Till death our understandings does improve, . And then our wiser ghosts thy silent night-walks love.

But thee I now admire, thee would I choose
For my religion, or my muse.

'Tis hard to tell whether thy reverend shade
Has more good votaries or poets made:
From thy dark caves were inspirations given,

And from thick groves went vows to Heaven. Hail, then, thou muse's and devotion's spring, 'Tis just we should adore, 'tis just we should thee sing.

THE COMPLAINT.

WELL, 'tis a dull perpetual round, Which here we silly mortals tread; Here's nought, I'll swear, worth living to be found, I wonder how 'tis with the dead. Better, I hope, or else, ye powers divine, Unmake me; I my immortality resign.

Still to be vex'd by joys delay'd,
Or by fruition to be cloy'd;

Still to be wearied in a fruitless chase,
Yet still to run, and lose the race;

Still our departed pleasures to lament,
Which yet, when present, gave us no content:-

Is this the thing we so extol,

For which we would prolong our breath?
Do we for this long life a blessing call,
And tremble at the name of death?

Sots that we are, to think by that we gain
Which is as well retain'd as lost with pain.

Is it for this that we adore
Physicians, and their art implore?
Do we bless nature's liberal supply
Of helps against mortality?

Sure 'tis but vain the tree of life to boast,
When paradise, wherein it grew, is lost.

Ye powers, why did you man create
With such insatiable desire ?

If you'd endow him with no more estate,

You should have made him less aspire : But now our appetites you vex and cheat With real hunger, and fantastic meat.

THE SIXTY-THIRD CHAPTER OF ISAIAH PARAPHRASED TO THE SIXTH VERSE.

A PINDARIC ODE.

STRANGE Scene of glory! am I well awake;
Or is 't my fancy's wild mistake ?

It cannot be a dream; bright beams of light
Flow from the vision's face, and pierce my tender
sight-

No common vision this; I see

Some marks of more than human majesty.

Who is this mighty Hero, who,

With glories round his head, and terror in his

brow?

From Bozrah, lo! he comes: a scarlet dye

O'erspreads his clothes, and does outvie

The blushes of the morning sky.
Triumphant and victorious he appears,

And honour in his looks and habit wears:

How strong he treads, how stately does he go!
Pompous and solemn is his pace,

And full of majesty, as is his face.

Who is this mighty Hero, who?
'Tis I who to my promise faithful stand;
I who the powers of death, hell, and the grave
Have foil'd with this all-conquering hand;
I who most ready am, and mighty too to save.

Why wear'st thou then this scarlet dye?
Say, mighty Hero, why?

Why do thy garments look all red,

Like them that in the wine-vat tread?
The wine-press I alone have trod;

That vast unwieldy frame, which long did stand Unmov'd, and which no mortal force could e'er command,

That ponderous mass I ply'd alone,

And with me to assist were none;
A mighty task it was, worthy the Son of God.
Angels stood trembling at the dreadful sight,
Concern'd with what success I should go through
The work I undertook to do;

Enrag'd I put forth all my might,

And down the engine press'd; the violent force
Disturb'd the universe, put nature out of course:
The blood gush'd out in streams, and checker'd
o'er

My garments with its deepest gore;

With ornamental drops bedeck'd I stood,
And writ my victory with my enemy's blood.

The day, the signal day is come
When of my enemies I must vengeance take;

The day when death shall have its doom,
And the dark kingdom with its powers shall shake.
Fate in her calendar mark'd out this day with red;
She folded down the iron leaf, and thus she said:
"This day, if ought I can divine be true,
Shall for a signal victory

Be celebrated to posterity:

Then shall the Prince of light descend,

And rescue mortals from th' infernal fiend, Break through his strongest forts, and all his host subdue."

This said, she shut the adamantine volume close, And wish'd she might the crowding years trans

pose;

So much she long'd to have the scene display,
And see the vast event of this important day.

And now, in midst of the revolving years,
This great, this mighty One appears:
The faithful traveller, the sun,

Has number'd out the days, and the set period

run.

I look'd, and to assist was none:

My angelic guards stood trembling by,
But durst not venture nigh.

In vain, too, from my Father did I look
For help; my Father me forsook.
Amaz'd I was to see

How all deserted me.

I took my fury for my sole support,
And with my single arm the conquest won.
Loud acclamations fill'd all heaven's court:

The hymning guards above,

Strain'd to an higher pitch of joy and love,
The great Jehovah prais'd, and his victorious Son.

THE ELEVATION.

TAKE wing, my soul, and upwards bend thy flight,
To thy originary fields of light;
Here's nothing, nothing here below
That can deserve thy longer stay;
A secret whisper bids thee go

To purer air, and beams of native day:
Th' ambition of the tow'ring lark outvie,
And like him sing as thou dost upward fly.

How all things lessen which my soul before
Did with the grovelling multitude adore!
Those pageant glories disappear,

Which charm and dazzle mortals' eyes:
How do I in this higher sphere,

How do I mortals, with their joys despise!
Pure, uncorrupted element I breathe,
And pity their gross atmosphere beneath.

How vile, how sordid here those trifles show,
That please the tenants of that ball below!
But, ha! I've lost the little sight;
The scene's remov'd, and all I see
Is one confus'd dark mass of night.
What nothing was, now nothing seems to be:
How calm this region, how serene, how clear:
Sure I some strains of heavenly music hear.