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Unfold this sacred truth to Reason's eye,
That “ Man was made for Immortality.”

Yes, Friend ! let'noble deeds, and noble aims,
To distant ages consecrate our names,
That when these tenements of crumbling clay

Are dropt to dust away,
Some worthy monument may still declare

To future times, “ we were !"
Not such as mad Ambition's vot’ries raise
Upon the driving sand of vulgar praise ;

But with its firm foundation laid
On Virtue's adamantine rock,
That to the skies shall lift its tow'ring head

Superior to the surge's shock.
Plann'd like a Memphian Pyramid sublime,
Rising majestic on its ample base,
By just degrees, and with a daring grace,
Erect, unmov'd amid the storms of time!

Of time ! no, that's a period too confin'd
To fill th' unbounded mind,

Which o'er the barrier leaps of added years,
Of ages, æras, and revolving spheres,
And leaves the flight of numbers still behind.

When the loud clarion's dreadful roll
Shall rend the globe from pole to pole;
When worlds and systems sink in fire,
And Nature, Time, and Death expire;
In the bright records of the sky

Shall Virtue see her honours shine ; Shall see them blazing round the sacred shrine

Of blest Eternity




CLODIO, thy ruin is complete

Fairly art thou, my friend, done up. Princes have done this pretty feat ;

And, easy smiling, see thee sup, And sleep, and breakfast too, and dine With good DUKE HUMPHRY, Duke of PHA

ROAH's kine;

That is to say-exceeding lean,

Ragged, unwholesome, yea, unclean ! And in a jail, where sunk-eyed INANITION, Quite chop-fall’n, damns the folly of AMBITION.

Still, ʼmidst thy poverty and rags,

Thou makest to the jail thy brags; And pleas’d, of Princes tellest many a story;

And fanciest, that when thou art dead,

A spendor will surround thy headEv'n só!-that thou shalt lie along in GLORY!

Vain Youth !--now prithee cast thine eye On that poor spendor-hunting Fly,

Sporting around thy taper's blaze:--How blest, the buzzing Insect sings, Catching the radiance on his wings !

How fascinated with the rays !

A minute will decide his fate :

Nearer, and nearer, round he flies ; Still nearer, nearer-how elate !

There ends existence-hark ! his cries !

Down drops the wretch amidst the fire-
And see him on his back expire !
Now a poor coal ! sad transmigration !
Yet cover'd with illumination !

Such is the Fly's, and such thy story;
And lo, like him, thou ly’st in GLORY!




Sing, heavenly Muse,
“ Things unattempted yet, in prose or rhyme,”
A shilling, breeches, and chimeras dire.

HAPPY the man, who, void of cares and strife,
In silken or in leathern purse retains
A Splendid Shilling: he nor hears with pain
New aysters cry'd, nor sighs for cheerful ale;
But with his friends, when nightly mists arise,
To Juniper's Magpie, or Town-Hall * repairs;
Where, mindful of the nymph whose wanton eye
Transfix'd his soul, and kindled amorous flames,
Chloe or Phillis, he each circling glass
Wisheth her health, and joy, and equal love.
Meanwhile, he smokes, and laughs at merry tale,
Or pun ambiguous, or conundrum quaint.

* Two notąd alehouses in Oxford, 1700.

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