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While the dull night's startled ear

Shrinks aghast with thrilling fear!

Or stand with thin robes wasting soon,

And eyes that blast the sick'ning moon!

.Yet these, ere Time had mll'd their years away,

Ere Death's fell arm had mark'd its aim,

Rul'd yon proud tow'rs with ample sway,

Beheld the trembling swains obey,

And wrought the glorious deed that swell'd the

» trump of Fame.

III. 1.

But why o'er these indulge the bursting sigh?
Feels not each shrub the tempest's pow'r?
Rocks riot the doom when whirlwinds fly?
Nor shakes the hill when thunders roar?
Lo! mould'iing, 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, Yon aisle where moans the grey-eyed owl, Shows the proud Persian's great abode ;* Where sceptred once, an earthly god! ] Iispow'r-clad arm controul'd each happier clime, Where sports the warbling Muse, and Fancy soars sublime.

III. 2.

Hark! 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'sproud 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 Ca:sar's tomb;

* Pcrscpolis.

Slow Patience sits, with eye deprest,

And Courage beats his sobbing breast;

Ev'n War's red cheek the gushing streams o'er

flow, And Fancy's list'ning ear attends the plaint of

Woe.

IN. 3.

Lo, on yon pyramid sublime,
Whence lies Old Egypt's desert clime,
Bleak, naked, wild! where ruin low'rs,
'Mid fanes, and wrecks, and tumbling tow'rs:
On the steep height, waste and bare,
Stands the Pow'r with hoary hair!
O'er his scythe he bends; his hand
Slowly shakes the flowing sand;
While the hours, and airy ring,
Lightly flit, with downy wing,
And sap the works of man; and shade
With silver'd locks his furrow'd head.

VOL. II. L

Thence rolls the mighty Pow'r his broad survey, And seals the nations' awful doom: lie sees proud Grandeur's meteor ray; He yields to joy the festive day; Then sweeps the lengthening shade, and marks them for the tomb.

ISAAC HAWKINS BROWNE

TO HIMSELF.

W ELL, this poetic itch creeps on i
Dodsley adopts you all his own:
First Phoebe gave the luckless hint;
Now your Epistles flare in print;
This week on every stall they lie
Display'd; the next, beneath a pye:
Instead of purple and the coif,
Curll prints your works, and writes your life.
If Mzevius scribble, 'tis to feed
A bard inspir'd by daring need:
But, having wherewithal to dine,
What vengeance damns thee to the Nine i
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 i
Swift is too vulgar, Pope obscure;

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