ODE II.

ON

A FIT OF THE GOUT.

BY ISAAC HAWKINS BROWNE, ESQ.

WHEREFORE was man thus form'd with eye sublime,
With active joints, to traverse hill or plain,
But to contemplate Nature in her prime,

Lord of this ample world, his fair domain?
Why on this various earth such beauty pour'd,
But for thy pleasure, man, her sovereign Lord?

Why does the mantling vine her juice afford

Nectareous, but to cheer with cordial taste? Why are the earth, and air, and ocean, stor'd With beast, fish, fowl; if not for man's repast? Yet what avails to me, or taste, or sight,

Exil'd from ev'ry object of delight?

So much I feel of anguish, day and night
Tortur'd, benumb'd; in vain the fields to range
Me vernal breezes, and mild suns invite:

In vain the banquet smokes with kindly change
Of delicacies, while on every plate

Pain lurks in ambush, and alluring fate.

Fool! not to know the friendly powers create

These maladies in pity to mankind:

These abdicated reason reinstate,

When lawless appetite usurps the mind; Heaven's faithful centries at the door of bliss Plac'd to deter, or to chastise excess.

Weak is the aid of wisdom to repress Passion perverse; philosophy how vain! 'Gainst Circe's cup, enchanting sorceress;

Or when the Syren sings her warbling strain. Whate'er or sages teach, or bards reveal, Men still are men, and learn but when they feel.

As in some free and well-pois'd common weal
Sedition warns the rulers how to steer,
As storms and thunders rattling with loud peal,
From noxious dregs the dull horizon clear;
So when the mind imbrutes in sloth supine,
Sharp pangs awake her energy divine.

Cease then, ah cease, fond mortal, to repine
At laws, which nature wisely did ordain;
Pleasure, what is it? rightly to define,
'Tis but a short-liv'd interval from pain;
Or rather each alternately renew'd,
Gives to our lives a sweet vicissitude.

ODE III.

A

MORNING SOLILOQUY

ON

DEAFNESS.

BY THE REV. MR. POWIS.

NATURE! thy genial call I hear,
Which wakes the morn and me,
And seems to strike upon my ear,
Though deaf to all but thee:

To me the hours in silence roll away;

No music greets the dawn, or mourns the close of day.

To me the sky-larks, pois'd aloft,

In silence seem to play,

And hail no more in warblings soft

The rising dawn of day;

For me in vain they swell their liquid throats,

Contemplative I muse, nor hear the jocund notes,

To me the shepherd pipes in vain,
In vain the milk-maid sings:
Lost are the bleatings of the plain,

The gurgling of the springs;

No more I hear the nightingale complain,

When to the moon she chaunts her sad love-labour'd strain.

And when with me Lucinda strays
Along the breezy grove,

In transport on her charms I gaze,

And think she talks of love;

Ah! cease, dear Maid, to talk of love in vain, For smiles alone to me the voice of love explain.

Pygmalion thus, when he survey'd
The work his hand had form'd,
Enamour'd, wish to see the maid
With mutual passion warm'd;

And as he woo'd, his ear he oft inclin'd,

Whilst yet no voice of love reliev'd his anxious mind.

Cease thy complaints (methinks ev'n now

The voice of reason cries)

Dispel the gloom that clouds thy brow,

Suppress the heaving sighs;

What Fate decrees 'tis folly to bewail;

Weigh then the good and ill in Wisdom's equal scale.

No more in Friendship's thin disguise
Shall flattery sooth thine ear,

Experienc'd kindness makes thee wise,
To know thy friend sincere ;

No more shalt thou attend to Faction's cries, The taunts of jealous Pride, or Envy's blasting lies

No more shall now thy mind be tost

By every breath of praise;

No more thy reason shall be lost

In controversy's maze;

Thou safe through Life's sequester'd vale shalt go, And learn from Nature's works her wise decrees to know.