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And wonder of the world, whose spiky top
Has wounded the thick cloud, and long outliv'd
The

angry shaking of the winter's storm;
Yet spent at last by th' injuries of Heaven,
Shatter'd with age, and furrow'd o'er with years,
The mystic cone with hieroglyphics crusted,
At once gives way. Oh! lamentable sight!
The labour of whole ages tumbles down,
A hideous and misshapen length of ruins.
Sepulchral columns wrestle, but in vain,
With all-subduing Time: her cankering hand
With calm deliberate malice wasteth them :
Worn on the edge of days the brass consumes,
The busto moulders, and the deep-cut marble,
Unsteady to the steel, gives up its charge.
Ambition, half convicted of her folly,
Hangs down the head, and reddens at the tale.

Here all the mighty troublers of the Earth, Who swam to sovereign rule through seas of blood; Th' oppressive, sturdy, man-destroying villains, Who ravag'd kingdoms, and laid empires waste, And in a cruel wantonness of power Thinn'd states of half their people, and gave up To want the rest ; now, like a storm that's spent, Lie hush'd, and meanly sneak behind the covert. Vain thought! to hide them from the general scorn That haunts and dogs them, like an injur'd ghost Implacable.-Here too the petty tyrant Whose scant domains geographer ne'er notic'd, And, well forneighbouring grounds, of arm as short, Who fix'd his iron talons on the poor, And grip'd them like some lordly beast of prey : Deaf to the forceful cries of gnawing hunger, And piteous plaintive voice of misery :

(As if a slave was not a shred of nature,
Of the same common nature with his lord ;)
Now tame and humble, like a child that's whipp'd,
Shakes hands with dust, and calls the worm his

kinsman;
Nor pleads his rank and birthright. Under ground,
Precedency's a jest ; vassal and lord,
Grossly familiar, side by side consume.

When self-esteem, or other's adulation,
Would cunningly persuade us we were something
Above the common level of our kind, [flattery,
The Grave gainsays the smooth-complexion'd
And with blunt truth acquaints us what we are.

Beauty !-thou pretty plaything, dear deceit,
That steals so softly o'er the stripling's heart,
And gives it a new pulse, unknown before,
The

grave discredits thee ; thy charms expung'd.
Thy roses faded, and thy lilies soild,
What hast thou more to boast of? Will thy lovers
Flock round thee now, to gaze and do thee homage?
Methinks I see thee with thy head low laid,
Whilst surfeited upon thy damask cheek
The high-fed worm, in lazy volumes roll'd,
Riots unscar’d. For this, was all thy caution ?
For this, thy painful labours at the glass?
T'improve those charms, and keep them in repair?
For which the spoiler thanks thee not, Foul feeder!
Coarse fare and carrion please thee full as well,
And leave as keen a relish on the sense.
Look how the fair-one weeps the conscious tears
Stand thick as dew-drops on the bells of flow'rs :
Honest effusion! the swoľn heart in vain
Works hard to put a gloss on its distress.

Strength, too--thou surly, and less gentle boast

Of those that loud laugh at the village ring;
A fit of common sickness pulls thee down
With greater ease, than e'er thou didst the stripling,
That rashly dar'd thee to th’ unequal fight.
What groan was that I heard ? deep groan indeed!
With anguish heavy laden ; let me trace it:
From yonder bed it comes, where the strong man,
By stronger arm belabour'd, gasps for breath
Like a hard-hunted beast. How his great heart
Beats thick! his roomy chest by far too scant
To give the lungs full play.-What now avail
The strong-built sinewy limbs, and well-spread

shoulders ?
See how he tugs for life, and lays about him,
Mad with his pain !-Eager he catches hold
Of what comes next to hand, and grasps it hard,
Just like a creature drowning ; hideous sight!
Oh! how his eyes stand out, and stare full ghastly!
While the distemper's rank and deadly venom
Shoots like a burning arrow cross his bowels,
And drinks his marrow up.-Heard you that groan?
It was his last. See how the great Goliah,
Just like a child that brawl'd itself to rest,
Lies still.—What mean'st thou then, I mighty

boaster! To vaunt of nerves of thine ? what means the bull, Unconscious of his strength, to play the coward, And flee before a feeble thing like man, That, knowing well the slackness of his arm, Trusts only in the well-invented knife ?

With study pale, and midnight vigils spent, The star-surveying sage close to his eye Applies the sight-invigorating tube ; (space, And, travelling through the boundless length of

9

VOL. I.

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Marks well the courses of the far-seen orbs,
That roll with regular confusion there,
In ecstasy of thought. But ah! proud man,
Great heights are hazardous to the weak head;
Soon, very soon, thy firmest footing fails;
And down thou drop'st into that darksome place,
Where nor device nor knowledge ever came.

Here, the tongue-warrior lies, disabled now,
Disarm’d, dishonour'd, like a wretch that's gagg’d,
And cannot tell his ail to passers by. [change,
Great man of language !--whence this mighty
This dumb despair, and drooping of the head?
Though strong persuasion hung upon thy lip,
And sly insinuation's softer arts
In ambush lay about thy flowing tongue ;
Alas! how chop-fall’n now! Thick mists and silence:
Rest, like a weary cloud, upon thy breast
Unceasing.—Ah! where is the lifted arm,
The strength of action, and the force of words,
The well-turn'd period, and the well-tund voice,
With all the lesser ornaments of phrase?
Ah! fled for ever, as they ne'er had been ;
Raz’d from the book of fame; or, more provoking,
Perchance some hackney hunger-bitten scribbler
Insults thy memory, and blots thy tomb
With long flat narrative, or duller rhymes,
With heavy halting pace that drawl along :
Enough to rouse a dead man into rage,
And warm with red resentment the wan cheek.

Here the great masters of the healing art,
These mighty mock defrauders of the tomb,
Spite of their juleps and catholicons,
Resign to fate.-Proud Æsculapius' son!
Where are thy boasted implements of art.

And all thy well-cramm'd magazines of health ?
Nor hill nor vale, as far as ship could go,
Nor margin of the gravel-bottom'd brook,
Escap'd thy rifling hand; from stubborn shrubs
Thou wrung'st their shy-retiring virtues out,
And vex'd them in the fire: nor fly, nor insect,
Nor writhy snake, escap'd thy deep research.
But why this apparatus ? why this cost?
Tell us, thou doughty keeper from the grave,
Where are thy recipes and cordials now,
With the long list of vouchers for thy cures ?
Alas! thou speakest not-The bold impostor
Looks not more silly, when the cheat's found out.

Here the lank-sided miser, worst of felons,
Who meanly stole (discreditable shift)
From back, and belly too, their proper cheer,
Eas'd of a tax it irk'd the wretch to pay
To his own carcass, now lies cheaply lodg’d,
By clamorous appetites no longer teas'd,
Nor tedious bills of charges and repairs.
But, ah! where are his rents, his comings in ?
Ah! now you've made the rich man poor indeed:
Robb’d of his gods, what has he left behind ?
Oh, cursed lust of gold! when, for thy sake,
The fool throws up his interest in both worlds :
First starv'd in this, then damn'd in that to come.

How shocking must thy summons be, O Death! To him that is at ease in his possessions; Who, counting on long years of pleasure here, Is quite unfurnish'd for the world to come ? In that dread moment, how the frantic soul Raves round the walls of her clay tenement, Runs to each avenue, and shrieks for help ; But shrieks in vain !-How wishfully she looks

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