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• 0, well is he !' for life is lost,
Amidst a whirl of passions toss'd;

Then why, dear Jack, should man,
Magnanimous ephemera! stretch
His views beyond the narrow reach

Of his contracted span!

Why should he from his country run,
In hopes, beneath a foreign sun,

Serener hours to find ?
Was never man in this wild chase
Who changed his nature with his place,

And left himself behind.

For, wing'd with all the lightning's speed,
Care climbs the bark, Care mounts the steed,

An inmate of the breast:
Nor Barca's heat nor Zembla's cold
Can drive from that pernicious hold

The too tenacious guest.

They whom no anxious thoughts annoy,
Grateful, the present hours enjoy,

Nor seek the next to know;
To lighten every ill they strive,
Nor, ere misfortune's hand arrive,

Anticipate the blow.

Something must ever be amiss-
Man has his joys; but perfect bliss

Lives only in the brain :
We cannot all have what we want;
And Chance, unask'd, to this may grant

What that has begg'd in vain.

Wolfe rush'd on death in manhood's bloom, Paulet crept slowly to the tomb;

Here breath, there fame was given : And that wise Power who weighs our lives By contras and by pros contrives

To keep the balance even.

To thee she gave two piercing eyes,
A body—just of Tydeus' size;

A judgment sound and clear;
A mind with various science fraught,
A liberal soul, a threadbare coat,

And forty pounds a year.

To me one eye not over good,
Two sides that, to their cost, have stood

A ten years' hectic cough;
Aches, stitches, all the numerous'ills
That swell the devilish doctor's bills,

And sweep poor mortals off:

A coat more bare than thine ; a soul
That spurns the crowd's malign control;

A fix'd contempt of wrong ;
Spirits above affliction's power;
And skill to charm the lonely hour

With no inglorious song.

W. GIFFORD.

ON

THE FOURTH OF NOVEMBER, The Anniversary of the Revolution, 1688.

IN IMITATION OF ALCÆUS,

WHAT constitutes the Bard ?
Not silver sounds nor numbers that compel

Proud Tyranny's regard ;
Not the sweet witchery of Fancy's spell,

That can at will entrance
The captive sense, and bid the charmed soul

To faery measures dance :
No-but an energy that spurns control,

An intellectual fire
That, fanp'd by Freedom, to sublimest heights

Impels us to aspire,
And from base earth the spirit disunites :

This constitutes the Bard.
Then in the shouts that ring from side to side'

Loud o'er the rest be heard
The Muse's hail! which at this season wide

May pour the patriot rage :
She, Freedom's best ally, whose voice alone,

Through every clime and age Prevailing, mocks the thunders of the throne !

DR. T. PERCY.

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Chiswick : PRINTED BY C. WHITTINGHAM; FOR CHARLES S. ARNOLD, TAVISTOCK STREET,

COVENT GARDEN, LONDON.

1823.

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