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But certes forely funk with woe
Sir Topaz fees the Elphin fhow,
When Oberon crys,
66 a man is near,
"A mortal paffion, cleeped fear,
"Hangs flagging in the sky."
With that Sir Topaz, hapless youth!
For als he been a mifter wight
"Ah Lofell vile, at once they roar ; "And little skill'd of fairie lore,
"Thy caufe to come, we know: "Now has thy keftrell courage fell And fairies, fince a lye you tell; "Are free to work thee woe. "
Then Will, who bears the wifpy fire
The captive upward flung;
There like a tortoife in a fhiop
He dangled from the chamber-top,
The revel now proceeds apace,
Deftly they frisk it o'er the place,
They fit, they drink, and eat; The time with frolic mirth beguile, And poor Sir Topaz hangs the while 'Till all the rout retreat.
By this the ftars began to wink,
For never spell by fairie laid
With strong enchantment bound a glade,
Chill, dark, alone, adreed, he lay,
Then deem'd the dole was o'er :
But wot ye well his harder lot?
This tale a Sybil-nurfe ared;
She foftly ftroak'd my youngling head,
And when the tale was done,
"Thus fome are born, my fon, she cries, "With bafe impediments to rife,
And fome are born with none.
"But virtue can itself advance
"To what the fav'rite fools of chance
Upon th' unworthy mind."
A NIGHT-PIECE ON DEATH.
By the Same.
Y the blue taper's trembling light,
No more I wafte the wakeful night,
Intent with endless view to pore
The flumb'ring breeze forgets to breathe,
Where once again the fpangled fhow
The left prefents a place of graves,
Time was, like thee they life poffest,
Thofe graves, with bending ofier bound,
The flat fmooth ftones that bear a name,
The chiffel's flender help to fame,
(Which ere our fet of friends decay
Their frequent fteps may wear away ;)
Whofe pillars fwell with fculptur'd ftones,
Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones,
Adorn the rich, or praise the great;
Ha! while I gaze, pale Cynthia fades,
And all with fober accent cry,
Think, mortal, what it is to die.
Now from yon black and fun'ral yew, That bathes the charnel-houfe with dew, Methinks, I hear a voice begin;
(Ye ravens, ceafe your croaking din,
O'er the long lake and midnight ground)
When men my scythe and darts supply,
How great a king of fears am I !
They view me like the laft of things;
They make, and then they dread my ftings,
No more my spectre-form appears.