THE

BEAUTIES

O F

ENGLISH POES Y.

A

NIGHT-PI PIECE,

O N DE AT H.

The great fault of this piece, written by Dr. Parnell, is, that it is in eight fyllable lines, very improper for the folemnity of the fubject; otherwife, the poem is natural, and the reflections juft.

Y the blue taper's trembling light

B No more

No more I waste the wakeful night,

Intent with endless view to pore

The schoolmen and the fages o'er :
Their books from wisdom widely stray,
Or point, at beft, the longest way.
VOL. II.
B

I'll

I'll feek a readier path, and go
Where wisdom's furely taught below.
How deep yon azure dies the sky!
Where orbs of gold unnumber'd lye,
While thro' their ranks, in filver pride,
The nether crefcent feems to glide.
The flumb'ring breeze forgets to breathe,
The lake is fmooth, and clear beneath,
Where once again the fpangled show
Defcends to meet our eyes below.
The grounds which on the right aspire,
In dimnefs from the view retire:
The left presents a place of graves,
Whofe wall the filent water laves.
That steeple guides thy doubtful fight
Among the livid gleams of night.
There pafs, with melancholy ftate,
By all the folemn heaps of fate,
And think, as, foftly-fad, you tread
Above the venerable dead,

"Time was, like thee they life poffeft,
And time fhall be, that thou shalt reft.'

Thofe graves, with bending ofier bound,
That, nameless, heave the crumbled ground,
Quick to the glancing thought disclose,
Where toil and poverty repose.

The flat smooth ftones that bear a name,
The chiffel's flender help to fame,
(Which ere our set of friends decay
Their frequent steps may wear away ;)

A middle

A middle race of mortals own,
Men, half ambitious, all unknown.
The marble tombs that rise on high,
Whose dead in vaulted arches lye,
Whofe pillars fwell with fculptur'd ftones,
Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones,
Thefe, all the poor remains of ftate,
Adorn the rich, or praise the great;
Who while on earth in fame they live,
Are fenfelefs of the fame they give.

Ha! while I gaze pale Cynthia fades,
The bursting earth unveils the fhades!
All flow, and wan, and wrap'd with shrouds,
They rife in vifionary crouds,

And all with fober accent cry,

"Think, mortal, what it is to die."

Now, from yon black and fun'ral yew,
That bathes the charnel-houfe with dew,
Methinks, I hear a voice begin;
(Ye ravens, cease your croaking din,
Ye tolling clocks, no time refound
O'er the long lake and midnight ground)
It fends a peal of hollow groans,
Thus fpeaking from among the bones.

"When men my fcythe and darts fupply,

How great a King of Fears am I!

They view me like the last of things;

They make, and then they dread my ftings.
Fools! if you lefs provok'd your fears,
No more my spectre-form appears.

4

Death's but a path that must be trod,
If man wou'd ever pass to God:
A port of calms, a state of ease
From the rough rage of fwelling feas.
Why, then, thy flowing fable ftoles,
Deep pending cyprefs, mourning poles,
Loofe scarfs to fall 'athwart thy weeds,
Long palls, drawn herfes, cover'd steeds,
And plumes of black, that, as they tread,
Nod o'er the 'fcutcheons of the dead?

Nor can the parted body know,
Nor wants the foul, these forms of woe:
As men who long in prifon dwell,
With lamps that glimmer round the cell,
When-e'er their suff'ring years are run,
Spring forth to greet the glitt'ring fun:
Such joy, tho' far transcending sense,
Have pious fouls at parting hence.
On earth, and in the body plac'd,

A few, and evil years, they waste :
But, when their chains are caft afide,
See the glad fcene unfolding wide,
Clap the glad wing, and tow'r away,
And mingle with the blaze of day.

A FAIRY

FAIRY

A

TALE.

BY DR. PARNELL.

Never was the old manner of speaking more happily applied, or a tale better told, than this.

'N Britain's ifle, and Arthur's days,

I when midnight Fairies daune'd the maze,

Liv'd Edwin of the Green;
Edwin, I wis, a gentle youth,

Endow'd with courage, fenfe, and truth,
Tho' badly fhap'd he been.

His mountain back mote well be faid,
To measure height against his head,
And lift itself above;

Yet, fpite of all that Nature did

To make his uncouth form forbid,
This creature dar'd to love.

He felt the charms of Edith's eyes,

Nor wanted hope to gain the prize,

Cou'd ladies look within ;

But one Sir Topaz drefs'd with art,

And, if a fhape cou'd win a heart,

He had a shape to win.