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That fatal pride, whose cruel point

Transfix'd his noble breast; Far nobler ! if his fate sustain'd

Had left to heaven the rest ;
Then he the palm had borne away,

At distance Cæsar thrown ;
Put him off cheaply with the world,

And made the skies his own.
What cannot Refignation do?

It wonders can perform ;
That powerful charm, “ Thy will be done,”

Can lay the loudeft storm.
Come, Resignation ! then, from fields,

Where, mounted on the wing,
A wing of flame, bleft Martyrs souls

Ascended to their King :
Who is it calls thee? one whose need

Transcends the common size;
Who stands in front against a foe

To which none equal rise :
In front he stands, the brink he treads

Of an eternal state ;
How dreadful his appointed post !

How strongly arm’d by fate!
His threatening foe! what hadows deep

O’erwhelm his gloomy brow!
His dart tremendous !

at fourícore My fole asylum, thou ! I 2

Halte,

with,

Hafte, then, o Resignation ! harte,

'Tis thine to reconcile My foe, and me; at thy approach,

My foe begins to smile : O! for that fummit of

my Whilst here I draw my breath, That promise of eternal life,

A glorious smile in death :
What fight, Heaven's azure arch beneath,

Has most of Heaven to boalt ?
The man resign'd; at once serene,

And giving up the ghost.
At death's arrival they shall smile,

Who, not in life oe'r-gay,
Serious, and frequent thought send out

To meet him on his way :
My gay Coævals! (such there are)

If happiness is dear ;
Approaching death's alarming day

Discreetly let us fear :
The fear of death is truly wise,

Till wisdom can rise higher ;
And, arm’d with pious fortitude,

Death, dreaded once, desire :
Grand climacteric vanities

The vainest will despise ;
Shock’d, when beneath the snow of age,

Man immaturely dies :

1

But

1

1

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 relapse

Into the sports of youth,
The second child out-fools the first,

And tempts the lash of truth ;
Shall a mere truant from the

grave With rival boys engage ? His trembling voice attempt to sing,

And ape the poet's rage ? Here, Madam ! let me visit one,

My fault who, partly, shares, And tell myself, by telling him,

What more becomes our years ;
And if your breast with prudent zeal

For refignation glows,
You will not disapprove a just

Refentment at its foes.
In youth, Voltaire ! our foibles plead

For some indulgence due ;
When heads are white, their thoughts and aims
Should change their colour too :

cheated by your wit!
age
By nature's law, a mind discreet,
For joys it takes away ;

A mighty

How

are you Old

is bound to pay,

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A mighty change is wrought by years,

Reversing human lot;
In age 'tis honour to lie hid,

Its praise to be forgot;
The wise, as flowers, which fpread at noon,

And all their charms expose,
When evening damps, and shades descend,

Their' evolutions close.
What though your Muse has nobly foar'd,

Is that our true sublime ?
Ours, hoary friend ! is to prefer

Eternity to time :
Why close a life so justly fam’d

With such bold trash as * this?
This for renown ? yes, such as makes

Obscurity a bliss :
Your trash, with mine, at open war,

Is + obftinately bent,
Like wits below, to sow your tares

Of gloom, and discontent:
With so 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 passions raise,
Confound us with a double stroke,
We shudder whilst we praise ;

A curious
* Candide.

+ Second Part.

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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 disdainful air,
I can't forgive so 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 starts ;
Forbear to fall on your own sword,

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 scorn.
Can fame your carcase from the worm

Which gnaws us in the grave,
Or foul from that which never dies,

Applauding Europe fave?
But fame you lose; good sense alone

Your idol, praise can claim ;
When wild wit murders happiness,

It puts to death our fame;

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Ner.

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