And all the way, to guide their chime,
With falling oars they kept the time.
A DIALOGUE between the SOUL and BODY.
WHO fhall from this dungeon raise
A foul enflav'd fo many ways!
With bolts of bones, that fetter'd stands
On feet, and manacled in hands.
Here blinded with an eye, and there
Deaf with the drumming of an ear.
A foul hung up, as 'twere, in chains
Of nerves, and arteries, and veins,
Tortur'd, befides each other part,
In a vain head, and double heart.
Body.
O who fhall me deliver whole,
From bonds of this tyrannic foul?
Which stretch'd upright, impales me fo,
That mine own precipice I go;
And warms and moves this needless frame;
(A fever could but do the fame.)
And, wanting where its fpight to try,
Has made me live to let me dye.
A body that could never reft,
Since this ill fpirit it possest.
What magic could me thus confine
Within another's grief to pine?
Where, whatsoever it complain,
I feel, that cannot feel, the pain.
And all my care itself employs,
That to preferve, which me destroys;
Conftrain'd not only to endure
Diseases, but, what's worse, the cure;
And ready oft the port to gain,
Am shipwreck'd into health again.
But phyfic yet could never reach The maladies thou me doft teach;
Whom first the cramp of hope does tear;
And then the palfy, shakes, of fear.
The peftilence of love does heat;
Or hatred's hidden ulcer eat.
Joy's chearful madness does perplex,
Or forrow's other madness vex;
Which knowledge forces me to know,
And
will not forgo.
memory
What but a foul could have the wit
To build me up for fin fo fit?
So architects do fquare and hew
Green trees that in the foreft
Y the blue taper's trembling light,
No more I waste the wakeful night,
Intent with endless view to pore
The schoolmen and the fages o'er :
Their books from wildom widely stray,
Or point at beft the longeft way.
I'll feek a readier path, and go
Where wisdom's furely taught below.
How deep yon azure dyes the sky!
Where orbs of gold unnumber'd lye,
While thro' their ranks in filver pride
The nether crefcent seems to glide.
The flumb'ring breeze forgets to breathe,
The lake is fmooth and clear beneath,
Where once again the fpangled show
Defcends to meet our eyes below.
The grounds which on the right aspire,
In dimness from the view retire:
The left prefents a place of graves,
Whose wall the 'filent water laves.
That steeple guides thydoubtful fight
Among the livid gleams of night.
There pass with melancholy ftate,
By all the folemn heaps of fate,
And think, as foftly-fad you tread
Above the venerable dead,
Time was, like thee, they life poffeft,
And time fhall be, that thou shalt reft.
Thofe graves with bending ofier bound,
That nameless heave the crumbled ground,
Quick to the glancing thought disclose
Where toil and poverty repofe.
The flat smooth stones that bear a name,
The chiffel's flender help to fame,
(Which e'er our fet of friends decay,
Their frequent steps may wear away)
A middle race of mortals own,
Men, half ambitious, all unknown.
The marble tombs that rise on high,
Whose dead in waulted arches lye,
Whofe pillars fwell with fculptur'd ftones,
Arms, angels, epitaphs and bones,
Thefe (all the poor remains of state)
Adorn the rich, or praise the great;
Who while on earth in fame they live,
Are fenfeless of the fame they give.
Ha! while I gaze, pale Cynthia fades,
The bursting earth unveils the fhades!
All flow, and wan, and wrap'd with shrouds,
They rife in vifionary crouds,
And all with fober accent cry,
Think, mortal, what it is to die.
Now from yon black and fun'ral yew,
That bathes the charnel-houfe with dew,
Methinks I hear a voice begin;
(Ye ravens ceafe your croaking din,
Ye tolling clocks, no time refound
O'er the long lake and midnight ground)
It fends a peal of hollow groans,
Thus fpeaking from among the bones.
When men my scythe and darts supply,
How great a king of fears am I!
They view me like the last of things:
They make, and then they dread, my stings.
Fools! if you lefs provok'd your fears,
No more my spectre-form appears.
Death's but a path that must be trod,
If man wou'd ever pass to God:
A port of calms, a ftate of ease
From the rough rage of fwelling feas.
Why then thy flowing fable (toles,
Deep pendent cyprefs, mourning poles,
Loofe fcarfs to fall athwart thy weeds,
Long palls, drawn heries, cover'd steeds,
And plumes of black, that, as they tread,
Nod o'er the 'icutcheons of the dead?
Nor can the parted body know,
Nor wants the foul thefe forms of woe:
As men who long in prison dwell,
With lamps that glimmer round the cell,
Whene'er their fuff'ring years are run,
Spring forth to greet the glitt'ring fun :
Such joy, tho' far transcending sense,
Have pious fouls at parting hence.
On earth, and in the body plac'd,
A few, and evil years they wafte
But when their chains are cast aside,
See the glad fcene unfolding wide,
Clap the glad wing, and tow'r away,
And mingle with the blaze of day.
A HYMN to CONTENTMENT. By the fame
Lovely lafting peace of mind
Sweet delight of human kind!
Heav'nly born, and bred on high,
To crown the fav'rites of the sky
With more of happiness below
Than victors in a triumph know!
Whither, O whither art thou fled,
To lay thy meek contented head !
What happy region doft thou please
Ambition searches all its sphere
Of pomp and state to meet thee there.
Increafing avarice would find
Thy prefence in its gold infhrin'd.
The bold advent'rer ploughs his way,
Thro' rocks amidst the foaming fea,
To gain thy love; and then perceives
Thou wert not in the rocks and waves.
The filent heart which grief affails,
Treads foft and lonesome o'er the vales,
Sees daifies open, rivers run,
And feeks (as I have vainly done)
Amusing thought; but learns to know
That folitude's the nurse of woe.
No real happiness is found
In trailing purple o'er the ground:
Or in a foul exalted high,
To range the circuit of the sky,
Converse with stars above, and know
All nature in its forms below;
The rest it seeks, in seeking dyes,
And doubts at last for knowledge rise.
Lovely, lafting peace, appear
!
This world itself, if thou art here,
Is once again with Eden bless'd,
And man contains it in his breast.
'Twas thus, as under fhade I stood,
I fung my wishes to the wood,
And, loft in thought, no more perceiv'd
The branches whisper as they wav'd:
It feem'd, as all the quiet place
Confefs'd the presence of the grace.
When thus she spoke: Go, rule thy will,
Bid thy wild paffions all be still,
and bring thy heart to know
The joys which from religion flow:
Then ev'ry grace fhall prove its guest,
And I'll be there to crown the reft.
Oh! by yonder moffy feat,
In my hours of sweet retreat;
Might I thus my foul employ,
With fenfe of gratitude and joy :
Rais'd as ancient prophets were,
In heav'nly vifion, praife, and pray'r;
Pleafing all men, hurting none,
Pleas'd and bless'd with God alone :
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