All Promise is poor dilatory man,
And that thro' ev'ry stage. When young, indeed,
In full content, we sometimes nobly rest,
Un-anxious for ourselves; and only wish,
As duteous fons, our fathers were more wife.
At thirty man suspects himself a fool;
Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan,
At fifty chides his infamous delay,
Pushes his prudent purpose to Resolve;
In all the magnanimity of thought,
Resolves, and re-resolves; then dies the fame.

And why? Because he thinks himself immortal.
All men think all men mortal, but themselves;
Themselves, when some alarming shock of fate
Strikes thro' their wounded hearts the sudden dread;
But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air,
Soon close; where past the shaft, no trace is found.
As from the wing no scar the sky retains;
The parted wave no furrow from the keel;
So dies in human hearts the thought of death.
Ev'n with the tender tear which nature sheds
O'er those we love, we drop it in their grave.

YOUNG.

CHAP. XXIV.

THE PAIN ARISING FROM VIRTUOUS EMOTIONS ATTENDED WITH PLEASURE.

-B

EHOLD the ways

Of Heav'ns eternal destiny to man,

For ever just, benevolent and wife :

That VIRTUE'S awful steps, howe'er pursued

By vexing fortune and intrusive PAIN,
Should never be divided from her chaste,
Her fair attendant, PLEASURE. Need I urge
Thy tardy thought through all the various round

Of this existence, that thy foft'ning foul
At length may learn what energy the hand
Of virtue mingles in the bitter tide
Of paffion swelling with distress and pain,
To mitigate the sharp with gracious drops
Of cordial pleasure? Ask the faithful youth,
While the cold urn of her whom long he lov'd
So often fills his arms; so often draws
His lonely footsteps at the filent hour,
To pay the mournful tribute of his tears?
O! he will tell thee, that the wealth of worlds
Should ne'er seduce his bosom to forego
That facred hour, when stealing from the noise
Of care and envy, sweet remembrance sooths
With virtue's kindest looks his aching breast,
And turns his tears to rapture. --Afk the crowd
Which flies impatient from the village-walk
To climb the neighb'ring cliffs, when far below
The cruel winds have hurl'd upon the coaft
Some hapless bark; while facred pity melts
The gen'ral eye, or terror's icy hand
Smites their distorted limbs and horrent hair;
While every mother closer to her breaft
Catches her child, and pointing where the waves
Foam thro' the shatter'd vessel, shrieks aloud,
As one poor wretch that spreads his piteous arms
For fuccour, swallow'd by the roaring furge,
As now another, dash'd against the rock,

Drops

Drops lifeless down. O deemest thou indeed
No kind endearment here by nature giv'n
To mutual terror and compassion's tears?
No sweetly-melting softness which attracts,
O'er all that edge of pain, the social pow'rs
To this their proper action and their end?-
Ask thy own heart; when at the midnight hour,
Slow thro' that studious gloom thy paufing eye
Led by the glimm'ring taper moves around
The facred volumes of the dead, the fongs
Of Grecian bards, and records writ by fame
For Grecian Heroes, where the present pow'r
Of heav'n and earth surveys th' immortal page,
E'en as a father blessing, while he reads
The praises of his fon; if then thy foul,
Spurning the yoke of these inglorious days,
Mix in their deeds and kindle with their flame:
Say, when the prospect blackens on thy view,
When rooted from the base, heroic states
Mourn in the dust and tremble at the frown
Of curst ambition;-when the pious band
Of youths that fought for freedom and their fires
Lie fide by fide in gore;-when rufian-pride
Ufurps the throne of justice, turns the pomp
Of public pow'r, the majesty of rule,
The sword, the laurel, and the purple robe,
To flavish empty pageants, to adorn
A tyrant's walk and glitter in the eyes
Of such as bow the knee;-when honour'd urns
Of patriots and of chiefs, the awful bust

And storied arch, to glut the coward-rage
Of regal envy, strew the public way

1

With hallow'd ruins!-when the muse's haunt,
The marble porch where wisdom wont to talk
With Socrates or Tully, hears no more,
Save the hoarse jargon of contentious monks,
Or female superstition's midnight pray'r;-
When ruthless rapine from the hand of time
Tears the destroying scythe, with surer blow
To sweep the works of glory from their base;
Till defolation o'er the grafs-grown street
Expands his raven-wings, and up the wall,
Where fenates once the pride of monarch's doom'd,
Hisses the gliding snake thro' hoary weeds
That clasp the mould'ring column;-thus defac'd,
Thus widely mournful when the prospect thrills
Thy beating bosom, when the patriot's tear
Starts from thine eye, and thy extended arm
In fancy hurls the thunderbolt of Jove
To fire the impious wreath on Philip's brow,
Or dash Octavius from the trophied car;
Say, does thy secret soul repine to taste
The big distress? Or wouldst thou then exchange
Those heart-ennobling forrows, for the lot
Of him who fits amid the gaudy herd
Of mute barbarians bending to his nod,
And bears aloft his gold-invested front,
And fays within himself, " I am a king,
" And wherefore should the clam'rous voice of woe
"Intrude upon mine ear?"-The baleful dregs
Of these late ages, this inglorious draught
Of fervitude and folly, have not yet,
Blest be th' Eternal Ruler of the world!
Defil'd to such a depth of fordid shame

The

The native honours of the human foul,
Nor so effac'd the image of its fire.

AKENSIDE.

XXV.

S

TASTE.

AY, what is taste, but the internal pow'rs
Active, and strong, and feelingly alive

To each fine impulse ? a difcerning sense
Of decent and fublime, with quick disgust
From things deform'd, or difarrang'd, or gross
In species? This nor gems, nor stores of gold,
Nor purple state, nor culture can bestow;
But God alone, when first his active hand
Imprints the facred bias of the foul.
He, mighty Parent! wife and just in all,
Free as the vital breeze or light of heav'n,
Reveals the charms of nature. Ask the swain
Who journies homeward from a summer-day's
Long labour, why forgetful of his toils
And due repose, he loiters to behold
The sunshine gleaming as thro' amber clouds,
O'er all the western sky; full soon, I ween,
His rude expression and untutor'd airs,
Beyond the pow'r of language, will unfold
The form of beauty smiling at his heart,
How lovely! how commanding! But tho' Heav'a
In every breast hath sown these early feeds
Of love and admiration, yet in vain,
Without fair culture's kind parental aid,

Without enlivening suns, and genial show'rs,