Stranger, pausewith soften'd mind,
Learn the sorrows of the blind;
Earth and seas, and varying skies,
Visit not their cheerless eyes.
Not for them the bliss to trace
The chisel's animating grace;
Nor, on glowing canvas find
The poet's soul, the sage's mind.
Not for them the heart is seen,
Speaking thro' th' expressive mien;
Not for them are pictur'd there
Friendship, pity, love sincere.
Helpless, as they slowly stray, Childhood points their cheerless way; Or the wand exploring guides Fault'ring steps, where fear presides.
Yet for them has Genius kind
Humble pleasures here assign'd;
Here, with unexpected ray,
Reach'd the soul that felt no day.
Lonely blindness here can meet
Kindred woes, and converse sweet;
Torpid once, can learn to smile
Proudly o'er its useful toil.
He, who deign'd for man to die,
Op'd on day the darken'd eye;
Humbly copy-thou canst feel-
Give thine alms-thou canst not heal.
DESIGNED FOR LAURENCE STERNE.
O YE, whose hearts e'er virtue taught to glow
At human good, or melt at human woe,
Here turn, and pay the tribute of a sigh;
But ye profane, unfeeling, come not nigh!
Lest he, whose bones beneath this marble rest,
Should rise indignant on your eyes unblest,
Launch the swift bolt incensed spirits throw,
And send you weeping to the shades below!
He felt for man-nor dropt a fruitless tear,
But kindly strove the drooping heart to cheer;
For this the flowers by Shiloh's brook that blow,
He wove with those that round Lyceum grow;
For this Euphrosyne's heart-easing draught
He stole, and ting'd with wit and pleasing thought;
For this with humour's necromantic charm,
Death saw him sorrow, care, and spleen disarm!
With dread he saw, then seiz'd his sharpest dart,
And grimly smiling, pierc'd poor Yorick's heart.
If faults he had-for none exempt we find,
They, like his virtues, were of gentlest kind;
Such as arise from genius in excess,
And nerves too fine, that wound e'en while they bless;
Such as a form so captivating wear,
If faults, we doubt-and, to call crimes-we fear;
Such as let envy sift, let malice scan,
Will only prove that Yorick was a man.
HEBREW AND GREEK EPITAPHS
IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.
WHENE'ER in pensive mood we chuse to tread
The sacred mansions of the mighty dead,
Still to our breasts must some reflection rise,
When here we're told a king or hero lies:
A sigh is natʼral when we read the fate
Of all that's fail, or wise, or good, or great:
But 'midst the rest, lo here and there's a stone
Of language strange, or characters unknown.
What is their use? What?-why to draw a tear
For so much Greek and Hebrew buried here!
Gentleman's Magazine.
THO' Bacchus may boast of his care-killing bowl,
And folly in thought-drowning revels delight,
Such worship, alas! has no charms for the soul,
When softer devotions the senses invite.
To the arrow of fate, or the canker of care,
His potions oblivious a balm may bestow;
But fancy that feeds on the charms of the fair,
The death of reflection's the birth of all woe.
What soul, that's possess'd of a dream so divine,
With riot wou'd bid the sweet vision begone?
For a tear that bedews Sensibility's shrine,
Is a drop of more worth than all Bacchus's tun.
Each change and excess hath thro' life been my doom,
And well I can speak of its joy and its strife;
The bottle affords us a glimpse thro' the gloom,
But love's the true sunshine that gladdens our life.
Come, then, rosy Venus, and spread o'er my sight
The magic illusions that ravish the soul!
Awake in my breast the soft dreams of delight!
And drop from thy myrtle one leaf in my bowl!
Then deep will I drink of the nectar divine,
Nor e'er, jolly god, from thy banquet remove;
But each vein of my heart ever thirst for the wine
That's mellow'd by friendship and sweeten'd by love.
COME, lovely tube, by friendship blest,
Belov'd and honour'd by the wise,
Come, fill'd with honest Rowley's best,
And kindled from the lofty skies.
While round me clouds of incense roll, With guiltless joys you charm the sense, And nobler pleasure to the soul,
In hints of moral truth, dispense.
Soon as you feel th' enliv'ning ray,
To dust you hasten to return;
And teach me that my earliest day
Began to give me to the urn.
But tho' thy grosser substance sink
To dust, thy purer part aspires;
This when I see, I joy to think
That earth but half of me requires.
Like thee, myself am born to die,
Made half to rise and half to fall;
O! cou'd I while my
The bliss you gave me, give to all.
Gentleman's Magazine.
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