That queen of nations! whose superior call

Rous'd the broad East, and bid her arms destroy! When warm'd to mirth, let judgment mark her fall, And deep reflection dash the lip of joy.

Short is Ambition's gay deceitful dream;

Tho' wreaths of blooming laurel bind her brow; Calm thought dispels the visionary scheme,

And Time's cold breath dissolves the withering bough.

Slow as some miner saps th' aspiring tower, When working secret with destructive aim, Unseen, unheard, thus moves the stealing hour, But works the fall of empire, pomp, and name. Then let thy pencil mark the traits of man,

Full in the draught be keen-ey'd Hope pourtrayed, Let fluttering Cupids crowd the growing plan :

Then give one touch and dash it deep with shade. Beneath the plume that flames with glancing rays Be Care's deep engines on the soul impress'd; Beneath the helmet's keen refulgent blaze

Let Grief sit pining in the canker'd breast.

Let Love's gay sons, a smiling train, appear,

With Beauty pierc'd-yet heedless of the dart; While closely couch'd, pale sickening Envy near Whets her fell sting, and points it at the heart. Perch'd like a raven on some blasted yew,

Let guilt revolve the thought-distracting sin! Scar'd while her eyes survey the etherial blue, Lest heaven's strong lightning burst the dark within. Then paint impending o'er the maddening deep That rock where heart-struck Sappho, vainly brave, Stood, firm of soul-then from the dizzy steep Impetuous sprung, and dash'd the boiling wave. Here wrapt in studious thought let Fancy rove, Still prompt to mark Suspicion's secret snare; To see where Anguish nips the bloom of Love, Or trace proud Grandeur to the domes of Care.

Should e'er Ambition's towering hopes inflame,
Let judging Reason draw the veil aside;
Or, fir'd with envy at some mighty name,
Read o'er the monument that tells-He died.

What are the ensigns of imperial sway,

What all that Fortune's liberal hand has brought! Teach they the voice to pour a sweeter lay? Or rouse the soul to more exalted thought!

When bleeds the heart as Genius blooms unknown, When melts the eye o'er Virtue's mournful bier: Not wealth, but pity, swells the bursting groan; Not power, but whispering Nature, prompts the tear.

Say, gentle mourner, in yon mouldy vault,

Where the worm fattens on some scepter'd brow, Beneath that roof with sculptur'd marble fraught, Why sleeps unmov'd the breathless dust below?

Sleeps it more sweetly than the simple swain,

Beneath some mossy turf that rests his head; Where the lone widow tells the night her pain, And eve with dewy tears embalms the dead?

The lily, screen'd from every ruder gale,

Courts not the cultur'd spot where roses spring: But blows neglected in the peaceful vale,

And scents the zephyr's balmy-breathing wing.

The busts of grandeur and the pomp of power,
Can these bid Sorrow's gushing tears subside?
Can these avail in that tremendous hour,

When Death's cold hand congeals the purple tide?

Ah, no! the mighty names are heard no more: Pride's thought sublime, and Beauty's kindling bloom,

Serve but to sport one flying moment o'er,

And swell with pompous verse the escutcheon'd tomb.

For me-may passion ne'er my soul invade,

Nor be the whims of towering Phrenzy given; Let wealth ne'er court me from the peaceful shade, Where Contemplation wings the soul to Heaven!

Oh! guard me safe from Joy's enticing snare!
With each extreme that Pleasure tries to hide,
The poison'd breath of slow-consuming Care,
The noise of Folly, and the dreams of Pride.

But oft when midnight's sadly solemn knell
Sounds long and distant from the sky-topt tower,
Calm let me sit in Prosper's lonely cell,

Or walk with Milton thro' the dark obscure.

Thus, when the transient dream of life is fled
May some sad friend recal the former years;
stretch'd in silence o'er my dusty bed,
Pour the warm gush of sympathetic tears!

The

See Shakespeare's Tempest.

DEATH.

BY DR. PORTEUS, BISHOP OF LONDON.

FRIEND to the wretch whom every friend forsakes,

I woo thee, Death! in Fancy's fairy paths
Let the gay songster rove, and gently trill
The strain of empty joy. Life and its joys
I leave to those that prize them. At this hour,
This solemn hour, when silence rules the world,
And wearied nature makes a general pause;
Wrapt in night's sable robe, thro' cloisters drear
And charnels pale, tenanted by a throng
Of meagre phantoms shooting cross my path
With silent glance, I seek the hadowy vale
Of Death. Deep in a murky cave's recess,
Lav'd by Oblivion's listless stream, and fenc'd
By shelving rocks, and intermingled horrors
Of yew and cypress shade, from all intrusion
Of busy noontide beam, the Monarch sits
In unsubstantial majesty enthron'd.
At his right hand, nearest himself in place
And fruitfulness of form, his parent Sin,
With fatal industry and cruel care
Busies herself in pointing all his stings,
And tipping every shaft with venom drawn
From her infernal store: around him rang'd
In terrible array, and mixture strange
Of uncouth shapes, stand his dread ministers.
Foremost Old Age, his natural ally

And firmest friend; next him diseases thick,
A motly train; Fever with cheek of fire;
Consumption wan; Palsy, half-warm with life,
And half a clay-cold lump; joint-tort'ring Gout,
And ever-gnawing Rheum; Convulsion wild;

74

Swoln Dropsy; panting Asthma; Apoplex

Full-gorg'd. There too the Pestilence that walks
In darkness, and the Sickness that destroys

At broad noon-day. These, and a thousand more,
Horrid to tell, attentive wait; and, when

By Heaven's command Death waves his ebon wand,
Sudden rush forth to execute his purpose,
And scatter desolation o'er the Earth.

Ill-fated Man, for whom such various forms
Of misery wait, and mark their future prey!
Ah! why, all-righteous Father, didst thou make
This creature, Man? Why wake the unconscious dust
To life and wretchedness? O better far

Still had he slept in uncreated night,
If this the lot of being! Was it for this
Thy breath divine kindled within his breast
The vital flame? For this was thy fair image
Stampt on his soul in godlike lineaments?
For this dominion given him absolute
O'er all thy works, only that he might reign
Supreme in woe? From the blest source of Good
Could Pain and Death proceed? Could such foul ills
Fall from fair Mercy's hands? Far be the thought,
The impious thought! God never made a creature
But what was good. He made a living Soul;
The wretched Mortal was the work of Man.
Forth from his Maker's hands he sprung to life,
Fresh with immortal bloom; no pain he knew,
No fear of change, no check to his desires,
Save one command. That one command, which stood
'Twixt him and Death, the test of his obedience,
Urg'd on by wanton curiosity,

He broke. There in one moment was undone
The fairest of God's works. The same rash hand,
That pluck'd in evil hour the fatal fruit,
Unbarr'd the gates of Hell, and let loose Sin
And Death, and all the family of Pain,
To prey upon Mankind. Young Nature saw
The monstrous crew, and shook thro' all her frame.
Then fled her new-born lustre, then began