Rome foumit la Terre & fe crut éternelle,
Il lui vint des vainqueurs des Bords du Tanais,
Et dix fois faccagée, à peine regna-t-elle,
Sur fes propres débris.
Ainfi le fort confond le courage & l'adreffe,
Tour à tour par le fer, tout Empire est détruit.
Les Vainqueurs, les vaincus, la force & la foibleffe:
Tôt ou tard tout périt.
Trente fiècles de fang du meurtre héréditaire,
Qu'ont-ils produit enfin, après mille combats?
Au bonheur les mortels ont ils dans leur carrière,
Avancé d'un feul pas!
L'Humanité tremblante étend fes bras auguftes,
Elle remplit les airs de fes cris doloureux.
N'eft-il donc plus d'espoir? O vous Rois ! foyez juftes,
Et le Monde eft heureux.
Voilà votre devoir & voila votre Gloire,
Toute autre n'eft qu'un crime; écoutez vos fujets,
Vous ne leur devez point d'exploits ni de victoire,
Vous leur dèvez la Paix.
Salomon, & Numa dans leurs Cité bornée,
Ont égalé le nom des plus heureux Guerriers,
La Paix a fes Héros, l'Olive fortunée
A l'éclat des lauriers.
Un jour il s'éteindra ce préjugé feroce,
Qui croit tous les mortels nés pour se tourmenter?
Leur fang fera facré, malheur à l'ame atroce,
Qui voudroit en douter.
Déjà par les beaux Arts l'Europe eft adoucie,
Les mœurs pourront un jour ce que n'ont pu
Et les fières lecons de la Philofophie
Feront rougir les Rois.
Arne, Venife & Rome ont frayé cette route,
De leur douce vertu le bonheur & le prix.
Un jour le même myrthe embellira fans doute,
Londres, Vienne & Paris.
Ma redoutable voix a tonné fur le crime,
Paix! je n'en ai point pour chanter tes attraits,
Peut-être les Humains de ton charme fublime,
Peins toi par tes bienfaits.
O Thérèse, ô Louis, ô vertus plus qu'humaines ;
Mes vœux font étendus, & j'en crois votre cœur,
Eternifez vos noeuds, l'Europe craint des chaînes,
Donnez lui le bonheur.
ELEGY on the death of a Lady. By Mr. Mafon.
THE midnight clock has toll'd; and hark, the bell
Of death beats flow! heard ye the note profound?
It paufes now and now, with rifing knell,
Flings through the hollow gale its fullen found.
Yes * is dead. Attend the ftrain,
Daughters of Albion! Ye that, light as air, So oft have tript in her fantastic train,
With hearts as gay, and faces half as fair:
For fhe was fair beyond your brightest bloom:
(This envy owns, fince now her bloom is fled)
Fair as the forms that, wove in fancy's loom,
Float in light vifion round the poet's head.
Whene'er with foft ferenity the fmil'd,
Or caught the orient blush of quick furprise,
How fweetly mutable, how brightly wild,
The liquid luftre darted from her eyes?
Each look, each motion wak'd a new-born grace,
That o'er her form its tranfient glory cast:
Some lovelier wonder foon ufurp'd the place,
Chas'd by a charm ftill lovelier than the laft.
That bell again! It tells us what she is :
On what the was no more the ftrain prolong: Luxuriant fancy pause: an hour like this Demands the tribute of a ferious fong.
Maria claims it from that fable bier,
Where cold and wan the flumberer refts her head;
In ftill fmall whispers to reflection's ear,
She breathes the folemn dictates of the dead..
O catch the aweful notes, and lift them loud;
Proclaim the theme, by fage, by fool rever'd;
Hear it, ye young, ye vain, ye great, ye proud;
'Tis nature speaks, and nature will be heard.
Yes, ye fhall hear, and tremble as ye hear,
While, high with health, your hearts exulting leap;
Ev'n in the midft of pleafure's mad career,
The mental Monitor shall wake and weep.
For fay, than ***'s propitious ftar,
What brighter planet on your births arofe;
Or gave of fortune's gifts an ample share,
In life to lavish, or by death to lofe!
Early to lofe; while, borne on busy wing,
Ye fip the nectar of each varying bloom:
Nor fear, while basking in the beams of fpring,
The wint'ry ftorm that fweeps you to the tomb.
Think of her fate! revere the heav'nly hand
That led her hence, though feen, by fteps fo flow;
Long at her couch death took his patient ftand,
And menac'd oft, and oft withheld the blow:
To give reflection time, with lenient art,
Each fond delufion from her foul to fteal;
Teach her from folly peaceably to part,
And wean her from a world the lov'd fo well.
Say, are you fure his mercy fhall extend
To you fo long a fpan? Alas, ye figh:
Make then, while yet ye may, your God your friend,
And learn with equal eafe to fleep or die!
Not think the muse, whose sober voice ye hear,
Contracts with bigot frown her fullen brow;
Cafts round religion's orbs the mifts of fear,
Or fhades with horrors, what with smiles fhould glow.
No; fhe would warm you with seraphic fire,
Heirs as ye are of heav'n's eternal day;
Would bid ye boldly to that heav'n aspire,
Nor fink and flumber in your cells of clay.
Know, ye were form'd to range yon azure field,
In yon ætherial founts of blifs to lave;
Force thence, fecure in Faith's protecting shield,
The fting from death, the victory from the grave.
Is this the bigot's rant? Away ye vain,
Your hopes, your fears in doubt, in dulness steep:
Go footh your fouls in fickness, grief, or pain,
With the fad folace of eternal fleep.
Yet will I praise you, triflers as ye are,
More than thofe + preachers of your fav'rite creed,
Who proudly fwell the brazen throat of war,
Who from the phalanx, bid the battle bleed;
+ In a book of French verfes, entitled Oeuvres du Philofphe de fans Souci, and lately reprinted at Berlin by authority, under the title of Poefis Diverles, may be found in an epistle to marfhal Keith, written profeffedly against the im
Nor wish for more: who conquer, but to die.
Hear, folly, hear; and triumph in the tale:
Like you, they reafon; not, like you, enjoy
The breeze of bliss that fills your filken fail:
On pleasure's glittering ftream ye gayly steer
Your little courfe to cold oblivion's fhore:
They dare the ftorm, and, thro' th' inclement year,
Stem the rough furge, and brave the torrent's roar.
Is it for glory? that juft fate denies.
Long must the warrior moulder in his fhroud,
Ere from her trump the heav'n-born accents rise,
That lift the hero from the fighting croud.
Is it his grasp of empire to extend ?
To curb the fury of infulting foes?
Ambition, cease: the idle contest end:
'Tis but a kingdom thou canst win or lose.
And why muft murder'd myriads lofe their all,
(If life be all) why defolation lour,
With famifh'd frown, on this affrighted ball,
That thou may'ft flame the meteor of an hour?
Go wifer ye, that flutter life away,
Crown with the mantling juice the goblet high;
Weave the light dance with feftive freedom gay,
And live your moment, fince the next ye die.
Yet know, vain fceptics, know th' Almighty Mind
Who breath'd on man a portion of his fire,
Bad his free foul, by earth nor time confin'd,
To heav'n, to immortality aspire.
Nor fhall the pile of hope, his mercy rear'd,
By vain philosophy be e'er deftroy'd :
Eternity, by all or wifh'd or fear'd,.
Shall be by all or fuffer'd or enjoy'd.
Written in 1760.
mortality of the foul. By way of fpecimen of the whole, take the following lines.
De l'avenir, cher Keith, jugeons par le paffe;
Comme avant que je fuffe il n'aviot point penfe,
De meme, apres ma mort, quand toutes mes parties
Par la corruption feront aneanties,
Par un meme deftin il ne penfera plus;
Non, rien n'eft plus certain, fyons-en convincu, &c. .
It is to this epiftle, that the rest of the elegy alludes.
To a young Nobleman leaving the univerfity. By the fame.
'RE yet, ingenuous youth, thy fteps retire
From Cam's fmooth margin, and the peaceful vale, Where Science call'd thee to her ftudious quire,
And met thee musing in her cloysters pale:
O let thy friend (and may he boaft the name)
Breathe from his artless reed one parting lay:
A lay like this thy earlier virtues claim,
And this let voluntary friendship pay.
Yet know, the time arrives, the dangerous time,
When all those virtues, opening now so fair,
Transplanted to the world's tempeftuous clime,
Must learn each paffion's boift'rous breath to bear.
There, if ambition peftilent and pale,
Or luxury fhould paint their vernal glow;
If cold felf-intereft, with her chilling gale,
Should blaft th' unfolding bloffoms ere they blow;
If mimic hues, by art or fashion spread,
Their genuine fimple colouring fhould fupply,
O! with them may these laureat honours fade;
And with them (if it can) my friendship die.
Then do not blame, if, though thyself infpire,
Cautious I ftrike the panegyric ftring;
The mufe full oft pursues a meteor fire,
And, vainly vent'rous, foars on waxen wing.
Too actively awake at Friendship's voice,
The poet's bofom pours the fervent ftrain,
Till fad Reflection blames the haughty choice,
And oft invokes Oblivion's aid in vain.
Call we the fhade of Pope, from the bleft bower
Where thron'd he fits with many a tuneful fage;
Afk, if he ne'er bemoans that hapless hour
When St. John's name illumin'd glory's page;
Afk, if the wretch, who dar'd his mem❜ry ftain,
Afk, if his country's, his religion's foe,
Deferv'd the meed that Marlborough fail'd to gain,
The deathless meed, he only could bestow ?
* Alluding to this couplet of Mr. Pope's.
"To Cato, Virgil paid one honest line,
"O let my country's friend illumine mine.”
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