Rome soumit la Terre & se crut éternelle,
Il lui vint des vainqueurs des Bords du Tanais,
Et dix foix saccagée, à peine regna-t-elle,
Sur ses propes débris.

Ainsi le sort confond le courage & l'addresse,
Tour à tour par le fer, tout Empire est détruit.
Les Vanqueurs, les vaincus, la force & la foiblesse :
Tôt ou tard tout périt.

Trent siécles de sang du meurtre heréditaire,
Qu'ont ils produit enfin, après mille combats ?
Au bonheur les mortels ont ils dans leur carrière,
Avancé d'un seul pas!

L'Humanité tremblante étend ses bras augustes,
Elle remplit les airs de ses cris doloureux,
N'est-il donc plus d'espoir? O vous Rois! soyez justes,
Et le Monde est heureux.

Voilà votre devoir, & voilà votre Gloire,

Toute autre n'est qu'une crime; écoutez vos sujets,
Vous ne leur devez point d'exploits ni de victoire,
Vous leur dévez la Paix.

Salomon, & Numa dans leurs Cité bornée,
Ont égalé le nom des plus heureux Guerriers,
La Paix a ses Héros, l'Olive fortunée
A l'éclat des lauriers.

Un jour il s'éteindra ce prejugé feroce,

Qui croit tous les mortels nés pour se tourmenter?
Leur sang sera sacré, malheur à l'ame atroce,
Qui voudroit en douter.

Déjà par les beaux Arts l'Europe est adoucie,
Les mœurs pourront un jour ce que n'ont pu
Et les fières leçons de la Philosophie

Feront rougir les Rois.

les Loix;

Arne, Venise, & Rome ont frayé, cette route,
De leur douce vertu le bonheur & le prix,
Un jour le même myrthe embellira sans doute,
Londres, Vienne, & Paris,

Ma redoutable voix a tonné sur le crime,
Paix! je n'en ai point pour chanter tes attraits,
Peut-êtres les Humans de ton charme sublime
Peins toi par tes bienfaits

O Thérèse, ô Louis, & vertus plus qu'humaines;
Mes vœux sont étendus, & j'en crois votre cœur,
Eternisez vos nœuds, l'Europe craint des chaînes,
Donnez lui le bonheur.

ELEGY

T

ELEGY on the death of a Lady. By Mr. Mason.

HE midnight clock has toll'd; and hark, the bell
Of death beats slow! heard ye the note profound?
It pauses now: and now, with rising knell,

Flings through the hollow gale its sullen sound.

Yes,

*** is dead. Attend the strain, Daughters of Albion! Ye that, light as air, So oft have tript in her fantastic train,

With hearts as gay, and faces half as fair:
For she was fair beyond your brightest bloom:
(This envy owns, since now her bloom is fled)
Fair as the forms that, wove in fancy's loom,
Float in light vision round the poet's head.
Whene'er with soft serenity she smil'd,

Or caught the orient blush of quick surprise,
How sweetly mutable, how brightly wild,
The liquid lustre darted from her eyes?

Each look, each motion wak'd a new-born grace,
That o'er her form its transient glory cast:
Some lovelier wonder soon usarp'd the place,
Chas'd by a charm still lovelier than the last.

That bell again: It tells us what she is:

On what she was no more the strain prolong; Luxuriant fancy pause: an hour like this. Demands the tribute of a serious song.

Maria claims it from that sable bier,

Where cold and wan the slumberer rests her head;

In still small whispers to reflection's car,

She breathes the solemn dictates of the dead.

O catch the awful notes, and lift them loud;
Proclaim the theme, by sage, by fool rever'd;
Hear it, ye young, ye vain, ye great, ye proud;
"Tis nature speaks, and nature will be heard.

Yes, ye shall hear, and tremble as ye hear,
While, high with health, your hearts exulting leap;
Ev'n in the midst of pleasure's mad career,
The mental Monitor shall wake and weep.

Or gave of fortune's gifts an ampler share,
In life to lavish or by death to lose!

Early to lose; while, borne on busy wing,
Ye sip the nectar of each varying bloom :
Nor fear, while basking in the beams of spring,
The wint'ry storm that sweeps you to the tomb.
Think of her fate! revere the heavenly hand
That led her hence, though seen, by steps so slow;
Long at her couch death took his patient stand,
And menac'd oft, and oft withheld the blow:

To give reflection time, with lenient art,
Each fond delusion from her soul to steal;

Teach her from folly peaceably to part,

And wean her from a world she lov'd so well.

Say, are you sure his mercy shall extend

To you so long a span? Alas, ye sigh:

Make then, while yet ye may, your God your friend,
And learn with equal ease to sleep or die!

Nor think the muse, whose sober voice ye hear,
Contracts with bigot frown her sullen brow;

Casts round religion's orbs the mists of fear,

Or shades with horrors what with smiles should glow:

No; she should warm you with seraphic fire,
Heirs as ye are of heav'n's eternal day;
Would bid you boldly to that heav'n aspire,
Nor sink and slumber in your cells of clay.

Know, ye were form'd to range yon azure field,
In yon ætherial founts of bliss to lave;
Force thence, secure in Faith's protecting shield,
The sting from death, the vict'ry from the grave.

Is this the bigot's rant? Away, ye vain,

Your hopes, your fears in doubt, in dulness steep:
Go soothe your souls in sickness, grief or pain,
With the sad solace of eternal sleep.

Yet will I praise you, triflers as ye are,

More than those preachers of your fav'rite creed,

Who proudly swell the brazen throat of war,
Who from the phalanx bid the battle bleed;

Nor

In a book of French verses, entitled Oeuvres du Philosophe de Sans Souci, and lately reprinted at Berlin by authority, under the title of Poesies Diverses, may be found an epis

tle

Nor wish for more: who conquer, but to die.
Hear, folly, hear: and triumph in the tale:
Like you they reason; not, like you, enjoy
The breeze of bliss that fills your silken sail:

On pleasure's glittering stream ye gaily steer
Your little course to cold oblivion's shore;
They dare the storm, and thro' th' inclement year
Stem the rough surge, and brave the torrent's roar.

Is it for glory? that just fate denies.

Long must the warrior moulder in his shroud,
Ere from her trump the heav'n-born accents rise,
That lift the hero from the fighting crowd.

Is it his grasp of empire to extend,
Ye curb the fury of insulting foes?
Ambition, cease: the idle contest end:

"Tis but a kingdom thou canst win or lose.

And why must murder'd myriads lose their all,
(If life be all) why desolation low'r,
With famish'd frown, on this affrighted ball,

That thou mayst flame the meteor of an hour?

Go, wiser ye, that flutter life away,

Crown with the mantling juice the goblet high;
Weave the light dance with festive freedom gay,
And live your moment, since the next ye die.

Yet know, vain sceptics, know th' Almighty Mind,
Who breath'd on man a portion of his fire,
Bade his free soul, by earth nor time confin'd,
To heav'n, to immortality aspire.

Nor shall the pile of hope, his mercy rear'd,
By vain philosophy be e'er destroy'd:
Eternity, by all or wish'd or fear'd,

Shall be by all or suffer'd or enjoy'd.

Written in 1760.

tle to Marshal Keith, written professedly against the immortality of the soul. By way of specimen of the whole, take the following lines.

De l'avenir, cher Keith, jugeons par le passé;
Comme avant que je fusse il n'avoit point pensé,
De même, après ma mort, quand toutes mes parties
Pur la corruption seront aneanties,

Par un même destin il ne pensera plus ;

Non rien n'est plus certain, soyons en convaincu, &c.

It is to this Epistle that the rest of the elegy alludes.

To

To a young Nobleman leaving the university. By the same.

RE yet, ingenious youth, thy steps retire

ER

From Cam's smooth margin, and the peaceful vale, Where Science call'd thee to her studious quire,

And met thee musing in her cloysters pale;

O! let thy friend (and may he boast the name)
Breathe from his artless reed one parting lay:
A lay like this thy earlier virtues claim,

And this let voluntary friendship pay.

Yet know, the time arrives, the dangerous time,
When all those virtues, opening now so fair,
Transplanted to the world's tempestuous clime,
Must learn each passion's boist'rous breath to bear.

There, if ambition pestilent and pale,

Or luxury should paint their vernal glow;
If cold self-interest, with her chilling gale,
Should blast th'unfolding blossoms ere they blow;

If mimic hues, by art or fashion spread,

Their genuine simple colouring should supply,
O! with them may these laureat honours fade;
And with them (if it can) my friendship die!
Then do not blame, if, though thyself inspire,
Cautious I strike the panegyric string;
The muse full oft pursues a metor fire,
And, vainly vent'rous, soars on waxen wing.

Too actively awake at Friendship's voice,
The poet's bosom pours the fervent strain,
Till sad Reflection blames the haughty choice,
And oft invokes Oblivion's aid in vain.

Call we the shade of Pope, from the bless'd bower
Where thron'd he sits with many a tuneful sage;
Ask, if he ne'er bemoans that hapless hour

When St. John's name* illumin'd glory's page?

Ask, if the wretch, who dar'd his mem'ry stain,
Ask, if his country's, his religion's foe,
Deserv'd the meed that Marlborough fail'd to gain,
The deathless meed, he only could bestow?

Alluding to this couplet of Mr. Pope's.
"To Cato, Virgil paid one honest line,
"O let my country's friend illumine mine."

The