The fecret faft obferv'd to thee,
Who haft the precept given,
Shall openly rewarded be
With the full tafte of heaven.
On the DEATH of Dr. LEVET.
WONDEMN'D to hope's delufive mine,
As on we toil from day to day;
By fudden blafls of flow decline,
Our focial comforts drop away.
Well try'd through many a varying year,
See Levet to the grave defcend!
Officious, innocent, fincere,
Of ev'ry friendlefs name the friend.
Yet ftill he fills affection's eye,
Obfcurely wife, and coarfely kind;
Nor, letter'd arrogance, deny
Thy praife to merit unrefin'd.
When fainting nature call'd for aid,
And hov'ring death prepar'd the blow;
His vig'rous remedy displayed
The power of art without the fhow.
In mif'ry's darkest caverns known,
His useful care was ever nigh,
Where hopeless anguish pour'd his groan,
And lonely want retir'd to die.
No fummons, mock'd by chill delay,
No petty gain disdain'd by pride;
The modeft wants of ev'ry day
The toil of ev'ry day supplied.
His virtues walk'd this narrow round,
Nor made a paufe, nor left a void;
And fure th' eternal mafter found
The fingle talent well employ'd.
The bufy day, the peaceful night
Unfelt, uncounted, glided by:
His frame was firm, his pow'rs were bright,
Though now his eightieth year drew nigh.
Then, with no throbbing fiery pain,
No cold gradations of decay;
Death broke at once the vital chain,
And forc'd his foul the nearest way.
[By a young Lady.]
ITTLE, trifling, filly heart,
Why art thou fo prone to fmart?
Why art thou fo apt to joy?
Why does air thy thoughts employ?
What but air, are fancy's dreams?
What but air, are worldly fchemes?
What but air, is earthly pow'r,
Tranfient as the fleeting hour?
What but air is love, is life?
What but air, is higheft ftrife?
What are prospects, brightly fair,
But light puffs of empty air?
Lift thy thoughts, my heart, on high,
Search the bleffings of the fky;
Seek thofe joys, which never fade,
Joys that need not fancy's aid:
Joys as permanent, as great,
Happy, in a lasting state.
Love, my foul, but raise thy flame
To those mansions, where no shame
Taints the cheek, or hurts the mind,
But where peace to virtue's join'd.
Then fhalt thou, enraptur'd, prove,
That th' eternal is all love!
LINES which were hung on the Bough of a venerable Walnut Tree, which overshadows the Burial-Ground of the Poet WALLER.
TRANGER,if virtue, or if verse be dear,
With pious caution pay thy vifit here.
Planted by him, whofe facred duft has laid
Twice fifty fummers underneath my fhade;
Protector of the hallow'd pot I ftand,
To guard this vault from each unhallow'd hand;
Spare then each branch that canopies the tomb,
of Waller feeds my verdant bloom:
A part
Oh! fpare each leaf that 'bowers the poet's grave,
For, in each leaf a part of him you save;
And on the fruits, which, cluftring round me, grow,
A more than vulgar defliny beflow:
Talle, but with rev'rence kneeling at the fhrine,
So may't thou eat, and Waller's muse be thine :
A fecond tree of knowledge may I be,
And unforbidden wisdom thine in thee!
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