How oft in fields of death thy presence sought,

Nor thinks the mighty prize too dearly bought!

On foreign mountains may the sun refine

The grape's soft juice, and mellow it to wine;

With citron groves adorn a distant soil,

And the fat olive swell with floods of oil:

We envy not the warmer clime, that lies

In ten degrees of more indulgent skies;

Nor at the coarseness of our heaven repine,

Though o'er our heads the frozen Pleiads shine:

stores,

bleak mountains smile.

CATO'S SOLILOQUY.

IT must be so- Plato, thou reason'st well!

Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,

This longing after immortality? Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror,

Of falling into nought? why shrinks the soul

Back on herself, and startles at destruction?

'Tis the divinity that stirs within us; 'Tis heaven itself that points out an hereafter,

And intimates eternity to man. Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful thought!

Through what variety of untried being,

Through what new scenes and

changes must we pass? The wide, th' unbounded prospect lies before me;

But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it.

Here will I hold. If there's a power above us

And that there is, all nature cries aloud

Through all her works- he must delight in virtue;

And that which he delights in must be happy.

But when? or where? This world. was made for Cæsar.

I'm weary of conjectures. must end them.

This

[Laying his hand on his sword.]

Thus am I doubly armed: my death and life,

My bane and antidote, are both before me:

This in a moment brings me to an end;

But this informs me I shall never • die.

The soul, secured in her existence, smiles

At the drawn dagger, and defies its point.

The stars shall fade away, the sun himself

Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years;

But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,

Unhurt amidst the wars of elements,

The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds.

What means this heaviness that hangs upon me?

This lethargy that creeps through all my senses ?

Nature oppressed, and harassed out with care,

Sinks down to rest. This once I'll favor her,

That my awakened soul may take her flight,

Renewed in all her strength, and fresh with life,

An offering fit for heaven. Let guilt or fear

Disturb man's rest: Cato knows neither of them; Indifferent in his choice to sleep or die.

ON A SERMON AGAINST GLORY.

COME then, tell me, sage divine,
Is it an offence to own
That our bosoms e'er incline

Toward immortal Glory's throne?

For with me nor pomp, nor pleasure,
Bourbon's might, Braganza's treasure,
So can fancy's dream rejoice,
So conciliate reason's choice,
As one approving word of her impar
tial voice.

By these mysterious ties, the busy power

Of memory her ideal train preserves Entire; or when they would elude her watch,

Reclaims their fleeting footsteps from the waste

Of dark oblivion; thus collecting all The various forms of being, to present Before the curious eye of mimic art Their largest choice: like Spring's unfolded blooms Exhaling sweetness, that the skilful bee

May taste at will from their selected spoils

To work her dulcet food. For not the expanse

Of living lakes in summer's noontide calm,

Reflects the bordering shade and sunbright heavens

With fairer semblance;

sculptured gold

not the

More faithful keeps the graver's lively trace,

Than he whose birth the sisterpowers of art Propitious viewed, and from his genial star

Shed influence to the seeds of fancy kind,

Than his attempered bosom must

Her form remains. The balmy walks of May

There breathe perennial sweets: the trembling chord

Resounds forever in the abstracted ear,

Melodious; and the virgin's radiant eye,

Superior to disease, to grief, and time, Shines with unbating lustre. Thus at length

Endowed with all that nature can bestow,

The child of fancy oft in silence bends

O'er these mixed treasures of his pregnant breast

With conscious pride. From them he oft resolves

To frame he knows not what excelling things,

And win he knows not what sublime reward

Of praise and wonder. By degrees the mind

Feels her young nerves dilate: the plastic powers

Labor for action: blind emotions heave

His bosom; and with loveliest frenzy caught,

From earth to heaven he rolls his daring eye,

From heaven to earth. Anon ten thousand shapes,

Like spectres trooping to the wizard's call,

Flit swift before him. From the womb of earth,

From ocean's bed they come: the eternal heavens

Disclose their splendors, and th dark abyss

Pours out her births unknow With fixed gaze

He marks the rising phantoms. Now compares Their different forms; now blends them, now divides; Enlarges and extenuates by turns; Opposes, ranges in fantastic bands, And infinitely varies. Hither now, Now thither fluctuates his inconstant aim,

The shadowy picture, and impassioned verse,

Beyond their proper powers attract the soul

By that expressive semblance, while in sight

Of nature's great original we scan The lively child of art; while line by line,

And feature after feature, we refer To that divine exemplar whence it stole

Those animating charms. Thus beauty's palm

Betwixt them wavering hangs: applauding love

Doubts where to choose; and mortal man aspires

To tempt creative praise.

[From Pleasures of the Imagination.] RICHES OF A MAN OF TASTE.

WHAT though not all

Of mortal offspring can attain the heights

Of envied life; though only few pos

sess

Patrician treasures or imperial state; Yet nature's care, to all her children just,

With richer treasures and an ampler state,

Endows, at large, whatever happy man Will deign to use them. His the city's pomp,

The

The

The

rural honors his. adorns

Whate'er

princely dome, the column and the arch,

breathing marbles and the sculptured gold,

Beyond the proud possessor's narrow claim,

His tuneful breast enjoys. For him, the Spring

Distils her dews, and from the silken gem

Its lucid leaves unfolds: for him, the hand

Of Autumn tinges every fertile branch

With blooming gold, and blushes like the morn.

Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wings;

And still new beauties meet his lonely walk,

And loves unfelt attract him. Not a breeze

Flies o'er the meadow, not a cloud imbibes

The setting sun's effulgence, not a strain

From all the tenants of the warbling shade

Ascends, but whence his bosom can partake

Fresh pleasure unreproved. Nor thence partakes

Fresh pleasure only: for th' attentive mind,

By this harmonious action on her

powers,

With thoughts beyond the limit of his frame;

But that th' Omnipotent might send him forth

In sight of mortal and immortal powers,

As on a boundless theatre, to run The great career of justice; to exalt His generous aim to all diviner deeds; To chase each partial purpose from his breast,

And through the mists of passion and of sense,

And through the tossing tide of chance and pain,

To hold his course unfaltering, while the voice

Of

Of

truth and virtue, up the steep ascent

nature, calls him to his high reward,

Th' applauding smile of heaven? Else wherefore burns

In mortal bosoms this unquenched hope,

That breathes from day to day sublimer things,

And mocks possession? wherefore darts the mind,

With such resistless ardor, to embrace Majestic forms; impatient to be free; Spurning the gross control of wilful might;

Proud of the strong contention of her toils; Proud to be daring?