry fea?
The bark,,accustomed to obey,
No more the trembling pilots guide,
Alone the gropes her trackless way,
While mountains burft on every
Thus fkill and fcience both must fall,
And ruin is the lot of all.
LETTER from MARSEILLES to my Sifters at CRUX-EASTON, May 1735.
SCENE, the Study at Crux-Eafton. Molly and Fanny are fitting at Work; enter to them Harriot in a paffion.
ORD! fifter, here's the butcher come,
And not one word from brother Tom;
The punctual fpark, that made his boast
He'd write by ev'ry other post!
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