A lay like this thy early Virtues claim,

And this let voluntary Friendship pay. Yet know, the time arrives, the dangerous time, When all those Virtues, opening now fo fair, Transplanted to the world's tempestuous clime, Must learn each Paffion's boist'rous breath to bear. There if Ambition, peftilent and pale,

Or Luxury should taint their vernal glow;
If cold Self-interest, with her chilling gale,
Should blast th' unfolding blossoms e'er they blow;
If mimic hues, by Art, or Fashion spread,

Their genuine, fimple colouring should supply;
O! with them may these laureate honours fade;
And with them (if it can) my Friendship die.
- And do not blame, if, tho' thyself inspire,
Cautious I strike the panegyric string;
The Muse full oft pursues a meteor fire,

And vainly vent'rous, foars on waxen wing.
Too actively awake at Friendship's voice,
The poet's bosom pours the fervent strain,
Till sad reflection blames the hasty choice,
And oft invokes Oblivion's aid in vain.
Go then, my Friend, nor let thy candid breaft
Condemn me, if I check the plausive string;
Go to the wayward world; compleat the rest;
Be, what the purest Muse would wish to fing.
Be still thyself; that open path of Truth,
Which led thee here, let Manhood firm pursue;
Retain the fweet simplicity of Youth,
And all thy virtue dictates, dare to do.
Still scorn, with conscious pride the mask of Art;
On Vice's front let fearful Caution lour,

And And teach the diffident, discreeter part

Of knaves that plot, and fools that fawn for power. So, round thy brow when age's honours spread, When death's cold hand unstrings thy MASON's lyre, When the green turf lies lightly on his head, Thy worth shall some superior bard inspire: He to the amplest bounds of Time's domain, On Rapture's plume shall give thy Name to fly; For trust, with rev'rence trust this Sabian strain: "The Muse forbids the virtuous Man to die."

CHAP.

ΧΧΙ.

MASON.

ON THE

A

MISERIES OF HUMAN LIFE

H little think the gay licentious proud, Whom pleasure, power, and affluence surround; They, who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth, And wanton, often cruel, riot waste; Ah little think they, while they dance along, How many feel, this very moment, death, And all the fad variety of pain: How many fink in the devouring flood, Or more devouring flame: how many bleed, By shameful variance betwixt Man and Man: How many pine in want, and dungeon glooms; Shut from the common air, and common use Of their own limbs: how many drink the cup Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread Of misery: fore pierc'd by wintry winds, How many shrink into the fordid hut Of cheerless poverty: how many shake

With all the fiercer tortures of the mind,
Unbounded passion, madness, guilt, remorse;
Whence tumbling headlong from the height of life,
They furnish matter for the tragic muse:

Even in the vale, where wisdom loves to dwell,
With friendship, peace, and contemplation join'd,
How many rack'd, with honest passions, droop
In deep retir'd distress: how many stand
Around the death-bed of their dearest friends
And point the parting anguish. -Thought fond man
Of these, and all the thousand nameless ills,
That one inceffant struggle render life
One scene of toil, of fuffering, and of fate,
Vice in his high career would stand appall'd,
And heedless rambling Impulse learn to think;
The confcious heart of charity would warm,
And her wide wish benevolence dilate;
The focial tear would rife, the social sigh;
And into clear perfection, gradual blifs,
Refining still, the social passions work.

THOMSON.

XXII.

CHAP.

REFLECTIONS ON A FUTURE STATE.

T

IS done!-dread WINTER spreads his latest glooms,
And reigns tremendous o'er the conquer'd year.

How dead the vegetable kingdom lies!
How dumb the tuneful! horror wide extends

His defolate domain. Behold, fond Man! :

See here thy pictur'd life, pass some few years:

Thy flowering Spring, thy Summer's ardent ftrength,

Thy Thy fober Autumn fading into age,

And pale concluding Winter comes at last,

And shuts the scene. Ah! whither now are fled

Those dreams of greatness? those unfolid hopes
Of happiness? those longings after fame ?
Those restless cares? those busy bustling days?
Those gay-spent festive nights? those veering thoughts
Loft between good and ill, that shar'd thy life?
All now are vanith'd! VIRTUE fole survives,
Immortal never-failing friend of Man,
His guide to happiness on high. And fee !
'Tis come, the glorious morn! the second birth
Of heaven, and earth! awakening Nature hears
The new creating word, and starts to life,
In every heightened form, from pain and death
For ever free. The great eternal scheme
Involving all, and in a perfect whole
Uniting, as the profpect wider spreads,
To reason's eye refin'd' clears up apace.
Ye vainly wife! ye blind presumptuous! now,
Confounded in the duft, adore that PoWER,
And WISDOM oft arraign'd: fee now the cause,
Why unassuming worth in fecret liv'd,
And dy'd, neglected: why the good Man's share
In life was gall and bitterness of foul:
Why the lone widow, and her orphans pin'd,
In starving folitude; while luxury,

In palaces, lay straining her low thought,
To form unreal wants: why heaven-born truth,
And moderation fair, wore the red marks
Of superstition's scourge: why licens'd pain,
That cruel spoiler, that embosom'd foe,

Imbitter'd all our bliss. Ye good distrest!
Ye noble few! who here unbending stand
Beneath life's pressure, yet bear up a while,
And what your bounded view, which only saw
A little part, deem'd Evil, is no more.
The storms of WINTRY TIME will quickly pass,
And one unbounded SPRING encircle all.

THOMSON.

XXIII.

B

CHAP.

N PROCRASTIΙΝΑΤΙΟΝ.

E wife to day; 'tis madness to defer;
Next day the fatal precedent will plead;

Thus on, till wisdom is push'd out of life.
Procrastination is the thief of time;
Year after year it steals, till all are fled,
And to the mercies of a moment leaves
'The vast concerns of an eternal scene.

Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears
The palm, "That all men are about to live,"
For ever on the brink of being born.
All pay themselves the compliment to think
They, one day, shall not drivel; and their pride
On this reversion takes up ready praise;
At least, their own; their future selves applauds;
How excellent that life they ne'er will lead!
Time lodg'd in their own hands is Folly's vails;
That lodg'd in Fate's, to Wisdom they consign;
The thing they can't but purpose, they postpone.
'Tis not in Folly, not to scorn a fool;

And scarce in human Wisdom to do more,

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