Drior.

And he, methinks, is no good scholar,
Who can mistake defire for choler,

The like may of the heart be faid;
Courage and terror there are bred.
All thofe, whofe hearts are loose and low,
Start, if they hear but the tattoo:
And mighty phyfical their fear is;
For foon as noife of combat near is,
Their heart, defcending to their breeches
Must give their stomach cruel twitches;
But heroes, who o'ercome or die,
Have their hearts hung extremely high,
The ftrings of which, in battle's heat,
Against their very corflets beat,

Keep time with their own trumpet's measure,
And yield'em moft exceffive pleasure,

Now if 'tis chiefly in the heart,

That courage does itself exert,

'Twill be prodigious hard to prove,
That this is eke the throne of Love.

Would Nature make one place the feat
Of fond defire and fell debate?

Must people only take delight in

Thofe hours, when they are tir'd with fighting?
And has no man, but who has kill'd

A father, right to get a child?
These notions, then, I think but idle,
And love fhall ftill poffefs the middle.

This truth more plainly to discover,
Suppofe, your hero were a lover;
Tho' he before had gall and rage,
Which death or conqueft muft afsuage,
He grows difpirited and low,
He hates the fight, and fhuns the foe.

In fcornful floth Achilles flept,
And for his wench, like Tallboy, wept

Nor

Prior.

Nor would return to war and flaughter,
Till they brought back the parfon's daughter.

Antonius fled from Actium's coaft,
Auguftus preffing Afia loft:

His fails by Cupid's hand unfurl'd,
To keep the fair, he gave the world.
Edward our Fourth, rever'd and crown'd,
Vig'rous in youth, in arms renown'd,
While England's voice and Warwick's care
Defign'd him Gallia's beauteous heir,
Chang'd peace and pow'r for rage and wars,
Only to dry one widow's tears.

France's fourth Henry we may fee
A fervant to the fair d'Eftrée ;
When quitting Coutras' profp'rous field,
And Fortune taught at length to yield,
He from his guards and midnight tent
Disguis'd o'er hills and vallies went,
To wanton with the fprightly dame,
And in his pleasure loft his fame.

Bold is the critick who does prove,
These heroes were no friends to love;
And bolder he who dares aver

That they were ennemies to war:

Yet when their thought fhould, now or never

Have rais'd their heart, or fir'd their liver,

Fond Alma to thofe parts was gone,

Which Love may justly call his own.

Examples I could cite you more;

But be contented with these four;
For when one's proofs are aptly chofen,

Four are as valid as four dozen.

One came from Greece, and one from Rome;

The other two grew nearer home;

For fome in ancient books delight,

Others

(Seine Klagen, oder Nachtgedanken über Leben, Tod und Unsterblichkeit, sind durch die meisterhafte bertische Uebersehung, mit einem so reichhaltigen und lehrreichen Kommentar begleitet, auch in Deutschland zu bekannt, als daß ich hier ihren Werth zu zergliedern, oder eine långere Probe, als die folgende ist, daraus herzusehen brauchte. Es wäre zu wünschen, daß der klassische Uebersezer noch, mit dem ihn belebenden Geißte Warton's, eine besondre Schrift über das Genie und die Werke seines Dichters ausarbeiten möchte, worin der Charakter desselben unstreitig noch treffender und lehrreicher würde dargestellt werden, als nur zum Theil in Dusch's Briefen, Th. II. Br. XVI. f. und in Dr. Johnson's Lebensbeschreibung des Dr. Young, geschehen ist.)

THE COMPLAINT.

Night III. v. 449. ff.

Life makes the foul dependent on the duft;
Death gives her wings to mount above the spheres:
Thro' Chinks, ftyl'd organs, dim Life peeps at Light;
Death burfts th involving cloud, and all is day;
All eye, all ear, the difembody'd power.
Death has feign'd evils, Nature fhall not feel;
Life, Ills fubftantial, Wisdom cannot fhun:
Is not the mighty Mind, that fon of heaven!

By

Dr.Roung. By tyrant Life dethron'd, imprifon'd, pain'd?
By Death enlarg'd, ennobled, deify'd?
Death but entombs the body; Life the foul.

Is Death then guiltless? How he marks his way With dreadfull waste of what deserves to shine? Art, Genius, Fortune, elevated Pow'r!

With various luftres These light up the world,

"Which Death puts out; and darkens human Race,"

I grant, Lorenzo! this indictement juft:
The Sage, Peer, Potentate, King, Conqueror!
Death humbles thefe; more barbarous Life, the Man:
Life is the Triumph of our mouldering clay;
Death of the spirit infinite! divine!

Death has no dread, but what frail Life imparts;
Nor Life true joy, but what kind Death improves.
No blifs has Life to boaft, till Death can give
Far greater; Life's a debtor to the grave,
Dark lattice! letting in eternal day.

Lorenzo! blush at Fondness for a Life,
Which fends celeftial fouls on errands vile,
To cater for the sense; and serve at boards,
Where every ranger of the wilds, perhaps,
Each reptile, juftly claims our upper hand.
Luxurious feast! a foul, a foul immortal,
In all the dainties of a brute bemir'd!
Lorenzo blufh at Terror for a Death,
Which gives thee to repofe in festive Bowers,
Where nectars (parkle, angels minifter,

And more than Angels fhare, and raife, and crown,
And eternize, the birth, bloom, bursts of bliss.
O feast indeed luxurious! Earth, vile earth!
In all the glories of a God array'd,

And beaming inextinguishable blifs!

What need I more? Ŏ Death! the palm is thine.

Then

Then welcome, Death! thy dreaded Harbin Dr.Young..

gers,

Age, and Difeafe; difeafe! tho' long my gueft;

That plucks my nerves, thofe tender ftrings of life,
Which, pluckt a little more, will toll the bell,
That calls my few friends to my funeral:
Where feeble nature drops, perhaps, a tear,
While reafon and religion, better taught,
Congratulate the dead, and crown his tomb
With wreath triumphant. Death is victory;
It binds in chains the raging ills of life:
Luft and Ambition, Wrath and Avarice,
Dragg'd at his chariot-wheel, applaud his power.
That ills corrofive, cares importunate,

Are not immortal too, o death! is thine.
Our day of diffolution? Name it right;
'Tis our great pay-day; 'tis our harvest, rich
And ripe. What tho' the fickle, fometimes keen,
Juft fears us, as we reap the golden grain;
More than thy balm, o Gilead, heals the wound.
Birth's feeble cry, and Death's deep dismal groan,
Are flender tributes, low-tax'd Nature pays,
For migthy gain: the gain of each, a Life!
But o, the last the former fo transcends,
Life dies, compar'd: Life lives beyond the grave.

And feel I, Death! no joy from thought of
thee?

Death, the great counsellor, who man inspires
With every nobler thought, and fairer deed!
Death, the deliverer, who refcues man!

Death, the rewarder, who the rescued crowns!
Death, that abfolves my birth; a curfe without it!
Rich Death, that realizes all my cares,
Toils, virtues, hopes; without it, a Chimaera!
Death, of all pain the period, not of joy;
Joy's Source, and Subject, ftill fubfift unhurt,
One in my foul, and one, in her great Sire,
Tho' the four winds were warring for my duft.
Yes, and from winds, and waves, and central night,

Tho'