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Nay, thine is also cowardice ;

For noble minds disdain such vice;

Nor give the pow'rless pain.

rience what is termed, a good chase; and never were his feelings more shocked than to witness the piercing cries of the timid hare, when the ravenous hounds darted on their inoffensive prey. As to the much vaunted music of a pack, it may do very well for gentlemen, whose ears are enamoured of no softer tones than those which resound from the blacksmith's hammer, or the united brayings of a dozen asses. But for the writer, who rather pretends to have a little music in his soul, he is so tasteless on the score of yelping curs, as to find in the sounds nothing but dissonance and vile harshness. As the annotator has been speaking of cruelty, he cannot but add a few words on the score of cocking, which generally claims the attention of sportsmen; than which no pursuit can possibly prove more repugnant to the mind of feeling and sensibility; and when it is remembered that the great cockfighter, Mr. Ardesoif, in revenge for his bird having lost him a main, literally roasted the unfortunate creature alive, it will not be said, that the poet has overstretched the bounds of truth in speaking of the callosity of those minds which are swayed by pursuits of this nature.

L'ENVOY OF THE POET.

As custom will each mental bane ensure,
Root from thy soul the rank, corrosive weeds;
Nor, for thy pastimes, make the weak endure
Those pangs that stain thy heart with savage
deeds.

THE POET'S CHORUS TO FOOLS.

Come, trim the boat, row on each Rara Avis, Crowds flock to man my Stultifera Navis.

SECTION XXXIII.

OF FOOLS WHO PRETEND TO DESPISE

DEATH.

Summam nec metuas diem, nec optes.

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death.

THE senseless fool, who oft delights

To laugh at all religious rites,

And ridicule the grave:

Will, when the hour of death draws near
Find all his courage end in fear;
And be no longer brave*.

*Shakspeare, in Measure for Measure, has delivered the horrors that oppress the mind, on contemplating death, in so beautiful a style, that the writer conceives no apology necessary for the introduction of the lines under this head:

Like gay Voltaire*, whose shafts of wit
Religion's sacred altars hit,

And oft would death defy;

Claud. Death is a fearful thing.

Isab. And shamed life a hateful.

Claud. Ay, but to die, and go we know not where ;
To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot:
This sensible, warm motion, to become
A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit
To bathe in fiery floods; or to reside
In thrilling regions of thick ribbed ice,
To be imprison'd in the viewless winds,
And blown with restless violence round about
The pendent world; or, to be worse than worst
Of those, that lawless and incertain thoughts
Imagine howling!-'tis too horrible!

The weariest and most loathed worldly life,
That age, ache, penury, and imprisonment
Can lay on nature, is a paradise

To what we fear of death.

* This verse of the poet is not only applicable to the renowned and free thinking Voltaire, but may, with equal justice, be applied to the Rev. Dr. Dodd, who, in his writings, held up to derision all idea of terror at the contemplation of futurity; yet, when condemned himself, by the dread behest of justice, no individual ever evinced less firmness, on encountering his doom, than did

Who, when he drew his dying breath,
Although he'd scoff'd at God and death,
An atheist dar'd not die.

Thus, many a modern wit gives birth
To blasphemy and wicked mirth,
While health and pleasure reign;
But, sick in body, weak in mind,
These proud philosophers soon find
Their tenets all are vain.

*

that unfortunate delinquent, to whom the following lines from Rowe's Fair Penitent may be well applied.

Sci. Hast thou e'er dar'd to meditate on death?
Cal. I have, as on the end of shame and sorrow.
Sci. 'Tis not the stoic's lessons got by rote,

The pomp of words, and pedant dissertations,
That can sustain thee in that hour of terror:
Books have taught cowards to talk nobly of it:
But, when the trial comes, they stand aghast.

It is no very difficult matter to deride that which we have not experienced: but, in order to meet theblow of death with becoming calmness, we should ever keep the words of Persius in remembrance, who saith,

Vive memor lethi!

in which concentrates more sterling good, than all the

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