Say ye, who search these records of the dead,

Near these, and where the setting sun displays,

read;

Can all the real knowledge ye possess, Or those (if such there are) who more than guess,

Atone for each impostor's wild mistakes,
And mend the blunders pride or folly makes?
What thought so wild, what airy dream so
light,

That will not prompt a theorist to write?
What art so prevalent, what proof so strong,
That will convince him his attempt is wrong?
One in the solids finds each lurking ill,
Nor grants the passive fluids power to kill;
A learned friend some subtler reason brings,
Absolves the channels, but condemns their
springs;

The subtile nerves, that shun the doctor's eye,
Escape no more his subtler theory;

The vital heat, that warms the labouring heart,

Lends a fair system to these sons of art;
The vital air, a pure and subtile stream,
Serves a foundation for an airy scheme,
Assists the doctor, and supports his dream.
Some have their favourite ills, and each
disease

Is but a younger branch that kills from these:
One to the gout contracts all human pain,
He views it raging in the frantic brain;
Finds it in fevers all his efforts. mar,
And sees it lurking in the cold catarrh :
Bilious by some, by others nervous seen,
Rage the fantastic demons of the spleen;
And every symptom of the strange disease
With every system of the sage agrees.

Ye frigid tribe, on whom I wasted long The tedious hours, and ne'er indulged in song; Ye first seducers of my easy heart,

And gilds yon columns, there, on either side,
The huge abridgments of the LAW abide;
Fruitful as vice the dread correctors stand,
And spread their guardian terrors round the
land;

Yet, as the best that human care can do,
Is mix'd with error, oft with evil too,
Skill'd in deceit, and practised to evade,
Knaves stand secure, for whom these laws
were made;

And justice vainly each expedient tries,
While art eludes it, or while power defies.
Ah! happy age,' the youthful poet sings,
When the free nations knew not laws nor
kings;

When all were bless'd to share a common store,

And none were proud of wealth, for none were poor;

No wars nor tumults vex'd each still domain,
No thirst for empire, no desire of gain;
No proud great man, nor one who would be
great,

Drove modest merit from its proper state;
Nor into distant climes would avarice roam,
To fetch delights for luxury at home:
Bound by no ties which kept the soul in
awe,

They dwelt at liberty, and love was law!' 'Mistaken youth! each nation first was

rude,

part;

Ye dull deluders, truth's destructive foes; Ye sons of fiction, clad in stupid prose;

The meaner cares of life were all he knew ; Bounded his pleasures, and his wishes few : But when by slow degrees the Arts arose,

To curb the insolence of rude command,
To snatch the victim from the usurer's hand;
To awe the bold, to yield the wrong'd redress,
And feed the poor with Luxury's excess.'
Like some vast flood, unbounded, fierce,
and strong,

His nature leads ungovern'd man along;
Like mighty bulwarks made to stem that tide,
The laws are form'd and placed on ev'ry side:
Whene'er it breaks the bounds by these de-
creed,

New statutes rise, and stronger laws succeed;
More and more gentle grows the dying stream,
More and more strong the rising bulwarks
seem;

Till, like a miner working sure and slow,
Luxury creeps on, and ruins all below;
The basis sinks, the ample piles decay;
The stately fabric shakes and falls away;
Primeval want and ignorance come on,
But freedom, that exalts the savage state, is

gone.

There, such the taste of our degenerate age,
Stand the profane delusions of the STAGE:
Yet virtue owns the TRAGIC MUSE a friend,
Fable her means, morality her end;
For this she rules all passions in their turns;
And now the bosom bleeds, and now it burns,
Pity with weeping eye surveys her bowl,
Her anger swells, her terror chills the soul;
She makes the vile to virtue yield applause,
And own her sceptre while they break her laws;
For vice in others is abhorr'd of all,
And villains triumph when the worthless fall.

Not thus her sister COMEDY prevails,
Who shoots at folly, for her arrow fails;
Folly, by dulness arm'd, eludes the wound,
And harmless sees the feather'd shafts re-
bound;

Unhurt she stands, applauds the archer's skill,
Laughs at her malice, and is folly still.
Yet well the Muse portrays in fancied scenes,
What pride will stoop to, what profession

means;

she lies,

And every nation her dread tale supplies;
Yet History has her doubts, and every age
With sceptic queries marks the passing page;
Records of old nor later date are clear,
Too distant those, and these are placed too
near;

There time conceals the objects from our view,
Here our own passions and a writer's too :
Yet, in these volumes, see how states arose!
Guarded by virtue from surrounding foes;
Their virtue lost, and of their triumphs vain,
Lo! how they sunk to slavery again!
Satiate with power, of fame and wealth
possess❜d,

A nation grows too glorious to be bless'd; Conspicuous made, she stands the mark of all, And foes join foes to triumph in her fall. Thus speaks the page that paints ambition's

race,

The monarch's pride, his glory, his disgrace; The headlong course, that madd'ning heroes

run,

How soon triumphant, and how soon undone; How slaves, turn'd tyrants, offer crowns to sale, And each fall'n nation's melancholy tale.

How caution watches at the lips of fraud;
The wordy variance of domestic life;
The tyrant husband, the retorting wife;
The snares for innocence, the lie of trade,
And the smooth tongue's habitual masquerade.
With her the virtues too obtain a place,
Each gentle passion, each becoming grace;
The social joy in life's securer road,
Its easy pleasure, its substantial good;
The happy thought that conscious virtue
gives,

And all that ought to live, and all that lives.

But who are these? Methinks a noble

mien

And awful grandeur in their form are seen, Now in disgrace: what though by time is spread

Polluting dust o'er every reverend head; What though beneath yon gilded tribe they lie,

And dull observers pass insulting by :
Forbid it shame, forbid it decent awe,
What seems so grave, should no attention
draw!

Lo! where of late the Book of Martyrs stood,

Hark! hollow blasts through empty courts resound,

And shadowy forms with staring eyes stalk round;

See! moats and bridges, walls and castles rise, Ghosts, fairies, demons, dance before our eyes; Lo! magic verse inscribed on golden gate, And bloody hand that beckons on to fate :' And who art thou, thou little page, unfold? Say, doth thy lord my Claribel withhold? Go tell him straight, Sir Knight, thou must resign

The captive queen ;-for Claribel is mine.' Away he flies; and now for bloody deeds, Black suits of armour, masks, and foaming steeds;

The giant falls; his recreant throat I seize, And from his corslet take the massy keys :Dukes, lords, and knights in long procession move,

Released from bondage with my virgin love:She comes! she comes! in all the charms of youth,

Unequall'd love and unsuspected truth!

Ah! happy he who thus, in magic themes, O'er worlds bewitch'd, in early rapture dreams, Where wild Enchantment waves her potent wand,

And Fancy's beauties fill her fairy land; Where doubtful objects strange desires excite, And Fear and Ignorance afford delight.

But lost, for ever lost, to me these joys, Which Reason scatters, and which Time de

stroys;

Too dearly bought: maturer judgment calls
My busied mind from tales and madrigals;
My doughty giants all are slain or fled,
And all my knights, blue, green, and yellow,
dead!

No more the midnight fairy tribe I view,
All in the merry moonshine tippling dew;
E'en the last lingering fiction of the brain,
The church-yard ghost, is now at rest again;
And all these wayward wanderings of my
youth

Fly Reason's power and shun the light of truth.

With fiction then does real joy reside, And is our reason the delusive guide? Is it then right to dream the syrens sing? Or mount enraptured on the dragon's wing? No, 'tis the infant mind, to care unknown, That makes th' imagined paradise its own;

Soon as reflections in the bosom rise,
Light slumbers vanish from the clouded eyes:
The tear and smile, that once together rose,
Are then divorced; the head and heart are foes:
Enchantment bows to Wisdom's serious plan,
And Pain and Prudence make and mar the

man.

While thus, of power and fancied empire vain, With various thoughts my mind I entertain; While books my slaves, with tyrant hand I seize,

Pleased with the pride that will not let them please;

Sudden I find terrific thoughts arise,
And sympathetic sorrow fills my eyes;
For, lo! while yet my heart admits the wound,
I see the CRITIC army ranged around.

Foes to our race! if ever ye have known A father's fears for offspring of your own ;If ever, smiling o'er a lucky line,

Ye thought the sudden sentiment divine, Then paused and doubted, and then, tired of doubt,

With rage as sudden dash'd the stanza out ;—
If, after fearing much and pausing long,
Ye ventured on the world your labour'd song,
And from the crusty critics of those days
Implored the feeble tribute of their praise;
Remember now the fears that moved you then,
And, spite of truth, let mercy guide your pen.
What vent'rous race are ours! what mighty

foes

Lie waiting all around them to oppose What treacherous friends betray them to the fight!

What dangers threaten them!-yet still they write :

A hapless tribe! to every evil born,
Whom villains hate, and fools affect to scorn:
Strangers they come, amid a world of wo,
And taste the largest portion ere they go.

Pensive I spoke, and cast mine eyes around; The roof, methought, return'd a solemn sound;

Each column seem'd to shake, and clouds, like smoke,

From dusty piles and ancient volumes broke; Gathering above, like mists condensed they

seem,

Exhaled in summer from the rushy stream; Like flowing robes they now appear, and twine Round the large members of a form divine;

His silver beard, that swept his aged breast, His piercing eye, that inward light express'd, Were seen, but clouds and darkness veil'd the rest.

And, lock'd within his bosom, bears about
A mental charm for every care without.
E'en in the pangs of each domestic grief,
Or health or vigorous hope affords relief;
And every wound the tortured bosom feels,
Or virtue bears, or some preserver heals;
Some generous friend, of ample power
possess'd;

solemn sound :

'Care lives with all; no rules, no precepts

save

The wise from wo, no fortitude the brave; Grief is to man as certain as the grave: Tempests and storms in life's whole progress rise,

And hope shines dimly through o'erclouded skies;

Some drops of comfort on the favour'd fall, But showers of sorrow are the lot of all: Partial to talents, then, shall Heav'n withdraw

Th' afflicting rod, or break the general law?
Shall he who soars, inspired by loftier views,
Life's little cares and little pains refuse ?
Shall he not rather feel a double share
Of mortal wo, when doubly arm'd to bear?
'Hard is his fate who builds his peace of
mind

On the precarious mercy of mankind;
Who hopes for wild and visionary things,
And mounts o'er unknown seas with vent'rous
wings:

But as, of various evils that befal

The human race, some portion goes to all; To him perhaps the milder lot's assign'd, Who feels his consolation in his mind;

Some feeling heart, that bleeds for the distress'd;

'Nor say, the Muse's song, the Poet's pen, Merit the scorn they meet from little men. With cautious freedom if the numbers flow, Not wildly high, nor pitifully low; If vice alone their honest aims oppose, Why so ashamed their friends, so loud their foes ?

Happy for men in every age and clime,
If all the sons of vision dealt in rhyme.
Go on then, Son of Vision! still pursue
Thy airy dreams; the world is dreaming too.
Ambition's lofty views, the pomp of state,
The pride of wealth, the splendour of the
great,

Stripp'd of their mask, their cares and troubles known,

Are visions far less happy than thy own:
Go on! and, while the sons of care complain,
Be wisely gay and innocently vain ;
While serious souls are by their fears undone,
Blow sportive bladders in the beamy sun,
And call them worlds! and bid the greatest
show

More radiant colours in their worlds below:
Then, as they break, the slaves of care reprove,
And tell them, Such are all the toys they love.'

CR.