But as her beams reflected pafs

Through our own Nature or Ill-custom's glass

And 'tis no wonder, fo,

If with dejected eye

In standing pools we seek the sky,

That stars, fo high above, should seem to us below.

Can we stand by and fee

Our mother robb'd, and bound, and ravish'd be,
Yet not to her assistance stir,

Pleas'd with the strength and beauty of the ravisher?
Or fhall we fear to kill him, if before

The cancel'd name of friend he bore ?
Ingrateful Brutus do they call?

Ingrateful Cæfar, who could Rome enthrall!
An act more barbarous and unnatural
(In th' exact balance of true virtue try'd)
Than his fucceffor Nero's parricide!

There's none but Brutus could deferve

That all men else should wish to serve,

And Cæfar's ufurp'd place to him should proffer; None can deserve 't but he who would refuse the offer..

Ill Fate affum'd a body thee t' affright,

And wrap'd itself i' th' terrors of the night:
"I'll meet thee at Philippi," said the fprite;
"I'll meet thee there," faidft thou,
With fuch a voice, and fuck a brow,
As put the trembling ghoft to fudden flight;
It vanished, as a taper's light

Goes out when spirits appear in fight..
D 2

One

One would have thought 't heard the morning crow,
Or feen her well-appointed star
Come marching up the Eaftern hill afar.
Nor durft it in Philippi's field appear,

But unfeen attack'd thee there :

Had it prefum'd in any fhape thee to oppose,
Thou would'st have forc'd it back upon thy foes:
Or flain 't, like Cæfar, though it be

A conqueror and a monarch mightier far than he.

What joy can human things to us afford,
When we fee perifh thus, by odd events,

Ill men, and wretched accidents,

The best cause and beft man that ever drew a fword? When we fee

The falle Octavius and wild Antony,

God-like Brutus! conquer thee?

What can we fay, but thine own tragic word-
That Virtue, which had worship'd been by thee
As the most folid Good, and greatest Deity,

By this fatal proof became

An idol only, and a name.

Hold, noble Brutus ! and restrain
The bold voice of thy generous disdain:

Thefe mighty gulphs are yet

Too deep for all thy judgment and thy wit.
The time 's fet forth already which shall quell
Stiff Reason, when it offers to rebel;

Which these great fecrets shall unseal,
And new philofophies reveal a

$

A few

A few years more, fo foon hadft thou not dy'd,
Would have confounded human Virtue's pride,
And fhew'd thee a God crucify'd.

H

TO DR. SCARBOROUGH.

OW long, alas! has our mad nation been
Of epidemic war the tragic scene,

When Slaughter all the while

Seem'd like its fea, embracing round the isle,
With tempefts, and red waves, noise, and affright!
Albion no more, nor to be nam'd from white!
What province or what city did it spare ?
It, like a plague, infected all the air.
Sure the unpeopled land

Would now untill'd, defert, and naked stand,
Had God's all-mighty hand

At the fame time let loofe Difeafes' rage
Their civil wars in man to wage.

But thou by Heaven wert sent

This defolation to prevent,

A medicine, and a counter-poison, to the age.
Scarce could the fword dispatch more to the grave
Than thou didst fave;

By wondrous art, and by fuccessful care,
The ruins of a civil war thou doft alone repair!

The inundations of all liquid Pain,

And deluge Dropfy, thou dost drain.

Fevers, fo hot that one would say

Thou might'st as foon hell-fires allay
(The damn'd scarce more incurable than they)
Thou doft fo temper, that we find,

Like gold, the body but refin'd,
No unhealthful drofs behind.

The fubtle Ague, that for sureness' fake
Takes its own times th' affault to make,
And at each battery the whole fort does shake,
When thy ftrong guards, and works, it spies,
Trembles for itself, and flies.

The cruel Stone, that reftlefs pain,

That 's fometimes roll'd away in vain, But ftill, like Syfiphus's ftone, returns again, Thou break'st and melteft by learn'd juices' force (A greater work, though short the way appear, 'Than Hannibal's by vinegar!)

Oppreffed Nature's neceffary course

It stops in vain ; like Mofes, thou

Strik'ft but the rock, and strait the waters freely flow.

The Indian fon of Luft (that foul disease

Which did on this his new-found world but lately

Yet fince a tyranny has planted here,

As wide and cruel as the Spaniard there)
Is fo quite rooted-out by thee,

That thy patients feem to be

Reftor'd not to health only, but virginity.

The

The Plague itself, that proud imperial ill,
Which destroys towns, and does whole armies kill,
If thou but fuccour the befieged heart,

Calls all its poifons forth, and does depart,

As if it fear'd no lefs thy art,

Than Aaron's incenfe, or than Phineas' dart.
What need there here repeated be by me
The vast and barbarous lexicon

Of man's infirmity ?

At thy ftrong charms it must be gone
Though a disease, as well as devil, were called Legion.

From creeping mofs to foaring cedar thou
Doft all the powers and several portions know,
Which father-Sun, and mother-Earth below,
On their green infants here beftow :

Cansft all those magic virtues from them draw,
That keep Disease and Death in awe;

Who, whilft thy wondrous skill in plants they fee,
Fear left the tree of life should be found out by thee.
And thy well-travel'd knowledge, too, does give
No lefs account of th' empire sensitive;
Chiefly of man, whose body is

That active foul's metropolis.

As the great artist in his sphere of glafs
Saw the whole scene of heavenly motions pass;
So thou know'ft all fo well that 's done within,
As if fome living crystal man thou 'dst seen.