Soon this elemental mafs,

Soon th' incumb'ring world shall pass,
Form be wrapt in wafting fire,
Time be spent, and life expire.
Then, ye boafted works of men,
Where is your affylum then?
Sons of Pleasure, fons of Care,
Tell me, mortals, tell me where?

Gone, like traces on the deep,
Like a fcepter, grasp'd in fleep,
Dews, exhal'd from morning glades,
Melting fnows, and gliding fhades.
Pafs the world, and what's behind?
Virtue's gold, by fire refin'd;
From an univerfe deprav❜d,
From the wreck of nature fav'd.
Like the life-fupporting grain,
Fruit of patience, and of pain,
On the fwain's autumnal day, ́
Winnow'd from the chaff

away.

Little trembler, fear no more,
Thou haft plenteous crops in store,
Seed, by genial forrows fown,
More than all thy fcorners own.
What though hoftile earth defpife,
Heav'n beholds with gentler eyes;
Heav'n thy friendless steps fhall guide,
Chear thy hours, and guard thy fide.
When the fatal trump fhall found,
When th' immortals pour around,

VOL. II.

Heav'n fhall thy return atteft,

Hail'd by myriads of the blefs'd.

Little native of the skies, Lovely penitent, arise,

Calm thy bofom, clear thy brow,

Virtue is thy fister now.

1

More delightful are my woes,
Than the rapture pleasure knows;
Richer far the weeds I bring,
Than the robes that grace a king.
On my wars, of fhortelt date,
Crowns of endless triumphs wait;
On my cares, a period bless'd;
On my toils, eternal rest.

Come, with Virtue at thy fide,
Come, be ev'ry bar defy'd,
Till we gain our native shore,
Sifter, come, and turn no more.

AN

A N

EPISTLE TO A LADY.

This little poem, by Mr. Nugent, is very pleafing. The eafinefs of the poetry, and the justice of the thoughts, conftitute its principal beauty.

LARINDA, dearly lov'd, attend

CLA

The counfels of a faithful friend
Who, with the warmest wishes fraught,
Feels all, at least, that friendship ought!
But fince, by ruling Heav'n's defign,
An other's fate fhall influence thine;
0!
may thefe lines for him prepare
A blifs, which I wou'd die to share!

Man may for wealth or glory roam,
But woman must be bleft at home;
To this fhould all her ftudies tend,
This, her great object and her end.
Diftafte unmingl'd pleasures bring,
And use can blunt Affliction's fting;
Hence perfect blifs no mortals know,
And few are plung'd in utter woe;
While Nature, arm'd against Despair,
Gives pow'r to mend, or ftrength to bear;
And half the thought content may gain,
Which spleen employs to purchase pain.

Trace not the fair domestic plan,

From what you wou'd, but what you can!
Nor, peevish, fpurn the fcanty ftore,
Becaufe you think you merit more!
Blifs ever differs in degree,

Thy share alone is meant for thee;
And thou shou'dft think, however small,
That share enough, for 'tis thy all:
Vain fcorn will aggravate distress,
And only make that little lefs.
Admit whatever trifles come,
Units compofe the largest fum:

O! tell them o'er, and fay how vain
Are those who form Ambition's train ;'
Which fwell the monarch's gorgeous flate,
And bribe to ill the guilty great!

But thou, more bleft, more wife than these,
Shalt build up happiness on ease.

Hail fweet Content! where joy ferene,
Guilds the mild foul's unruff'd fcene;
And, with blith Fancy's pencil wrought,
Spreads the white web of flowing thought;
Shines lovely in the chearful face,

And clothes each charm with native grace;
Effufion pure of blifs fincere,

A vestment for a god to wear.
Far other ornaments compose

The garb that shrouds diffembl'd woes,
Piec'd out with motley dies and forts,
Freaks, whimfies, feftivals, and sports:

The

The troubl'd mind's fantastic drefs,
Which madness titles happiness.
While the gay wretch to revels bears
The pale remains of fighs and tears;
And feeks in crowds, like her undone,
What only can be found in one.

But, chief, my gentle friend! remove
Far from thy couch feducing Love!
O! fhun the falfe magician's art,
Nor truft thy yet unguarded heart!
Charm'd by his fpells fair Honour flies,
And thousand treacherous phantoms rife ;
Where Guilt, in Beauty's ray, beguiles,
And Ruin lurks in Friendship's fmiles.
Lo! where th' enchanted captive dreams,
Of warbling groves, and purling ftreams;
Of painted meads, of flow'rs that shed
Their odours round her fragrant bed.
Quick fhifts the fcene, the charm is loft,
She wakes upon a defert coaft;
No friendly hand to lend its aid,
No guardian bow'r to spread its fhade;
Expos'd to ev'ry chilling blast,
She treads th' inhofpitable wafte;
And down the drear decline of life,
Sinks a forlorn, dishonour'd wife.
Neglect not thou the voice of Fame,

But, clear from crime, be free from blame!
Tho' all were innocence within,

'Tis guilt to wear the garb of fin,