There industry and gain their vigils keep,
Command the winds, and tame the’unwilling deep:
Here force and hardy deeds of blood prevail;
There languid pleasure sighs in every gale.
Oft o'er the trembling nations from afar
Has Scythia breathed the living cloud of war;
And, where the deluge burst, with sweepy sway
Their arms, their kings, their gods were roll'd away.'
As oft have issued, host impelling host,
The blue-eyed myriads from the Baltic coast.
The prostrate South to the destroyer yields
Her boasted titles and her golden fields:
With grim delight the brood of winter view
A brighter day, and heavens of azure hue:
Scent the new fragrance of the breathing rose,
And quaff the pendent vintage as it grows.
Proud of the yoke, and pliant to the rod,
Why yet does Asia dread a monarch's nod,
While European freedom still withstands [lands;
The' encroaching tide that drowns her lessening
And sees far off, with an indignant groan,
Her native plains and empires once her own?
Can
opener

skies and suns of fiercer flame
O'erpower the fire that animates our frame;
As lamps, that shed at eve a cheerful ray,
Fade and expire beneath the eye of day?
Need we the influence of the northern star
To string our nerves and steel our hearts to war?
And, where the face of Nature laughs around,
Must sickening Virtue fly the tainted ground?
Unmanly thought! what seasons can control,
What fancied zone can circumscribe the soul,
Who, conscious of the source from whence she

springs, By Reason's light, on Resolution's wings,

Spite of her frail companion, dauntless goes
O'er Libya's deserts, and through Zembla's snows?
She bids each slumbering energy awake,
Another touch, another temper take,
Suspends the’ inferior laws that rule our clay:
The stubborn elements confess her sway;
Their little wants, their low desires, refine,
And raise the mortal to a height divine.

Not but the human fabric from the birth
Imbibes a flavour of its parent earth:
As various tracks enforce a various toil,
The manners speak the idiom of their soil.
An iron race the mountain cliffs maintain,
Foes to the gentler genius of the plain :
For where unwearied sinews must be found
With sidelong plough to quell the flinty ground,
To turn the torrent's swift descending flood,
To brave the savage rushing from the wood,
What wonder, if, to patient valour train'd,
They guard with spirit what by strength they

gain'd? And while their rocky ramparts round they see, The rough abode of want and liberty, (As lawless force from confidence will grow) Insult the plenty of the vales below? What wonder, in the sultry climes, that spread Where Nile redundant o'er his summer bed From his broad bosom life and verdure flings, And broods o'er Egypt with his watery wings, If with adventurous oar and ready sail The dusky people drive before the gale; Or on frail floats to neighbouring cities ride, That rise and glitter o'er the ambient tide.

SONNET

ON THE DEATH OF MR. RICHARD WEST'.

In vain to me the smiling mornings shine,

And reddening Phæbus lifts his golden fire! The birds in vain their amorous descant join;

Or cheerful fields resume their green attire : These ears, alas ! for other notes repine,

A different object do these eyes require : My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine;

And in my breast the imperfect joys expire. Yet Morning smiles the busy race to cheer,

And new-born pleasure brings to happier men : The fields to all their wonted tribute bear:

To warm their little loves the birds complain :
I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear,
And
weep

the
more,
because I

weep

in vain.

EPITAPH ON MRS. CLARKE?.
Lo! where this silent marble weeps,
A friend, a wife, a mother sleeps:
A heart within whose sacred cell
The peaceful Virtues loved to dwell.
Affection warm, and Faith sincere,
And soft Humanity, were there.
In agony, in death resign'd,
She felt the wound she left behind.

1

Only son of the Right Hon. Richard West, Lord Chancellor of Ireland. He died June 1, 1742, in the twentysixth year of his age.

? The wife of Dr. Clarke, physician at Epsom, died April 27, 1757; and is buried in the church of Beckenham, Kent.

Her infant image here below
Sits smiling on a father's woe:
Whom what awaits, while yet he strays
Along the lonely vale of days?
A pang, to secret sorrow dear;
A sigh; an unavailing tear;
Till Time shall every grief remove,
With life, with memory, and with love.

EPITAPH'

ON SIR WILLIAM PEERE WILLIAMS,
CAPTAIN IN BURGOYNE'S DRAGOONS.

nown;

HERE, foremost in the dangerous paths of fame,
Young Williams fought for England's fair re-
[frame,
His mind each Muse, each Grace adorn'd his
Nor Envy dared to view him with a frown.
At Aix, his voluntary sword he drew2,

There first in blood his infant honour seal'd; From fortune, pleasure, science, love, he flew,

And scorn'd repose when Britain took the field. With eyes of flame and cool undaunted breast,

Victor he stood on Bellisle's rocky steepsAh, gallant youth! this marble tells the rest, Where melancholy Friendship bends and weeps.

This Epitaph was written at the request of Mr. Frederic Montagu, who intended to have inscribed it on a monument at Bellisle, at the siege of which this accomplished youth was killed, 1761; but from some difficulty attending the erection of it, this design was not executed.

2 In the expedition to Aix, he was on board the Magnanime, with Lord Howe; and was deputed to receive the capitulation.

STANZAS TO MR. BENTLEY'.

A fragment.
In silent gaze the tuneful choir among,

Half pleased, half blushing, let the Muse admire, While Bentley leads her Sister-Art along,

And bids the pencil answer to the lyre. See, in their course, each transitory thought

Fix'd by his touch a lasting essence take; Each dream, in Fancy's airy colouring wrought,

To local symmetry and life awake! The tardy rhymes that used to linger on,

To censure cold and negligent of fame, In swifter measures animated run,

And catch a lustre from his genuine flame. Ah! could they catch his strength, his easy grace,

His quick creation, his unerring line; The energy of Pope they might efface,

And Dryden's harmony submit to mine. But not to one in this benighted age

Is that diviner inspiration given,
That burns in Shakspeare's or in Milton's page,

The pomp and prodigality of heaven:
As when, conspiring in the diamond's blaze,

The meaner gems, that singly charm the sight, Together dart their intermingled rays,

And dazzle with a luxury of light.