TRIFLING mortal, tell me why

Thou hast disturb'd my urn;
Want'st thou to find out what am I?
Vain man! attend, and learn:

To know what letters spelt my name
Is useless quite to thee;
A heap of dust is all I am,

And all that thou shalt be.
Go now, that heap of dust explore,
Measure its grains, or weigh;
Canst thou the title which I bore
Distinguish in the clay?
What glitt'ring honors, or high trust,
Once dignified me here,
Were characters imprest on dust,
Which quickly disappear.

Nor will the sparkling atoms show
A Claudius or a Guelph:

Vain search if here the source thou'dst know,
Of nobles, or thyself.

The mould will yield no evidence
By which thou mayst divine
If lords or beggars issued thence,
And form'd the ancient line.

Learn then the vanity of birth;

Condition, honors, name,
Are all but modes of common earth,
The substance just the same.
Bid av'rice and ambition view
Th' extent of all their gains;
Themselves, and their possessions too,
A gallon vase contains.

Haste, lift thy thoughts from earthly things
To more substantial bliss ;

And leave that grov'ling pride to kings,
Which ends in dirt like this.

Let virtue be thy radiant guide,
"Twill dignify thy clay,

And raise thy ashes glorified,
When suns shall fade away.

The Negro's Complaint.

WIDE Over the tremulous sea
The moon spread her mantle of light,
And the gale, gently dying away,

Breath'd soft on the bosom of night.
On the forecastle Maratan stood,

And pour'd forth his sorrowful tale;
His tears fell unseen in the flood,

His sighs pass'd unheard on the gale.
Ah, wretch! in wild anguish he cry'd,
From country and liberty torn;
Ah! Maratan, wouldst thou had died,

Ere o'er the salt waves thou wert borne!
Through the groves of Angola I stray'd,
Love and Hope made my bosom their home,
There I talk'd with my favourite maid,

Nor dream'd of the sorrow to come. From the thicket the man-hunter sprung,

My cries echo'd loud through the air; There was fury and wrath on his tongue, He was deaf to the shrieks of despair.

Who his love could from Maratan tear; And blasted this impotent hand,

That was sever'd from all I held dear. Flow, ye tears, down my cheeks ever flow, Still let sleep from my eye-lids depart, And still may the arrows of woe

Drink deep of the stream of my heart! But hark! on the silence of night My Adila's accents I hear, And mournful beneath the wan light I see her lov'd image appear! Slow o'er the smooth ocean she glides, As the mist that hangs light on the wave; And fondly her lover she chides,

That lingers so long from the grave. "O Maratan, haste thee!" she cries, "Here the reign of oppression is o'er, The tyrant is robb'd of his prize,

And Adila sorrows no more."

Now, sinking amidst the dim ray,
Her form seems to fade on my view;
O stay then, my Adila, stay-

She beckons, and I must pursue.
To-morrow, the white man in vain
Shall proudly account me his slave;
My shackles I plunge in the main,

And rush to the realms of the brave.

Elegy to the Memory of Miss Louisa Hanway. O THOU, to whom fair Genius homage paid, Whom science courted, and the Muses lov'd: Whose mind the hand of Innocence array'd, Pure as that form which Envy's self approv'd:

Accept these tributary drops-these sighs! (Remembrance still will on thy virtues dwell) [skies, Tho' nought could check thy progress to the The soul must cherish hers it lov'd so well. For thou wert all ambition could desire,

Endow'd with all that nature could impart Warm was thy breast with Friendship's sacres fire,

And form'd for sentiment thy gentle heart. Near thy blest shade the pensive Muse shall stray,

Led by the pallid moon's uncertain light,. Sad tribute to thy peerless worth to pay, And to thy tomb soft Sympathy invite. Lamenting Memory, too, shall linger there, And cull sweet flow'rs to deck thy holy shrine:

For thee indulge the deep-drawn sigh sincere, And o'er thy ashes shall with pity pine. Yet check'd should be those tears thy friends may shed,

That grief, which thy fond parents' peace de

POLLIO must needs to penitence excite; For see, his scarves are rich, and gloves are white.

Behold his notes display'd, his body rais'd:
With what a zeal he labours to be prais'd!
No stubborn sinner able to withstand

The force and reasoning of his wig and band:
Much better pleas'd, so pious his intent,
With five that laugh than fifty who repent.
On moral duties when his tongue refines,
Tully and Plato are his best divines:
What Matthew says, or Mark, the proof but
small;

What Locke or Clarke asserts, good scripture

all.

THUS with kind words Sir Edward cheer'd Dear Dick! thou on my friendship mayst dehis friend:

pend :

I know thy fortune is but very scant;
But be assur'd, I'll ne'er see Dick in want.
Dick's soon confin'd-his friend, no doubt,
would free him:

His word he kept-in want he ne'er would

see him.

WHEN men of infamy to grandeur soar, They light a torch to show their shame the

more.

On the Offering made by King James I. at a grave Comedy, called the Marriage of Arts. AT Christ-Church Marriage, play'd before the king,

Lest these learn'd mates should want an offering,

The king himself did offer-what, I pray?
He offer'd, twice or thrice, to go away.

A Country Parson's Answer to a young Lady who sent her Compliments on the Ten of Hearts.

YOUR Compliments, dear lady, pray forbear; Old English services are more sincere : You send ten hearts, the tithe is only mine; Give me but one, and burn the other nine.

By Dr. DONNE.

I AM unable, yonder beggar cries, To stand or go. If he says true, he lies.

MOORE always smiles whenever he recites; He smiles, you think, approving what he writes. And yet in this no vanity is shown;

A modest man may like what's not his own.

To a Writer of long Epitaphs.

FRIEND, in your Epitaphs I'm griev'd
So very much is said:

One half will never be believ'd,
The other never read.

To Mr. Thomson, who had procured the Author a Benefit Night. DENNIS.

REFLECTING on thy worth, methinks I find Thy various Seasons in their Author's mind. Spring opes her blossoms various as thy muse And, like thy soft compassion, sheds her dews. Summer's hot drought in thy expression glows, And o'er each page a tawny ripeness throws. Autumn's rich fruits th' instructed reader gains, Who tastes the meaning purpose of thy strains. Winter-but that no semblance takes from thee:

That hoary season yields a type of me.
Shatter'd by Time's weak storms I with'ring lay,
Leafless, and whitening in a cold decay!
Yet shall my propless ivy, pale and bent,
Bless the short sunshine which thy pity lent.

To Mr. Pope.

WHILE malice, Pope, denies thy page
While critics and while bards in rage,
Its own celestial fire;
Admiring, won't admire :

While wayward pens thy works assail,
And envious tongues decry;

These times though many a friend bewail,
These times bewail not I.

But when the world's loud praise is thine,
And spleen no more shall blame;
When with thy Homer thou shalt shine
In one establish'd fame:

When none shall rail, and ev'ry lay
Devote a wreath to thee:
That day (for come it will)-that day
Shall I lament to see.