Known by the gods, as near he draws, They make him umpire of the cause.

O'er a low trunk his arm he laid, Where since his hours a dial made; Then, leaning, heard the nice debate, And thus pronounced the words of fate :

Since body from the parent Earth, And soul from Jove received a birth, Return they where they first began; But since their union makes the man, Till Jove and Earth shall part these two, To Care, who join'd them, man is due.

He said, and sprung with swift career To trace a circle for the year; Where ever since the seasons wheel, And tread on one another's heel.

'Tis well, said Jove; and, for consent,
Thundering, he shook the firmament.
Our umpire, Time, shall have his way;
With Care I let the creature stay:
Let business vex him, avarice blind,
Let doubt and knowledge rack his mind,
Let error act, opinion speak,

And want afflict, and sickness break,
And anger burn, dejection chill,
And joy distract, and sorrow kill;
Till, arm'd by Care, and taught to mow,
Time draws the long destructive blow;
And wasted man, whose quick decay
Comes hurrying on before his day,
Shall only find by this decree,
The soul flies sooner back to me.

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THE pride of every grove I chose,
The violet sweet, and lily fair,
The dappled pink, and blushing rose,
To deck my charming Chloe's hair.

At morn the nymph voushsafed to place
Upon her brow the various wreath;
The flowers, less blooming than her face,
The scent, less fragrant than her breath.
The flowers she wore along the day;

And every nymph and shepherd said,
That in her hair they look'd more gay
Than glowing in their native bed.

Undress'd at evening, when she found
Their odors lost, their colors past;
She changed her look, and on the ground
Her garland and her eye she cast.

That eye dropp'd sense, distinct and clear, As any Muse's tongue could speak, When, from its lids, a pearly tear

Stole trickling down her beauteous cheek, Dissembling what I knew too well,

My love, my life, said I, explain
This change of humor: prythee tell:
That falling tear-what does it mean?

She sigh'd; she smiled: and to the flowers
Pointing, the lovely moralist said,
See, friend, in some few fleeting hours,
See yonder, what a change is made.
Ah me! the blooming pride of May,

And that of beauty, are but one;
At morn, both flourish bright and gay;
Both fade at evening, pale, and gone.

At dawn, poor Stella danced and sung;
The amorous youth around her bow'd;
At night her fatal knell was rung:
saw, and kiss'd her in her shroud.

Such as she is, who died to-day,
Such I, alas, may
be to-morrow.
Go, Damon, bid thy Muse display

The justice of thy Chloe's sorrow.




To fair Fidele's grassy tomb,

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Each opening sweet, of earliest bloom, And rifle all the breathing spring.


No wailing ghost shall dare appear
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove:

But shepherd lads assemble here,
And melting virgins own their love.

III. No wither'd witch shall here be seen, No goblins lead their nightly crew: The female fays shall haunt the green, And dress thy grave with pearly dew! IV.

The redbreast, oft at evening hours,
Shall kindly lend his little aid :
With hoary moss, and gather'd flowers,
To deck the ground where thou art laid.


When howling winds, and beating rain,
In tempests shake the sylvan cell:
Or, 'midst the chase of every plain,

The tender thoughts on thee shall dwell.

VI. Each lonely scene shall thee restore, For thee the tear be duly shed: Beloved, till life could charm no more; And mourn'd, till Pity's self be dead.





IN yonder grave a Druid lies,

Where slowly winds the stealing wave! The year's best sweets shall duteous rise, To deck its Poet's sylvan grave!


In yon deep bed of whispering reeds
His airy harp shall now be laid,
That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds,
May love, through life, the soothing shade.

Then maids and youths shall linger here,
And, while its sounds at distance swell,
Shall sadly seem in Pity's ear

To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell.


Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore
When Thames in summer wreaths is drest,
And oft suspend the dashing oar

To bid his gentle spirit rest!

And oft as ease and health retire
To breezy lawn, or forest deep,
The friend shall view yon whitening spire,
And, 'mid the varied landscape, weep.

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