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42.

CONCLUSION OF THE DUNCIAD.

SHE comes! she comes! the sable throne behold
Of Night primeval, and of Chaos old!
Before her, Fancy's gilded clouds decay,
And all its varying rainbows die away.
Wit shoots in vain its momentary fires,
The meteor drops, and in a flash expires.
As one by one, at dread Medea's strain,
The sickening stars fade off the ethereal plain,
As Argus' eyes, by Hermes' wand opprest,
Closed one by one to everlasting rest;
Thus, at her felt approach, and secret might,
Art after Art goes out, and all is night.
See skulking TRUTH, to her old cavern fled,
Mountains of casuistry heaped o'er her head!
PHILOSOPHY, that leaned on Heaven before,
Shrinks to her second cause, and is no more.
PHYSIC of METAPHYSIC begs defence,
And METAPHYSIC calls for aid on SENSE!
See MYSTERY to MATHEMATICS fly!

In vain! they gaze, turn giddy, rave, and die.
RELIGION, blushing, veils her sacred fires,
And unawares MORALITY expires.

Nor public flame, nor private dares to shine:
Nor human spark is left, nor glimpse divine!
Lo! thy dread empire, Chaos! is restored;
Light dies before thy uncreating word;
Thy hand, great Anarch! lets the curtain fall,
And universal darkness buries all.

POPE.

43.-VICE AND VIRTUE.

FOOLS but too oft into the notion fall,
That Vice or Virtue there is none at all.
If white and black blend, soften, and unite
A thousand ways, is there no black or white?
Ask your own heart, and nothing is so plain;
'Tis to mistake them costs the time and pain.

Vice is a monster of so frightful mien,
As, to be hated, needs but to be seen;

Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face,
We first endure, then pity, then embrace.

But where the extreme of Vice, was ne'er agreed:
Ask where's the north? at York, 'tis on the Tweed;
In Scotland, at the Orcades; and there,
At Greenland, Zembla, or I know not where.
No creature owns it in the first degree,

But thinks his neighbour farther gone than he;
E'en those who dwell beneath its very zone,
Or never feel the rage or never own:
What happier natures shrink at with affright,
The hard inhabitant contends is right.

Virtuous and vicious every man must be,
Few in the extreme, but all in the degree;
The rogue and fool by fits are fair and wise;
And e'en the best, by fits, what they despise.
'Tis but by parts we follow good or ill;
For, Vice or Virtue, self directs it still;
Each individual seeks a several goal;

But Heaven's great view is one, and that the whole.

POPE.

44. THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP.

WHAT hid'st thou in thy treasure caves and cells,
Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main?
Pale glistening pearls and rainbow-coloured shells,
Bright things which gleam unrecked of and in vain.
Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea!

We ask not such from thee.

Yet more, thy depths have more! What wealth untold, Far down, and shining through their stillness, lies! Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold,

Won from ten thousand royal argosies,

Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main !
Earth claims not these again!

Yet more, thy depths have more!

Thy waves have rolled

Above the cities of a world gone by! Sand hath filled up the palaces of old,

Seaweed o'ergrown the halls of revelry.

N

Dash o'er them Ocean! in thy scornful play,
Man yields them to decay.

Yet more! thy billows and thy depths have more!
High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast,
They hear not now the booming waters roar—

The battle-thunders will not break their rest!
Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave!
Give back the true and brave.

Give back the lost and lovely! Those for whom
The place was kept at board and hearth so long;
The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom,
And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song!
Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown-
But all is not thine own!

To thee the love of woman hath gone down;

Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head,
O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's flowery crown!
Yet must thou hear a voice-Restore the dead!
Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee!
Restore the Dead, thou Sea!

MRS HEMANS.

45.-ADDRESS TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

As it fell upon a day,

In the merry month of May,

Sitting in a pleasant shade,

Which a grove of myrtles made;

Beasts did leap, and birds did sing,

Trees did grow, and plants did spring;
Every thing did banish moan,
Save the Nightingale alone.

She, poor bird, as all forlorn,
Leaned her breast upon a thorn;
And there sung the dolefull'st ditty,
That to hear it was great pity.
Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry;
Teru, teru, by and by.

That to hear her so complain
Scarce I could from tears refrain;

For her griefs so lively shown,
Made me think upon my own.

Ah! (thought I) thou mourn'st in vain,
None take pity on thy pain;

Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee,
Ruthless bears, they will not cheer thee.
King Pandion, he is dead;

All thy friends are lapp'd in lead;
All thy fellow birds do sing,
Careless of thy sorrowing!

Whilst as fickle Fortune smiled,
Thou and I were both beguiled.
Every one that flatters thee,
Is no friend in misery.

Words are easy like the wind,
Faithful friends are hard to find.
Every man will be thy friend,
Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend;
But if store of crowns be scant,
No man will supply thy want.
If that one be prodigal,
Bountiful they will him call,
And with such like flattering,
'Pity but he were a king.'
If he be addict to vice,
Quickly him they will entice;
But if fortune once do frown,
Then farewell his great renown;
They that fawned on him before
Use his company no more.
He that is thy friend indeed,
He will help thee in thy need;
If thou sorrow, he will weep,
If thou wake, he cannot sleep,
Thus of every grief in heart,
He with thee doth bear a part.
These are certain signs to know
Faithful friend from flattering foe.

BARNFIELD.

46. FROM THE SPIRIT'S EPILOGUE IN COMUS.

To the Ocean now I fly,

And those happy climes that lie,
Where day never shuts his eye,
Up in the broad fields of the sky.
There I suck the liquid air,

All amidst the gardens fair

Of Hesperus, and his daughters three,
That sing about the golden tree:
Along the crisped shades and bowers
Revels the spruce and jocund spring:
The graces and the rosy-bosomed hours
Thither all their bounties bring.

But now my task is smoothly done,
I can fly or I can run

Quickly to the green earth's end,

Where the bow'd welkin slow doth bend,

And from thence can soar as soon

To the corners of the moon.
Mortals, that would follow me,
Love Virtue; she alone is free,
She can teach you how to climb
Higher than the sphery chime;
Or if Virtue feeble were,
Heaven itself would stoop to her.

47.-EXCELSIOR.

THE shades of night were falling fast,
As through an Alpine village passed
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice,
A banner with the strange device,
Excelsior!

His brow was sad; his eye beneath
Flashed like a falchion from its sheath,
And like a silver clarion rung

The accents of that unknown tongue,
Excelsior!

MILTON.

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