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"But virtue can itself advance

"To what the fav'rite fools of chance


By fortune feem'd defign'd:

"Virtue can gain the odds of fate,
"And from itself shake off the weight
"Upon th' unworthy mind."



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 fages 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 furely 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 flumb'ring breeze forgets to breathe,
The lake is smooth and clear beneath,
Where once again the spangled show

Defcends to meet our eyes below.


The grounds which on the right aspire,
In dimnefs from the view.retire:
The left prefents a place of graves,
Whofe wall the filent water laves.
That fteeple guides thy doubtful fight
Among the livid gleams of night.
There pass with melancholy ftate,
By all the folemn heaps of fate;
And think, as foftly-fad you tread
Above the venerable dead,

Time was, like thee they life poffest,
And time shall be, that thou shalt rest.

Thofe graves, with bending ofier bound,
That nameless heave the crumbled ground,
Quick to the glancing thought disclose,
Where toil and poverty repofe.

The flat fmooth ftones that bear a name,

The chiffel's flender help to fame,

(Which ere our fet of friends decay
Their frequent fteps may wear away ;)
A midile race of mortals own,

Men, half ambitious, all unknown.
The marble tombs that rife on high,
Whofe dead in vaulted arches lie,
Whofe pillars fwell with fculptur'd ftones,
Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones;
Thefe, all the poor remains of state,
Ador■ the rich, or praise the great;

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Who, while on earth, in fame they live,
Are fenfelefs 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 rife in vifionary 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 refound
O'er the long lake and midnight ground.)
It fends a peal of hollow groans,

Thus fpeaking from among the bones.

When men my scythe and darts fupply,

How great a king of fears am I !

They view me like the laft of things;

They make, and then they dread my ftings;

Fools! if you lefs provok'd your fears,

No more my spectre-form appears.

Death's but a path that must be trod,
If man would ever pafs to God:



of calms, a state of ease

From the rough rage of fwelling feas.
Why then thy flowing fable stoles,
Deep pendent cyprefs, mourning poles,


Loofe fcarfs to fall athwart thy weeds,
Long palls, drawn herfes, 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 tranfcending 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 caft afide,
See the glad fcene unfolding wide,
Clap the glad wing, and tow'r away,
And mingle with the blaze of day.

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