the World againft the prefent Time but only that it is prefent; why when hereafter comes to be prefent the Reafon will be juft the fame. So that thy prefent Unwillingness is fo far from being a juft Reafon against it, that it is a good Reason the other Way; because thou art unwilling now, and like to be more fo hereafter; if thou intendeft to do it at all, thou shouldest set about it immediately, and without Delay. In Matters of great and neceffary Concernment, and which must be done. there is no greater Argument of a weak and impotent Mind than Irrefolution; to be undetermined where the Cafe is fo plain, and the Neceffity fo urgent; to be always about doing that which we are convinced must be done.

Victuros agimus femper, nec vivimus unquam.

We are always intending to live a new Life, but can never find a Time to fet about it. This is as if a Man fhould put off eating and drinking and fleeping from one Day and Night to another, till he has starved and destroyed himself.

The hoary Fool, who many Days Has fruggled with continued Sorrow, Renews his Hope, and blindly lays The defperate Bett

upon to-morrow.

To-morrow comes, 'tis Noon, 'tis Night,
This Day like all the former flies;
Yet on he runs to feek Delight
To-morrow, 'till to-night he dies.

PRIOR.

An

An Elegy written in a Country Church-Yard.

T

GREY.

HE Curfew tolls the Knell of parting Day, The lowing Herd winds flowly o'er the Lea, The Plowman homeward plods his weary Way, And leaves the World to Darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering Landscape on the Sight,
And all the Air a folemn Stillness holds,

Save where the Beetle wheels his drony Flight,
And drowsy Tinklings lull the distant Folds;

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled Tow'r
The moping Owl does to the Moon complain
Of fuch, as wand'ring near her fecret Bow'r,
Moleft her ancient, folitary Reign.

Beneath thofe rugged Elms, that Yew Tree's Shade, Where heaves the Turf in many a mould'ring

Heap,

Each in his narrow Cell for ever laid,

The rude Forefathers of the Hamlet sleep.

The breezy Call of Incense-breathing Morn,

The Swallow twitt'ring from the Straw built Shed The Cock's fhrill Clarion, or the echoing Horn, No more fhall rouse them from their lowly Bed.

From them no more the blazing Hearth shall burn,
Or bufy Housewife ply her Ev'ning Care:

No Children run to lifp their Sire's Return,
Or climb his Knees the envied Kiss to share.

Oft did the Harveft to their Sickle Yield,

Their Furrow oft the stubborn Glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their Teams a-field! How bow'd the Woods beneath their sturdy Stroke.

Let not Ambition mock their useful Toil,

Their homely Joys, and Deftiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear with a difdainful Smile, The fhort and fimple Annals of the Poor.

The Boaft of Heraldry, the Pomp of Pow'r,
And all that Beauty, all that Wealth e'er gave,
Await alike th' inevitable Hour,

The Paths of Glory lead but to the Grave.

Nor you, ye Proud, impute to These the fault,

If Mem❜ry o'er their Tomb no Trophies raise, Where thro' the long-drawn Ifle, and fretted Vault The pealing Anthem fivells the Note of Praife.

Can ftoried Urn or animated Buft

Back to its Manfion call the fleeting Breath?
Can Honour's Voice provoke the filent Duft,
Or Flatt'ry footh the dull cold Ear of Death?

Perhaps in this neglected Spot is laid

Some Heart once pregnant with celeftial Fire; Hands, that the Rod of Empire might have fway'd, Or wak'd to Extafy the living Lyre.

But Knowledge to their Eyes her ample Page
Rich with the Spoils of Time did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury repress'd their noble Rage,
And froze the genial Current of the Soul.

Full

Full many a Gem of pureft Ray ferene,

The dark unfathom'd Caves of Ocean bear; Full many a Flower is born to blush unseen, And wafte its Sweetnefs on the defert Air.

Some Village Hampden, that with dauntlefs Breaft
The little Tyrant of the Fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may reft,
Some Cromwell guiltless of his Country's Blood.

Th' Applaufe of lift'ning Senates to command,
The Threats of Pain and Ruin to despile,
To fcatter Plenty o'er a fmiling Land,

And read their Hift'ry in a Nation's Eyes.`

Their Lot forbad: nor circumfcrib'd alone
Their growing Virtues, but their Crimes con-

fin'd:

Forbad to wade thro' Slaughter to a Throne,

And shut the Gates of Mercy on Mankind.

The ftruggling Pangs of confcious Truth to hide, To quench the Blushes of ingenuous Shame, Or heap the Shrine of Luxury and Pride

With Incenfe kindled at the Mufe's Flame.

Far from the madding Crowd's ignoble Strife,
Their fober Wishes never learnt to stray;
Along the cool fequefter'd Vale of Life
They kept the noifelefs Tenor of their Way.

Yet ev❜n thefe Bones from Infult to protect,
Some frail Memorial ftill erected nigh,

With uncouth Rhimes and fhapeless Sculpture deck'd,

Implores the paffing Tribute of a Sigh.

Their Name, their Years, fpelt by th' unletter'd Mufe,

The Place of Fame and Elegy supply: And many a holy Text around she ftrews, To teach the ruftic Moralift to die.

For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,
This pleafing anxious Being e'er refign'd,
Left the warm Precincts of the chearful Day,
Nor caft one longing ling'ring Look behind.

On fome fond Breast the parting Soul relies,
Some pious Drops the clofing Eye requires ;
Ev'n from the Tomb the Voice of Nature cries,

Ev'n in our Ashes live their wonted Fires.

For thee who mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead
Doft in thefe Lines their artless Tale relate;
If chance, by lonely Contemplation led,

Some kindred Spirit fhall enquire thy Fate.

Haply fome hoary-headed Swain may fay,

Oft have we seen him at the Peep of Dawn Brushing with hafty Steps the Dews away

To meet the SUN upon the Upland Lawn.

There at the Foot of yonder nodding Beech, That wreaths its old fantastic Roots so high, 'His liftless Length at Noon-tide would he stretch, And pore upon the Brook that babbles by.

'Hard