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Stang with the thoughts of home; the thoughts With all the fiercer tortures of the mind, Unbounded passions, madness, guilt, remorse; Whence tumbled headlong from the height of life,

of home

They furnish matter for the tragic muse.
Even in the vale where wisdom loves to dwe
With friendship, peace, and contemplation

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 foud


Rush on his nerves, and call their vigour forth
In many a vain attempt. How sinks his soul!
What black despair, what horror fills his heart!
When for the dusky spot, which fancy feign'd
His tufted cottage rising through the snow,
He meets the roughness of the middle waste,
Far from the track, and blest abode of man ;
While round him night resistless closes fast,
And every tempest, bowling o'er his head,
Renders the savage wilderness more wild.
Then throng the busy shapes into his mind,
Of covered pits unfathomably deep,
A dire descent! beyond the power of frost ;
Of faithless bogs; of precipices huge,
Smooth'd up with snow; and, what is land,

Of these, and all the thousand nameless ills,
That one incessant struggle render life,
One scene of toil, of suffering, and of fate,
Vice in his high career would stand appall'a,
And heedless rambling impulse learn to thiuks
The conscious heart of charity would warm,
And her wide wish benevolence dilate,
The social tear would rise, the sociał sigh 4
And in clear perfection, gradual bliss,


These check his fearful steps; and down heRefining still, the social passions work.


And here can I forget the generous band*. Who touch'd with human wee, redressive search'd

What water, of the still unfrozen spring,
La the loose marsh or solitary lake,
Where the fresh fountain from the bottom

Beneath the shelter of the shapeless drift,
Thinking o'er all the bitterness of death,
Mix'd with the tender anguish nature shoots
Through the wrung bosom of the dying man,
His wife, his children, and his friends museen.
In vain for him th' officious wife prepares
The fire fair-blazing, and the vestment warm;
In vain his little children, peeping out
Into the mingling storm, demand their sire,
With tears of artless innocence.
Nor wife, nor children, more shall he behold;
Nor friends, nor sacred home. On every nerve
The deadly Winter seizes; shuts up sense;
And, o'er his in most vitals creeping cold,
Lays him along the snows, a stiffened corse!
Stretched out and bleaching in the northern

Into the horrors of the gloomy jail?
Unpitied, and unheard, where misery means;
Where sickness pines; where thirts and hunger.

And poor misfortune feels the lash of vice,
While in the land of liberty, the land
Whose every street and public meeting glow
With open freedom, little tyrants rag`d :
Snatch'd the lean morsel from the starving

Tore from cold wintry limbs the tatter'd weed a
Even robb'd them of the last of comfants,



The free-born Briton to the dungeon chain'd,
Or, as the lust of cruelty prevail'd,





Ah! little think the gay licentious proud, Whom pleasure, power, and affluence sur[mirth, They, who their thoughtless hours in giddy That for their country wonld have toild, or And wanton, often cruel, riot waste; Ah! little think they, while they dance along, How many feel, this very moment, death And all the sad variety of pain. How many sink in the devouring flood, Or more devouring fame. 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. Sore pierc'd by wintry winds, How many shrink into the sordid hut Of cheerless poverty. How many shake

At pleasure mark'd him with inglorious stripes;
And crush'd out lives, by secret barbaroas

O great design, if executed well,

With patient care, and wisdom-temper'd zcal.
Ye sons of mercy! yet resume the search;
Drag forth the legal monsters into light,
Wrench from their hands ogpresion's iron rod,
And bid the cruel feel the pains they give.
Much still untonch'd remains; in this dark


Much is the patriot's weeding hand requir'd,
The toils of law (what dark insidious meu
Have cumbrous added to perplex the truth,

* The Jail Committee, in the year 1729.

And lengthen simple justice into trade) How glorious were the day! that saw these broke,

And every man within the reach of right.

By wintry famine rous'd, from all the tract Of horrid mountains which the shining Alps, And wavy Apennine, and Pyrenees, Branch out stupendous into distant lands; Cruel as death, and hungry as the grave; Burning for blood; bony, and gaunt, and grim,|| Assembling wolves in raging troops descend; Aud, pouring o'er the country, bear along, Keen as the north wind sweeps the glossy


All is their prize. They fasten on the steed, Press him to earth, and pierce his mighty heart.

Nor can the bull his awful front defend.
Or shake the murdering savages away.
Rapacious, at the mother's throat they fly,
And tear the screaming infaut from her breast.
The god-like face of man avails him nought.
Even beauty, force divine! at whose bright

The generous lion stands in soften'd gaze,
Here bleeds, a hapless undistinguish'd prey.
But if appris'd of the severe attack,

The country be shut up; lur'd by the scent,
On church yards drear (inhuman to relate)
The disappointed prowlers fall, and dig
The shrouded body from the grave; o'er which,
Mix'd with foul shades, and frighted ghosts,
they howl.

Among those hilly regions, where embrac'd In peaceful vales the happy Grisons dwell; Oft, rushing sudden from the loaded cliffs, Mountains of snow their gathering terrors roll. From steep to steep loud-thundering down they


A wintry waste in dire commotion all; And herds, and flock, and travellers, and swains, [troops, And sometimes whole brigades of marching Or hamlets, sleeping in the dead of night, Are deep beneath the smothering ruin whelm'd.

Now, all amid the rigours of the year, In the wild depth of Winter, while without The ceaseless winds blow ice, be my retreat, Between the groaning forest and the shore Beat by the bouness multitudes of waves, A rural, shelter'd, solitary scene; Where ruddy fire, and beaming tapers join, To cheer the gloom. There studious let me sit,

Rous'd at th' inspiring thought, I throw aside The long liv'd volume; and, deep musing, hail

And hold high converse with the mighty dead;
Sages of ancient time, as gods rever'd,
As gods beneficent, who blest mankind
With arts,with arms, and kumauiz'd the world.

The sacred shades, that slowly-rising pass Before my wondering eyes. First Socrates, Who, firmly good in a corrupted state, Against the reign of tyrants firmly stood, Invincible! calm reason's holy law,

That voice of God within th' attentive mind,
Obeying, fearless, or in life, or death;
Great moral teacher! wisest of mankind!
Solon the next, who built his commonweal
On equity's wide base; by tender laws
A lively people curbing, yet undamp'd
Preserving still that quick peculiar fire,
Whence in the laurel'd field of finer arts,
And of bold freedom, they unequall'd shone,
The pride of smiling Greece and human kind.
Lycurgus then, who bow'd beneath the force
Of strictest discipline, severely wise,
All buman passions. Following him, I see,
As at Thermopyle he glorious fell,

The firm devoted chief,* who prov'd by deeds
The hardest lesson which the other taught.
Then Aristides lifts his honest front;
Spotless of heart, to whom th` unflattering voice
Of freedom gave the noblest name of Just:
In pure majestic poverty rever'd;
Who, even his glory to his country's weal
Submitting, swell'd a haughty rival's † fame.
| Rear'd by his care, of softer ray appears
Cimon sweet soul'd; whose genius rising

Shook off the load of young debauch; abroad The scourge of Persian pride, at home the friend

Of every worth and every splendid art;
Modest, and simple, in the pomp of wealth.
Then the last worthies of declining Greece,
Late call'd to glory, in unequal times,
Pensive, appear. The fair Corinthian boast,
Timoleon, happy temper! mild, and firm,
Who wept the brother while the tyrant bled.
And, equal to the best, the Theban pair, ‡
Whose virtues, in heroic concord join`d,
Their country rais'd to freedom, empire, fame.
He too with whom Athenian honour sunk,
And left a mass of sordid lees behind,
Phocion the good; in public life severe,
To virtue still inexorably firm;

But when, beneath his low illustrious roof, Sweet peace and happy wisdom smooth'd his brow,

Not friendship softer was, nor love more kind.
And he, the last of old Lycurgus' sons,
The generous victim to that vaiu attempt,

* Leonidas.

Themistocles. Pelopidas and Epaminondas.

To save a rotten state, Agis, who saw
Even Sparta's self to servile avarice sunk.
The two Achaian heroes close the train:
Aratus, who a while relum'd the soul
Of fondly lingering liberty in Greece;
And be her darling as her latest hope,
The gallant Philopomen; who to arms
Turn'd the luxurious pomp he could not cure ;
Or toiling in his farm, a simple swain;
Or, bold and skilful, thundering in the field.

Of rougher front, a mighty people come!
A race of heroes! in those virtuous times,
Which knew no stain, save that with partial

Their dearest country they too fondly lov'd :
Her better founder first, the light of Rome,
Numa, who softened her rapacious sons:
Servius the king, who laid the solid base
On which o'er earth the vast republic spread.
Then the great consuls venerable rise.
The public father *, who the private quell'd,
As on the dread tribunal sternly sad. [lose,
He, whom his thankless country could not
Camillus, only vengeful to her foes.
Fabricius, scorner of all-conquering gold;
And Cincinnatus, awful from the plough.
Thy willing victimf, Carthage, bursting loose
From all that pleading nature could oppose,
From a whole city's tears, by rigid faith
Imperious call'd, and honour's dire command.
Scipio, the gentle chief, humanely brave,
Who soon the race of spotless glory ran,
And, warm in youth, to the poetic shade
With friendship and philosophy retir❜d.
Tully, whose powerful eloquence a while
Restrain'd the rapid fate of rushing Rome.
Unconquer'd Cato, virtuous in extreme.
And thou, unhappy Brutus, kind of heart,
Whose steady arm, by awful virtue urg'd,
Lifted the Roman steel against thy friend,
Thousands besides the tribute of a verse

First of your kind! society divine!
Still visit thus my nights, for you reserv'd,
And mount my soaring soul to thoughts like


Silence, thou lonely power! the door be thine;
See on the hallowed hour that none intrude,
Save a few chosen friends, who sometimes deign
To bless my humble roof, with sense refiu'd,
Learning digested well, exalted faith,
Unstudy'd wit, and humour ever gay.
Or from the Muses' hill will Pope descend,
To raise the sacred hour, to bid it smile,
And with the social spirit warm the heart?
For though not sweeter his own Homer sings,
Yet is his life the more endearing song.
Where art thou Hammond? thou the darling

The friend and lover of the tuneful throng!
Ahwhy, dear youth, in all the blossoming prime
Of vernal genius, where disclosing fast
Each active worth, each manly virtue lay,
Why wert thou ravish'd from our hope so soon?
What now avails that noble thirst of fame,
Which stung thy fervent breast? that treasur'd


Marcus Junius Brutus. ↑ Regulus,

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Was call'd, late-rising from the void of night,
Or sprung eternal from th' eternal mind;

Demand; but who can count the stars of Its life, its laws, its progress, and its end.

Darkling full up the middle steep to fame.
Nor absent are those shades, whose skilful touch
Pathetic drew th' impassion'd heart and charm'd
Transported Athens with the moral scene;
Nor those who, tuneful, wak'd th' enchanting

Of knowledge, early gain'd? that eager
To serve thy country, glowing in the band
Of youthful patriots, who sustain her name?
What now, alas! that life-diffusing charm
Of sprightly wit? that rapture for the muse,
That heart of friendship, and that soul of joy,
Which bade with softest light thy virtues smile?
Ah! only show'd, to check our fond pursuits,
And teach our humbled hopes that life is vain!

Thus in some deep retirement would I pass
The winter glooms, with friends of pliant soul,
Or blithe, or solemn, as the theme iuspir'd :
With them would search, if nature's boundless


Who sing their influence on this lower world?
Behold, who yonder comes! in sober state,
Fair, mild, and strong, as is a vernal sun :
'Tis Phoebus' self, or else the Mantuan swain ;
Great Homer too appears, of daring wing,
Parent of song; and equal by his side,
The British muse! join'd hand in hand they In higher order; fitted, and impelld,

Hence larger prospects of the beauteous whole
Would, gradual, open on our opening minds;
And each diffusive harmony unite
In full perfection, to th' astonish'd eye,
Then would we try to scan the moral world,
Which, though to us it seems embroil'd, moves




By Wisdom's finest hand, and issuing all
In general good. The sage historic muse
Should next conduct us through the deeps of


Show us how empire grew, declin'd, and fell,
In scatter'd states; what makes the nations
Improves their soil, and gives them double
And why they pine beneath the brightest skies,

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Othello rages; poor Monimia mourns ;
And Belvidera pours her soul in love.
Terror alarms the breast; the comely tear
Steals o'er the cheek: or else the comic musę
Holds to the world a picture of itself,
And raises sly the fair impartial laugh.
Sometimes she lifts her strain, and paints the

Hums indistinct. The sons of riot flow
Down the loose stream of false enchanted joy
To swift destruction. On the rankled soul
The gaming fury falls; and in one gulf
Of total ruin, honour, virtue, peace,
Friends, families, and fortune, headlong sink
Up springs the dance along the lighted dome,
Mix'd, and évolv'd, a thousand sprightly ways.
The glittering court effuses every pomp ;
The circle deepens : beam'd from gaudy robes,
Tapers, and sparkling gems, and radiant eyes,
A soft effulgence o'er the palace waves:
While, a gay insect in his summer-shine,
The fop, light-Huttering, spreads his mealy
[stalks ;
Dread o'er the scene, the ghost of Hamlet


Of beauteous life; whate'er can deck markind, Or charm the heart, in generous Bevil* show'd.

O thou, whose wisdom, solid yet refin'd, Whose patriot virtues, and consummate skill To touch the finer springs that move the world. Join'd to whate'er the graces can bestow, And all Apollo's animating fire, Give thee, with pleasing dignity, to shine At once the guardian, ornament, and joy, Of polish'd life: permit the rural muse, O Chesterfield, to grace with thee her song! Ere to the shades again she humbly flies, Indulge her fond ambition, in thy train (For every muse bas in thy train a place), To mark thy various full-accomplish'd mind: To mark that spirit, which with British scorn, Rejects the allurements of corrupted power; That elegant politeness, which excels, Even in the judgment of presumptuous France, The boasted manners of her shining court; That wit, the vivid energy of sense,

The truth of nature, which, with Attic point, And kind, well-temper'd satire, smoothly keen, Steals through the soul, and without pain cor


Or, rising thence with yet a brighter flame,
O let me hail thee on some glorious day,
When to the listening senate, ardent, crowd
Britannia's sous to hear her pleaded cause.
Then dress'd by thee, more amiably fair,
Truth the soft robe of mild persuasion wears:
Thou to assenting reason giv’st again
Her own enlightened thoughts; call'd from the


Th' obedient passions on thy voice attend ;
And even reluctant party feels a while
Thy gracious power: as through the varied
Of eloquence, now smooth, now quick, now
Profound and clear, you roll the copious flood.


To thy lov'd haunt return, my happy muse, For now, behold. the joyous winter-days, Frosty, succeed; and through the blue serene, For sight too fine, the ethereal nitre flies; Killing infectious damps, and the spent air Storing afresh with elemental life.

Close crowds the shining atmosphere; and binds

* A character in the Conscious Lovers, written by Richard Steele.

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Our strengthened bodies in its cold embrace, Constringent; feeds, and animates our blood; Refines our spirits, through the new-strung nerves,

In swifter sallies darting to the brain;
Where sits the soul intensé, collected, cool,
Bright as the skies, and as the season keen.
All nature feels the renovating force
Of Winter, only to the thoughtless eye
la ruin seen. The frost concocted glebe
Draws in abundant vegetable soul,
And gathers vigour for the coming year.
A stronger glow sits on the lively cheek
Of ruddy fire: and luculent along

The purer rivers flow; their sullen deeps,
Transparent, open to the shepherd's gaze,
And murmur hoarser at the fixing frost.

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A livid tract, cold gleaming on the morn;
The forest bent beneath the plumy wave;
And, by the frost refin'd, the whiter snow,
Incrusted hard, and sounding to the tread
Of early shepherd, as he pensive seeks
His pining flock, or from the mountain top,
Pleas'd with the slippery surface, swift de-
On blithsome frolics bent, the youthful
While every work of man is laid at rest,
Fond o'er the river crowd, in various sport
And revelry dissolv'd; where mixing glad,
Happiest of all the train! the raptur'd boy
Lashes the whirling top. Or, where the Rhine
Brauch'd out in many a long canal extends,
From every province swarming, void of care,
Batavia rushes forth; and as they sweep,

What art thou, frost? and whence are thy On sounding skates, a thousand different ways,

keen stores

In circling poise, swift as the winds along,
The then gay land is maddened all to joy.
Nor less the northern courts, wide o'er the

Deriv'd, thou secret all-invading power,
Whom even th’illusive fluid cannot fly?
Is not thy potent energy, unseen,
Myriads of little salts, or hook'd, or shap'd
Like double wedges, and diffus'd immense
Through water, earth, and ether? Hence at eve,
Steam'd eager from the red horizon round,
With the fierce rage of Winter deep suffus'd,
An icy gale, oft shifting o'er the pool
Breathes a blue film, and in its mid career
Arrests the bickering stream. The loosened ice,
Let down the flood, and half dissolv'd by day,
Rustless no more; but to the sedgy bank
Fast grows, or gathers round the pointed stone,
A crystal pavement, by the breath of heaven
Cemented firm; till, seiz'd from shore to shore,
The whole imprison'd river growls below.
Loud rings the frozen earth, and hard reflects
A double noise; while, at his evening watch,
The village dog deters the nightly thief;
The heifer lows: the distant water fall
Swells in the breeze; and with the hasty tread
Of traveller, the hollow-sounding plain
Shakes from afar. The full ethereal round,
Infinite worlds disclosing to the view,
Shines out intensely keen; and, all one cope
Of starry glitter glows from pole to pole.
From pole to pole the rigid influence falls,
Through the still night, incessant, heavy,

And seizes nature fast. It freezes on ;
Till morn, late rising o'er the drooping world,
Lifts her pale eye un joyous. Then appears
The various labour of the silent night :
Prone from the dripping cave, and dumb cas-

Whose idle torrents only seem to roar,
The pendent icicle; the frost-work fair,
Where transient hues, and fancy'd figures rise;
Wide-spouted o'er the hill, the frozen brook,

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Or from the forest falls the cluster'd snow,
Myriads of gems, that in the waving gleam
Gay twinkle as they scatter. Thick around
Thunders the sport of those, who with the gun,
And dog impatient, bounding at the shot,
Worse thau the season, desolate the fields;
And, adding to the ruins of the year,
Distress the footed or the feathered game.

But what is this? Our infant Winter sinks,
Divested of his grandeur, should our eye
Astonish'd shoot into the Frigid Zone;
Where, for relentless months, continual night
Holds o'er the glittering waste her starry reign.
There, through the prison of unbounded wilds,
Barr'd by the hand of nature from escape,
Wide roams the Russian exile. Nought around
Strikes his sad eye, but deserts lost in snow;
And heavy loaded groves; and solid floods,
That stretch, athwart the solitary vast,
Their icy horrors to the frozen main;

And cheerless towns far-distant, never bless'd,w'd
Save when its annual course the caravan

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