But certes forely funk with woe

Sir Topaz fees the Elphin fhow,
His fpirits in him dy:

When Oberon crys,

66 a man is near,

"A mortal paffion, cleeped fear,

"Hangs flagging in the sky."

With that Sir Topaz, hapless youth!
In accents falt'ring, ay for ruth,
Intreats them pity graunt;

For als he been a mifter wight
Betray'd by wand'ring in the night
To tread the circled haunt;

"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
To trail the fwains among the mire,

The captive upward flung;

There like a tortoife in a fhiop

He dangled from the chamber-top,
Where whilome Edwin hung.

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,
They fhriek, they fly, the tapers fink,
And down ydrops the knight.

For never spell by fairie laid

With strong enchantment bound a glade,
Beyond the length of night.

Chill, dark, alone, adreed, he lay,
Till up the welkin rose the day,

Then deem'd the dole was o'er :

But wot ye well his harder lot?
His feely back the bunch had got
Which Edwin loft afore.

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

"But virtue can itself advance

"To what the fav'rite fools of chance
"By fortune feem'd defign'd:
"Virtue can gain the odds of fate,
"And from itfelf shake off the weight

65

Upon th' unworthy mind."

A NIGHT-PIECE ON DEATH.

By the Same.

Y the blue taper's trembling light,

BY

No more I wafte the wakeful night,

Intent with endless view to pore
The schoolmen and the fages o'er:
Their books from wifdom widely ftray,
Or point at best the longest way.
I'll feek a readier path, and go
Where wisdom's furely taught below.
How deep yon azure dies the sky!
Where orbs of gold unnumber'd lye,
While thro' their ranks in filver pride
The nether crefcent feems to glide.

The flumb'ring breeze forgets to breathe,
The lake is fmooth and clear beneath,

Where

Where once again the fpangled fhow
Defcends to meet our eyes below.
The grounds which on the right afpire,
In dimnefs from the view retire:

The left prefents a place of graves,
Whose wall the filent water laves.
That fteeple guides thy doubtful fight
Among the livid gleams of night.
There pass with melancholy ftate,
By all the folemn heaps of fate,
And think, as foftly-fad you tread
Above the venerable dead,

Time was, like thee they life poffest,
And time fhall be, that thou shalt reft.

Thofe graves, with bending ofier bound,
That nameless heave the crumbled ground,
Quick to the glancing thought difclofe,
Where toil and poverty repose.

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 ;)
A middle race of mortals own,
Men, half ambitious, all unknown.
The marble tombs that rife on high,
Whofe dead in vaulted arches lie,

Whofe pillars fwell with fculptur'd ftones,

Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones,
Thefe, all the poor remains of state,

Adorn the rich, or praise the great;
Who while on earth in fame they live,
Are fenfelefs of the fame they give.

Ha! while I gaze, pale Cynthia fades,
The bursting earth unveils the fhades!
All flow, and wan, and wrapt with shrouds,
They rife in vifionary crouds,

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,
Ye tolling clocks, no time refound

O'er the long lake and midnight ground)
It fends a peal of hollow groans,
Thus fpeaking from among the bones.

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,
Fools! if you lefs provok'd your fears,

No more my spectre-form appears.

4

Death's