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Virtue, like this great rock, ftands firmly brave,
E'en when these rocks and feas fhall pafs away,
Of light and life, of joy, and active pow'r,
ON THE DEATH OF LADY COVENTRY.
WRITTEN IN M DCCLX.
HE midnight clock has toll'd; and hark, the bell
With hearts as gay, and faces half as fair ;
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.
On what he was, no more the ftrain prolong :
Where cold and wan the flumb'rer rests her head;
She breathes the folemn dictates of the dead.
Proclaim the theme, by fage, by fool rever'd;
Ye fip the nectar of each varying bloom :
That led her hence, tho' foon, by steps fo flow;
And wean her from a world the lov'd fo well. :
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
Heirs as ye are of heav'n's eternal day;
The fting from Death, the vict'ry from the Grave!
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,
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,
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,
That lift the hero from the fighting crowd!
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?
Crown with the mantling juice the goblet high;
Nor fhall the pile of hope his mercy rear'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;
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.
IN FOUR PASTORALS.
BY MR. BREREWOOD.
HEN, approach'd by the fair dewy fingers of Spring,
When the birds on the boughs by their mates fit and fing,
When gently defcending, the rain in foft fhowers,
And the drops, as they hang on the plants and the flowers,
When the wood-pigeons fit on the branches and coo;
In a cottage at night may I spend all my time,
With a maiden whofe charms are as yet in their prime,
When the lark with fhrill notes fings aloft in the morn,
View the far diftant hills, which the fun-beams adorn,