Lo! where the sage, by list'ning crowds rever'd, Whose well-earn'd honours grateful science paid, And chiefs whose prowess steel-clad legions fear'd, Repose alike in death's oblivious shade. No victor's shout, no soothing voice of fame, And is it thus the various ranks of men, The mean, the wise, the tyrant, and the slave, Whate'er thro' devious life their paths had been, All meet at last, associates in the grave? Then why shou'd pen'ry mourn her lowly birth, Hence let ambition's vot'ries fondly dream Of wealth's heap'd treasures, and the dome of state, At honour's shrine indulge the airy scheme, Or crowd obsequious round preferment's gate. Be rather mine, to bend in Virtue's fane, Be mine, Religion, of thy hope possess'd, County Magazine. SWEETNESS. AN ODE. Or damask cheeks, and radiant eyes, Let other poets tell; Within the bosom of the fair Superior beauties dwell. There all the sprightly powers of wit In blithe assemblage play; Its intellectual ray. But as the sun's refulgent light Heaven's wide expanse refines, With sov'reign lustre through the soul This mental beam dilates the heart, One glimpse can sooth the troubled breast, The heaving sigh restrain; Can make the bed of sickness please, Its power can charm the savage heart, The tyrant's pity move; To smiles convert the wildest rage, And melt the soul to love. When Sweetness beams upon the throne In Majesty benign, The awful splendours of a crown With milder lustre shine. In scenes of poverty and woe, The dreary gloom dispels. Thus, when the blooming spring returns Through earth and air, with genial warmth, Etherial mildness reigns. Beneath its bright, auspicious beams, No boist'rous passions rise; Moroseness quits the peaceful scene, And baleful discord flies. A thousand nameless beauties spring, A smiling train of joys appear, Unbounded Charity displays Her sympathizing charms; Almighty Love exerts his power, Nor shall the storms of Age, which cloud When that fair form shall sink in years, And all those graces fly; The beauty of thy heav'nly mind Shall length of days defy. Robertson. VERSES To a Young Lady at the door of her carriage in Hyde Park. WILT thou, wilt thou really fly And quit their pomp without a sigh, And wilt thou, wilt thou then forsake From out this gaudy harness'd coach And to the silent valley move Skene. |