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Sad chance of war! now destitute of aid,

Falls undistinguish'd by the victor spade!

Thus far both armies to Belinda yield;

Now to the baron fate inclines the field. His warlike amazon her host invades, Th' imperial consort of the crown of Spades.

The Club's black tyrant first her victim died,

Spite of his haughty mien, and bar、 barous pride:

What boots the regal circle on his head, His giant limbs, in state unwieldy spread;

That long behind he trails his pompous robe,

And, of all monarchs, only grasps the globe?

The Baron now his Diamonds pours apace;

Th' embroider'd King who shows but half his face,

And his refulgent Queen, with powers combin'd

Of broken troops an easy conquest find. Clubs, Diamonds, Hearts, in wild disorder seen,

With throngs promiscuous strow the level green.

Thus when dispers'd a routed army

runs,

Of Asia's troops, and Afric's sable sons, With like confusion different nations

fly,

Of various habit, and of various dye,
The pierc'd battalions disunited fall,
In heaps on heaps; one fate o'erwhelms
them all.

The Knave of Diamonds tries his wily arts,

And wins (oh shameful chance!) the Queen of Hearts.

At this the blood the virgin's cheek forsook,

A livid paleness spreads o'er all her look;

She sees, and trembles at th' approach. ing ill,

Just in the jaws of ruin, and Codille.

And now (as oft in some distemper'd | Fear the just gods, and think of Scylla's state)

On one nice trick depends the gen'ral fate.

An Ace of Hearts steps forth: the King

unseen

Lurk'd in her hand, and mourn'd his captive queen:

fate!

Chang'd to a bird, and sent to flit in air, She dearly pays for Nisus' injur'd hair! But when to mischief mortals bend their will,

How soon they find fit instruments of ill!

He springs to vengeance with an eager Just then, Clarissa drew with tempting pace,

And falls like thunder on the prostrate

ace.

The nymph exulting fills with shouts the sky;

The walls, the woods, and long canals reply.

Oh thoughtless mortals! ever blind to fate,

Too soon dejected, and too soon elate. Sudden, these honors shall be snatch'd away,

And curs'd for ever this victorious day. For lo! the board with cups and spoons is crown'd,

The berries crackle, and the mill turns round;

On shining altars of Japan they raise The silver lamp; the fiery spirits blaze: From silver spouts the grateful liquors glide,

While China's earth receives the smoking tide:

At once they gratify their scent and taste, And frequent cups prolong the rich

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grace

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And thrice they twitch'd the diamond in her ear;

Thrice she look'd back, and thrice the foe drew near.

Just in that instant, anxious Ariel sought

The close recesses of the virgin's thought;

As on the nosegay in her breast reclin'd,

He watch'd th' ideas rising in her mind,

Sudden he view'd, in spite of all her art, An earthly lover lurking at her heart. Amaz'd, confus'd, he found his pow'r expir'd,

Resign'd to fate, and with a sigh retir'd. The peer now spreads the glitt'ring forfex wide,

T'enclose the lock; now joins it, to divide.

Ev'n then, before the fatal engine clos'd,

A wretched sylph too fondly interpos'd; Fate urg'd the shears, and cut the sylph

in twain,

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FROM THE ILIAD. BOOK
VIII.

THE troops exulting sat in order
round,

And beaming fires illumin'd all the ground.

As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night!

O'er heaven's clear azure spreads her sacred light,

When not a breath disturbs the deep

serene,

And not a cloud o'ercasts the solemn scene;

Around her throne the vivid planets roll, And stars unnumber'd gild the glowing pole,

O'er the dark trees a yellower verdure shed,

And tip with silver every mountain'shead; Then shine the vales, the rocks in prospect rise,

A flood of glory bursts from all the skies:

The conscious swains, rejoicing in the sight,

Eye the blue vault, and bless the useful light.

So many flames before proud Ilion blaze, And lighten glimmering Xanthus with

their rays:

The long reflections of the distant fires Gleam on the walls, and tremble on the

spires.

A thousand piles the dusky horrors gild, And shoot a shady lustre o'er the field. Full fifty guards each flaming pile attend,

Whose umber'd arms, by fits, thick flashes send.

Loud neigh the coursers o'er their heaps

of corn,

And ardent warriors wait the rising

morn.

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF AN UNFORTUNATE LADY. WHAT beck'ning ghost, along the moonlight shade,

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Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres; Like Eastern kings, a lazy state they keep,

And, close confin'd to their own palace, sleep.

From these perhaps (ere Nature bade her die)

Fate snatch'd her early to the pitying sky.

As into air the purer spirits flow,

And sep'rate from their kindred dregs below;

So flew the soul to its congenial place, Nor left one virtue to redeem her race. But thou, false guardian of a charge too good,

Thou, mean deserter of thy brother's blood!

See on these ruby lips the trembling breath,

These cheeks now fading at the blast of death.

Cold is that breast that warmed the world before,

And those love-darting eyes must roll

no more.

Thus, if Eternal justice rules the ball, Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall:

On all the line a sudden vengeance waits,

And frequent hearses shall besiege your gates:

There passengers shall stand, and pointing say

(While the long fun'rals blacken all the way),

Lo! these were they, whose souls the Furies steel'd,

And curs'd with hearts unknowing how to yield.

Thus unlamented pass the proud away, The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day! So perish all, whose breast ne'er learn'd to glow

For others' good, or melt at others' wo. What can atone (O, ever-injur'd

shade!)

Thy fate unpitied, and thy rites unpaid? No friend's complaint, no kind domestic

tear

Pleas'd thy pale ghost, or grac'd thy mournful bier;

By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos'd,

By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd,

By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd,

By strangers honor'd, and by strangers mourn'd.

What though no friends in sable weeds appear,

Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn

a year,

And bear about the mockery of wo Tomidnight dances, and the public show: What though no weeping Loves thy ashes grace,

Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face; What though no sacred earth allow thee

room,

Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb;

Yet shall thy grave with rising flow'rs be dress'd,

And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:

There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow,

There the first roses of the year shall blow:

While angels with their silver wings

o'ershade

The ground, now sacred by thy relics made.

So peaceful rests, without a stone, a

name,

What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame.

How lov'd, how honor'd once, avails thee not,

To whom related, or by whom begot; A heap of dust alone remains of thee, 'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!

Poets themselves must fall like those they sung,

Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue.

Ev'n he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays,

Shall shortly want the gen'rous tear he pays;

Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part,

And the last pang shall tear thee from

his heart;

Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er, The Muse forgot, and thou belov'd no

more!

THE QUIET LIFE.

HAPPY the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air

In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,

Whose flocks supply him with attire; Whose trees in summer yield him shade,

In winter, fire.

Blest, who can unconcern'dly find Hours, days, and years, slide soft away In health of body, peace of mind, Quiet by day,

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