Abbildungen der Seite

Whate'er th' expanded heart can wish; when they,
Accepting the reward, neglect the duty,
Or worse, pervert those gifts to deeds of ruin,
Is there a wretch they rule so base as they?
Guilty, at once, of sacrilege to Heav'n!
And of perfidious robbery to Man?

The true END of LIFE.


WHO, who would live, my Narva, just to breathe
The idle air, and indolently run,

Day after day, the still returning round
Of life's mean offices, and sickly joys?
But in the service of mankind to be
A guardian God below-still to employ
The mind's brave ardour in heroic aims,
Such as may raise us o'er the groveling herd,
And make us shine for ever, That is life.



REFLECT that life and death, affecting sounds,
Are only varied modes of endless being.
Reflect that life, like every other blessing,
Derives its value from its use alone;
Not for itself but for a nobler end

Th' Eternal gave it; and that end is virtue.
When inconsistent with a greater good,
Reason commands to cast the less away;
Thus life, with loss of wealth, is well preserv'd,
And virtue cheaply sav'd with loss of life.

A LION overcome by a MAN.


THE Prince in a lone court was plac'd,
Unarm'd, all but his hands, on which he wore
A pair of gauntlets.

At last, the door of an old Lion's den

Being drawn up, the horrid beast appear'd:
The flames, which from his eye shot glaring red,
Made the sun start, as the spectators thought,

And round them cast a day of blood and death :
The Prince walk'd forward: the large beast descry'd
His prey; and with a roar, that made us pale,
Flew fiercely on him: but Lysimachus
Starting aside, avoiding his first stroke,
With a slight hurt; and as the Lion turn'd,
Thrust gauntlet, arm, and all, into his throat:
Then, with Herculean force, tore forth by th' roots
The foaming bloody tongue; and while the savage,
Faint with the loss, sunk to the blushing earth,
To plow it with his teeth, your conqu'ring soldier
Leap'd on his back, and dash'd his skull to pieces.


How could my tongue

Take pleasure, and be lavish in thy praise!
How could I speak thy nobleness of nature!
Thy open manly heart, thy courage, constancy,
And in-born truth, unknowing to dissemble!
Thou art the man in whom my soul delights,
In whom, next Heav'n, I trust.

VIRTUE the only true SOURCE of NOBILITY.


I TELL thee then, whoe'er amidst the sons
Of reason, valour, liberty, and virtue,

Displays distinguish'd merit, is a Noble

Of Nature's own creating. Such have risen,

Sprung from the dust; or where had been our honours? And such, in radiant bands, will rise again

In yon immortal city, that, when most

Deprest by fate, and near apparent ruin,

Returns, as with an energy divine,

On her astonish'd foes, and shakes them from her.

The happy EFFECTS of MISFORTune.


-IF Misfortune comes, she brings along.

The bravest virtues. And so many great
Ilustrious spirits have convers'd with woe,

Have in her school been taught, as are enough
To consecrate distress, and make ambition
Ev'n wish the frown beyond the smile of fortune.


WISH'D Morning's come; and now upon the plains,
And distant mountains, where they feed their flocks,
The happy shepherds leave their homely huts,
And with their pipes proclaim the new-born day :
The lusty swain comes with his well-fill'd scrip
Of healthful viands, which, when hunger calls,
With much content and appetite he eats,
To follow in the field his daily toil,

And dress the grateful glebe that yields him fruits:
The beasts, that under the warm hedges slept,
And weather'd out the cold bleak night, are up;
And, looking tow'rds the neighbouring pastures, raise
Their voice, and bid their fellow brutes good-morrow:
The cheerful birds too on the tops of trees
Assemble all in choirs; and with their notes
Salute, and welcome up the rising Sun.



FROM amber shrouds I see the Morning rise:
Her rosy hands begin to paint the skies:
And now the city emmets leave their hive,
And rouzing hinds to cheerful labour drive;
High cliffs and rocks are pleasing objects now,
And Nature smiles upon the mountain brow;
The joyful birds salute the sun's approach:
The sun too laughs, and mounts his gaudy coach;
While from his car the dropping gems distil,
And all the earth, and all the heavens, do smile.

The charming NOTES of the NIGHTINGALE.


THUS in some poplar shade, the Nightingale,
With piercing moans, does her lost young bewail:

Which the rough hind, observing as they lay
Warm in their downy nest, had stol'n away:
But she in mournful sounds does still complain,
Sings all the night, though all her songs are vain,
And still renews her miserable strain.



So when the spring renews the flow'ry field,
And warns the pregnant Nightingale to build;
She seeks the safest shelter of the wood,
Where she may trust her little tuneful brood;
Where no rude swains her shady cell may know,
No serpents climb, nor blasting winds may blow:
Fond of the chosen place, she views it o'er,
Sits there, and wanders through the grove no more:
Warbling she charms it each returning night,

And loves it with a mother's dear delight.


A worthless PERSON can claim no MERIT from the


WERE honour to be scann'd by long descent
From ancestors illustrious, I could vaunt
A lineage of the greatest, and recount,
Among my fathers, names of ancient story,
Heroes and godlike patriots, who subdued
The world by arms and virtue :

But that be their own praise:

Nor will I borrow merit from the dead,
Myself an unde server.

The Love of our COUNTRY the greatest of VIRTUES.


His only blot was this; that, much provok'd,
He rais'd his vengeful arm against his country:
And lo! the righteous Gods have now chastis d him,
Ev'a by the hands of those for whom he fought.
Whatever private views and passions plead,
No cause can justify so black a deed:
These, when the angry tempest clouds the soul,
May darken reason, and her course controul;




But when the prospect clears, her startl'd eye
Must from the treach'rous gulph with horror fly,
On whose wild wave, by stormy passions tost,
So many hapless wretches have been lost.
Then be this truth the star by which we steer,
Above ourselves our COUNTRY should be dear.



LEARN hence, ye Romans, on how sure a base
The patriot builds his happiness; no stroke,
No keenest, deadliest, shaft of adverse fate,
Can make his generous bosom quite despair,
But that alone by which his country falls.
Grief may to grief in endless round succeed,
And nature suffer when our children bleed:
Yet still superior must that hero prove,
Whose first, best passion is his COUNTRY'S LOVE.

In what PHILOSOPHY really consists.

PHILOSOPHY consists not

In airy schemes, or idle speculations:
The rule and conduct of all social life
Is her great province. Not in lonely cells
Obscure she lurks, but holds her heav'nly light
To senates and to kings, to guide their councils,
And teach them to reform and bless mankind.
All policy but her's is false, and rotten;
All valour, not conducted by her precepts,
Is a destroying fury sent from hell,

To plague unhappy man, and ruin nations.

SCIPIO restoring the CAPTIVE PRINCESS to her



WHAT with admiration

Struck every heart was this.--A noble virgin,
Conspicuous far o'er all the captive dames,

Was mark'd the Gen'ral's prize. She wept and blush'd,
Young, fresh, and blooming like the morn.
As when the blue sky trembles through a cloud

An eye,

« ZurückWeiter »