« ElőzőTovább »
As 'tis no wonder, so,
If with dejected eye In standing pools we seek the sky, That stars, so high above, should seem to us below.,
Can we stand by and see Our mother robbed, and bound, and ravish'd be,
Yet not to her assistance stir,
The cancelled name of friend he bore?
There's none but Brutus could deserve
That all men else should wish to serve, And Cæsar's usurp'd place to him should proffer; None can deserve 't but he who would refuse the
Ill Fate assum'd a body thee to affright,
“ I'll meet thee there,” saidst thou,.
It vanish'd, as a taper's light
Goes out when spirits appear in sight. One would have thought 't heard the morning crow,
Or seen her well-appointed star Come marching up the eastern bill afar.
Nor durst it in Philippi's field appear,
But unseen attack'd thee there : Had it presumed in any shape thee to oppose, Thou shouldst have forced it back upon thy foes:
Or slain 't, like Cæsar, though it be A conqueror and a monarch mightier far than he.
What joy can human things to us afford,
Ill men, and wretched accidents,
When we see
God-like Brutus! conquer thee?
By this fatal proof became
An idol only, and a name?
These mighty gulphs are yet
Which these great secrets shall unseal,
And new philosophies reveal: A few years more, so soon hadst thou not died, Would have confounded human Virtue's pride,
And shew'd thee a God crucify'd.
TO DR. SCARBOROUGH. How long, alas! has our mad nation been
Of epidemic war the tragic scene,
When Slaughter all the while
Sure the unpeopled land
Had God's all-mighty hand
Their civil wars in man to wage.
This desolation to prevent,
Than thou didst save;.
And deluge Dropsy, thou dost drain.
Thou mightst as soon hell-fires allay
Thou dost so temper, that we find,
No unhealthful dross behind.
When thy strong guards, and works, it spies,
Trembles for itself, and flies.
That's sometimes rolld away in vain,
Than Hannibal's by vinegar!)
It stops in vain ; like Moses, thou [flow.
Is so quite rooted-out by thee,
That thy patients seem to be
As if it fear'd no less thy art,
The vast and barbarous lexicon
Of man's infirmity ?
At thy strong charms it must be gone [Legion. Though a disease, as well as devil, were called
From creeping moss to soaring cedar thou
On their green infants here bestow;
Canst all those magic virtues from them draw,
That keep Disease and Death in awe; Who, whilst thy wondrous skill in plants they see Fear lest the tree of life should be found out by thee. And thy well-travell'd knowledge, too, does give No less account of the empire sensitive;
Chiefly of man, whose body
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, beloved in vain by me,
Are wedded and enjoy'd by thee.
Thou’rt by this noble mixture free From the physicians' frequent malady,
Fantastic incivility: There are who all their patients' chagrin have, As if they took each morn worse potions than
Ere that of life be half yet done;
And like to enjoy thy conquests long.
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 ;