But now, through facred prescience, well they know The bluftry tempeft, and the chilling fnow, Thus taught, they meditate a speedy flight; And prove their strength in many an airy ring. No forrow loads their breast, or swells their eye, They feel a pow'r, an impulfe all divine That warns them hence! they feel it and obey; To this direction all their care refign, Unknown their deftin'd stage, unmark'd their way; Well fare your flight! ye mild domestic race! See, Delia, on my roof your guests to-day; How just the moral in this scene convey'd ! 'Tis thus life's cheerful feafons roll away; And does no pow'r its friendly aid difpenfe, Beyond the stroke of death, the verge of time! Yes, yes, the facred oracles we hear, That point the path to realms of endless day; That bid our hearts, nor death, nor anguish fear, THIS future tranfport, THAT to life the way. Then let us timely for our flight prepare. And form the foul for her divine abode ; Obey the call, and trust the leaders care To bring us fafe, through Virtue's paths, to God. Let no fond love for earth exact a figh, Nor let us long to live, nor dread to die : L ODE COM TO MELANCHOLY. BY RACK. YOME, MELANCHOLY mufing maid, Who feek'ft the thick fequefter'd shade, Where folitude erects her filent throne; Or wild umbrageous bow'r, Or ivy-mantled tow'r, With bats fwift-wheeling round its shatter'd fides; Where croaks the raven; where the owl refides, And through the still night pours Her plaintive moan, Where ruins, featter'd round, And crumbling fragments, ftrew the ground, Thou, who, with difhivell'd hair, To thee belong The fad, yet foothing ftrains that, wake Slow and folemn be the found, With trickling waters weep; And echo tell my rifing fighs O'er the wild margin of the foaming deep. Sometimes, methinks, I fee thee lie reclin'd And, while thy pale cheek refts upon thy hand, The chrystal drops, soft trickling from thine eyes, Defcend and ftrew with pearl the barren ftrand, While ev'ry hollow breeze Comes loaded with thy fighs, No more the gay, the feftive throng Softly warbling, charm thine ear, Mufic fwells the notes in vain : Scarce can keep thee from defpair. For thee, in vain, sweet spring awakes the flow'rs; Far from thefe, to dreary scenes, Thou retir'ft and hiďft thy head, The rifted rock, the column's fhatter'd brows, Sometimes, where fepulchral stones Proclaim the spoils of Death's all conquʼring hand, And o'er the flow-corroding bones Their name and age in frail memorial stand, A few quick circling years, Thou fitt'ft, and poring o'er the tale, Becom'ft thyself a monument in tears. With pallid looks and downcaft eyes, (Peace a ftranger to thy breast,) (The bleak winds beating on thy naked head, |