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Here gai rulous old age

winds

up

his tale; And jovial youth of lightsome vacant heart, Whose ev'ry day was made of melody, Hears not the voice of mirth: the shrill-tongu'd shrew, Meek as the turtle-dove, forgets her chiding. Here are the wise, the gen'rous, and the brave; The just, the good, the worthless, the prophane, The downright clown, the perfectly well-bred; The fool, the churl, the scoundrel, and the mean; The supple statesman, and the patriot stern; The wrecks et nations, and the spoils of time, With all the lumber of six thousand years,

Poor man! how happy once in thy first state! When yet but varm from thy great Maker's handjo He stamp'd thee with his image, and well plea Smil'd on his last fair work! then all was well. Sound was the body, and the soul serene; Like two sweet instruments, ne'er out of tune, That play their several parts. Not head nor heart, Offer'd io ach; nor was there cause they should, For all was pure within: no fell remorse, Nor anxious castings up of what might be. Alarm’d his peaceful bosom: summer seas Shew not more smooth, when kiss'd by southern winds, Just ready to expire. Scarce importun'd, The gen'rous soil with a luxuriant hand Offer'd the various produce of the year And ev'ry thing most perfect in its kind. Blessed, thrice blessed day! but ah, how short ! Bless'd as the pleasing dreams of holy men, But fugitive, like those, and quickly gone. O slipp'ry state of things! what sudden turns,

What strange vicissitudes, in the first leaf
Of man's sad history! to-day most happy,
And ere to-morrow's sun has set, most abject!
How scant the space between these vast extremes!
Thus far'd it with our sire: not long he enjoy'd
His paradise! scarce had the happy tenant
Of the fair spot, due time to prove its sweets,
Or sum them up, when strait he must be gone,
Ne'er to return again. And must he go?
Can nought compound for the first dire offence
Of erring man? like one that is condemn’d,
Fain would he trifle time with idle talk,
And parley with his fate. But 'tis in vain,
Not all the lavish odours of the place,
Offer'd in incense, can procure his pardon,
Or mitigate his doom. A mighty angel
With flaming sword forbids his longer stay,
And drives the loit'rer forth; nor inust he take
One last and farewell round. At once he lost
His glory and his God.

If mortal now,
And sorely maim'd, no wonder! Man has sinnd.
Sick of his bliss, and bent on new adventures,
Evil he would needs try: nor tried in vain.
Dreadful experiment! destructive measure!
Where the worst thing could happen, is success.
Alas! too well he sped: the good he scorn'd
Stalk'd off reluctant, like an ill-us'd ghost,
Not to return; or if it did, its visits
Like those of angels, short, and far between;
Whilst the black dæmon, with his hell-scap'd train,
Admitted once into its better room,
Grew loud and mutinous, nor would be gone;

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Here gai rulous old age winds up his tale;
And jovial youth of lightsome vacant heart,
Whose ev'ry day was made of melody,
Hears not the voice of mirth: the shrill-tongu'd shrew,
Meek as the turtle dove, forgets her chiding.
Here are the wise, the gen'rous, and the brave;
The just, the good, the worthless, the prophane,
The downright clown, the perfectly well-bred;
The fool, the charl, the scoundrel, and the mean;
The supple statesman, and the patriot stern;
The wrecks cf nations, and the spoils of time,
With all the lumber of six thousand years,

Poor man! how happy once in thy first state!
When yet but warm from thy great Maker's handy
He stamp'd thee with his image, and well pleas'd,
Smild on his last fair work! then all was well,
Sound was the body, and the soul serene;
Like two sweet instruments, ne'er out of tune,
That play their several parts. Not head nor hearts
Offer'd to ach; nor was there cause they should,
For all was pure within: no fell remorse,
Nor anxious castings up of what might be.
Alarm'd his peaceful bosom: summer seas
Shew not more smooth, when kiss'd by southern winds,
Just ready to expire. Scarce importun'd,
The gen'rous soil with a luxuriant hand
Offer'd the various produce of the year
And ev'ry thing most perfect in its kind.
Blessed, thrice blessed day! but ah, how short !
Bless'd as the pleasing dreams of holy men,
But fugitive, like those, and quickly gone.
O slipp'ry state of things! what sudden turns,

What strange vicissitudes, in the first leaf
Of man's sad history! to-day most happy,
And ere to-morrow's sun has set, most abject!
How scant the space between these vast extremes!
Thus far'd it with our sire: not long he enjoy'd
His paradise! scarce had the happy tenant
Of the fair spot, due time to prove its sweets,
Or sum them up, when strait he must be gone,
Ne'er to return again. And must he go?
Can nought compound for the first dire offence
Of erring man? like one that is condemn'd,
Fain would he trifle time with idle talk,
And parley with his fate. But 'tis in vain,
Not all the lavish odours of the place,
Offer'd in incense, can procure his pardon,
Or mitigate his doom. A mighty angel
With flaming sword forbids his longer stay,
And drives the loit'rer forth; nor inust he take
One last and farewell round, At once he lost
His glory and his God.

If mortal now,
And sorely maim'd, no wonder! Man has sinna.
Sick of his bliss, and bent on new adventures,
Evil he would needs try: nor tried in vain.
Dreadful experiment! destructive measure!
Where the worst thing could happen, is success.
Alas! too well he sped: the good he scorn'd
Stalk'd off reluctant, like an ill-us'd ghost,
Not to return; or if it did, its visits
Like those of angels, short, and far between ;
Whilst the black dæmon, with his hell-scap'd train,
Admitted once into its better room,
Grew loud and mutinous, nor would be gone;

Lording it o'er the man, who now too late
Saw the rash error which he could not mend;
An error fatal not to him alone,
But to his future sons, his fortune's heirs.
Inglorious bondage! human nature groans
Beneath the vassalage so vile and cruel,
And its vast body bleeds through ev'ry vein.

What hayoc hast thou made, foul monster, sin!
Greatest and first of ills! the fruitful parent
Of woes of all dimensions! but for thee
Sorrow had never been. All noxious things
Of vilest nature, other sorts of evils,
Are kindly circumscrib'd, and have their bounds.
The fierce volcano, from its burning entrails
That belches molten stone and globes of fire,
Involv'd in pitchy clouds of smoke and stencha
Mars the adjacent fields for some leagues round,
And there it stops.

The big swoln inundation, Of mischief more diffusive, raving loud, Buries whole tracts of country, threat'ning inore; But that too has its shore it cannot pass. More dreadful far then these, has sin laid waste, Nut here and there a country, but a world; Dispatching at a wide extended blow Entire mankind, and for their sakes defacing A whole creation's beauty with rude hands ; Blasting the foodful grain, the loaded branches, And marking all along its way with ruin. Accursed thing! O where shall fancy find A proper name to call thee by, expressive Of all thy horrors? pregnant womb of ills! Of temper so transcendently malign,

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