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Then the progeny that springs

From the forests of our land, Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings,

Shall a wider world command.

Regions Cæsar never knew

Thy posterity shall sway; Where his eagles never flew

None invincible as they.

Such the bard's prophetic words,

Pregnant with celestial fire, Bending as he swept the chords

Of his sweet but awful lyre.

She, with all a monarch s pride,

Felt them in her bosom glow: Rush'd to battle, fought, and died ;

Dying, hury'd them at the foe.

Ruffians, pitiless as proud,

Heaven awards the vengeance due; Empire is on us bestow'd,

Shame and ruin wait for you.

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WHEN the sad soul, by care and grief opprest,
Looks round the world, but looks in vain, for rest;
When every object that appears in view,
Partakes her gloom and seems dejected too;
Where shall affliction from itself retire ?
Where fade away and placidly expire ?
Alas! we fly to silent scenes in vain,
Care blasts the honours of the flow'ry plain :
Care veils in clouds the sun's meridian beam,
Sighs through the grove and murmurs in the stream.
For when the soul is labouring in despair,
In vain the body breathes a purer air :

No storm-tost sailor sighs for slumbering seas,
He dreads the tempest, but invokes the breeze ;
On the smooth mirror of the deep resides
Reflected woe, and o'er unruffled tides
The ghost of every former danger glides.
Thus, in the calms of life, we only see
A steadier image of our misery;
But lively gales and gently-clouded skies,
Disperse the sad reflections as they rise ;
And busy thoughts and little cares avail
To ease the mind, when rest and reason fail.
When the dull thought, by no designs employ'd,
Dwells on the past, or suffer'd or enjoy'd,
We bleed anew in every former grief,
And joys departed furnish no relief.

Not hope herself, with all her flattering art, Can cure this stubborn sickness of the heart : The soul disdains each comfort she prepares, And anxious searches for congenial cares ; Those lenient cares, which with our own combin'd, By mixt sensations ease th' afflicted mind, And steal our grief away and leave their own behind , A lighter grief! which feeling hearts endure Without regret, nor e'en demand a cure.

But what strange art, what magic can dispose The troubled mind to change its native woes ? Or lead us willing from ourselves, to see Others more wretched, more undone than we? This, books can do ;-nor this alone; they give New views to life and teach us how to live; They soothe the griev'd, the stubborn they chastise, Fools they admonish and confirm the wise : Their aid they yield to all : they never shun The man of sorrow nor the wretch undone : Unlike the hard, the selfish, and the proud, They fly not sullen from the suppliant crowd ; Nor tell to various people various things, But shew to subjects, what they shew to kings.

Come, child of care! to make thy soul serene,
Approach the treasures of this tranquil scene;
Survey the dome, and, as the doors unfold,
The soul's best cure, in all her cares, behold;

Where mental wealth the poor in thought may find,
And mental physic, the diseas'd in mind;
See here the balms that passion's wounds assuage,
See coolers here that damp the fire of rage ;
Here alt'ratives, by slow degrees controul
The chronic habits of the sickly soul ;
And round the heart and o'er the aching head,
Mild opiates here their sober influence shed.
Now bid thy soul man's busy scenes exclude,
And view compos'd this silent multitude :-
Silent they are, but, though depriv'd of sound,
Here all the living languages abound;
Here all that live no more ; preserv'd they lie,
In tombs that open to the curious eye.

Blest be the gracious power, who taught mankind To stamp a lasting image of the mind ! Beasts may convey, and tuneful birds may sing, Their mutual feelings, in the opening spring; But man alone has skill and power to send The heart's warm dictates to the distant friend : 'Tis his alone to please, instruct, advise, Ages remote and nations yet to rise.

In sweet repose, when labour's children sleep, When joy forgets to smile and care to weep, When passion slumbers in the lover's breast, And fear and guilt partake the balm of rest, Why then denies the studious man to share Man's common good, who feels his common care?

Because the hope is his, that bids him fly Night's soft repose and sleep's mild power defy ? That after-ages may repeat his praise, And fame's fair meed be his, for length of days, Delightful prospect ! when we leave behind, A worthy offspring of the fruitful mind! Which born and nurst through many an anxious day, Shall all our labour, all our cares repay.

Yet are not all these births of noble kind, Not all the children of a vigorous mind; But where the wisest should alone preside, The weak would rule us and the blind would guide: Nay, man's best efforts taste of man, and show The poor and troubled source from which they flow :

Where most he triumphs, we his wants perceive,
And for his weakness in his wisdom grieve.
But though imperfect all; yet wisdom loves
This seat serene, and virtue's self approves :-
Here come the grieved, a change of thought to find;
The curious here, to feed a craving mind;
Here the devout their peaceful temple choose ;
And here the poet meets his favourin' muse.

With awe, around these silent walks I tread 'These are the lasting mansions of the dead :“ The dead !" methinks a thousand tongues reply ; “ These are the tombs of such as cannot die ! Crowned with eternal fame, they sit sublime, And laugh at all the little strife of time.”

Hail, then, immortals ! ye who shine above, Each, in his sphere, the literary Jove : And yet the common people of these skies, An humble crowd of nameless deities; Whether it is yours to lead the willing mind Through history's mazes, and the turnings find; Or whether, led by science, ye retire, Lost and bewildered in the vast desire ; Whether the muse invites you to her bowers, And crowns your placid brows with living flowers ; Or godlike wisdom teaches me to show The noblest road to happiness below; Or men and manners prompt the easy page To mark the flying follies of the age : Whatever good ye boast, that good impart Inform the head and rectify the heart.

Lo! all in silence, all in order stand,
And mighty folios first, a lordly band;
Then quartos their well-order'd ranks maintain,
And light octavos fill a spacious plain ;
See yonder, ranged in more frequented rows,
An humbler band of duodecimos;
While undistinguished trifles swell the scene,
The last new play and fritter'd magazine.
Thus 'tis in life, where first the proud, the great,
In leagued assembly keep their cumbrous state ;
Heavy and huge, they fill the world with dread,
Are much admired and are but little read:

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