Virtue, like this great rock, ftands firmly brave,
And fcorns the ebb or flow of Fortune's wave;
Unmov'd the storms of life can calmly bear,
Collected in itself, and void of fear !

E'en when these rocks and feas fhall pafs away,
And that bright orb no longer rule the day,
Virtue shall stand the teft, like gold refin'd,
And beam immortal radiance on the mind;
Thro' endless ages gain increafing ftore

Of light and life, of joy, and active pow'r,
And bloom when time and nature are no more!

EL EGY

ON THE DEATH OF LADY COVENTRY.

WRITTEN IN M DCCLX.

ΤΗ

HE midnight clock has toll'd; and hark, the bell
Of death beats flow! heard ye the note profound?
It paufes now; and now, with rifing knell,
Flings to the hollow gale it's fullen found.
Yes; Coventry is dead. Attend the ftrain,
Daughters of Albion! ye that, light as air,
So oft have tripp'd in her fantastick train,

With hearts as gay, and faces half as fair ;
For fhe was fair beyond your brightest bloom;
(This Envy owns, fince now her bloom is fled;
;)
Fair as the forms that, wove in Fancy's loom,
Float in light vifion round the poet's head.
Whene'er with foft ferenity fhe fmil'd,
Or caught the orient blufh of quick furprize,
How fweetly mutable, how brightly wild,
The liquid luftre darted from her eyes!

Each look, each motion, wak'd a new-born grace,

That o'er her form it's tranfient glory caffe og I. Some lovelier wonder foon ufurp'd the place,

Chas'd by a charm ftill lovelier than the laft.
That bell again! It tells us what he is;

On what he was, no more the ftrain prolong :
Luxuriant Fancy paufe! an hour like this,
Demands the tribute of a ferious fong.
Maria claims it from that fable bier,

Where cold and wan the flumb'rer rests her head;
In ftill fmall whispers to Reflection's ear,

She breathes the folemn dictates of the dead.
O catch the awful notes, and lift them loud!

Proclaim the theme, by fage, by fool rever'd;
Hear it, ye young, ye vain, ye great, ye proud!
Tis Nature speaks, and Nature will be heard.
Yes; ye shall hear, and tremble as you hear,
While, high with health, your hearts exulting leap
E'en in the midst of Pleasure's mad career,
The mental monitor fhall wake and weep!
For fay, than Coventry's propitious ftar,
What brighter planet on your births arofe;
Or gave of Fortune's gifts an ampler share,
In life to lavish, or by death to lose !
Early to lofe; while borne on bufy wing,

Ye fip the nectar of each varying bloom :
Nor fear, while basking in the beams of fpring,
The wint'ry form that fweeps you to the tomb.
Think of her fate! revere the heav'nly hand

That led her hence, tho' foon, by steps fo flow;
Long at her couch Death took his patient stand,
And menac'd oft, and oft witheld the blow;
To give Reflection time, with lenient art,
Each fond delufion from her foul to fteal;
Teach her from Folly peaceably to part,

And wean her from a world the lov'd fo well. :

Say,

Say, are ye fure his mercy fhall extend cool for To you so long a fpan? Alas, ye figh!

Make then, while yet ye may, your God your friend,

And learn with equal eafe to fleep or die!

Nor think the Muse, whofe fober voice ye hear,

Contracts with bigot-frown her fullen brow; Cafts round Religion's orb the mifts of fear,

Or fhades with horrors, what with fmiles fhould glow
No; fhe would warm you with feraphick fire,

Heirs as ye are of heav'n's eternal day;
Would bid you boldly to that heav'n aspire,
Not fink and flumber in your cells of clay.
Know, ye were form'd to range yon azure field,
etherial founts of bliss to lave;

In yon
Force then, fecure in Faith's protecting fhield,

The fting from Death, the vict'ry from the Grave!
Is this the bigot's rant? Away, ye Vain,

Your hopes, your fears in doubt, in dulness steep: Go foothe your fouls in ficknefs, grief, or pain, With the fad folace of eternal fleep!

Yet will I praise you, triflers as ye are,

More than those preachers of your fav'rite creed,
Who proudly fwell the brazen throat of war,
Who form the phalanx, bid the battle bleed
Nor wish for more: who conquer, but to die.
Hear, Folly, hear! and triumph in the tale!
Like you they reason, not like you enjoy
The breeze of bliss

that fills your filken fail:

On Pleasure's glitt'ring stream ye gaily, steer,

Your little course to cold Oblivion's fhore;

They dare the ftorm, and thro' th' inclement year,

T

Stem the rough furge, and brave the torrent's roar. A

Is it for glory? That juft Fate denies :

Long muft the warrior moulder in his shroud,
Ere from her trump the heav'n-breath'd accents rise,

That lift the hero from the fighting crowd!

بنا

T

Is it his grafp of empire to extend?

To curb the fury of infulting foes? Ambition, ceafe; the idle contest end:

'Tis but a kingdom thou canft win or lofe. And why muft murder'd myriads lofe their all! (If life be all;) why Defolation lour, With famifh'd frown, on this affrighted ball,"

That thou may'ft flame the meteor of an hour?
Go, wifer ye, that flutter life away,

Crown with the mantling juice the goblet high;
Weave the light dance, with feftive freedom gay,
And live your moment, fince the next ye die!
Yet know, vain fcepticks, know, th' Almighty mind,
Who breath'd on man a portion of his fire,
Bade his free foul, by earth nor time confin'd,
To heav'n, to immortality afpire.

Nor fhall the pile of hope his mercy rear'd,
By vain philofophy be e'er destroy'd :
Eternity, by all or wifh'd or fear'd,

Shall be, by all, or fuffer'd or enjoy'd !

NOTE, In a book of French verses, intitled, Oeuvres du Philofophe de fans Souci, and lately reprinted at Berlin by authority, under the title of Poefies Diverses, may be found an Epiftle to Marshal Keith, written profeffedly against the immortality of the soul. By way of fpecimen of the whole, take the following lines.

De l'avenir, cher Keith, jugeons par le paffè:

Comme avant que je fuffe il n'avoit point pensé;
De meme, apres ma mort, quand toutes mes parties
Par la corruption feront aneanties,

Par un meme deftin il ne penfera plus!

Non, rien n'eft plus certain, foyons-en convaincu.

It is to this Epiftle, that the latter part of the Elegy alludes.

THE

THE SEASONS.

IN FOUR PASTORALS.

WH

BY MR. BREREWOOD.

I. SPRING.

HEN, approach'd by the fair dewy fingers of Spring,
Swelling buds open first, and look gay;

When the birds on the boughs by their mates fit and fing,
And are danc'd by the breeze on each spray :

When gently defcending, the rain in foft fhowers,
With it's moisture refreshes the ground;

And the drops, as they hang on the plants and the flowers,
Like rich gems beam a luftre around:

When the wood-pigeons fit on the branches and coo;
And the cuckoo proclaims with his voice,
That Nature marks this for the feafon to woo,
And for all that can love to rejoice:

In a cottage at night may I spend all my time,
In the fields and the meadows all day,

With a maiden whofe charms are as yet in their prime,
Young as April, and blooming as May!

When the lark with fhrill notes fings aloft in the morn,
May my fairest and I fweetly wake,

View the far diftant hills, which the fun-beams adorn,
Then arife, and our cottage forfake.

When