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With all the fiercer tortures of the mind,
Unbounded paffion, madness, guilt, remorse;
Whence, trembling headlong from the height of life,
They furnish matter for the tragic muse

:

Even in the vale, where wisdom loves to dwell,
With friendship, peace, and contemplation join'd,
How many rack'd, with honeft paffions droop
In deep retir'd distress: how many stand
Around the death-bed of their dearest friends
And point the parting anguish-Thought fond man
Of these, and all the thousand nameless ills,
That one inceffant struggle render life,

One scene of toil, of fuffering, and of fate,
Vice in his high career would stand appall'd,
And heedlefs rambling Impulfe learn to think;
The confcious heart of Charity would warm,
And her wide with benevolence dilate ;
The focial tear would rife, the focial figh;
And into clear perfection, gradual bliss,
Refining ftill, the focial paffions work.

CHA P. XXII.

THOMSON.

REFLECTIONS ON A FUTURE STATE.

'TIS

IS done !-dread WINTER fpreads his latest glooms,
And reigns tremendous o'er the conquer'd year.

How dead the vegetable kingdom lies!

How dumb the tuneful! horror wide extends

His defolate domain. Behold, fond Man!

See here thy pictur'd life, pafs fome few years:

Thy flowering Spring, thy Summer's ardent ftrength,

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Thy fober Autumn fading into age,

And pale concluding Winter comes at last,
And fhuts the fcene. Ah! whither now are fled
Thofe dreams of greatness? those unfolid hopes
Of happiness? thofe longings after fame?
Those restless cares? those busy bustling days?
Those gay-spent festive nights? those veering thoughts
Loft between good and ill, that shar'd thy life?
All now are vanifh'd! VIRTUE fole furvives,
Immortal never-failing friend of Man,
His guide to happiness on high--And fee!
'Tis come, the glorious morn! the second birth
Of heaven, and earth? awakening Nature hears
The new creating word, and ftarts to life,
In every heightened form pain and death
For ever free. The great eternal scheme
Involving all, and in a perfect whole
Uniting, as the profpect wider fpreads,
To reafon's eye refin❜d clears up apace.
Ye vainly wife! ye blind prefumptuous! now,
Confounded in the duft, adore that POWER,
And WISDOM oft arraign'd: fee now the caufe,
Why unaffuming worth in fecret liv'd,

And dy'd, neglected: why the good Man's share
In life was gall and bitterness of foul :
Why the lone widow, and her orphans, pin'd
In ftarving folitude; while luxury,

In palaces, lay ftraining her low thought,

To form unreal wants: why heaven'n-born truth,
And moderation fair, wore the red marks
Of fuperftition's fcourge: why licens'd pain,
That cruel spoiler, that embofom'd foe,

Impitter'd

Imbitter'd all our blifs. Ye good distrest !
Ye noble few! who here unbending stand
Beneath life's preffure, yet bear up a while,
And what your bounded view, which only faw
A little part, deem'd Evil, is no more.

The ftorms of WINTRY TIME will quickly pafs,
And one unbounded SPRING encircle all.

CHA P. XXIII.

THOMSON,

ON PROCRASTINATION..

BE wife to day; 'tis madness to defer

;

Next day the fatal precedent will plead;
Thus on, till wisdom is push'd out of life.
Procrastination is the thief of time;
Year after year it fteals, till all are fled,
And to the mercies of a moment leaves
The vaft concerns of an eternal scene.

Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears
The palm. "That all men are about to live,
For ever on the brink of being born.
All pay themselves the compliment to think
They, one day, fhall not drivel; and their pride
On this reverfion takes up ready praise;

At least, their own; their future felves applauds ;
How excellent that life they ne'er will lead !
Time lodg'd in their own hands is folly's vails;
That lodg'd in Fate's, to Wifdom they confign;
The thing they can't but purpose, they poftpone,
'Tis not in Folly, not to scorn a fool;

And scarce in human Wisdom to do more.

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All promife is poor dilatory man,

And that thro' every ftage. When young, indeed,
In full content, we sometimes nobly rest,
Un-anxious for ourselves : and only wish,
As duteous fon, our fathers were more wife.
At thirty man suspects himself a fool;
Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan;
At fifty chides his infamous delay,
Pushes his prudent purpose to Refolve ;
In all the magnanimity of thought,
Refolves, and re-refolves, then dies the fame.

And why? Because he thinks himself immortal,
All men think all men mortal, but themselves;
Themselves, when some alarming shock of fate
Strikes thro' their wounded hearts the fudden dread;
But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air,
Soon clofe; where paft the fhaft, no trace is found,
As from the wing no fear the sky retains ;
The parted wave no furrow from the keel;
So dies in human hearts the thought of death,
Ev'n with the tender tear which nature fheds
O'er those we love, we drop it in their grave.

YOUNG.

CHAP

XXIV.

THE PAIN ARISING FROM VIRTUOUS EMOTIONS

ATTENDED WITH PLEASure.

BEHOLD the ways

Of Heav'n's eternal distiny to man,

For ever juft, benevolent and wise :

That VIRTUE's awful steps, howe'er pursued

By

By vexing Fortune and intrufive Pain,

Should never be divided from her chaste,

Her fair attendant, PLEASURE. Need I urge
Thy tardy thought through all the various round
Of this existence, that thy soft'ning foul
At length may learn what energy the hand
Of Virtue mingles in the bitter tide
Of paffion fwelling with diftrefs and pain,
To mitigate the sharp with gracious drops
Of cordial Pleasure? Ask the faithful youth,
Why the cold urn of her whom long he lov'd:
So often fills his arms; so often draws
His lonely footsteps at the filent hour,
To pay the mournful tribute of his tears?
O! he will tell thee, that the wealth of worlds
Should ne'er feduce his bofom to forego
That facred hour, when stealing from the noise
Of care and envy, fweet remembrance footh.
With virtue's kindeft looks his aching breast,
And turns his tears to rapture.-Ask the crowd
Which flies impatient from the village walk
To climb the neighb'ring cliffs, when far below
The cruel winds have hurl'd upon the coast
Some hapless bark; while sacred pity melts
The gen❜ral eye, or terror's icy hand
Smites their distorted limbs and horrent hair;
While every mother closer to her breaft
Catches her child, and pointing where the waves
Foam thro' the fhatter'd veffel, fhrieks aloud,
As one poor wretch, that spreads his piteous arms
For fuccour, fwallow'd by the roaring furge,
As now another, dafh'd againft the rock,
G. 5

Drops

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