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And, chiefly thou, O fpirit! that doft prefer
Before all temples, th' upright heart and pute,
Inftru&t me, for thou know'ft: thou, from the firft,
Waft prefent, and with mighty wings outfpread,
Dove-like fat'ft brooding on the vast abyss,
And mad'ft it pregnant: what in me is dark,
Illumine; what is low raife and fupport;
That, to the height of this great argument,
I may affert eternal providence,
And justify the ways of God to men.



WEET AUBURN! parent of the blissful hour! Thy glades, forlorn, confefs the tyrant's pow'r. Here, as I take my folitary rounds,

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Amidft thy tangling walks, and ruin'd grounds;
And, many a year elaps'd, return to view

Where, once, the cottage ftood, the hawthorn grew;
Here, as with doubtful penfive fteps, I range.
Trace every scene, and wonder at the change;
Remembrance wakes, with all her busy train,
Swells at my breaft, and turns the past to pain.

In all my wand'rings round this world of care,
In all my griefs-and God has given my share-
I ftill had hopes, my latest hours to crown,
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down;
My anxious day to hufband near the close,
And keep life's flame from wafting, by repose:

I ftill had hopes (for pride attends us ftill)

Amidst the fwains, to fhew my book-learn'd fkill; Around my fire, an ev'ning group to draw,

And tell of all I felt, and all I faw:

And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue,
Pants to the place, from whence, at firft, fhe flew,
I still had hopes, my long vexations paft,
Here to return-and die at home at laft.

O BLEST retirement! friend to life's decline!
Retreats from care that never must be mine!
How bleft is he, who crowns, in fhades like these,
A youth of labour, with an age of eafe:
Who quits a world, where ftrong temptations try,
And, fince 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly.
For him, no wretches, born to work and weep,
Explore the mine, or tempt the dang'rous deep
No furly porter ftands, in guilty ftate,
To fpurn imploring famine from his gate;
But on he moves to meet his latter end,
Angels around befriending virtue's friend;
Sinks to the grave, with unperceiv'd decay,
While refignation gently flopes the flopes the way;
And, all his profpects bright'ning to the laft,
His heaven commences, ere the world be past!




Y the blue taper's trembling light,

B No more I waste the wakeful night,

Intent, with endless view, to pore
The schoolmen and the fages o'er :

Their books from wifdom widely ftray;
Or point, at beft, the longest 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 lie ;
While, thro' their ranks, in filver pride,
The nether crescent seems to guide.
The flumb'ring breeze forgets to breathe;
'The lake is fmooth and clear beneath,
Where, once again, the spangled show,
Defcends to meet our eyes below.
The grounds, which on the right afpire,
In dimnefs from the view retire:
The left, prefents a place of graves,
Whose wall the filent water laves.
That fteeple guides thy doubtful fight
Among the livid gleams of night.
There, pafs, 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 poffefs'd;
"And time fhall be, that thou shalt reft."
THOSE with bending ofier bound,
That, nameless, have the crumbled ground,
Quick, to the glancing thought, disclose
Where toil and poverty repofe.

THB flat fmooth ftones that bear a name,
The chiffel's flender help to fame
(Which, ere our fet of friends decay,
The frequent steps may wear away)
A middle race of mortals own;
Men, half ambitious, all unknown.


THE marble tombs, that rife on high,"
Whofe dead in vaulted arches lie,
Whofe pillars fwell with fculptur'd ftones,
Arms, angels, epitaphs and bones,
Thefe (all the poor remains of ftate)
Adorn the rich, or praise the great;
Who, while on earth in fame they live,
Are fenfelefs of the fame they give.

HA! while I gaze, pale Cynthia fades ;
The bursting earth unveils the fhades:
All flow, and wan, and wrapt with shrouds,
They rife, in vifionary crowds;

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-house with dew,
Methinks I hear a voice begin;
(Ye ravens, cease 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.fcythe and darts supply, "How great a king of fears am I!

"They view me like the laft of things:


They make, and, then, they dread, my ftings. "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 would ever pafs to God;
"A port of calms, a state of ease,
"From the rough rage of fwelling feas.
Why, then, thy flowing fable ftoles,
"Deep pendent cyprefs, mourning poles,


"Loofe fcarfs to fall athwart thy weeds,
"Long palls, drawn hearfes, cover'd fteeds,
"And plumes of black, that, as they tread,
"Nod o'er the "fcutcheons of the dead?
"Nor can the parted body know,

"Nor wants the foul, these forms of woe.
"As men, who long in prifon 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 tranfcending fenfe,"
"Have pious fouls at parting hence.
"On earth, and in the body plac'd,
"A few, and evil years they waste :
"But, when their chains are cast aside,
"See the glad.fcene unfolding wide,

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Was never.

OW ftorming fury rofe,

And clamour, fuch as heard in heav'n till now,
Arms on armour, clashing, bray'd

Horrible difcord; and the madding wheels
Of brazen chariots rag'd. Dire was the noise
Of conflict. Over-head, the dismal hifs
Of fiery darts, in flaming vollies flew ;
And, flying, vaulted either hoft with fire.
So, under fiery cope, together rush'd


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