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TIROCINIU M.

İt is not from his form, in which we trace Strength join' with beauty, dignity with grace; That man, the master of this globe, derives His right of empire over all that lives. That form, indeed, th’ affociate of a mind Vast in its pow'rs, ethereal in its kind, That form, the labour of almighty skill, Fram'd for the service of a free-born will, Afferts precedence, and bespeaks control, But borrows all its grandeur from the soul. Here is the state, the splendour, and the throne, An intellectual kingdom, all her own.

For her the mem'ry fills her ample page
With truths pour'd down from ev'ry distantage ;
For her amasses an unbounded store,
The wisdom of great nations, now no more:
Though laden, not incumber'd with her spoil ;
Laborious, yet unconscious of her toil;
When copiously supplied, then most enlarg’d;
Still to be fed, and not to be surcharg'd.
For her the fancy, roving unconfin'd,
The present muse of ev'ry pensive mind,
Works magic wonders, adds a brighter hue
To nature's scenes than nature ever knew.

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At her command winds rise and waters roar,

Again she-lays them slụmb’ring on the shore;
With flow'r and fruit the wilderness supplies,
Or bids the rocks in ruder

arise.
For her the judgment, umpire in the strife
That grace and nature have to wage through life,
Quick-lighted arbiter of good and ill,
Appointed fage preceptor to the will,

pomp

Condemns, approves, and with a faithful voice
Guides the decision of a doubtful choice.

Why did the fiat of a God give birth To yon

fair fun and his attendant earth? And, when descending he resigns the skies, Why takes the gentler moon her turn to rise, Whom ocean feels through all his countless waves, And owns her pow'r on ev'ry shore he laves? Why do the seasons ftill enrich the year, Fruitful and young as in their first career? Spring hangs her infant blossoms on the trees,

Rock'd in the cradle of the western breeze;

Summer in haste the thriving charge receives
Beneath the shade of her expanded leaves,
'Till autumn's fiercer heats and plenteous dews
Dye them at laft in all their glowing hues.-
'Twere wild profusion all, and bootless waste,
Pow'r misemploy'd, munificence misplac'd,

Had not its author dignified the plan, And crown'd it with the majesty of man. Thus form’d, thus plac'd, intelligent, and taught, Look where he will, the wonders God has wrought, The wildest scorner of his Maker's laws Finds in a fober moment time to pause, To press th' important question on his heart, “ Why form’d at all, and wherefore as thou art ?" If man be what he seems--this hour a Nave, The next mere dust and ashes in the grave; Endu'd with reason only to descry His crimes and follies with an aching eye ; With passions, just that he may prove, with pain, The force he spends against their fury vain ; And if, soon after having burnt, by turns, With ev'ry lust with which frail nature burns, His being end where death diffolves the bond, The tomb take all, and all be blank beyondThen he, of all that nature has brought farth, Stands self-impeach'd the creature of least worth,

And, useless while he lives, and when he dies,
Brings into doubt the wisdom of the skies.

Truths that the learn'd pursue with eager thought Are not important always as dear-bought, Proving at last, though told in pompous strains, A childish waste of philofophic pains ; But truths on which depends our main concern, That 'tis our shame and mis’ry not to learn, Shine by the side of ev'ry path we tread With such a lustre, he that runs may read. 'Tis true that, if to trifle life

away Down to the sun-set of their latest day, Then perish on futurity's wide shore Like fleeting exhalations, found no more, Were all that Heav'n requir'd of human kind, And all the plan their destiny design'd, What none could rev'rence all might justly blame, And man would breathe but for his Maker's shame.

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