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Is it his grafp of empire to extend?
To curb the fury of infulting foes? Ambition, ceafe; the idle conteft end:
'Tis but a kingdom thou canst win or lofe. And why muft murder'd myriads lofe their all! (If life be all;) why Defolation lour, With famish'd frown, on this affrighted ball,
That thou may'ft flame the meteor of an hour? Go, wiser ye, that flutter life away,
Crown with the mantling juice the goblet high;
And live your moment, fince the next ye die!
Nor fhall the pile of hope his mercy rear'd,
Shall be, by all, or fuffer'd or enjoy'd!
NOTE, In a book of French verses, intitled, Oeuvres du Philofophe de fans Souci, and lately reprinted at Berlin by authority, under the title of Poefies Diverfes, may be found an Epiftle to Marshal Keith, written profeffedly against the immortality of the foul. By way of fpecimen of the whole, take the following lines.
De l'avenir, cher Keith, jugeons par le paffè:
Comme avant que je fuffe il n'avoit point pensé;
Par un meme deftin il ne penfera plus!
Non, rien n'est plus certain, foyons-en convaincu.
It is to this Epiftle, that the latter part of the Elegy alludes.
THE SEASON S.
IN FOUR PASTORALS.
BY MR. BREREWOOD.
HEN, approach'd by the fair dewy fingers of Spring,
When the birds on the boughs by their mates fit and fing,
When gently defcending, the rain in soft showers,
And the drops, as they hang on the plants and the flowers,
When the wood-pigeons fit on the branches and coo;
In a cottage at night may I spend all my time,
With a maiden whofe charms are as yet in their prime,
When the lark with fhrill notes fings aloft in the morn,
View the far diftant hills, which the fun-beams adorn,
When the fun shines fo warm, that my charmer and I
Let us there all vain thoughts and ambition defy,
Be this spot on a hill, and a fpring from it's fide
Creep gently along in meanders, and glide
While the bee flies from bloffom to bloffom, and fips,
Let me hang on her neck, and fo tafte from her lips-
While the dove fits lamenting the lofs of it's mate,
May I listen to all her foft, tender, fweet notes,
But the warbling of birds, which in ftretching their throats
When the daifies, and cowflips, and primroses blow,
And chequer the meads and the lawns,
May we fee bounding there the swift light-footed doe,
When the lapwings, juft fledg'd, o'er the turf take their run,
And the harmless young lambs fkip about in the fun,
When I talk of my love, fhould I chance to espy
If we fit, or we walk, may I caft round my eyes,
But fee none to create so much love and furprize,
Thus each day let us pafs, till the buds turn to leaves,
When the lafs on the fweet-fmelling haycock receives
When evening's grow cool, and the flow'rs hang their heads
With my arm round her waift, in a path thro' the meads,
When the birds are at rooft, with their heads in their wings,
Each one by the fide of it's mate;
When a mift that arifes, a drowsiness brings
Upon all but the owl and the bat:
When foft reft is requir'd, and the stars lend their light,
And all nature lies quiet and ftill;
When no found breaks the facred repose of the night,
But, at diftance, the clack of a mill:
With peace for our pillow, and free from all noise,
HERE the light cannot pierce, in a grove of tall trees,
Undifturb'd by all found, but the fighs of the breeze,
Let me pass the hot noon of the day.
When the fun, lefs intenfe, to the weftward inclines,
fairest and I, on it's verge as we pass,
(For 'tis fhe that muft ftill be my theme) Our two shadows may view on the watery glass, While the fish are at play in the stream.
May the herds ceafe to low, and the lambkins to bleat,
All be filent, and hufh'd, unless echo repeat
And when we return to our cottage at night,
Let the moon's filver beams thro' the leaves give us light,
Let the nightingale warble it's notes in our walk,
And let no fingle thought be exprefs'd in our talk,
Thus enchanted each day with thefe rural delights,
Soft love and repofe fhall divide all our nights,
III. A U