"Had fav'ring fortune still remain'd his guide, "Nor e'er to life's last step forsook his side, "Far other passions then had fill'd his eyes, "Which wean'd at length from earth, now sought the ❝skies.
"Then happy he who trembling on life's brink
Already bent, desires at once to sink;
"And as his wrinkles lean to earth more near, "Wishes to cover them for ever there.
"Be ours that fortitude; that bliss attend, "And smooth the awful hour, when life must end; "Still trust a Power, whose word can ne'er deceive,. "And ne'er repine a joyless world to leave;
"Where on a sea, by hourly tempest tost, "All blindly steer, the helm of reason lost; "Where many sink, and they who gain the shore, "Think them as happy who were drown'd before; "Where all are busied in some vain pursuit, "Fair in its blossom, barren in its fruit. "Till late they find when full possession cloys, "They earn'd disgust, but paid for real joys,”
EPIGRAM, IMITATED FROM MARTIAL. HANG me outright, but I could spend Whole days and nights with you, my friend.- But two miles sever us, or more;
I make them four.
You're often absent, oft denied, Engag'd, or sick, or occupied :
Your sight's well worth a two-mile trudge
Four miles to miss you is the grudge!
THE OPTIMIST.
An Epistle to Robert Augustus Johnson, Esq.
BY MICHAEL WODHULL, ESQ.
Omnibus esse dedit, si quis cognoverit uti.
RESOLVED to snatch the present hour
Sacred to Chearfulness and you,
Tho' dull November skies yet lour, From trivial converse I retire,
From joys on which the crowd attends; And seated by a blazing fire,
With distant admiration view,
What borrow'd attitudes express
The rage of modish emptiness.
Lectur'd by those considerate friends, Whose vows are pour'd at Wisdom's shrine More fervently than your's or mine, From idly tracing up and down Each folly that besets the town, Or haunts the cottage, I desist, And, duely weighing in my thought Each maxim honest Pangloss taught, Commence an errant Optimist.
Let the worn Beau of Anna's reign Repeat what pleas'd in days of yore, And act the Lover at fourscore, All tottering and convuls'd with pain.
Let cards (ordain'd to break the fence Which kept insipid ugliness
Apart from beauty and from sense) Intrude on meditation's gloom, Banish the Matron's sober dress, And, paradox till now unheard! Make hoary age no more rever'd, Sink unregarded to the tomb. Of old, as godly writers tell, When her unwelcome looking-glass Informed the antiquated Belle The triumphs of her charms were o'er, And every lover fled the door, Conscious how swift life's minutes pass, She order'd up her gravest pinners, Exchanged brocade for decent furs, And mixed with penitential sinners: But now at Flavia's toilet, grac'd With such refin'd display of taste As might become her grand-daughters, Midst Naples washes and carmine, Spadille, great potentate, is seen, With pomp to take his nightly stand; Each eve, this idol to appease, She dashes from her palsied hand, Unread Devotion's fervent strain, Penn'd by old Jeremy, Romaine, Or any greater Saint you please.
Meanwhile at Fortune's spacious table I take whatever seat I find, Accommodating still my mind, To feed as well as I am able,
Fond to persuade each grumbling guest, The fare, which from her shaken urn
This Queen of sightless equity Chances at any time to turn, Is undeniably the best.
Haply your candour may incline To bid me the faint notes prolong, Since, scorning meanly to repine, Tho' the coy nymphs of Pindus' hill Their much-requested aid deny, Self-soothed, with accents harsh and shrill, I breathe an unambitious song.
Could my invention soar on high With yours, together would we rove, And gleaning each neglected sweet, From that imaginary grove
Where Beauty and where Virtue meet, With blooming myrtle, Gallia's pride, Braid laurels from Ilyssus' side, And strew the wreath at Plato's feet; Or tread Leucate's haughty brow Where, moved with energy divine, In days of more heroic mold, Hopeless, yet resolutely bold, The Lover pour'd at Phoebus' shrine A last irrevocable vow,
Nor fear'd to tempt the raging tide;
Thence, while the big tears down her cheek
Steals copiously, bid Nature speak,
And near the gulph where Sappho died,
O'er the huge cliffs exposed and bare,
Erect the trophies of Despair.
Such were the themes your voice approv'd;
Nor should fastidious Fancy ask A scope more large, a nobler task, When, by each prejudice unmov'd,
She dares to snatch from public hate, From the high Vulgar's empty scorn, Actions irregularly great,
Or sentiments that might adorn Lyceum's archives, ere in dust, With brutal shouts, an impious band The towers of fam'd Erectheus laid; And where the Patriot's awful bust Had dignified the palmy shade, The Turkish crescent flam'd.-To close My baffled soul's aspiring views, See Boreas comes with frozen hand, And while yon altar of the Muse With kindled incense blazes, throws, To damp it, Winter's sickly dews.
Yet tho' unbraced, my torpid lyre Denies to breathe one tuneful note, Tho' in these leafless shades the throat. Of Philomel, with all the quire Of feather'd harmonists, is mute, And tempests rage, 'tis you alone, I ask no other aid, can suit My spirits to some livelier tone: Come then, and, to induce you more, Melissa will with smiles attend
To welcome her expected friend; And haply from Italia's shore Returning, virtù's choicest store
Will- -import; or He, whose soul
With letter'd elegance refin'd
Brings Aristippus to our mind,
While the swift hours unheeded fly
Mix with the circulating bowl His unconstrain'd festivity.
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