That fatal pride, whofe cruel point

Transfix'd his noble breaft;

Far nobler! if his fate fuftain'd
Had left to heaven the rest;

Then he the palm had borne away,
At diftance Cæfar thrown;

Put him off cheaply with the world,
And made the fkies his own.

What cannot Refignation do?
It wonders can perform;

That powerful charm, "Thy will be done,"
Can lay the loudest storm.

Come, Resignation! then, from fields,
Where, mounted on the wing,
A wing of flame, bleft Martyrs fouls
Afcended to their King:

Who is it calls thee? one whofe need
Tranfcends the common fize;
Who ftands in front against a foe
To which none equal rife:

In front he ftands, the brink he treads

Of an eternal state;

How dreadful his appointed post!

How ftrongly arm'd by fate!

His threatening foe! what shadows deep
O'erwhelm his gloomy brow!

His dart tremendous!.
My fole afylum, thou!

-at fourfcore

Hafte,

Hafte, then, O Refignation! hafte,

'Tis thine to reconcile

My foe, and me; at thy approach,
My foe begins to smile :

O! for that fummit of my wish,
Whilft here I draw my breath,
That promife of eternal life,
A glorious fmile in death :

What fight, Heaven's azure arch beneath,
Has moft of Heaven to boat?
The man refign'd; at once ferene,
And giving up the ghoft.

At death's arrival they fhall fimile,
Who, not in life oe'r-gay,

Serious, and frequent thought send out

To meet him on his

way:

My gay Coævals! (fuch there are)
If happiness is dear;

Approaching death's alarming day
Discreetly let us fear:

The fear of death is truly wife,
Till wisdom can rife higher;
And, arm'd with pious fortitude,
Death, dreaded once, defire :

Grand climacteric vanities

The vaineft will defpife;

Shock'd, when beneath the fnow of age,

Man immaturely dies:

But

But am not I myself the man?
No need abroad to roam

In quest of faults to be chastis'd;
What cause to blush at home!

In life's decline, when men relapfe
Into the fports of youth,

The fecond child out-fools the first,
And tempts the lash of truth;

Shall a mere truant from the

With rival boys engage?

grave

His trembling voice attempt to fing,
And ape the poet's rage?

'Here, Madam! let me vifit one,

My fault who, partly, fhares, And tell myfelf, by telling him,

What more becomes our years;

And if your breast with prudent zeal
For refignation glows,

You will not disapprove a juft

Refentment at its foes.

In youth, Voltaire! our foibles plead

For fome indulgence due;

When heads are white, their thoughts and aims

Should change their colour too :

How are you cheated by your wit!
Old age is bound to pay,

By nature's law, a mind difcreet,

For joys it takes away;
I 3

A mighty

A mighty change is wrought by years,

Reverfing human lot;

In age 'tis honour to lie hid,

Its praife to be forgot;

The wife, as flowers, which fpread at noon,
And all their charms expose,

When evening damps, and shades defcend,
Their evolutions close.

What though your Muse has nobly foar'd,
Is that our true fublime?

Ours, hoary friend! is to prefer

Eternity to time:

Why close a life so justly fam'd

With fuch bold trash as * this?

This for renown? yes, such as makes
Obscurity a blifs :

Your trash, with mine, at open war,

Is + obftinately bent,

Like wits below, to fow your tares
Of gloom, and discontent:

With fo much funthine at command,

Why light with darkness mix?
Why dash with pain our pleasure? why

Your Helicon with Styx?

Your works in our divided minds

Repugnant paffions raise,

Confound us with a double ftroke,

We shudder whilst we praise;

* Candide.

A curious

+ Second Part.

A curious web, as finely wrought
As genius can inspire,

From a black bag of poison spun,

With horror we admire.

Mean as it is, if this is read
With a difdainful air,

I can't forgive fo great a foe
To my dear friend Voltaire :
Early I knew him, early prais'd,
And long to praise him late;
His genius greatly I admire,
Nor would deplore his fate

A fate how much to be deplor'd!

At which our nature ftarts; Forbear to fall on your own fword, To perish by your parts:

"But great your name"-To feed on air, Were then immortals born?

Nothing is great, of which more great,

More glorious is the fcorn.

Can fame your carcafe from the worm
Which gnaws us in the grave,
Or foul from that which never dies,
Applauding Europe fave?

But fame you lofe; good fenfe alone
Your idol, praise can claim ;

When wild wit murders happiness,
It puts to death our fame;