« ÎnapoiContinuați »
Next day the fatal precedent will plead;
S E C T. XIX.
T thirty man suspects himself a fool ;
Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan;
Strikes thro’ their wounded hearts the sudden dread;
TIME is eternity; pregnant with all
Eternity can give ; pregnant with all
S E C T XXI.
ON LIFE'S STAGE.
LIFE's little stage is a small eminence,
Where dwells the multitude : We gaze around;
JUDGE before friendship, then confide till death a
A friend is worth all hazards we can run,
Know'st thou what a friend contains ?
Hast thou a friend to set thy mind abroach? Good fenfe will stagnate. Thoughts shut up want airs And spoil, like bales unopen’d to the fun. Had thought been all, sweet speech had been deny'd ; Speech, thought's canal ! speech, thought's criterion.
S E C T. XXIII.
How foon must he resign his very duft,
O my coevals! remnants of yourselves ! Poor human ruins, tottring o'er the grave ! Shall
we, shall aged men, like aged trees, Strike deeper their vile root, and closer cling, Still more enamour'd of this wretched foil ? Shall our pale, wither'd hands, be still stretch'd out, Trembling at once with eagerness and age ? With ar'rice and convulfions grasping hard ? Grasping at air ! for what has earth beside ?
ON THE OMNIPRESENCE OF THE DEITY.
My proftrate foul adores the present God :
Praise I a distant Deity ? He tunes my voice, The nerve that writes sustains. Wrap'd in his being, I resound his praise.
The nameless He, whose nod is Nature's birth, And Nature's shield the shadow of his hand ; Her diffolution his fufpended smile ! The great first, laft! Pavilion'd high he fits ; Looks down on all that foars, and spans immensity! Though night unnumber'd worlds unfolds to view, Boundless creation ! what art thou? A beam, A inere effluvium of his majesty.
Down to earth's centre should I send my thought, Thro’ beds of glittering ore, and glowing gems, Their beggar'd blaze wants lustre for my lay ; Goes out in darkness! If on tow'ring wing, I send it thro’ the boundless vault of itars!
The stars, tho' rich, what dross their gold to thee !
S E C T. XXV.
TO A LADY PLAYING UPON A LUTE.
THE trembling ftrings about her fingers crowd,
And tell their joy for every kiss aloud : Small force there needs to make them tremble so, Touch'd by that hand, who would not tremble too? Here Love takes stand, and while she charms the ear, Empties his quiver on the listening deer : Music so softens and disarms the mind, That not one arrow does resistance find : Thus the fair tyrant celebrates the prize, And aids herself the triumph of her eyes. So Nero once, with harp in hand, survey'd His flaming Rome, and as that burn'd he play'd.
O Liberty ! thou Goddess heavenly bright!
Profuse of bliss and pregnant with delight !