"But virtue can itself advance

"To what the fav'rite fools of chance

By fortune seem'd design'd:

"Virtue can gain the odds of fate,

" And from itself shake off the weight "Upon th' unworthy mind."

A NIGHT-PIECE ON DEATH.

B

By the Same.

Y the blue taper's trembling light,
No more I waste the wakeful night,

Intent with endless view to pore
The schoolmen and the sages o'er :
Their books from wisdom widely stray,
Or point at best the longest way.
I'll feek a readier path, and go
Where wisdom's surely taught below.
How deep yon azure dies the sky!
Where orbs of gold unnumber'd lye,
While thro' their ranks in filver pride
The nether crefcent seems to glide.
The slumb'ring breeze forgets to breathe,
The lake is smooth and clear beneath,
Where once again the spangled show
Descends to meet our eyes below.

The

The grounds which on the right aspire,
In dimness from the view retire:
The left presents a place of graves,
Whose wall the filent water laves.
That steeple guides thy doubtful fight
Among the livid gleams of night.
There pass with melancholy state,
By all the folemn heaps of fate;
And think, as foftly-fad you tread
Above the venerable dead,
Time was, like thee they life poffeft,
And time shall be, that thou shalt rest.

Those graves, with bending ofsier bound,
That nameless heave the crumbled ground,
Quick to the glancing thought disclose,
Where toil and poverty repose.

The flat smooth stones that bear a name,
The chiffel's flender help to fame,
(Which ere our set of friends decay
Their frequent steps may wear away ;)
A midile race of mortals own,
Men, half ambitious, all unknown.
The marble tombs that rise on high,
Whose dead in vaulted arches lie,
Whose pillars fwell with sculptur'd stones,
Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones;
These, all the poor remains of state,
Adorn the rich, or praise the great;

Who, while on earth, in fame they live,
Are fenfeless of the fame they give.

Ha! while I gaze, pale Cynthia fades,

The bursting earth unveils the shades !
All flow, and wan, and wrapt with shrouds,

They rise in visionary crowds;

And all with fober accent cry,

Think, mortal, what it is to die.

Now from yon black and fun'ral yew,
That bathes the charnel-house with dew,
Methinks, I hear a voice begin;
(Ye ravens, cease your croaking din,
Ye tolling clocks, no time resound
O'er the long lake and midnight ground.)
It sends a peal of hollow groans,
Thus speaking from among the bones.

When men my scythe and darts supply,
How great a king of fears am I!
They view me like the last of things;
They make, and then they dread my stings;
Fools! if you less provok'd your fears,
No more my spectre-form appears.
Death's but a path that must be trod,
If man would ever pass to God:
A port of calms, a state of ease
From the rough rage of swelling seas.
Why then thy flowing sable stoles,
Deep pendent cypress, mourning poles,

Loofe

Loose scarfs to fall athwart thy weeds,
Long palls, drawn herses, cover'd steeds,
And plumes of black, that as they tread,
Nod o'er the 'fcutcheons of the dead?

Nor can the parted body know,
Nor wants the foul, these forms of woe:
As men who long in prison dwell,
With lamps that glimmer round the cell,
When-e'er their fuff'ring years are run,
Spring forth to greet the glitt'ring fun :
Such joy, tho' far transcending sense,
Have pious fouls at parting hence.
On earth, and in the body plac'd,
A few, and evil, years they waste:
But when their chains are cast afide,
See the glad scene unfolding wide,
Clap the glad wing, and tow'r away,
And mingle with the blaze of day.

But (trust me Gentles !) never yet
Was dight a masquing half so neat,

Or half fo rich before :

The country lent the sweet perfumes,
The fea the pearl, the sky the plumes,
The town its filken store.

Now whilft he gaz'd, a gallant dreft,
In flaunting robes above the rest,

With awful accent cry'd;
What mortal of a wretched mind,
Whose fighs infect the balmy wind,
Has here prefum'd to hide ?

At this the swain, whose vent'rous foul
No fears of magic art controul,

Advanc'd in open fight;
"Nor have I cause of dreed, he faid,
"Who view by no presumption led
" Your revels of the night.

"'Twas grief, for scorn of faithful love, " Which made my steps unweeting rove, " Amid the nightly dew."

'Tis well the gallant cries again, We fairies never injure men

Who dare to tell us true.