When Fate extends its gathering gripe, But now more serious see me grow, And what I think, my Memmius, know. Th' enthusiast's hope, and raptures wild, When free from weight of ambient care, Disdains the narrow bounds of place, And Fancy's telescope applies With tinctur'd glass to cheat his eyes. Such thoughts, as love the gloom of night, I close examine by the light; For who, though brib'd by gain to lie, That superstition mayn't create, And club its ills with those of fate, I many a notion take to task, Made dreadful by its visor-mask. Thus scruple, spasm of the mind, Is cur'd, and certainty I find; Since optic reason shews me plain, I dreaded spectres of the brain; And legendary fears are gone, Though in tenacious childhood sown. Thus in opinions I commence Freeholder in the proper sense, And neither suit nor service do, Nor homage to pretenders shew, Who boast themselves by spurious roll Lords of the manor of the soul; Preferring sense, from chin that's bare, To nonsense thron'd in whisker'd hair. To thee, Creator uncreate, O Entium Ens! divinely great Through fields unknown nor madly stray, With tender eyes, and colours faint, Who can't be cruel, or unjust, Through life's foul way, like vagrant, pass'd, He'll grant a settlement at last; And with sweet ease the wearied crown, By leave to lay his being down. If doom'd to dance th' eternal round And dissolution soon to come, Like spunge, wipes out life's present sum, Then, if hard dealt with here by fate, Thus, thus I steer my bark, and sail On even keel with gentle gale; At helm I make my reason sit, My crew of passions all submit. If dark and blust'ring prove some nights, Philosophy puts forth her lights; Experience holds the cautious glass, To shun the breakers, as I pass, And frequent throws the wary lead, To see what dangers may be hid: And once in seven years I'm seen At Bath or Tunbridge, to careen. Though pleas'd to see the dolphins play, I mind my compass and my way. With store sufficient for relief, GEORGE LILLO. BORN 1693.-DIED 1739. GEORGE LILLO was the son of a Dutch jeweller, who married an English woman, and settled in London. Our poet was born near Moorfields, was bred to his father's business, and followed it for many years. The story of his dying in distress was a fiction of Hammond, the poet; for he bequeathed a considerable property to his nephew, whom he made his heir. It has been said that this bequest was in consequence of his finding the young man disposed to lend him a sum of money at a time when he thought proper to feign pecuniary distress, in order that he might discover the sincerity of those calling themselves his friends. Thomas Davies, his biographer and editor, professes to have got this anecdote from a surviving partner of Lillo. It bears however an intrinsic air of improbability. It is not usual for sensible tradesmen to affect being on the |