Peace to each drowsy metaphyfic fage!
And ever may all heavy fyftems rest!
Yet fome there are, ev'n of elastic parts,
Whom ftrong and obftinate ambition leads
Thro' all the rugged roads of barren lore,
And gives to relish what their gen'rous taste
Would elfe refufe. But may nor thirst of fame,
Nor love of knowledge, urge you to fatigue
With conftant drudgery the lib'ral foul!
Toy with your books: and as the various fits
Of humour seize you, from Philofophy
To Fable thift; from serious Antonine
To Rabelais' ravings, and from profe to fong.
While reading pleases, but no longer, read;
And read aloud, refounding Homer's strain,
And wield the thunder of Demofthenes.
The cheft fo exercis'd improves its strength;
And quick vibrations thro' the bowels drive
The reftief's blood, which in inactive days
Would loiter elfe thro' unelaftic tubes.
Deem it not trifling while I recommend
What posture fuits: To stand and fit by turns,
As nature prompts, is beft. But o'er your leaves
To lean for ever, cramps the vital parts,
And robs the fine machinery of its play.
'Tis the great art of life to manage well
The reftlefs mind. For ever on pursuit
Of knowledge bent, it ftarves the groffer pow'rs:
Quite unemploy'd, against its own repofe
It turns its fatal edge; and fharper pangs
Than what the body knows embitter life.
Chiefly where Solitude, lad nurfe of Care,
To fickly mufing gives the penfive mind,
There Madness enters; and the dim-ey'd Fiend,
Sour Melancholy, night and day provokes
Her own eternal wound. The fun grows pale;
A mournful vifionary light o'erfpreads
The cheerful face of nature; earth becomes
A dreary defart, and heav'n frowns above.
Then various fhapes of curs'd illufion rife:
Whate'er the wretched fears, creating Fear
Forms out of nothing and with monfters teems
Unknown in hell. The proftrate foul beneath
A load of huge imagination heaves;
And all the horrors that the murd'rer feels,
With anxious flutt'rings wake the guiltlefs breaft.
Such phantoms Pride, in folitary scenes,
Or Fear, on delicate Self-love creates.
From other cares abfolv'd, the bufy mind
Finds in yourself a theme to pore upon;
It finds you miferable, or makes you fo.
For while yourself you anxiously explore,
Timorous Self-love, with fick ning Fancy's aid,
Prefents the danger that you dread the most,
And ever galls you in your tender part.
Hence fome for love, and fome for jealoufy,
For grim religion fome, and fome for pride,
Have loft their reafon : fome, for fear of want,
Want all their lives; and others, ev'ry day,
For fear of dying, fuffer worle than death.
Ah! from your bofoms banish, if you can,
Thofe fatal guests; and firft the demon Fear,
That trembles at impoffible events,
Left aged Atlas fhould refign his load,
And heav'n's eternal battlements ruth down!
Is there an evil worse than Fear itself?
And what avails it that indulgent Heav'n
From mortal eyes has wrapt the woes to come,
If we, ingenious to torment ourfelves,
Grow pale at hideous fictions of our own?
Enjoy the prefent; nor with needlefs cares
Of what may fpring from blind Misfortune's
Appal the fureft hour that life beftows. [womb,
Serene, and mafter of yourself, prepare
For what may come, and leave the reft to
Heav'n.
Oft from the body, by long ails miftun'd, Thefe evils fprung, the most important health, That of the mind, destroy, and when the mind They firft invade, the confcious body foon In fympathetic languishment declines. These chronic Paffions, while from real woes They rife, and yet without the body's fault Infeit the foul, admit one only cure; Divertion, hurry, and a reftlefs life. Vain are the confolations of the wife; In vain your friends would reafon down your O ye, whofe fouls relentless love has tam'd To foft diftrefs, or friends untimely flain! Court not the luxury of tender thought! Nor deem it impious to forget thofe pains That hurt the living, nought avail the dead. Go, foft enthufiaft! quit the cypress groves, Nor to the riv'let's lonely moaaings tune Your fad complaint. Go, feck the cheerful haunts Of men, and mingle with the bustling crowd; Lay fchemes for wealth, or pow'r, or fame, the
Of nobler minds, and push them night and day,
Or join the caravan in queft of fcenes
New to your eyes, and fhifting ev'ry hour,
Beyond the Alps, beyond the Apennines.
Or, more advent'rous, rufh into the field
Where war grows hot; and, raging thro' the fky,
The lofty trumpet fwells the madd'ning foul;
And in the hardy camp and toilfome march
Forget all fofter and lefs manly cares.
But moft too paffive, when the blood runs low
Too weakly indolent to strive with pain,
And bravely by refifting conquer Fate,
Try Circe's arts; and in the tempting bowl
Of poifon'd Nectar fweet oblivion drink.
Struck by the pow'rful charm, the gloom dif-
In empty air: Elyfium opens round. [foives
A pleafing phrenzy buoys the lighten'd soul,
And fanguine hopes difpel your flecting care;
And what was difficult, and what was dire,
Yields to your prowefs and fuperior ftars:
The happieft you of all that e'er were mad,
Or are, or fhall be, could this folly last.
But foon your heav'n is gone; a heavier gloom
Shuts o'er your head; and, as the thund'ring
ftream,
Swoln o'er its banks with fudden mountain rain,
Sinks from its tumult to a filent brook,
So, when the frantic raptures in your breaft
Subfide, you languish into mortal man:
You fleep, and waking find yourself undone.
For, prodigal of life, in one rath night [days.
You lavish'd more than might fupport three
A heavy morning comes; your cares return
With tenfold rage. An anxious ftomach well
May be endur'd; fo may the throbbing heart;
But fuch a dim delirium, fuch a dream
Involves you; fuch a daftardly defpair
Unmans your foul, as madd'ning Pentheus felt
When, baited round Citharon's cruel fides,
He faw two funs, and double Thebes afcend.
You curfe the fluggish Port; you curfe the
wretch,
The felon, with unnatural mixture first
Who dar'd to violate the virgin wine :
Or on the fugitive Champain you pour
A thoufand curfes; for to heav'n it rapt
Your foul, to plunge you deeper in defpair.
Perhaps you rue ev'n that divineft gift,
The gay, ferene, good-natur'd Burgundy,
Or the fresh fragrant vintage of the Rhine;
And wish that Heav'n from mortals had withheld
The grape, and all intoxicating bowls.
Befides, it wounds you fore to recollect
What follies in your foofe unguarded hour
Efcap'd. For one irrevocable word,
Perhaps that meant no harm, you lose a friend;
Or in the rage of wine your hafty hand
Performs a deed to haunt you to your grave.
Add, that your means, your health, your parts
decay;
Your friends avoid you; brutishly transform'd,
They hardly know you; or if one remains
To with you well, he wishes you in heav'n.
Defpis'd, unwept you fall, who might have left
A facred, cherith'd, fadly-pleafing name;
A name ftill to be utter'd with a figh,
Your last ungrateful scene has quite effac'd
All fenfe and mem'ry of your former worth.
How to live happieft; how avoid the pains,
The difappointments, and difgufts of those
Who would in pleafure all their hours employ;
The precepts here of a divine old man
I could recite. Tho' old, he ftill retain'd
His manly fenfe and energy of mind.
Virtuous and wife he was, but not severe;
He ftill remember'd that he once was young;
His eafy prefence check'd no decent joy.
Him ev'n the diffolute admir'd; for he
A graceful loofenefs, when he pleas'd, put on,
And laughing could inftruct. Much had he read,
Much more had seen; he study'd from the life,
And in th'original perus'd mankind.
Vers'd in the woes and vanities of life, He pity'd Man: and much he pity'd thofe Whom falfely-fmiling Fate has curs'd with means To diffipate their days in queft of joy. Our aim is happinefs; 'tis yours, 'tis mine, He faid, 'tis the purfuit of all that live; Yet few attain it, if 'twas e'er attain'd. But they the widest wander from the mark, Who thro' the flow'ry paths of fauntʼring joy Seek this coy Goddess; that from ftage to ftage Invites us ftill, but shifts as we purfue. For, not to name the pains that pleasure brings To counterpoife itself, relentless Fate Forbids that we thro' gay voluptuous wilds
Should ever roam: and were the fates more kind,
Our narrow luxuries would foon be stale.
Were thefe exhauftlefs, Nature would grow fick,
And, cloy'd with pleafure, fqueamishly complain
That all was vanity, and life a dream.
Let nature reft: be bufy for yourself
And for your friend; be bufy ev'n in vain,
Rather than teaze her fated appetites.
Who never fafts, no banquets e'er enjoys;
Who never toils or watches, never fleeps.
Let nature reft; and when the taste of joy
Grows keen, indulge; but fhun fatiety.
'Tis not for mortals always to be bleft:
But him the leaft the dull or painful hours
Of life opprefs, whom fober Senfe conducts,
And Virtue, thro' this labyrinth we tread.
Virtue and Senfe I mean not to disjoin;
Virtue and Senfe are one: and, trust me, ftill
A faithlefs heart betrays the head unfound.
Virtue (for mere Good-nature is a fool)
Is Senfe and Spirit with Humanity:
'Tis fometimes angry, and its frown confounds
'Tis ev'n vindictive; but in vengeance juft.
Knaves fain would laugh at it; fome great ones
But at his heart the moft undaunted fon
Of fortune dreads its name and awful charins.
To nobleft uses this determines wealth;
This is the folid pomp of profperous days;
The peace and fhelter of adverfity.
And if you pant for glory, build your fame
On this foundation, which the fecret shock
Defies of Envy, and all-fapping Time.
The gawdy glofs of fortune only ftrikes
The vulgar eye; the fuff'rage of the wife,
The praife that's worth ambition, is attain'd
By fenfe alone, and dignity of mind.
Virtue, the ftrength and beauty of the foul,
Is the beft gift of Heav'n: a happiness
That ev'n above the fmiles and frowns of Fate
Exalts great Nature's favourites: a wealth
That ne'er encumbers, nor to bafer hands
Can be transferr'd: it is the only good
Man justly boafts of, or can call his own.
Riches are oft by guilt and bafenefs earn'd;
Or dealt by chance, to fhield a lucky knave,
Or throw a cruel fun-fhine on a fool.
But for one end, one much-neglected use,
Are riches worth your care (for Nature's wants
Are few, and without opulence fupply'd):
This noble end is, to produce the Soul;
To fhew the virtues in the fairest light;
To make Humanity the ininifter
Of bounteous Providence; and teach the breaft
That gen'rous luxury the Gods enjoy.
Thus, in his graver vein, the friendly fage Sometimes declaim'd. Of right and wrong he taught
Truths as refin'd as ever Athens heard;
And (ftrange to tell!) he practis'd what he
preach'd.
Skill'd in the Paffions, how to check their fway
He knew, as far as reafon can controul
The lawless pow'rs. But other cares are mine:
Form'd
Form'd in the fchool of Pæon, I relate
What Paffions hurt the body, what improve:
Avoid then, or invite them, as you may.
Know then, whatever cheerful and ferene
Supports the mind, fupports the body too.
Hence the moft vital movement mortals feel
Is Hope; the balm and life-blood of the foul.
It pleafes, and it lafts. Indulgent Heav'n
Sent down the kind delufion thro' the paths
Of rugged life, to lead us patient on,
And make our happieft ftate no tedious thing.
Our greatest good, and what we leaft can fpare,
Is Hope; the laft of all our evils, Fear.
But there are Paffions grateful to the breaft, And yet no friends to life: perhaps they please Or to excefs, and diffipate the foul; [clown, Or while they pleafe, torment. The ftubborn The ill-tam'd ruffan, and pale ufurer (If love's omnipotence fuch hearts can mould) May fafely mellow into love, and grow Refin'd, humane, and gen'rous, if they can. Love in fuch bofoms never to a fault Or pains or pleafes. But, ye finer fouls, Form'd to foft luxury, and prompt to thrill With all the tumults, all the joys and pains, That beauty gives, with caution and referve Indulge the feet destroyer of repofe, [Cares. Nor court too much the Queen of charming For, while the cherish'd poifon in your breaft Ferments and maddens; fick with jealoufy, Abfence, diftruft, or even with anxious joy, The wholefome appetites and pow'rs of life Diffolve in languor. The coy ftomach loaths The genial board: your cheerful days are gone; The gen'rous bloom that flufh'd your cheeks is To fighs devoted, and to tender pains, Fenfive you fit, or folitary ftray, And waste your youth in mufing. Mufing firft Toy'd into care your unfufpecting heart: It found a liking there, a sportful fire, And that fomented into ferious love; Which mufing daily ftrengthens and improves Thro' all the heights of fondnefs and romance: And you're undone, the fatal fhaft has fped, If once ye doubt whether you love or no: The body waftes away; th'infected mind, Diffolv'd in female tenderness, forgets Each manly virtue, and grows dead to fame. Sweet Heav'n from fuch intoxicating charms Defend all worthy breafts! Not that I deem Love always dangerous, always to be fhunn'd. Love well repaid, and not too weakly funk In wanton and unmanly tenderness, Adds bloom to health; o'er ev'ry virtue sheds A gay, humane, and amiable grace, And brightens all the ornaments of man. But fruitles, hopclefs, difappointed, rack'd With jealoufy, fatigu'd with hope and fear, Too ferious, or too languishingly fond, Unnerves the body, and unmans the foul. And fome have dy'd for love, and fome run mad! And fome with defprate hand themfelves have Some to extinguish, others to prevent, [flain. A mad devotion to one dang'rous Fair, Court all they mcct; in hopes to diffipate
The cares of love amongst an hundred brides.
Th'event is doubtful: for there are who find
A cure in this; there are who find it not.
'Tis no relief, alas! it rather galls
The wound to thofe who are fincerely fick.
For while from fev'rifh and tumultuous joys
The nerves grow languid, and the foul fubfides,
The tender fancy fmarts with ev'ry fting,
And what was love before is madness now.
Is health your care, or luxury your aim?
Be temp'rate still. When Nature bids, obey;
Her wild impatient fallies bear no curb:
But when the prurient habit of delight,
Or loofe imagination, fpurs you on
To deeds above your strength, impute it nat
To Nature: Nature all compulfion hates.
Ah! let nor luxury nor vain renown
Urge you to feats you well might fleep without
To make what fhould be rapture a fatigue,
A tedious talk; nor in the wanton arms
Of twining Lais melt your manhood down;
For from the colliquation of foft joys [was!
How chang'd you rife! the ghost of what you
Languid, and melancholy, and gaunt, and wan;
Your veins exhaufted, and your nerves unftrung.
Spoil'd of its balm and fprightly zeft, the blood
Grows vapid phlegm; along the tender nerves
(To each flight impulfe tremblingly awake)
A fubtle Fiend that mimics all the plagues
Rapid and reftlefs, fprings from part to part.
The blooming honours of your youth are fallen;
Your vigour pines; your vital pow'rs decay;
Difeafes haunt you; and untimely age
Creeps on, unfocial, impotent, and lewd.
Infatuate, impious epicure! to wafte
The ftores of pleasure, cheerfulnefs, and health
Infatuate all who make delight their trade,
And coy perdition ev'ry hour pursue.
Who pines with love, or in lafcivious flames
Confumes, is with his own confent undone:
He chufes to be wretched, to be mad;
And warn'd, proceeds, and wilful, to his fate.
But there's a pallion, whofe tempeftuous fway
Tears up each virtue planted in the breast,
And thakes to ruin proud Philofophy.
For pale and trembling Anger rushes in,
With fault'ring fpeech, and eyes that wildly
ftare;
Fierce as the tiger, madder than the feas, Defperate, and arm'd with more than human
How foon the calm, humane, and polish'd man
Forgets compunction, and ftarts up a fiend!
Who pines in love, or waftes with filent cares,
Envy, or ignominy, or tender grief,
Slowly defcends, and ling'ring, to the fhades:
But he whom anger flings, drops, if he dies,
At once, and rufhes apoplectic down;
Or a fierce fever hurries him to hell.
For, as the body thro' unnumber'd ftrings
Reverberates each vibration of the foul;
As is the paflion, fuch is fill the pain
The body feels; or chronic, or acute.
And oft a fidden ftorm at once o'erpow'rs
The life, or gives your reafon to the winds.
Such fates attend the rash alarm of fear,
And fudden grief, and rage, and fudden joy.
There are, meantime, to whom the boift'rous
Is health, and only fills the fails of life; [fit
For where the mind a torpid winter leads,
Wrapt in a body corpulent and cold,
And each clogg'd function lazily moves on,
A generous fally fpurns th'incumbent load,
Unlocks the breaft, and gives a cordial glow.
But if your wrathful blood is apt to boil,
Or are your nerves too irritably ftrung,
Wave all difpute; be cautious if you joke,
Keep Lent for ever, and forfwear the bowl;
For one rafh moment fends you to the fhades,
Or thatters ev'ry hopeful fcheme of life,
And gives to horror all your days to come.
Fate, arm'd with thunder, fire, and ev'ry plague
That ruins, tortures, or diftracts mankind,
And makes the happy wretched, in an hour
O'erwhelms you not with woes fo horrible
As your own wrath, nor gives more fudden
While choler works, good friend, you may
be wrong;
Diftruft yourfelf, and fleep before you fight.
'Tis not too late to-morrow to be brave;
If honour bids, to-morrow kill or die.
But calm advice against a raging fit
Avails too little; and it braves the pow'r
Of all that ever taught in profe or fong,
To tame the fiend that fleeps a gentle lamb,
And wakes a lion. Unprovok'd and calm,
You reafon well, fee as you ought to fee,
And wonder at the madnels of mankind:
Seiz'd with the common rage, you foon forget
The fpeculation of your wifer hours.
Belet with furies of all deadly fhapes,
Fierce and infidious, violent and flow,
With all that urge or lure us on to fate,
What refuge fhall we feek, what arms prepare!
Where reafon proves too weak, or void of wiles,
To cope with fubtle or impetuous pow'rs,
I would invoke new paffions to your aid:
With indignation would extinguish fear,
With fear or gen'rous pity vanquish rage,
And love with pride; and force to force oppofe.
There is a charm, a power that fways the
Bids every paffion revel or be ftill;
Infpires with rage, or all your cares diffolves;
Can footh diftraction, and almoft defpair.
That pow'r is Mufic: Far beyond the stretch
Of thofe unmeaning warblers on our stage;
Thofe clumfy heroes, thofe fat-headed gods,
Who move no paffion juftly but contempt:
Who, like our dancers (light indeed and strong!)
Do wond'rous feats, but never heard of grace.
The fault is ours; we bear thofe monftrous arts:
Good Heav'n! we praife them: we, with loud-
eft peals,
Applaud the fool that highest lifts his heels; And, with infipid fhew of rapture, die
Of idiot notes impertinently long.
But he the Mufes laurel juftly fhares,
Who, with bold rage, or folemn pomp of founds,
Inflames, exalts, and ravithes the foul;
Now tender, plaintive, fweet almoft to pain,
In love diffolves you; now in fprightly ftrains
Breathes a gay rapture thro' your thrilling breaft;
Or melts the heart with airs divinely fad;
Or wakes to horror the tremendous ftings.
Such was the bard, whofe heav'nly ftrains of old
Appeas'd the fiend of melancholy Saul.
Such was, if old and heathen fame fay truc,
The man who bade the Theban domes afcend,
And tam'd the favage nations with his fong;
And fuch the Thracian, whofe harmonious lyre,
Tun'd to foft woe, made all the mountains
weep;
Sooth'd even the inexorable pow'rs of Hell,
And half redeem'd his loft Eurydice.
Mufic exalts each joy, allays each grief,
Expels difeafes, foftens ev'ry pain,
Subdues the rage of poifon, and the plague;
And hence the wife of ancient days ador'd
One pow'r of phyfic, melody, and fong.
$73. Ode on the Spring. GRAY, O! where the rofy-bofom'd hours, Fair Venus' train, appear, Difclofe the long-expecting flow'rs, And wake the purple year! The Attic warbler pours her throat, Refponfive to the cuckow's note, The untaught harmony of fpring; While, whifp'ring pleafure as they fly, Cool Zephyrs thro' the clear blue sky Their gather'd fragrance fling.
Where'er the oak's thick branches ftretch A broader browner fhade;
Where'er the rude and mofs-grown beechTM
O'ercanopies the glade;
Befide fome water's ruthy brink
With me the Mufe fhall fit, and think
(At eafe reclin'd in ruity state)
How vain the ardour of the crowd,
How low, how little are the proud,
How indigent the great!
Still is the toiling hand of Care;
The panting herds repofe:
Yet hark, how thro' the peopl'd air
The bufy murmur glows!
The infect youth are on the wing,
Eager to tafte the honey'd fpring,
And float amid the liquid noon:
Some lightly o'er the current fkim,
Quick-glancing to the fun.
Some fhew their gaily-gilded trim
To Contemplation's fober eye
Such is the race of man;
And they that creep, and they that fly,
Shall end where they began.
Alike the bufy and the gay
A poet he, and touch'd with Heav'n's own fire, But flutter thro' life's little day,
In fortune's varying colours dreft:
Brush'd by the hand of rough mifchance,
Or chill'd by age, their airy dance
They leave in duft to rest.
Methinks I hear, in accent low,
The fportive kind reply,
Poor moralift! and what art thou?
A folitary fly!
Thy joys no glitt'ring female meets,
No hive haft thou of hoarded fweets,
No painted plumage to diplay:
On hafty wings thy youth is flown;
Thy fun is fet, thy fpring is gone→→→
We frolic while 'tis May.
$74. Ode on the Death of a Favourite Cat, drowned in a Tub of Gold Fishes.
"TWAS on a lofty vafe's fide,
Where China's gayest art had dy'd
The azure flow'rs that blow!
Demuret of the tabby kind,
The penfive Selima reclin'd,
Gaz'd on the lake below.
Her confcious tail her joy declar'd;
The fair round face, the fnowy beard,
The velvet of her paws!
Her coat that with the tortoife vies,
Her ears of jet, and einʼrald eyes,
She faw, and purr'd applause.
Still had the gaz'd; but 'midft the tide
Two angel forms were seen to glide,
The Genii of the stream:
Their fcaly armour's Tyrian hue,
Thro' richest purple to the view
Betray'd a golden gleam.
The haplefs nymph with wonder faw:
A whisker firft, and then a claw,
With many an ardent with,
She ftretch'd in vain to reach the prize.
What female heart can gold defpife!
What cat's averfe to fish?
Prefumptuous maid! with looks intent
Again the ftretch'd, again fhe bent,
Nor knew the gulph between
(Malignant Fate fat by and fmil'd);
The flipp'ry verge her feet beguil❜d,
She tumbl'd headlong in.
Eight times emerging from the flood
She mew'd to ev'ry wat'ry god,
Some speedy aid to fend.
No dolphin came, no Nereid ftirr'd,
Nor cruel Tom, nor Sufan heard:
A fav'rite has no friend!
From hence, ye beauties, undeceiv'd,
Know, one false step is ne'er retriev'd!
And be with caution bold.
Not all that tempts your wand'ring eyes And heedlefs hearts, is lawful prize; Nor all that gliftens gold.
$75. Ode on a diftant Profpect of Eton College.
YE diftant fpires, ye antique tow'rs,
That crown the watʼry glade,
Where grateful Science ftill adores
Her Henry's holy fhade;
And ye that from the ftately brow
Of Windfor's heights th'expanfe below
Of grove, of lawn, of mead furvey,
Whofe turf, whofe fhade, whofe flow'rs among
Wanders the hoary Thames along
His filver-winding way:
Ah happy hills! ah pleafing fhade!
Ah fields belov'd in vain
Where once my careless childhood stray'd,
Atranger yet to pain!
I feel the gales that from ye blow,
A momentary blifs beftow;
As waving fresh their glad fome wing,
My weary foul they seem to footh,
And, redolent of joy and youth,
To breathe a fecond fpring.
Say, father Thames (for thou haft feen
Full many a fprightly race,
Difporting on thy margent green,
The paths of pleasure trace)
Who foremost now delight to cleave,
With plant arms, thy glaffy wave?
The captive linnet which enthral ?
What idle progeny fucceed
To chace the rolling circle's 1peed,
Or urge the flying ball?
While fome, on earnest bus'nefs bent,
Their murm'ring labours ply,
'Gainft graver hours that bring constraint
To fweeten liberty;
Some bold adventurers difdain
The limits of their little reign,
And unknown regions dare defcry.
Still as they run they look behind,
They hear a voice in ev'ry wind,
And fnatch a fearful joy.
Gay hope is theirs, by fancy fed,
Lefs pleafing when poffeft;
The tear forgot as foon as shed,
The funfhine of the breaft:
Theirs buxom health, of rofy hue,
Wild wit, invention ever new,
And lively cheer, of vigour born;
The thoughtless day, the eafy night,
The fpirits pure, the flumbers light,
That fly th'approach of morn.
Alas! regardless of their doom,
The little victims play!
No fenfe have they of ills to come,
Nor care beyond to-day :
Yet fee, how all around can wait
The minifters of human fate,
And black Misfortune's baleful train t
Ah, thew then where in ambush ftand,
To feize their prey, the murd'rous band!
Ah, tell them they are men!
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