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More rich, more wife. But, who infers from hence That fuch are happier, fhocks all common sense, Heav'n to mankind impartial we confess,

If all are equal in their happiness.

But mutual wants this happiness increafe:
All nature's diff'rence keeps all nature's peace.
Condition, circumftance, is not the thing:
Blifs is the fame, in fubject, or in king;
In who obtain defence, or who defend ;
In him who is, or him who finds, a friend.
FORTUNE her gifts may variously dispose,
And these be happy call'd, unhappy thofe ;
But heav'n's just balance equal will appear,
While thofe are placed in hope, and these in fear:
Not prefent good or ill, the joy or curse,
But future views of better, or of worse.

Oн fons of earth! attempt ye ftill to rife,
By mountains pil'd on mountains, to the fkies?
Heav'n ftill, with laughter, the vain toil furveys,
And buries madmen in the heaps they raise.

KNow, all the good that individuals find,
Or God and Nature meant to mere mankind,
Reafon's whole pleasure, all the joys of sense,

Lie in three words-Health, Peace, and Competence.





TILL, shall unthinking man, fubftantial deem


The forms, that fleet through life's deceitful dream? On clouds, where fancy's beam amufive plays, Shall heedlefs hope the towering fabric raife? M 5


Till, at death's touch, the fairy vifions fly,
And real fcenes rufh difinal on the eye;
And, from Elyfium's balmy flumber torn,
The ftartled foul awakes, to think, and mourn.

O YE! whofe hours in jocund train advance,
Whose spirits to the fong of gladness dance,
Who flowery vales in endless view furvey,
Glittering in beams of vifionary day,

O! yet, while fate delays th' impending woe,
Be roused to thought, anticipate the blow;
Left, like the lightning's glance, the fu¬den ill
Flash to confound, and penetrate to kill;
Left thus encompafs'd with funereal gloom,
Like me, ye bend o'er fome untimely tomb,
Pour your wild ravings in night's frighted ear,
And half pronounce heaven's facred doom severe.
WISE, beauteous, good! O every grace combined,
That charms the eye, or captivates the mind!
Fair, as the floweret opening on the morn,
Whofe leaves bright drops of liquid pearl adorn!
Sweet, as the downy-pinion'd gale, that roves
To gather fragrance in Arabian groves!
Mild, as the ftrains, that, at the clofe of day,
Warbling remote, along the vales decay!

Yet, why with these compared? What tints so fine,
What fweetness, mildness, can be match'd with thine!
Why roam abroad? Since ftill, to Fancy's eyes,

I fee, I fee, thy lovely form arise.

Still let me gaze, and every care beguile,
Gaze on that cheek, where all the graces fmile;
The foul-expreffing eye, benignly bright,
Where meeknefs beams ineffable delight;
That brow, where wisdom fits enthroned ferene,
Each feature forms, and dignifies the mien :

Still let me liften, while her words impart
The sweet effufions of the blameless heart,
Till all my foul, each tumult charm'd away,
Yields, gently led, to virtue's easy sway.

By thee infpir'd, O virtue! age is young,
And mufic warbles from the faltering tongue;
Thy ray, creative, cheers the clouded brow,
And decks the faded cheek with rofy glow;
Brightens the joylefs afpect, and fupplies
Pure heavenly luftre to the languid eyes:
But, when youth's living bloom reflects thy beams,
Resistless on the view the glory ftreams,
Love, wonder, joy, alternately alarm,
And beauty dazzles with angelic charm.

AH! whither fled ?-ye dear illufions! ftay-
Lo! pale and filent lies the lovely clay.-
How are the roses on that cheek decay'd,
Which late the purple light of youth display'd!
Health on her form each sprightly grace bestow'd;
With life and thought each speaking feature glow'd :
Fair was the flower, and foft the vernal sky;
Elate with hope, we deem'd no tempest nigh;
When, lo!-a whirlwind's inftantaneous guft
Left all its beauties withering in the duft.

ALL cold the hand, that footh'd woe's weary head! ́
And quench'd the eye, the pitying tear that shed!
And mute the voice, whofe pleasing accents stole,
Infufing balm, into the rankled foul !

O death! why arm with cruelty thy power,
And spare the idle weed, yet lop the flower?
Why fly thy fhafts in lawless error driven ?
Is virtue, then, no more the care of heaven?-
But, peace, bold thought! be ftill-my bursting heart!
We, not ELIZA, felt the fatal dart.


'Scap'd the dark dungeon, does the flave complain,
Nor blefs the hand that broke the galling chain?
Say, pines not virtue for the lingering morn,
On this dark wild condemn'd to roam forlorn?
Where reafon's meteor-rays, with fickly glow,
O'er the dun gloom a dreadful glimm 'ring throw;
Difclofing, dubious, to th' affrighted eye,
O'erwhelming mountains tottering from on high,
Black billowy feas in ftorm perpetual tofs'd,
And weary ways in wildering labyrinths loft ?
O happy ftroke! that buift the bonds of clay;
Darts, through the rending gloom, the blaze of day;
And wings the foul, with boundless flight, to foar,
Where dangers threat, and fears alarm no more.

TRANSPORTING thought! Here let me wipe away
The tear of grief, and wake a bolder lay.-
But, ah! the swimming eye o'erflows anew:
Nor check the facred drops to pity due,

Lo! where, in fpeechlefs, hopeless anguish, bend
O'er her lov'd duft, the parent brother, friend:
How vain the hope of man!-But, cease thy ftrain;
Nor forrow's dead folemnity profane :

Mix'd with yon drooping mourners, on her bier,
In filence, fhed the fympathetic tear.

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E wife to-day. 'Tis madnefs to defer. Next day the fatal precedent will plead: Thus on-till wifdom is pufh'd out of life.

Procraftination is the thief of time:
Year after year it fteals, till all are fled;
And, to the mercies of a moment, leaves
The vaft concerns of an eternal scene.

ALL promife is poor dilatory man;

And that thro' every stage. When young, indeed,
In full content, we, fometimes, nobly rett,
Un-anxious for ourselves; and only with,
As duteous fons, our fathers were more wife.
At thirty, man fufpects himself a fool;
Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan:
At fifty, chides his infamous delay;
Pushes his prudent purpose to refolve:
In all the magnanimity of thought,
Refolves, and re-refolves-then dies the fame!






WAKE, my fair! the morning springs ;
The dew-drops glance around :

The heifer lows; the blackbird fings;

The echoing hills refound.

The fimple fweets, would Stella taste,
That breathing morning yields;.
The fragrance of the flow'ry waste,
And freshness of the fields;

By uplands, and the green-wood fide,
We'll take our early way,



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