AN IMITATION OF SOME FRENCH VERSES.
ELENTLESS Time! deftroying power,
Whom ftone and brass obey,
Who giv'ft to every flying hour
To work fome new decay;
Unheard, unheeded, and unseen,
Thy fecret faps prevail,
And ruin man, a nice machine,
By nature form'd to fail.
My change arrives; the change I meet,
Before I thought it nigh.
My spring, my years of pleasure fleet,
And all their beauties die.
In age I fearch, aud only find
poor unfruitful gain,
Grave wisdom stalking slow behind,
Opprefs'd with loads of pain.
My ignorance could once beguile,
And fancy'd joys inspire;
My errors cherish'd Hope to fmile
On newly-born defire.
But now experience fhews, the bliss
For which I fondly fought
Not worth the long impatient wish,
And ardour of the thought,
My youth met fortune fair array'
In all her pomp she shone,
And might perhaps have well effay'd,,
To make her gifts my own:
But when I saw the bleffings fhower
On fome unworthy mind,
I left the chace, and own'd the Power
Was juftly painted blind.
I pafs'd the glories which adorn
The fplendid courts of kings,
And while the perfons mov'd my scorn,
I rofe to fcorn the things.
My manhood felt a vigorous fire
By love encreas'd the more;
But years with coming years conspire
To break the chains I wore.
In weakness fafe, the fex I fee
With idle luftre shine;
For what are all their joys to me,
Which cannot now be mine?
But hold-I feel my gout decrease,
My troubles laid to reft,
And truths which would disturb my peace
Are painful truths at best.
Vainly the time I have to roll
In fad reflection flies;
Ye fondling paffions of my foul!
Ye fweet deceits! arife.
I wifely change the scene within,
To things that us'd to please;
In pain, philosophy is spleen,
In health, 'tis only ease.
A NIGHT-PIECE ON DEATH.
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 wifdom widely stray,
Or point at best the longest way.
I'll seek a readier path, and go
Where wisdom 's furely taught below.
How deep yon azure dyes the sky!
Where orbs of gold unnumber'd lie,
While through their ranks in filver pride
The nether crefcent feems to glide.>
The flumbering 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 presents a place of graves,
Whofe wall the filent water laves.
That steeple guides thy doubtful fight
Among the livid gleams of night.
There pafs with melonchaly ftate,
By all the folemn heaps of fate,
And think, as foftly-fad you tread
Above the venerable.dead,
like thee they life poffeft,
And time fhall be, that thou shalt reft.
Those 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 chissel's slender help to fame
(Which ere our fet of friends decay
Their frequent fteps may wear away);,
A middle race of mortals own,
Men, half ambitious, all unknown.
The marble tombs that rise 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 ftate,
Adorn the rich, or praise the great;
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 wrap'd with shrouds,
They rife in vifionary crouds,
And all with fober accent cry,
Think, mortal, what it is to die.
Now from yon black and funeral yew,
That bathes the charnel-houfe with dew,
Methinks, I hear a voice begin;
(Ye ravens, ceafe 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 fcythe and darts fupply,
How great a King of fears am I
They view me like the last of things;
They make, and then they draw, my ftrings.
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.:
A port of calms, a state to cafe
From the rough rage of swelling feas.
Why then thy flowing fable ftoles,
Deep pendant cypress, mourning poles,
Loofe fcarfs to fall athwart thy weeds,
Long palls, drawn hearses, 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, thefe forms of woe;
As men who long in prison dwell,
With lamps that glimmer round the cell,
Whene'er their fuffering years are run,
Spring forth to greet the glittering fun:
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