And * HERCULES could force
His paffage, whither with lefs toil,
When, "fhuffled off this mortal coil,"
Our journey lies of course.
TO MISS WILLIAMS, ON HER EPIC POEM, PERUAN
POETIC fifter, who with daring hand,✨
'Ere this fourth luftre's laft foft year is flown,
Haft feiz'd the Epic Lyre-with art divine
Wak'd on its golden ftrings each spirit bland,
Of bade its deep fonorous tunes expand ;-
Shalt thou the claim of glory's meed refign,
Call other strains, lefs filver fweet than thine,
To hymn the fate of a disastrous land!
See! at that call, Peru's wild genius flies.
To Thefpian bowers: there, as Urania ftrays,
Grafps her bright robe, and thus impatient cries,
With bending knee, and fupplicating gare,
"Be mine alone thy lovely female bard,
"O! from obtrufive lyre my well-fung ftory guard!"
Perrupit Acheronta Herculeys labor
WHILST you illumine Shakespeare's page,
And dare the future critic's rage,
Or on the past refine,
Here many an eve I penfive fit,
No Be pours out a stream of wit,
No Bll joys o'er wine.
At Baia's fpring, of Roman fame,
I quaff the pure æthereal flame,
To fire my languid blood:
Life's gladfome days, alas! are o❜er,
For health's phlogiston now no more
Pervades the stagnant flood.
Studious at times, I ftrive to fcan
Hope's airy dream-the end of man,
In fyftems wife or odd;
With Hume, I fate and death defy,
Or vifionary phantoms spy
With Plato and Monbodd.
By metaphyfic whims distrefs'd,
Still fceptic thoughts disturb my breast,
And reafon's out of tune :
One ferious truth let none impeach,
'Tis all philofophy can teach-
That man's an air balloon.
He rides the sport of every blaft,
Now on the wave, or defert cast,
And by the eddy borne :-
Can boasted reason steer him right,
Or e'er restrain his rapid flight,
By paffion's whirlwind torn?
His mounting fpiris, buoyant air,
But wafts him 'midft dark clouds of care,
And life's tempeftuous trouble;
Even though he shine, in fplendid dyes,
And sport awhile in fortune's skies,
Soon bursts the empty bubble.
While thro' this pathlefs wafte we stray,
Are there no flowers to cheer the way?
And must we kill repine?
No;-Heaven, in pity to our woes,
The gentle-foothing balm beftows
Of mufic, love, and wine.
Then bid your Delia awake the lyre,
Attuned to Love and foft defire,
And scorn Ambition's ftrife ;
Around let brilliant Fancy play,
To colour with her magic ray.
The dreary gloom of life.
Let Beauty speed her fondest kifs,
The prelude to more perfect blifs,
And fweet fenfations dart;
While wine and frolic mirth infpire
The ardent with, the amorous fire,
And thrill the raptur'd heart.
But Man has focial dues to pay;.
Reafon and science claim their sway,
And truths fublime difpenfe:
For pleasure's charms we feebly tafte,
If idly every hour we waste,
The abject flaves of fenfe...
In vain the speculative mind
Would metaphyfic regions find-
Such dark researches fpare ; ;
The foul etherial notions tire,
As her frail cafe can fcarce refpire
In too refin'd an air.
To Sophifts leave their puzzling fkill;
The voice of Reason, whispers still
To blefs, is to be bleft;
Illum'd by Virtue's vivid ray,
Enjoy the prefent fleeting day,
And trust to Heaven the rest..
poor Anacreon bleeding lies,
From the first glance of Stella's eyes,
Too weak to fly-too proud to yield,
Or leave an undifputed field;
He rallies, refts upon his arms,.
And reconnoitres all her charms ;
Vainly he fancies that by peeping,
Thro' all the beauties in her keeping,
He may, in fuch a ftore, collect
The healing balm of one defect.
One feeble part-one faulty spot,
That nature's framing-hand forgot,
Or left in mercy a defence,
Against her wide omnipotence,
Which spares philofopher nor fage,
Nor tender youth-nor cautious age;
|