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While the dull night's startled ear
: III. 1.; .. But why o'er these indulge the bursting sigh? Feels not each shrub the tempest's pow'r?! Rocks not the doom when whirlwinds fly? Nor shakes the hill when thunders roar? Lo! mould'ring, wild, unknown, What fanes, what tow'rs o'erthrown, What tumbling chaos marks the waste of Time! I see Palmyra's temples fall; '. " Old Ruin shakes the hanging wall !
Yon waste where roaming lions howl,
III. 2. Ilark! what dire sound rolls murm’ring on the Ah! what soul-thrilling scene appears ? (gale? I see the column'd arches fail! And structures hoar, the boast of years ! What mould’ring piles, decay'd, Gleam through the moon-streak'd shade, Where Rome's proud genius rear'd herawful brow! Sad monument !- Ambition near Rolls on the dust, and pours a tear; Pale Honour drops the flutt'ring plume, And Conquest weeps o'er Cæsar's tomb;
Slow Patience sits, with eye deprest,
Lo, on yon pyramid sublime,
Thence rolls the mighty Pow'r his broad survey,
them for the tomb.
ISAAC HAWKINS BROWNE
W ELL, this poetic itch creeps on; Dodsley adopts you all his own : First Phæbe gave the luckless hint; Now your Epistles flare in print; This week on every stall they lie Display'd; the next, beneath a pyé : Instead of purple and the coif, Curll prints your works, and writes your life. If Mævius scribble, 'tis to feed A bard inspir'd by daring need: But, having wherewithal to dine, What vengeance damns thee to the Nine ? You write to please—a task indeed !Taste differs, just as men who read : This loves an easy line; and that Deems all that is not glaring, flat. Some, wit and thought can scarce en lure; Swift is too vulgar, Pope obscure;