To Dr. THOMAS GIBSON.

The Life of Souls.

SWIFT as the fun revolves the day

We haften to the dead,

Slaves to the wind we puff away,

And to the ground we tread.

'Tis air that lends us life, when first

The vital bellows heave:

Our flesh we borrow of the duft;

And when a mother's care has nurft
The babe to manly fize, we muft
With ufury pay the grave.

Rich juleps drawn from precious ore

Still tend the dying flame:

And plants, and roots, of barbarous name,
Torn from the Indian fhore.

Thus we fupport our tottering flesh,

Our cheeks resume the rose afresh, When bark and fteel play well their game

To fave our finking breath,

And Gibson, with his awful power,

Refcues the poor precarious hour

From the demands of death.

1704

But

But art and nature, powers and charms,
And drugs, and recipes, and forms,
Yield us, at laft, to greedy worms

A despicable prey;

I'd have a life to call my own,

That fhall depend on heaven alone;
Nor air, nor earth, nor fea
Mix their base effences with mine,
Nor claim dominion fo divine

To give me leave to Be.

Sure there's a mind within, that reigns
O'er the dull current of my veins;
I feel the inward pulfe beat high
With vigorous immortality.

Let earth resume the flesh it gave,
And breath diffolve amongst the winds;
Gibson, the things that fear a grave,
That I can lofe, or you can fave,
Are not akin to minds.

We claim acquaintance with the skies,
Upward our spirits hourly rife,

And there our thoughts employ:

When heaven fhall fign our grand release,
We are no ftrangers to the place,

The bufinefs, or the joy.

FALSE

FALSE GREATNESS.

YLO, forbear to call him bleft

MYLO,

That only boasts a large estate,
Should all the treasures of the Weft
Meet, and conspire to make him great.
I know thy better thoughts, I know
Thy reafon can't defcend fo low.
Let a broad ftream with golden fands
Through all his meadows roll,
He's but a wretch, with all his lands,
That wears a narrow foul.

He fwells amidst his wealthy ftore,
And proudly poizing what he weighs,
In his own scale he fondly lays
Huge heaps of fhining ore.

He spreads the balance wide to hold

His manors and his farms,

And cheats the beam with loads of gold

He hugs between his arms.

So might the plough-boy climb a tree,
When Crofus mounts his throne,
And both stand up, and smile to fee
How long their fhadow 's grown.

Alas! how vain their fancies be
To think that shape their own!

Thus

Thus mingled still with wealth and state,

Crofus himself can never know;
His true dimensions and his weight
Are far inferior to their fhow.
Were I fo tall to reach the pole,
Or grasp the ocean with my span,
I must be measur'd by my foul:
The mind's the ftandard of the man.

Το

SARISSA.

An EPISTLE.

EAR up, Sariffa, through the ruffling ftorms

BEAR

Of a vain vexing world: Tread down the cares Those ragged thorns that lie across the road, Nor spend a tear upon them. Truft the Mufe, She fings experienc'd truth: This briny dew, This rain of eyes will make the briars grow. We travel through a defert, and our feet Have meafur'd a fair space, have left behind A thousand dangers, and a thousand fnares Well fcap'd. Adieu, ye horrors of the dark, Ye finish'd labours, and ye tedious toils Of days and hours: The twinge of real smart, And the falfe terrors of ill boding dreams Vanish together, be alike forgot,

For ever blended in one common grave.

Fare

Farewell, ye waxing and ye waning moons,
That we have watch'd behind the flying clouds
On night's dark hill, or fetting or afcending,
Or in meridian height: Then filence reign'd
O'er half the world; then ye beheld our tears,
Ye witness'd our complaints, our kindred groans,
(Sad harmony!) while with your beamy horns
Or richer orb ye filver'd o'er the green

Where trod our feet, and lent a feeble light

To mourners. Now ye have fulfill'd your round,
Thofe hours are fled, farewell. Months that are gone
Are gone for ever, and have borne away

Each his own load. Our woes and forrows paft,
Mountainous woes, ftill leffen as they fly
Far off. So billows in a' ftormy fea,
Wave after wave (a long fucceffion) roll
Beyond the ken of fight: The failors fafe
Look far a-ftern till they have loft the storm,
And fhout their boisterous joys. A gentler Mufe
Sings thy dear fafety, and commands thy cares
To dark oblivion; bury'd deep in night
Lofe them, Sariffa, and affift my fong.

Awake thy voice, fing how the flender line
Of fate's immortal Now divides the paft
From all the future, with eternal bars
Forbidding a return. The paft temptations
No more fhall vex us; every grief we feel
Shortens the deftin'd number; every pulse
Beats a harp moment of the pain away,
N