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Are swift as Care--that monster leaves behind The' aerial courser and the fleeter wind; Through every clime performs a constant part, And sheaths its painful daggers in the heart.

Ah! why should man an idle game pursue, To future may-bes stretch the distant view? May more exalted thoughts our hours employ, And wisely strive to taste the present joy: Life's an inconstant sea—the prudent ply With every oar to' improve the auspicious sky: But if black clouds the

angry

heavens deform, A cheerful mind will sweeten every storm. Though fools expect their joys to flow sincere, Yet none can boast eternal sunshine here.

The youthful chief, that like a summer flower Shines a whole life in one precarious hour, Impatient of restraint, demands the fight, While painted triumphs swim before his sight. Forbear, brave youth! thy bold designs give o'er, Ere the next morn shall dawn thou 'lt be no more; Invidious death shall blast thy opening bloom, Scarce blown, thou fadest; scarce born, thou

meetst a tomb. What though, my friend, the young are swept

away, Untimely cropp'd in the proud blaze of day; Yet when life's spring on purple wings is flown, And the brisk food a noisome puddle grown; When the dark eye shall roll its orb for light, And the rollid orb confess impervious night; When once untuned the ear's contorted cell, The silver cords unbrace the sounding shell ; Thy sickening soul no more a joy shall find, Music no more shall stay thy labouring mind.

CC

The breathing canvass glows in vain for thee,
In vain it blooms a gay eternity.
With thee the statue's boast of life are o'er,
And Cæsar animates the brass no more.
The flaming ruby, and the rich brocade,
The sprightly ball, the mimic masquerade
Now charm in vain-in vain the jovial god
With blushing goblets plies the dormant clod.

Then why thus fond to draw superfluous breath,
When every gasp protracts a painful death?
Age is a ghastly scene; cares, doubts, and fears,
One dull rough road of sighs, groans, pains, and

tears.
Let not ambitious views usurp thy soul;
Ambition, friend! ambition grasps the pole.
The lustful eye on wealth's bright strand you fix,
And sigh for grandeur and a coach and six;
With golden stars you long to blend your fate,
And with the garter'd lordling slide in state.
An humbler theme my pensive hours employs
(Hear, ye sweet heavens, and speed the distant

joys!
Of these possess’d I'd scorn to court renown,
Or bless the happy coxcombs of the town),
To me, ye gods, these only gifts impart,
An

easy fortune, and a cheerful heart;
A little muse, and innocently gay,
In sportive song to trifle cares away.
Two wishes gain’d, love forms the last and best,
And Heaven's bright masterpiece shall crown

the rest.

EPITAPHS.

ON HIMSELF.

READER, approach my urn- -thou needst not fear
The' extorted promise of one plaintive tear,
To mourn thy unknown friend.-From me thou'lt

learn
More than a Plato taught—the grand concern
Of mortals ! - Wrapp'd in pensive thought, survey
This little freehold of unthinking clay;
And know thy end!

[explore; Though young, though gay, this scene of death Alas! the

young,

the
gay

is now no more!

ON ROBERT CLAVERING, M. B. Oh! come, who know the childless parent's sigh, The bleeding bosom, and the streaming eye; Who feel the wounds a dying friend imparts, When the last pang divides two social hearts. This weeping marble claims the generous tear, Here lies the friend, the son, and all that's dear.

He fell full blossom’d in the pride of youth, The nobler pride of science, worth, and truth. Calm and serene he view'd his mouldering clay, Nor fear'd to go, nor fondly wish'd to stay: And when the king of terrors he descried, Kiss'd the stern mandate, bow'd his head, and died.

ON COLONEL GARDINER:

WHO WAS SLAIN IN THE BATTLE OF PRESTON PANS,

1745.

While fainter merit asks the powers of verse, Our faithful line shall Gardiner's worth rehearse. The bleeding hero and the martyr'd saint Transcends the poet's pen, the herald's paint. His the best path to fame that e'er was trod, And surely his-a glorious road to God.

ON MR. SIBLEY,

OF STUDHAM.

Here lies an honest man! without pretence
To more than prudence, and to common sense;
Who knew no vanity, disguise, nor art;
Who scorn'd all language foreign to the heart.
Diffusive as the light his bounty spread,
Clothed were the naked, and the hungry fed.

· These be his honours!' honours that disclaim The blazon’d scutcheon, and the herald's fame! Honours! which boast defiance to the grave, Where (spite of Anstis) rots the garter'd knave.

ON A LADY,

WHO HAD LABOURED UNDER A CANCER.

STRANGER, these dear remains contain'd a mind
As infants guileless and as angels kind.
Ripening for heaven, by pains and sufferings tried;
To pain superior, and unknown to pride.
Calm and serene beneath affliction's rod,
Because she

gave her willing heart to God! Because she trusted in her Saviour's power, Hence firm and fearless in the dying hour!

No venal Muse this faithful picture draws; Bless'd saint! desert like yours extorts applause. Oh! let a weeping friend discharge his due; His debt to worth, to excellence, and you !

ON MR. THOMAS STRONG;

WHO DIED ON THE 26TH OF DECEMBER, 1736.
IN action prudent, and in word sincere,
In friendship faithful, and in honour clear;
Through life's vain scenes the same in every part,
A steady judgment and an honest heart.
Thou vaunt'st no honours—all thy boast, a mind
As infants guileless and as angels kind.

When ask'd to whom these lovely truths belong, Thy friends shall answer, weeping, Here lies

Strong.'

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