Full, above measure! lafting, beyond bound!
A perpetuity of blifs, is blifs.

Could you, fo rich in rapture, fear an end,

That ghaftly thought would drink up all your joy,
And quite unparadife the realms of light.

Safe are you lodg'd above these rolling spheres ;
The baleful influence of whofe giddy dance
Sheds fad viciffitude on all beneath.

Here teems with revolutions every hour,

And rarely for the better; or the best,
More mortal than the common births of fate.
Each moment has its fickle, emulous

Of time's enormous fcythe, whose ample sweep
Strikes empires from the root; each moment plays,
His little weapon in the narrower sphere

Of sweet domeftic comfort, and cuts down
The fairest bloom of fublunary bliss.

Blifs! fublunary blifs !-Proud words, and vain !
Implicit treason to divine decree!

A bold invafion of the rights of heav'n!

I clafp'd the phantoms, and I found them air..
Oh had I weigh'd it ere my fond embrace!
What darts of agony had miss'd my heart!
Death! great proprietor of all! 'tis thine
To tread out empire, and to quench the stars.
The fun himself by thy permiffion fhines;

And, one day, thou shalt pluck him from his sphere.. Amid fuch mighty plunder, why exhaust

Thy

Thy partial quiver on a mark fo mean?

Why thy peculiar rancour wreck'd on me?
Infatiate archer! could not one fuffice?

Thy shaft flew thrice; and thrice my peace was flain;
And thrice, ere thrice yon moon had fill'd her horn.
O Cynthia! why fo pale? Doft thou lament
Thy wretched neighbour? Grieve to fee thy wheel
Of ceafelefs change outwhirl'd in human life?
How wanes my borrow'd blifs! from fortune's fmile,
Precarious courtfey! not virtue's fure,
Self-given, folar, ray of found delight.
In ev'ry vary'd pofture, place, and hour,
How widow'd ev'ry thought of ev'ry joy!
Thought, bufy thought! too busy for my peace!
Thro' the dark poftern of time long elaps'd,
Led foftly, by the ftillness of the night,
Led, like a murderer, (and fuch it proves!)
Strays, (wretched rover !) o'er the pleafing past;
In queft of wretchednefs perverfely ftrays;
And finds all defert now; and meets the ghosts
Of my departed joys a num'rous train!

Sweet comfort's blafted clusters I lament ;

I tremble at the bleffings once fo dear ;

And ev'ry pleafure pains me to the heart.

Yet why complain? or why complain for one?
Hangs out the fun his luftre but for me,

The fingle man? Are angels all befide ?

I mourn

I mourn for millions: 'tis the common lot;
In this fhape, or in that, has fate entail'd
The mother's throes on all of woman born,
Not more the children, than fure heirs of pain.
War, famine, peft, volcano, ftorm, and fire,
Inteftine broils, oppreffion, with her heart
Wrapt up in triple brafs, befiege mankind.
God's image difinherited of day,

Here, plung'd in mines, forgets a fun was made.
There, beings deathlefs as their haughty lord,
Are hammer'd to the galling oar for life;
And plow the winter's wave, and reap despair.
Some, for hard mafters, broken under arms,
In battle lopt away, with half their limbs,
Beg bitter bread thro' realms their valour fav'd,
If fo the tyrant, or his minion, doom.
Want, and incurable difeafe, (fell pair!)
On hopeless multitudes remorfeless seize
At once; and make a refuge of the grave.
How groaning hospitals eject their dead!
What numbers groan for fad admiffion there!
What numbers, once in fortune's lap high-fed,
Solicit the cold hand of charity!

To fhock us more, folicit it in vain!

Ye filken fons of pleafure! fince in pains.

You rue more modifh vifits, vifit here,

And breathe from your debauch: give, and reduce
Surfeit's dominion o'er you: but, so great

Your

Your impudence, you blush at what is right!
Happy! did forrow feize on fuch alone.

Not prudence can defend, or virtue save;
Disease invades the chafteft temperance;

And punishment the guiltless; and alarm,
Thro' thickest shades, pursues the found of peace,
Man's caution often into danger turns,
And his guard falling, crushes him to death.
Not happiness itself makes good her name;
Our

very wishes give us not our wish,

How diftant oft the thing we doat on moft,
From that for which we doat, felicity?
The smootheft course of nature has its pains;
And trueft friends, thro' error, wound our rest.
Without misfortune, what calamities!

And what hoftilities, without a foe!

Nor are foes wanting to the best on earth.

But endless is the lift of human ills,

And fighs might fooner fail, than cause to figh.
A part how small of the terraqueous globe

Is tenanted by man! the rest a waste,

Rocks, defarts, frozen feas, and burning fands:

Wild haunts of monsters, poisons, ftings, and death, Such is earth's melancholy map! but, far

More fad! this earth is a true map of man.

So bounded are its haughty lord's delights

To woe's wide empire; where deep troubles tofs,
Loud forrows howl, invenom'd paffions bite.

Rav'nous

Rav'nous calamities our vitals feize,
And threat'ning fate wide opens to devour.
What then am I, who forrow for myself?
In age, in infancy, from others aid
Is all our hope; to teach us to be kind.
That, nature's firft, laft leffon to mankind;
The selfish heart deferves the pain it feels.
More gen'rous forrow, while it finks, exalts;
And conscious virtue mitigates the pang.

Nor virtue, more than prudence, bids me give
Swoln thought a fecond channel; who divide,
They weaken too, the torrent of their grief.
Take then, O world! thy much-indebted tear.
How fad a fight is human happiness,

To those whofe thought can pierce beyond an hour!
O thou! whate'er thou art! whose heart exults!

Wouldst thou I should congratulate thy fate?

I know thou would'ft; thy pride demands it from me.
Let thy pride pardon, what thy nature needs,
The falutary cenfure of a friend.

Thou happy wretch! by blindness art thou bleft;

By dotage dandled to perpetual fmiles.

Know, fmiler at thy peril art thou pleas'd;

Thy pleasure is the promise of thy pain.
Misfortune, like a creditor fevere,
But rifes in demand for her delay;

She makes a fcourge of past prosperity,
To fting thee more, and double thy distress.

The