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T IROCINI V M,

It is not from his form, in which we trace
Strength join’d with beauty, dignity with grace,
That man, the master of this globe, derives
His right of empire over all that lives.
That form indeed, th' associate of a mind
Vast in its pow'rs, ethereal in its kind,
Thac form, the labour of almighty skill,
Fram'a for the service of a free-born will,
Afferts precedence, and bespeaks controul,
But borrows all its grandeur from the foul.
Hers is the state, the splendour, and the throne,
An intellectual kingdom, all her own.

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For her, the mem'ry fills her ample page
With truths pour'd down from ev'ry distant age ;
For her amasses an unbounded store,
The wisdom of great nations, now no more ;
Though laden, not incumber'd with her spoil,
Laborious, yet unconscious of her toil,
When copiously supplied, then most enlarg’d,
Still to be fed, and not to be surcharg'd.
For her, the fancy roving unconfin'd,
The present muse of ev'ry pensive mind,
Works magic wonders, adds a brighter hue
To nature's scenes, than nature ever knew;
At her command, winds rise and waters roar,
Again she lays them flumb'ring on the fhore,
With flow'r and fruit the wilderness fupplies,
Or bids the rocks in ruder

pomp

arise. For her, the judgment, umpire in the itrife That

grace and nature have to wage through life, Quick-fighted arbiter of good and ill, Appointed fage preceptor to the will,

Condemns,

Condemns, approves, and with a faithful voice
Guides the decision of a doubtful choice.

Why did the fiat of a God give birth To yon fair sun and his attendant earth; And, when descending he refigns the skies, Why takes the gentler moon her turn to rife, Whom ocean feels through all his countless waves, And owns her pow'r on ev'ry fhore he laves ? Why do the seasons ftill enrich the

year, Fruitful and young as in their first career ? Spring hangs her infant blossoms on the trees, Rock'd in the cradle of the western breeze; Summer in haste the thriving charge receives Beneath the shade of her expanded leaves, 'Till autumn's fiercer heats and plenteous dews Dye them at laft in all their glowing hues 'Twere wild profusion all, and bootless waste, Pow'r misemploy'd, munificence misplacid,

Had

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Had not its Author dignified the plan,
And crown'd it with the majesty of man.
Thus form’d, thus plac'd, intelligent, and taught,
Look where he will, the wonders God has wrought,

The wildest scorner of his Maker's laws

Finds in a fober moment time to pause,
To press th' important question on his heart,
« Why form'd at all, and wherefore as thou art?"
If man be what he seems, this hour a slave,
The next, mere dust and ashes in the grave;
Endu'd with reason only to descry
His crimes and follies with an aching eye ;
With passions, just that he may prove, with pain,
The force he spends against their fury, vain ;
And if, soon after having burnt, by turns,
With ev'ry luft with which frail nature burns,
His being end where death diffolves the bond,
The tomb take all, and all be blank beyond ;
Then he, of all that nature has brought forth,
Stands felf-impeach'd the creature of least worth,

And

And useless while he lives; and when he dies,
Brings into doubt the wisdom of the skies.

Truths that the learn'd pursue with eager thought, Are not important always as dear-bought, Proving at last, though told in pompous strains, A childish waste of philofophic pains ; But truths on which depends our main concern, That 'tis our shame and mis’ry not to learn, Shine by the side of ev'ry path we tread With such a lustre, he that runs may read. 'Tis true, that if to trifle life

away Down to the sun-set of their latest day, Then perish on futurity's wide shore Like fleeting exhalations, found no more, Were all that Heav'n requir'd of human kind, And all the plan their destiny design'd, What none could rev'rence all might justly blame, And man would breathe but for his Maker's shame,

But

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