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A melancholy truth ! for know,

Could our proud hearts resign,
The distance greatly would decrease

Twixt human and divine.
But though full noble is my theme,

Full urgent is my call
To soften forrow, and forbid

The bursting tear to fall;
The task I tread; dare I to leave

Of humble prose the shore,
And put to sea ? a dangerous sea ?

What throngs have funk before !
How proud the poet's billow swells !

The God! the God! his boast :
A boast how vain! What wrecks abound !
Dead bards french


coast. What then am I? Shall I presume,

On such a moulten wing,
Above the general wreck to rise,

And in my winter, sing;
When nightingales, when sweetest bards

Confine their charming song
To summer's animating heats,

Content to warble young?
Yet, write I must; a Lady sues;

How shameful her request !
My brain in labour for dull rhyme!

Her's teeming with the best!

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* Mrs. Many


you a stranger will excuse,
Nor scorn his feeble strain;
To you a stranger, but, through fate,

No stranger to your pain.
The ghost of grief deceas’d afcends,

-His old wound bleeds anew;
His forrows are recall'd to life

By those he sees in you;
Too well he knows the twisting strings

Of ardent hearts.combin'd
When rent, asunder, how they bleed,

How hard to be resign'd :
Those tears you pour, his eyes have shed ;;

The pang you feel, he felt;
Thus nature, loud as virtue, bids

His heart at yours to melt.
But what can heart, or head, suggest ?

What fad experience say?
Through-truths austere, to peace we work

Our rugged, gloomy way :
What are we? Whence? For what? and Whither?

Who know not, needs must mourn ;
But Thought, bright daughter of the skies!

Can tears to triumph turn.
Thought is our armour, 'tis the mind's

Impenetrable shield,
When, fent by fate, we meet our foes,

In fore affliction's field;

It plucks the frightful mask from ills,

Forbids pale fear to hide,
Beneath that dark disguise, a friend,

Which turns affection's tide.
Affection frail ! train’d up by fense,

From reason's channel strays :
And whilst it blindly points at peace,

Our peace to pain betrays.
Thought winds its fond, erroneous stream

From daily-dying flowers,
To nourish rich immortal blooms,

In amaranthine bowers ;
Whence throngs, in extasy, look down

On what once shock'd their fight;
And thank the terrors of the past

For ages of delight.
All withers here ; who most possess

Are losers by their gain,
Stung by full proof, that, bad at best,

Life's idle All is vain :
Vain, in its course, life's murmuring stream ;

Did not its course offend,
But murmur cease ; life, then, would seem

Still vainer, from its end.
How wretched ! who, through cruel fate,

Have nothing to lament !
With the poor alms this world affords
Deplorably content!


Had not the Greek his world mistook,

His with had been most wise;
To be content with but one world,

Like him, we should despise.
Of earth's revenue would


state A full account, and fair ? We hope; and hope ; and hope; then cast

The total up


Since vain all here, all future, vast,

Embrace the lot affign'd; Heaven wounds to heal; its frowns are friends,

Its strokes severe, most kind.
But in laps'd nature, rooted deep,

Blind error domineers;
And on fools errands, in the dark,

Sends out our hopes and fears ;
Bids us for ever pains deplore,

Our pleasures overprize ;
These oft persuade us to be weak;

Those urge us to be wise.
From virtue's rugged path to right

By pleasure are we brought
To flowery fields of wrong, and there

Pain chides us for our fault :


Yet whilft it chides, it speaks of peace,

If folly is withstood;
And says, time pays an easy price,

For our eternal good.
In earth's dark cot, and in an hour,

And in delusion great,
What an ceconomist is man

To spend his whole estate,
And beggar an eternity!

For which, as he was born,
More worlds than one against it weigh’d,

As feathers he should scorn.
Say not, your loss in triumph leads

Religion's feeble strife;
Joys future amply reimburse

Joys bankrupts of this life.
But not deferr’d your joy so long,

It bears an early date;
Affliction's ready pay in hand,

Befriends our present state ;
What are the tears, which trickle down

Her melancholy face,
Like liquid pearl ? Like pearls of price,

They purchase lasting peace.
Grief foften's hearts, and curbs the will,

Impetuous passion tames,
And keeps insatiate, keen desire
From launching in extremes.


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