Here, wrapt in studious thought, let Fancy rove, Still prompt to mark Suspicion's secret snare; To see where Anguish nips the bloom of Love, Or trace proud Grandeur to the domes of Care. Should e'er Ambition's tow'ring hopes inflame, Read o'er the monument that tells-He died. What are the ensigns of imperial sway? What, all that Fortune's lib'ral hand has brought? When bleeds the heart as Genius blooms unknown? When melts the eye o'er Virtue's mournful bier? Not wealth, but pity, swells the bursting groan; Not pow'r, but whispering Nature, prompts the tear. Say, gentle mourner, in yon mouldy vault, Where the worm fattens on some sceptred brow, Sleeps it more sweetly than the simple swain Beneath some mossy turf that rests his head; Where the lone widow tells the night her pain, And eve with dewy tears embalms the dead? The lily, screen'd from ev'ry ruder gale, The busts of grandeur, and the pomp of pow'r, tide? Ah no! the mighty names are heard no more: Pride's thought sublime, and Beauty's kindling bloom, Serve but to sport one flying moment o'er, And swell with pompous verse th' escutcheon'd tomb. For me-may Passion ne'er my soul invade, Oh guard me safe from Joy's enticing snare! With each extreme that Pleasure tries to hide, The poison'd breath of slow-consuming Care, The noise of Folly, and the dreams of Pride. But oft, when midnight's sadly solemn knell Sounds long and distant from the sky-topt tow'r, Calm let me sit in Prosper's lonely cell,* Or walk with Milton through the dark obscure. * See Shakespeare's Tempest. Thus, when the transient dream of life is fled, May some sad friend recall the former years; A i THRALE AND THE DRAYMAN. BY PETER PINDAR. CONSCIENCE has nought to say to Trade," Says SLANDER-happy to degrade. I'll prove it otherwise, by good old THRALE, Great in the annals of good Beer; An ocean too, the BREWER'S sphere, I own that consciences are ninnies; Indeed, so 'witching are their splendid faces! Shillings, and pence too, let me say, Can lead some consciences astray, For these are not without their winning graces. Now for my tale.-The Drayman MAT, |