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And Peace, that seldom knows to share
The Statesman's friendly bowl, be there;
While rofy Health, fuperior guest,
Loose to the Zephyrs bares her breast;
And, to add a sweeter grace,
Give her foft Amelia's face.

Mason, why this dull delay?
Haíte, to Sion hafte

There the Muse again shall ask,
Nor thy hand forget its task ;
Nor the Lyre its strains refuse
To the Patron of the Muse,



From the Latin of ISAAC HAWKINS Brown, Esq;



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O all inferior animals 'tis giv'n

T'enjoy the state allotted them by Heaven;
No vain researches e'er disturb their rest,
No fears of dark futurity molest.


Man, only Man solicitous to know
The springs whence Nature's operations flow,
Plods through a dreary waste with toil and pain,
And reasons, hopes, and thinks, and lives in vain ;
For fable Death ftill hov'ring o'er his head,
Cuts short his progress, with his vital thread.
Wherefore, since Nature errs not, do we find
These feeds of Science in the human mind,
If no congenial fruits are predefign'd?
For what avails to man this pow'r to roam
Thro' ages past, and ages yet to come,
T'explore new worlds o'er all th’ætherial way,
Chain'd to a spot, and living but a day?
Since all must perish in one common grave,
Nor can these long laborious searches fave,
Were it not wiser far, supinely laid,
To sport with Phyllis in the noontide shade ?
Or at thy jovial festivals appear,
Great Bacchus, who alone the soul can clear
From all that it has felt, and all that it can fear?

Come on then, let us feaft: let Chloe fing,
And soft Neæra touch the trembling string ;
Enjoy the present hour, nor seek to know
What good or ill to-morrow may bestow.
But these delights soon pall upon the taste ;
Let's try then if more serious cannot last :
Wealth let us heap on wealth, or fame pursue,
Let pow'r and glory be our points in view;

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In courts, in eamps, in senates let us live,
Our levees crowded like the buzzing hive :
Each weak attempt the same sad leffon brings,
Alas, what vanity in human things!

What means then shall we try? where hope to find
A friendly harbour for the restless mind?
Who still, you fee, impatient to obtain
Knowledge immense, (so Nature's laws ordain)
Ev'n now, tho' fetter'd in corporeal clay,
Climbs step by step the profpect to survey,
And seeks, unweary'd, Truth's eternal ray.
No fleeting joys fhe asks, which must depend
On the frail senses, and with them must end ;
But such as suit her own immortal fame,
Free from all change, eternally the same.

Take courage then, these joys we shall attain ;
Almighty Wisdom never acts in vain ;
Nor shall the soul, on which it has bestow'd
Such pow'rs, e'er perish, like an earthly clod;
But purg'd at length from foul corruption's stain,
Freed from her prison, and unbound her chain,
She shall her native strength, and native skies regain :
To heav'n an old inhabitant return,
And draw nectareous streams from truth's perpetual urn.

Whilft life remains, (if life it can be call'd
T'exist in fleshly bondage thus enthrall'd)
Tir'd with the dull pursuit of worldly things,
The foul scarce wakes, or opes her glad fome wings,




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Yet still the godlike exile in disgrace
Retains some marks of her celestial race ;
Else whence from Mem'ry's store can lhe produce
Such various thoughts, or range them so for use ?
Can matter these contain, dispose, apply?
Can in her cells such mighty treasures lye?
Or can her native force produce them to the eye?

Whence is this pow'r, this foundress of all arts,
Serving, adorning life, thro' all its parts,
Which names impos'd, by letters mark'd those names,
Adjusted properly by legal claims,
From woods, and wilds collected rude mankind,
And cities, laws, and governments design'd?
What can this be, but some bright ray from heaven,
Some emanation from Omniscience given?

When now the rapid fream of Eloquence
Bears all before it, pasion, reason, sense,
Can its dread thunder, or its lightning's force
Derive their effence from a mortal source ?
What think you of the bard's enchanting art,
Which, whether he attempts to warm the heart
With fabled scenes, or charm the ear with rhyme,
Breathes all pathetic, lovely, and sublime ?
Whilst things on earth roll round from age age,
The fame dull farce repeated ; on the stage
The poet gives us a creation new,
More pleasing, and more perfect than the true ;


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The mind, who always to perfection hastes,
Perfection, such as here the never talles,
With gratitude accepts the kind deceit,
And thence foresees a system more compleat.
Of thofe what think you, who the circling race
Of suns, and their revolving planets trace,
And comets journeying thro' unbounded space ?
Say, can you doubt, but that th' all-searching foul,
That now can traverse heav'n from pole to pole,
From thence descending visits but this earth,
And shall once more regain the regions of her birth?

Could she thus act, unless fome Power unknown,
From matter quite distinct, and all her own,
Supported, and impell’d her. She approves
Self-conscious, and condemns, she hates, and loves,
Mourns, and rejoices, hopes, and is afraid,
Without the body's unrequested aid :
Her own internal strength her reason guides,
By this she now compares things, now divides ;
Truth's scatter'd fragments piece by piece collects;
Rejoins, and thence her edifice erects;
Piles arts on arts, effects to caufes ties,
And rears th' aspiring fabric to the skies :
From whence, as on a diftant plain below,
She sees from causes consequences flow,
And the whole chain diftinctly comprehends,
Which from th’ Almighty's throne to earth descends :



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