But now, through facred prescience, well they know
The near approach of elemental strife;

The bluftry tempeft, and the chilling fnow,
With ev'ry want, and fcourge of tender life!

Thus taught, they meditate a speedy flight;
For this, ev'n now they prune their vig'rous wing;
For this, confult, advise, prepare, excite,

And prove their strength in many an airy ring.

No forrow loads their breast, or swells their eye,
To quit their friendly haunts or native home;
Nor fear they launching on the boundlefs sky;
In fearch of future fettlements, to roam.

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!
Oh! for your wings to travel with the fun;
Health brace your nerves, and Zephyrs aid your pace,
Till your long voyage happily be done; ;

See, Delia, on my roof your guests to-day;
To-morrow on my roof your guests no more!
Ere yet 'tis night with hafte they wing away,
To-morrow lands them on fome fafer fhore.

How just the moral in this scene convey'd !
And what without a moral would we read?
Then mark what Damon tells his gentle maid,
And with his lesson register the deed.

'Tis thus life's cheerful feafons roll away;
Thus threats the winter of inclement age:
Our time of action-but a summers day;
And earth's frail orb the fadly-varied stage!

And does no pow'r its friendly aid difpenfe,
Nor give us tidings of some happier clime?
Find we no guide in gracious providence

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,
No doubts divert our steady steps afide :

Nor let us long to live, nor dread to die :
Heav'n is our Hope, and Providence our guide,

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,
Watching the glow-worms paly ray,
Or meteors shooting through the aerial way,
From converfe with mankind'
Thou, feekeft to retire :

Thou, who, with difhivell'd hair,
Sitt'ft, mufing, on a rugged stone,
With fixed eye, and brow fevere,
Where the gurgling waters run,
Infpire the fong:

To thee belong

The fad, yet foothing ftrains that, wake
The mournful lyre.

Slow and folemn be the found,
While the ftrings my fingers sweep;
Let the pendent rocks around

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
Beneath the baneful yew-tree's fhade;
With filent forrow brooding o'er thy mind;
Sad, by mournful musing made;

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
The mazy dance, the fprightly fong,

Softly warbling, charm thine ear,

Mufic fwells the notes in vain :
Pleasure, with her sportive train,

Scarce can keep thee from defpair.

For thee, in vain, sweet spring awakes the flow'rs;
In vain gay fummer fhines in vary'd dyes,
Or autumn fheds her fruits in golden show'rs:
To thee each beauteous fcene no joy fupplies.

Far from thefe, to dreary scenes,
Lonely haunts, or gloomy fhade,
'Mongit the mournful evergreens,

Thou retir'ft and hiďft thy head,

The rifted rock, the column's fhatter'd brows,
The blafted oak by Jove's dread bolt deform'd,
The crumbling tow'r where clafping ivy grows,
The tott'ring battlements which war has ftorm'd,
With penfive pleasure feed thine eyes,
And lull thy woes with fancy'd ease,
While the pale moon, behind à broken cloud.
A momentary gleam fupplies.

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.
There, beneath the vaulted skies,

With pallid looks and downcaft eyes,
While the chilling damps arife,

(Peace a ftranger to thy breast,)
Joylefs, penfive, distrest,

(The bleak winds beating on thy naked head,
And sporting with thy hair,)