VIII.

The fparkling gems, and ore in mines below,
To thee their beauteous luftre owe;

Though form'd within the womb of Night, Bright as their fire they shine, with native rays of light. IX..

When thou doft raise thy venerable head,
And art in genuine Night array'd,

Thy Negro beauties then delight;
Beauties, like polish'd jet, with their own darkness bright.
X.

Thou doft thy fimiles impartially bestow,

And know'ft no difference here below:
All things appear the fame by thee,

Though Light diftinction makes, thou giv'ft equality.

XI.

Thou, Darknefs, art the lover's kind retreat,
And doft the nuptial joys compleat;

Thou doft infpire them with thy shade,

Giv'ft vigour to the youth, and warm'ft the yielding maid.

XII.

Calm as the blefs'd above the Anchorites dwell,
Within their peaceful gloomy cell.

Their minds with heavenly joys are fill'd;
The pleasures Light deny, thy fhades for ever yield.
XIII.

In caves of Night, the oracles of old

Did all their mysteries unfold:

Darkness did first Religion grace,

Gave terrors to the God, and reverence to the place.

XIV.

When the Almighty did on Horeb stand,
Thy fhades inclos'd the hallow'd land;
In clouds of Night he was array'd,
And venerable Darkness his pavilion made.

XV.

When he appear'd arm'd in his power and might,
He veil'd the beatific light;

When terrible with majefty,

In tempefts he gave laws, and clad himself in thee.

XVI.

Ere the foundation of the earth was laid,

Or brighter firmament was made;

Ere matter, time, or place, was known, Thou, Monarch Darknefs, fwayd'ft thefe fpacious realms alone.

XVII.

But, now the Moon (though gay with borrow'd light) Invades thy fcanty lot of Night:

By rebel fubjects thou 'rt betray'd,

The anarchy of Stars depofe their Monarch Shade.

XVIII.

Yet fading Light its empire muft refign,

And Nature's power fubmit to thine:

An universal ruin fhall erect thy throne,

And Fate confirm thy kingdom evermore thy own.

HUMAN

HUMAN LIFE.

SUPPOSED TO BE SPOKEN BY AN EPICURE.

In Imitation of the Second Chapter of the WISDOM of SOLOMON.

To the Lord H UNS DON.

A PINDARI C O D E.

T

WHEN will penurious Heaven no more allow ?
No more on its own darling Man bestow?

Is it for this he lord of all appears,

And his great Maker's image bears? To toil beneath a wretched state, Opprefs'd with miferies and fate; Beneath his painful burthen groan, And in this beaten road of life drudge on! Amidft our labours, we poffefs

No kind allays of happiness:

No foftening joys can call our own,
To make this bitter drug go down;

Whilft Death an eafy conqueft gains,

And the infatiate Grave in endless triumph reigns.
With throes and pangs into the world we come,
The curfe and burthen of the womb:

Nor wretched to ourselves alone,

Our mothers' labours introduce our own.

In cries and tears our infancy we waste,

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Those fad prophetic tears, that flow

By instinct of our future woe;

And ev'n our dawn of life with forrows over-caft.
Thus we toil out a reftlefs age,

Each his laborious part must have,
Down from the monarch to the flave,

Act o'er this farce of life, then drop beneath the stage.
II.

From our first drawing vital breath,
From our firft ftarting from the womb,
Until we reach the deftin'd tomb,

We all are posting on to the dark goal of death.
Life, like a cloud that fleets before the wind,
No mark, no kind impreffion, leaves behind,
'Tis fcatter'd like the winds that blow,
Boisterous as them, full as inconstant too,

That know not whence they come, nor where they go.

Here we 're detain'd a while, and then

Become originals again :

Time fhall a man to his first felf restore,

And make him intire nothing, all he was before.

No

part

of us, no remnant, shall furvive!

And yet we impudently fay, we live :
No! we but ebb into ourselves again,

And only come to be, as we had never been.

III.

Say, learned Sage, thou that art mighty wise !

Unriddle me these mysteries :

What is the foul, the vital heat,

That our mean frame does animate?

What

What is our breath, the breath of man,

That buoys his nature up, and does ev'n life sustain ?

Is it not air, an empty fume,

A fire that does itfelf confume;

A warmth that in a heart is bred, A lambent flame with heat and motion fed ? Extinguish that, the whole is gone, This boafted fcene of life is done: Away the phantom takes its flight, Damn'd to a loathfome grave, and an eternal night. The foul, th' immortal part we boast,

In one confuming minute 's loft;

To its first fource it must repair,
Scatter with winds, and flow with common air.
Whilft the fall'n body, by a fwift decay,

Refolves into its native clay:

For duft and afhes are its fecond birth,

And that incorporates too with its great parent Earth.
IV.

Nor fhall our names our memories furvive,
Alas, no part of man can live !
The empty blafts of fame shall die,
And even thofe nothings taste mortality.
In vain to future ages we tranfmit
Heroic acts, and monuments of wit:

In vain we dear-bought honours leave,

To make our ashes gay, and furnish out a grave.
Ah, treacherous immortality!

For thee our stock of youth we waste,
And urge on life, that ebbs too fast:

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