Strays, (wretched rover !) o'er the pleasing past;
In queft of wretchedness perverfely strays;
And finds all defert now; and meets the ghofts
Of my departed joys; a num'rous train !
I rue the riches of my former fate;
Sweet comfort's blasted clusters I lament;
I tremble at the bleffings once fo dear;
And ev'ry pleasure pains me to the heart.
Yet why complain? or why complain for one?
Hangs out the fun his luftre but for me,
The fingle man? Are angels all befide?
I mourn for millions: 'tis the common lot;
In this fhape, or in that, has fate entail'd
The mother's throes on all of woman born,
Not more the children, than fure heirs of pain.
War, famine, peft, volcano, storm, and fire,
Inteftine broils, oppreffion, with her heart
Wrapt up in triple brafs, befiege mankind.
God's image difinherited of day,
Here, plung'd in mines, forgets a fun was made.
There, beings deathlefs as their haughty lord,
Are hammer'd to the galling oar for life;
And plow the winter's wave, and reap defpair.
Some, for hard masters, broken under arms,
In battle lopt away, with half their limbs,
Beg bitter bread thro' realms their valour fav'd,
If so the tyrant, or his minion, doom.
Want, and incurable difeafe, (fell pair!)
On hopeless multitudes remorfelefs feize
At once; and make a refuge of the grave.
How groaning hospitals eject their dead!
What numbers groan for fad admiffion there!
What numbers, once in fortune's lap high-fed,
Solicit the cold hand of charity!
To fhock us more, folicit it in vain!
Ye filken fons of pleasure! fince in pains
You rue more modifh vifits, vifit here,
And breathe from your debauch: give, and reduce
Surfeit's dominion o'er you: but, fo great
Your impudence, you blufh at what is right!
Happy! did forrow feize on fuch alone.
Not prudence can defend, or virtue save;
Disease invades the chafteft temperance;
And punishment the guiltlefs; and alarm,
Thro' thickest shades, pursues the fond of peace,.
Man's caution often into danger turns,
And his guard falling, crufhes him to death.
Not happiness itself makes good her name;
Our very wishes give us not our wish,
How diftant oft the thing we doat on most,
From that for which we doat, felicity?
The fmootheft courfe of nature has its pains;
And trueft friends, thro' error, wound our reft.
Without misfortune, what calamities!
And what hoftilities, without a foe!
Nor are foes wanting to the best on earth. ·
But endless is the lift of human ills,
And fighs might fooner fail, than cause to figh
A part how small of the terraqueous globe
Is tenanted by man! the reft a waste,
Rocks, defarts, frozen feas, and burning fands:
Wild haunts of monfters, poifons, flings, and death,
Such is earth's melancholy map! but, far
More fad! this earth is a true map of man.
So bounded are its haughty lord's delights
To woe's wide empire; where deep troubles tofs,
Loud forrows howl, invenom'd paffions bite,
Rav'nous calamities our vitals feize,
And threat'ning fate wide opens to devour.
What then am I, who forrow for myself?
In age, in infancy, from others aid
Is all our hope; to teach us to be kind.
That, nature's first, last lesson to mankind;
The selfish heart deferves the pain it feels.
More gen'rous forrow, while it finks, exalts;
And conscious virtue mitigates the pang.
Nor virtue, more than prudence, bids me give
Swoln thought a second chanel; who divide,
They weaken too, the torrent of their grief. Take then, O world! thy much-indebted tear. 'How fad a fight is human happiness,
To those whofe thought can pierce beyond an hour! O thou! whate'er thou art! whofe heart exults! Wouldst thou I fhould congratulate thy fate?
I know thou wouldst; thy pride demands it from me. Let thy pride pardon, what thy nature needs,
The falutary cenfure of a friend.
by blindness art thou bleft;
By dotage dandled to perpetual fmiles.
Know, fmiler! at thy peril art thou pleas'd;
Thy pleasure is the promise of thy pain.
Misfortune, like a creditor fevere,
But rifes in demand for her delay;
She makes a fcourge of paft profperity,
To fting thee more, and double thy diftrefs.
The fprightly lark's fhrill matin wakes the morn.
Grief's fharpeft thorn hard-preffing on my breast,
I ftrive, with wakeful melody to chear
The fullen gloom, fweet Philomel! like thee,
And call the ftars to liften: ev'ry star
Is deaf to mine, enamour'd of thy lay.
Yet be not vain; there are, who thine excell,
And charm thro' diftant ages: wrapt in shade,
Pris'ner of darkness! to the filent hours,
repeat their rage divine,
To lull my griefs, and steal my heart from woe!
I roll their raptures, but not catch their flames.
ROM dreams, where thought in fancy's maze runs
To reason, that heav'n-lighted lamp in man,
Once more I wake; and at the destin❜d hour,
Punctual as lovers to the moment sworn,
I keep my affignation with my woe.
O loft to virtue, loft to manly thought,
Loft to the noble fallies of the foul!
Who think it folitude, to be alonė.
Communion (weet! communion large, and high !
Our reason, guardian angel, and our God!
Then neare thefe, when others most remote ;
And all, ere long, fhall be remote, but these,
How dreadful, then, to meet them all alone,
A ftranger! unacknowledg'd! unapprov'd!
Now woo them; wed them; bind them to thy breaft ;
To win thy wish, creation has no more.
Or if we wish a fourth, it is a friend—
But friends, how mortal! dang'rous the defire.
Take Phoebus to yourfelves, ye baking bards!
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