Or else, like comets in the sphere, Shine with destruction in their rear. Passions, like clouds, obscure the sight; Hence mortals seldom judge aright. The world's a harsh unfruitful soil, Yet still we hope, and still we toil; Deceive ourselves with wondrous art, And disappointment wrings the heart. Thus when a mist collects around, And hovers o'er a barren ground, The poor deluded traveller spies Imagined trees and structures rise; But when the shrouded sun is clear, The desert and the rocks appear.

'Ah-but when youthful blood runs high,
Sure 'tis a dreadful thing to die!
To die! and what exalts the gloom,
I'm told that man survives the tomb!
O! can the learned prelate find

What future scenes await the mind?
Where wings the soul, dislodged from clay?
Some courteous angel point the way!
That unknown somewhere in the skies!
Say, where that unknown somewhere lies;
And kindly prove, when life is o'er,
That pains and sorrows are no more.
For doubtless dying is a curse,
If present ills be changed for worse.'

Hush, my young friend, forego the theme; And listen to your poet's dream.

Erewhile I took an evening walk,
Honorio join'd in social talk.

Along the lawns the zephyrs sweep,
Each ruder wind was lull'd asleep.

The sky, all beauteous to behold,
Was streak'd with azure, green, and gold;
But, though serenely soft and fair,
Fever hung brooding in the air;
Then settled on Honorio's breast,
Which shudder'd at the fatal guest.
No drugs the kindly wish fulfil,
Disease eludes the doctor's skill.
The poison spreads through all the frame,
Ferments, and kindles into flame.
From side to side Honorio turns,
And now with thirst insatiate burns.
His eyes resign their wonted grace,
Those friendly lamps expire apace!
The brain's an useless organ grown,
And Reason tumbled from his throne.
But while the purple surges glow,
The currents thicken as they flow;
The blood in every distant part
Stagnates and disappoints the heart;
Defrauded of its crimson store,
The vital engine plays no more.
Honorio dead, the funeral bell
Call'd every friend to bid farewell:
I join'd the melancholy bier,
And dropp'd the unavailing tear.

The clock struck twelve-when nature sought
Repose from all the pangs of thought;
And while my limbs were sunk to rest,
A vision sooth'd my troubled breast.

I dream'd the spectre Death appear'd,
I dream'd his hollow voice I heard!
Methought the' imperial tyrant wore
A state no prince assumed before.

All nature fetch'd a general groan,
And lay expiring round his throne.

I gazed-when straight arose to sight
The most detested fiend of night.
He shuffled with unequal pace,

And conscious shame deform'd his face.
With jealous leer he squinted round,
Or fix'd his eyes upon the ground.
From hell this frightful monster came,
Sin was his sire, and Guilt his name.
This fury, with officious care,
Waited around the Sovereign's chair;
In robes of terrors dress'd the king,
And arm'd him with a baneful sting;
Gave fierceness to the tyrant's eye,
And hung the sword upon his thigh.
Diseases next, a hideous crowd!
Proclaim'd their master's empire loud;
And, all obedient to his will,
Flew in commission'd troops to kill.

A rising whirlwind shakes the poles,
And lightning glares, and thunder rolls.
The monarch and his train prepare
To range the foul tempestuous air.
Straight to his shoulders he applies
Two pinions of enormous size!
Methought I saw the ghastly form
Stretch his black wings, and mount the storm.
When Fancy's airy horse I strode,

And join'd the army on the road.
As the grim conqueror urged his way,
He scatter'd terror and dismay.

Thousands a pensive aspect wore,

Thousands who sneer'd at Death before.

T

Life's records rise on every side,

And Conscience spreads those volumes wide;
Which faithful registers were brought

By pale-eyed Fear and busy Thought.
Those faults which artful men conceal,
Stand here engraved with pen of steel,
By Conscience, that impartial scribe!
Whose honest palm disdains a bribe.
Their actions all like critics view,
And all like faithful critics too.

As guilt had stain'd life's various stage,
What tears of blood bedew'd the page!
All shudder'd at the black account,
And scarce believed the vast amount!
All vow'd a sudden change of heart,
Would Death relent, and sheathe his dart.
But, when the awful foe withdrew,
All to their follies fled anew.

So when a wolf, who scours at large,
Springs on the shepherd's fleecy charge,
The flock in wild disorder fly,
And cast behind a frequent eye;
But, when the victim's borne away,
They rush to pasture and to play.

Indulge my dream; and let my pen
Paint those unmeaning creatures, Men.
Carus, with pains and sickness worn,
Chides the slow night, and sighs for morn;
Soon as he views the eastern ray,
He mourns the quick return of day;
Hourly laments protracted breath,
And courts the healing hand of Death.
Verres, oppress'd with guilt and shame,
Shipwreck'd in fortune, health, and fame,

Pines for his dark sepulchral bed,
To mingle with the' unheeded dead.
With fourscore years gray Natho bends,
A burden to himself and friends;
And with impatience seems to wait
The friendly hand of lingering fate:
So hirelings wish their labour done,
And often eye the western sun.

The monarch hears their various grief,
Descends, and brings the wish'd relief.
On Death with wild surprise they stared;
All seem'd averse! All unprepared!
As torrents sweep with rapid force,
The grave's pale chief pursued his course.
No human power can or withstand
Or shun the conquests of his hand.
Oh! could the prince of upright mind,
And, as a guardian angel kind,
With every heartfelt worth beside,
Turn the keen shaft of Death aside;
When would the brave Augustus join
The ashes of his sacred line?

But Death maintains no partial war,
He mocks a sultan or a czar:

He lays his iron hand on all

Yes; kings, and sons of kings, must fall!
A truth Britannia lately felt,

And trembled to her centre!

Could ablest statesmen ward the blow, Would Granville own this common foe? For greater talents ne'er were known

To

grace the favourite of a throne.

I Referring to the death of Frederic Prince of Wales, March 20, 1751.