Each, in her Turn, fome tragic Story tells,
With, now-and-then, a wretched Farce between;
And fills his Chronicle with human Woes.

Time's Daughters, True as thofe of Men, deceive us; Not One, but puts fome Cheat on all Mankind; While in their Father's Bofom, not yet Ours, They flatter our fond Hopes; and promise much Of Amiable; but hold him not o'er-wife, Who dares to trust them; and laugh round the Year, At ftill-confiding, ftill-confounded, Man, Confiding, tho' confounded; hoping on, Untaught by Trial, unconvinc'd by Proof, And Ever-looking for the Never-seen. Life to the laft, like harden'd Felons, lyes; Nor owns itself a Cheat, till It expires. Its little Joys go out by One and One,

And leave poor Man, at length, in perfect Night; Night darker, than what, now, involves the Pole.

O THOU, who doft permit these Ills to fall, For gracious Ends, and wouldft, that Man fhould mourn! O THOU, whose Hand this goodly Fabric fram'd, Who know'st it beft, and wouldft, that Man fhould know! What is this fublunary World? A Vapour; A Vapour all it holds; itself, a Vapour; From the damp Bed of Chaos, by Thy Beam Exhal'd, ordain'd to swim its deftin'd Hour In ambient Air, then melt, and difappear.

Earth's

Earth's Days are number'd, nor remote her Doom;
As Mortal, tho' lefs Tranfient, than her Sons;
Yet they doat on her, as the World and They
Were both Eternal, Solid, THOU, a Dream.

They doat, on What? Immortal Views apart,
A Region of Outfides! a Land of Shadows!
A fruitful Field of flow'ry Promises!
A Wilderness for Joys! perplext with Doubts,
And sharp with Thorns! A troubled Ocean, fpread
With bold Adventurers, their All on Board;
No fecond Hope, if here their Fortune frowns;
Frown foon it must. Of various Rates they fail,

Of Enfigns various; All alike in This,

All reftlefs, anxious; toft with Hopes, and Fears,
In calmest Skies; obnoxious All to Storm;
And stormy the most gen'ral Blast of Life:
All bound for Happiness; yet Few provide
The Chart of Knowlege, pointing where it lies;
Or Virtue's Helm, to fhape the Course design'd:
All, more or lefs, capricious Fate lament,
Now lifted by the Tide, and now resorb'd,
And farther from their Wishes, than before:
All, more or lefs, against each other dash,
To mutual Hurt, by Gufts of Paffion driven,
And fuff'ring more from Folly, than from Fate.

Ocean! Thou dreadful, and tumultuous Home Of Dangers, at eternal War with Man!

Death's Capital, where moft he domineers,
With all his chofen Terrors frowning round,
(Tho' lately feasted high at * Albion's Coft)
Wide-op'ning, and loud-roaring still for more!
Too faithful Mirror! how doft thou reflect
The melancholy Face of human Life!

The strong Refemblance tempts me farther ftill;
And, haply, Britain may be deeper struck
By moral Truth, in fuch a Mirror feen,
Which Nature holds for ever at her Eye.

Self-flatter'd, unexperienc'd, high in Hope,
When Young, with fanguine Chear, and Streamers gay,
We cut our Cable, launch into the World,
And fondly dream each Wind and Star our Friend;
All, in fome darling Enterprize embarkt;

But where is he can fathom its Event?
Amid a Multitude of artlefs Hands,
Ruin's fure Perquifite! her lawful Prize!

Some steer aright; but the black Blaft blows hard,
And puffs them wide of Hope: With Hearts of Proof,
Full against Wind, and Tide, fome win their Way;
And when ftrong Effort has deferv'd the Port,
And tugg'd it into View, 'tis won! 'tis loft!
Tho' ftrong their Oar, ftill stronger is their Fate:
They strike; and while they triumph, they expire.
In Stress of Weather, Moft; Some fink outright;
O'er them, and o'er their Names, the Billows clófe;
To-morrow

Admiral Balchen, &c.

To-morrow knows not they were ever born.

Others a fhort Memorial leave behind,

Like a Flag floating, when the Bark's ingulph'd;
It floats a Moment, and is feen no more:
One CÆSAR lives; a thousand are forgot.
How Few, beneath aufpicious Planets born,
(Darlings of Providence! fond Fate's Elect!)
With fwelling Sails make good the promis'd Port,
With all their Wishes, freighted! Yet even These,
Freighted with all their Wishes, foon complain;
Free from Misfortune, not from Nature free,
They still are Men; and when is Man fecure?
As fatal Time, as Storm! the Rush of Years
Beats down their Strength; their numberless Escapes
In Ruin end: And, now, their proud Success
But plants new Terrors on the Victor's Brow:
What Pain to quit the World, just made their own,
Their Neft fo deeply down'd, and built fo high!
Too low they build, who build beneath the Stars.

Woe then apart (if Woe apart can be

From mortal Man), and Fortune at our Nod,
The Gay! Rich! Great! Triumphant! and August!
What are they?—The most happy (ftrange to fay!)
Convince me moft of human Mifery:

What are they? Smiling Wretches of To-morrow!
More wretched, then, than e'er their Slave can be;
Their treach'rous Bleffings, at the Day of Need,
Like other faithlefs Friends, unmask, and sting:

Then, what provoking Indigence in Wealth!
What aggravated Impotence in Power!
High Titles, then, what Infult of their Pain!
If that fole Anchor, equal to the Waves,
Immortal Hope! defies not the rude Storm,
Takes Comfort from the foaming Billow's Rage,
And makes a welcome Harbour of the Tomb.

This is a Sketch of what thy Soul admires : "But here (thou sayst) the Miseries of Life "Are huddled in a Group. A more diftinct Survey, perhaps, might bring thee better News." Look on Life's Stages; they fpeak plainer ftill; The plainer They, the deeper wilt Thou figh, Look on thy lovely Boy; in him behold The Beft that can befall the Best on Earth; The Boy has Virtue by his Mother's Side: Yes, on FLORELLO look; a Father's Heart Is tender, tho' the Man's is made of Stone; The Truth, through fuch a Medium feen, may make Impreffion deep, and Fondness prove thy Friend.

FLORELLO lately caft on this rude Coaft
A helpless Infant; now a heedlefs Child;
Το

poor CLARISSA'S Throes, thy Care fucceeds;
Care full of Love, and yet fevere as Hate!
O'er thy Soul's Joy how oft thy Fondness frowns!
Needful Aufterities his Will restrain;

As Thorns fence in the tender Plant from Harm.

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