To push eternity from human thought,
And fmother fouls immortal in the duft?
A foul immortal, fpending all her fires,
Wafting her strength in ftrenuous idleness,
Thrown into tumult, raptur'd, or alarm'd,
At aught this scene can threaten or indulge,
Refembles ocean into tempeft wrought,
To waft a feather, or to drown a fly.
OME angel guide my pencil, while I draw,
What nothing lefs than angel can exceed;
A man on earth devoted to the skies;
Like fhips at fea, while in, above the world.
With afpect mild, and elevated eye,
Behold him feated on a mount ferene.
Above the fogs of fenfe, and paffion's ftorm;
All the black cares, and tumults, of this life,
Like harmless thunders, breaking at his feet,
Excite his pity, not impair his peace.
Earth's genuine fons, the fcepter'd, and the flave,
A mingled mob! a wand'ring herd he fees!
Bewilder'd in the vale; in all unlike!
His full reverse in all! What higher praise?
What stronger demonstration of the right:
The prefent all their care, the future his.
When public welfare calls, or private want,
They give to fame; his bounty he conceals.
Their virtues varnish nature; his exalt.
Mankind's esteem they court; and he his own.
Theirs the wild chafe of falfe felicities;
His, the compos'd poffeffion of the true.
Alike throughout is his confiftent piece,
All of one colour, and an even thread;
While party-coloured fhreds of happiness,
With hideous gaps between, patch up for them
A madman's robe; each puff of fortune blows,
The tattars by, and fhews their nakedness.
He fees with other eyes than theirs: Where they Behold a fun, he spies a Deity;
What makes them only "fmile, makes him adore,
Where they fee mountains, be but atoms fees,
An empire, in his balance, weighs a grain.
They things terreftrial worship, as divine:
His hopes immortal blow them by, as dust,
That dims his fight, and fortens his survey,
Which longs, in infinite to lofe all bound.
Titles and honours (if they prove his fate)
He lays afide to find his dignity;
No dignity they find in aught befdes.
They triumph in externals (which conceal
Man's real glory,) proud of an eclipse,
Himself too much he prizes to be proud,
And nothing thinks fo great in man, as man.
Too dear he holds his int'reft to neglect
Another's welfare, or his right invade;
Their int'reft like a lion, lives on prey.
They kindle at the shadow of a wrong;
Wrong he sustains with temper, looks on Heaven,
Nor ftoops to think his injurer his foe;
Nought but what wounds his virtue, wounds his peace.
A cover'd heart denies him half his praise..
With nakedness his innocence agrees!
While their broad foliage teftifies their fall!
Their no-joys end, where his full feast begins :
His joys create, theirs murder, future blifs..
To triumph in existence, his alone:
And his alone, triumphantly to think
His true existence is not yet begun.
His glorious courfe was, yesterday, complete;
Death, then, was welcome; yet life ftill is sweet
THOU, the nymph with placid eye;
O feldom found, yet ever nigh ;
Receive my temperate vow;
Not all the ftorms that shake the pole
Can e're disturb thy halcyon foul,
And smooth unalter'd brow.
O come, in fimpleft veft array'd,
With all thy fober cheer difplay'd,
To blefs my longing fight;
Thy mein compos'd, thy even pace,
Thy meek regard, thy matron grace,
And chafte fubdu'd delight.
No more my varying paffions beat,
O gently guide my pilgrim feet
To find thy hermit cell;
Where in fome pure and equal sky,
Beneath thy foft indulgent eye,
The medeft virtues dwell.
Simplicity in Attic veft,
And innocence with candid breaft,
And clear undaunted eye;
And Hope, who points to diftants years,
Fair opening through this vale of tears
A vifta to the sky.
Their Health, through whofe calm bofom glide,
The temperate joys in even tide,
That rarely ebb or flow ;
And Patience there, thy fifter meek,
Prefents her mild, unvarying cheek
To meet the offer'd blow.
Her influence taught the Phrygian fage,
A tyrant master's wanton rage
With fettled fmiles to meet :
Inur'd to toil and bitter bread,
He bow'd his meek fubmitted head,
And kiss'd thy fainted feet.
But thou, oh nymph, retir'd and coy
In what brown hamlet doft thou joy
To tell thy tender tale;
The lowlieft children of the ground.
Mofs-rofe and violet bloffom round,
And lily of the vale.
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