Nor does this science make thy crown alone,
But whole Apollo is thine own ;
His gentler arts, belov'd in vain by me,
Are wedded and enjoy'd by thee.

Thou 'rt by this noble mixture free
From the phyficians' frequent malady,

Fantastic incivility :

There are who all their patients' chagrin have,
As if they took each morn worfe potions than they gave.
And this great race of learning thou haft run,

Ere that of life be half yet done;

Thou fee'ft thyself still fresh and strong,
And like t' enjoy thy conquests long.
The first fam'd aphorifm thy great master spoke,
Did he live now he would revoke,

And better things of man report;

For thou doft make Life long, and Art but short.
Ah, learned friend! it grieves me, when I think
That thou with all thy art muft die,

As certainly as I;

And all thy noble reparations fink

Into the fure-wrought mine of treacherous mortality.
Like Archimedes, honourably in vain,

Thou hold ft out towns that must at last be ta'en,
And thou thyfelf, their great defender, flain.
Let's e'en compound, and for the prefent live,
'Tis all the ready-money Fate can give ;

Unbend

Unbend sometimes thy reftlefs care,
And let thy friends so happy be

T' enjoy at once their health and thee:

Some hours, at least, to thine own pleasures fpare:
Since the whole stock may soon exhausted be,

Bestow 't not all in charity.

Let Nature and let Art do what they please,

When all 's done, Life is an incurable disease.

Ο

H, Life! thou Nothing's younger brother!
So like, that one might take one for the other
What 's fomebody, or nobody?

In all the cobwebs of the fchoolmen's trade,
We no fuch nice diftinction woven fee,

As 'tis" to be," or "not to be."

'Dream of a fhadow! a reflection made
From the falfe glories of the gay reflected bow,
Is a more folid thing than thou.

Vain, weak-built ifthmus, which doft proudly rife

Up betwixt two eternities !

Yet canft nor wave nor wind sustain,

But, broken and o’erwhelm'd, the endless oceans meet

again.

And with what rare inventions do we strive

Ourfelves then to furvive?

Wife, fubtle arts, and fuch as well befit

That Nothing Man's no wit!—

Some with vast coftly tombs would purchase it,
And by the proofs of death pretend to live.

Here lies the great"-false marble! where?
Nothing but small and fordid duft lies there.-
Some build enormous mountain-palaces,
The fools and architects to please;

A lafting life in well-hewn ftone they rear:
So he, who on th' Egyptian fhore

Was flain fo many hundred years before,
Lives ftill (oh Life! moft happy and most dear!
Oh Life! that epicures envy to hear!)

Lives in the dropping ruins of his amphitheatre.

His father-in-law an higher place does claim
In the feraphic entity of fame;

He, fince that toy his death,

Does fill all mouths, and breathes in all men's breath. 'Tis true, the two immortal fyllables remain; But oh, ye learned men! explain

What effence, what existence, this,

What fubftance, what fubfiftence, what hypoftafis,
In fix poor letters is !

In those alone does the great Cæfar live,

'Tis all the conquer'd world could give.
We Poets, madder yet than all,

With a refin'd fantastic vanity,

Think we not only have, but give, eternity.

Fain would I fee that prodigal,

Who

Who his to-morrow would bestow,

For all old Homer's life, e'er fince he dy'd, till now!

I

Leave mortality, and things below;

I have no time in compliments to waste;
Farewell to' ye all in hafte,

For I am call'd to go.

A whirlwind bears-up my dull feet,

Th' officious clouds beneath them meet;

And lo! I mount, and lo!

How small the biggest parts of earth's proud title show!

'Where fhall I find the noble British land?

'Lo! I at laft a northern speck espy,

Which in the fea does lie,

And feems a grain o' th' fand!
For this will any fin, or bleed.?
Of civil wars is this the.meed?

And is it this, alas! which we
(Oh irony of words!) do call Great Britanie?

I pass by th' arched magazines which hold
Th' eternal ftores of froft, and rain, and snow;
Dry and fecure I go,

Nor shake with fear or cold:

Without affright or wonder

I meet clouds charg'd with thunder,

And lightnings, in my way,

Like harmless lambent fires about my temples play.

Now

Now into' a gentle fea of rolling flame

I'm plung'd, and ftill mount higher there,
As flames mount up through air

So perfect, yet so tame,

So great, so pure, so bright a fire,

Was that unfortunate defire,

My faithful breast did cover,

Then, when I was of late a wretched mortal lover.

Through feveral orbs which one fair planet bear,
Where I behold diftinctly as I pass

The hints of Galileo's glafs,

I touch at last the spangled fphere :
Here all th' extended sky

Is but one galaxy,

'Tis all fo bright and gay,

And the joint eyes of night make up a perfect day.

Where am I now? Angels, and God is here;
An unexhausted ocean of delight

Swallows my fenfes quite,

And drowns all What, or How, or Where!'
Not Paul, who firft did thither pass,
And this great world's Columbus was,

The tyrannous pleasure could express.

Oh, 'tis too much for man! but let it ne'er be lefs !

The mighty' Elijah mounted fo on high,
That second man who leap'd the ditch where all
The rest of mankind fall,

And went not downwards to the fky!

With