Imatges de pàgina
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Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms:
And then, the whining SCHOOL-BOY with his fatchel,
And frining morning-face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school: And then, the LOVER
Sighing like Furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress'eye-brow: Then, the SOLDIER;
Full of ftrange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, fudden and quick in quarrel;
Seeking the bubble reputation

Even in the cannon's mouth: And then, the JUSTICE;
In fair round belly, with good capon lin'd,
With eyes fevere, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wife faws and modern inftances,
And fo he plays his part: The fixth age shifts
Into the lean and flipper'd PANTALOON,
With spectacles on's nose, and pouch on's fide;
His youthful hose well fav'd, a world too wide
For his fhrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whiftles in his found: Laft scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful hiftory,
Is fecond CHILDISHNESS, and mere oblivion;
Sans teeth, fans eyes, fans tafte, fans every thing.

THE DYING INDIAN.

ON yonder lake I spread the fail no more!
Vigour, and youth, and active-days are paft-
Relentless demons urge me to that shore,
On whofe black forefts all the dead are caft.
Ye folemn train, prepare the fun'ral fong,
For I muft go, to shades below,
Where all is ftrange, and all is new;

Sad companion to the airy throng;
What folitary ftreams,
In dull and dreary dreams,
All melancholy must I rove along ?

To what strange lands must SHALUM take his way? Groves of the dead departed mortals trace!

No deer along those gloomy forests stray,

Nor huntfinen there take pleasure in the chase; But all are empty unsubstantial shades, That ramble through those vifionary glades;

No fpongy fruits from verdant trees depend;

But fickly orchards there
Do fruits as fickly bear,
And apples a confumptive vifage thew.
And wither'd hangs the hurtle-berry blue.
Ah me! what mischiefs on the dead attend
Wand'ring a stranger to the shores below,
Where shall I brook or real fountain find?
Lazy and fad deluding waters flow.

Such is the picture in my boding mind!
Fine tales indeed they tell
Of fhades and purling rills,
Where our dead fathers dwell,
Beyond the Western Hills;
But when did ghoft return his ftate to shew;
Or who can promise half the tale is true?
1, too, must be a fleeting ghoft-no more-
None-none but fhadows to those manfions go;

I leave my woods, I leave my Huron fhore,
For emptier groves below!
Ye charming folitudes,
Ye tall afcending woods,

Ye glassy lakes, ye cool and prattling streams,
Whose aspect fstill was sweet,
Whether the fun did greet,

Or the pale moon embrac'd you with her beams,

Adieu to all!

To all that charmed me while I strayed,
The winding stream, the dark sequester'd shade,

Adieu all triumph here!
Adieu the mountain's lofty swell,
Adieu, thou little verdant hill,
And feas, and stars, and skies-farewell,

For fome remoter sphere!

Perplex'd with doubts, and tortur'd with despair,
Why fo dejected at this hapless sleep?
Nature, at least, these ruins may repair,

When death's long dream is o'er, and she forgets

to weep.

Some real world once more may be affign'd,
Some new-born manfion for th' immortal mind!-
Farewell, fweet lake; farewell furrounding woods;
To other groves, through midnight glooms I ftray,
Beyond the mountains, and beyond the floods,
Beyond the Huron bay!
Prepare the hollow tomb, and place me low,
My trufty bow and arrows by my fide,
The cheerful bottle and the ven'son store;
For long the journey is that I must go,

Without a partner, and without a guide!-
Ah! I shall come no more!-

He fpoke, and bid th' attending mourners weep-
Then clos'd his eyes, and funk to endless fleep!

INGRATITUDE.

A SONG.

BLOW, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not fo unkind
As man's ingratitude:
Thy tooth is not fo keen,

Because thou art not feen,

Although thy breath be rude.

Heigh ho! fing, heigh ho! unto the green holly:
Moft friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:

Then, heigh ho, the holly!
This life is moft jolly.

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
Thou doft not bite fo nigh
As benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy fling is not fo sharp

As friend remember'd not.

Heigh ho! fing, heigh ho! unto the green holly: Most friendship is feigning, moft loving mere folly:

Then, heigh ho, the holly!

This life is most jolly.

FRIENDSHIP.

YES, happy youths! on Cadmus' fedgy fide
You feel each joy that friendship can divide,
Each realm of fcience and of art explore,
And with the ancient blend the modern lore,
Studious alone to learn whate'er may tend
To raife the genius, or the heart to mend;
Now pleas'd along the cloifter'd walks you rove,
And trace the verdant mazes of the grove,
Where focial oft and oft alone ye choofe
To catch the zephyr, and to court the mufe;
Meantime at me (while all devoid of art
These lines give back the image of my heart)
At me the pow'r that comes, or fcon or late,
Or aims, or feems to aim, the dart of fate;
From you remote, methinks alone I stand,
Like fome fad exile in a defert land,
Around no friends their lenient care to join
In mutual warmth, and mix their heart with mine.
Or real pains, or those which fancy raife,
For ever blot the funshine of my days;
To fickness ftill, and still to grief, a prey,
Health turns from me her rofy face away.

Just Heav'n! what fin, ere life begins to bloom,
Devotes my head untimely to the tomb?
Did ere this hand against a brother's life
Drug the dire bowl, or point the murd'rous knife?
Did e'er this tongue the fland'rer's tale proclaim,
Or madly violate my Maker's name?
Did e'er this heart betray a friend or foe,
Or know a thought but all the world might know?
As yet juft ftarted from the lifts of time

My growing years have fcarcely told their prime;

Useless as yet through life I've idly run,
No pleasures tafted, and few duties done.
Ah! who, ere Autumn's mellowing funs appear
Would pluck the promife of the vernal year?
Or ere the grapes their purple hue betray,
Tear the crude clufter from the mourning spray?
Stern pow'r of fate! whose ebon fceptre rules
The Stygian deferts and Cimmerian pools,
Forbear, nor rafhly smite my youthful heart,
A victim yet unworthy of thy dart;
Ah! stay till age shall blast my with'ring face,
Shake in my head, and falter in my pace;
Then aim the shaft, then meditate the blow,
And to the dead my willing shade shall go.
How weak is man to reafon's judging eye!
Born in this moment, in the next we die;
Part mortal clay, and part ethereal fire,
Too proud to creep, to humble to afpire.
In vain our plans of happiness we raife;
Pain is our lot, and patience is our praife:
Wealth, lineage, honours, conqueft, or a throne,
Are what the wife would fear to call their own.
Health is at best a vain precarious thing,
And fair-fac'd youth is ever on the wing:
Tis like the stream afide whose wat'ry bed
Some blooming plant exalts his flow'ry head,
Nurs'd by the wave the fpreading branches rife,
Shade all the ground, and flourish to the skies;
The waves the while beneath in fecret flow,
And undermine the hollow bank below;
Wide and more wide the waters urge their way,
Bare all the roots, and on their fibres prey;
Too late the plant bewails his foolish pride,
And finks untimely in the whelming tide.

But why repine? Does life deferve my figh?
Few will lament my loss whene'er I die.
For those, the wretches I defpife or hate,
I neither envy or regard their fate.

For me, whene'er all-conquering death shall spread
His wings around my unrepining head,

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