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Chiefly of man, whose body is
That active soul's metropolis.

As the great artist in his sphere of glass

Saw the whole scene of heavenly motions pass;
So thou know'st all so well that's done within,
As if some living crystal man thou 'dst seen.

Nor does this science make thy crown alone,
But whole Apollo is thine own;

His gentler arts, belov'd in vain by me,
Are wedded and enjoy'd by thee.
Thou'rt by this noble mixture free
From the physicians' frequent malady,
Fantastick incivility:

There are who all their patients' chagrin have,
As if they took each morn worse potions than they

gave.

And this great race of learning thou hast run,

Ere that of life be half yet done;

Thou see'st thyself still fresh and strong,
And like t' enjoy thy conquests long.
The first fam'd aphorism thy great master spoke,
Did he live now he would revoke,

And better things of man report;

For thou dost make Life long, and Art but short.

Ah, learned friend! it grieves me, when I think
That thou with all thy art must die,

As certainly as I;

And all thy noble reparations sink

Into the sure-wrought mine of treacherous mortality.

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Like Archimedes, honourably in vain,

Thou hold'st out towns that must at last be ta'en,
And thou thyself, their great defender, slain.
Let's e'en compound, and for the present live,
'Tis all the ready-money Fate can give;
Unbend sometimes thy restless care,

And let thy friends so happy be

T'enjoy at once their health and thee:
Some hours, at least, to thine own pleasures spare:
Since the whole stock may soon exhausted be,
Bestow 't not all in charity.

Let Nature and let Art do what they please,
When all's done, Life is an incurable disease.

LIFE AND FAME.

OH, Life! thou Nothing's younger brother!
So like, that one might take one for the other!
What's somebody, or nobody?

In all the cobwebs of the schoolmen's trade,
We no such nice distinction woven see,

As 't is "to be," or "not to be."

Dream of a shadow! a reflection made

From the false glories of the gay reflected bow

Is a more solid thing than thou.

Vain, weak-built isthmus, which dost proudly rise Up betwixt two eternities!

Yet canst nor wave nor wind sustain,

[again.

But, broken and o'erwhelm'd, the endless oceans meet

And with what rare inventions do we strive
Ourselves then to survive?'

Wise, subtle arts, and such as well befit
That Nothing Man's no wit!—

Some with vast costly tombs would purchase it,
And by the proofs of death pretend to live.

"Here lies the great"-false marble! where?
Nothing but small and sordid dust lies there.-
Some build enormous mountain-palaces,
The fools and architects to please;
A lasting life in well-hewn stone they rear:
So he, who on th' Egyptian shore

Was slain so many hundred years before,
Lives still (oh Life! most happy and most dear!
Oh Life! that epicures envy to hear!)

Lives in the dropping ruins of his amphitheatre.

His father-in-law an higher place does claim
In the seraphick entity of fame;

He, since that toy his death,

Does fill all mouths, and breathes in all men's breath.
"Tis true, the two immortal syllables remain ;
But oh, ye learned men ! explain
What essence, what existence, this,

What substance, what subsistence, what hypostasis,
In six poor letters is!

In those alone does the great Cæsar live,
'Tis all the conquer'd world could give.
We Poets, madder yet than all,

With a refin'd fantastick vanity,
Think we not only have, but give, eternity.

Fain would I see that prodigal,

Who his to-morrow would bestow,

For all old Homer's life, e'er since he dy'd, till now!

THE ECSTASY.

I LEAVE mortality, and things below;
I have no time in compliments to waste;
Farewell to' ye all in haste,

For I am call'd to go.

A whirlwind bears-up my dull feet,

Th' officious clouds beneath them meet;

And lo! I mount, and lo !

[show!

How small the biggest parts of earth's proud title

Where shall I find the noble British land?
Lo; I at last a northern speck espy,
Which in the sea does lie,

And seems a grain o' th' sand!
For this will any sin, or bleed ?
Of civil wars is this the meed ?

And is it this, alas! which we

(Oh irony of words!) do call Great Britanie?

I pass by th' arch'd magazines which hold
Th' eternal stores of frost, and rain, and snow;
Dry and secure I go,

Nor shake with fear or cold:

Without affright or wonder

I meet clouds charg'd with thunder,

And lightnings, in my way,

Like harmless lambent fires about my temples play.

Now into' a gentle sea of rolling flame

I'm plung'd, and still mount higher there,
As flames mount up through air:

So perfect, yet so tame,

So great, so pure, so bright a fire,
Was that unfortunate desire,

My faithful breast did cover,

Then, when I was of late a wretched mortal lover.

Through several orbs which one fair planet bear, Where I behold distinctly as I pass

The hints of Galileo's glass,

I touch at last the spangled sphere :
Here all th' extended sky

Is but one galaxy,

'Tis all so bright and gay,

And the joint eyes of night make up a perfect day.

Where am I now? Angels, and God is here;
An unexhausted ocean of delight

Swallows my senses quite,

And drowns all What, or How, or Where!
Not Paul, who first did thither pass,
And this great world's Columbus was,

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