On the cold cheek of death, smiles and roses are blending, And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb. COMPASSION.

PITY the sorrows of a poor old man,

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door;
Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,
Oh! give relief and heav'n will bless your store.
These tatter'd clothes my poverty bespeak,
Those hoary locks proclaim my lengthen'd years;
And many a furrow in my grief worn-cheek
Has been the channel to a flood of tears.
Yon house erected on the rising ground,
With tempting aspect, drew me from my road,
For plenty there a residence has found,
And grandeur a magnificent abode.
Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!
Here, as I crav'd a morsel of their bread,
A pamper'd menial drove me from the door,
To seek a shelter in an humbler shed.
Oh! take me to your hospitable done;
Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold:
Short is my passage to the friendly tomb,
For I am poor and miserably old.
Should I reveal the sources of my grief,
If soft humanity c'er touch'd your breast,
Your hands would not withhold the kind relief,
And tears of pity would not be represt.

Heav'n sends misfortunes; why should we repine?
'Tis heaven has brought me to the state you see ;
And your condition may be soon like mine,
The child of sorrow and of misery.

A little farm was my paternal lot,

Then like the lark I sprightly hail'd the morn;
But, ah! oppression forc'd me from my cot,
My cattle died, and blighted was my corn.
My daughter, once the comfort of my age,
Lur'd by a villain from her native home,
Is cast abandon'd on the world's wide stage,
And doom'd in scanty poverty to roam.
My tender wife, sweet soother of my care,
Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree,
Fell, ling'ring fell, a victim to despair,
And left the world to wretchedness and me.
Pity the sorrows of a poor old man,,

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door ;
Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,
Oh! give relief, and heav'a will bless your store.

ADVANTAGES OF PEACE.

OH first of human blessings and supreme, Fair peace! how lovely, how delightful, thou! By whose wide tie, the kindred sons of men, Like brothers live, in amity combin'd, And unsuspicious faith: while honest toil Gives ev'ry joy; and, to those joys, a right, Which idle barbarous rapine but usurps. Pure is thy reign; when, unaccurs'd by blood, Nought, save the sweetness of indulgent show'rs, Trickling, distils into the vernant glebe; Instead of mangled carcases, sad scene! When the blithe sheaves lie scatter'd o'er the field; When only shining shares, the crooked knife, And hooks imprint the vegetable wound; When the land blushes with the rose alone, The falling fruitage, and the bleeding vine. Oh, Peace! thou source and soul of social life! Beneath whose calm inspiring influence, Science his views enlarges, art refines, And swelling commerce opens all her ports.... Bless'd be the man, who gives us thee! Who bids the trumpet hush its horrid clang, Nor blow the giddy nations into rage;

Who sheathes the murd'rous blade; the deadly gun

Into the well-pil'd armory returns:

And, ev'ry vigour from the work of death
To grateful industry converting, makes
The country flourish, and the city smile!
Unviolated, him the virgin sings;

And him, the smiling mother, to her train.
Of him, the shepherd, in the peaceful dale,
Chaunts; and the treasures of his labour sure,
The husbandman, of him, as at the plough,
Or team, he toils. With him, the sailor soothes,
Beneath the trembling moon, the midnight wave;
And the full city, warm, from street to street,
And shop to shop, responsive rings of him.
Nor joys one land alone: his praise extends,
Far as the sun rolls the diffusive day;
Far as the breeze can bear the gifts of peace;
Till all the happy nations catch the song.

PROGRESS OF LIFE.

ALL the world's a stage,

And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;

And one man in his time plays many parts;
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in his nurse's arms;

And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel,
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then, the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad

Made to his mistress' eye-brow. Then, a soldier
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation,

Ev'n in the canon's mouth. And then, the justice,
In fair round belly, with good capon lin'd:
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances,
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side,
His youthful hose well sav'd, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice
Turning again towards childish treble, pipes,
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all
That ends this strange eventful history,

Is second childishness, and mere oblivion;
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing.

SPEECHES IN THE ROMAN SENATE. CATO-FATHERS! we once again are met in council. Casar's approach has summon'd us together, And Rome attends her fate from our resolves. How shall we treat this bold, aspiring man? Success still follows him, and backs his crimes. Pharsalia gave him Rome. Egypt has since Receiv'd his yoke, and the whole Nile is Cæsar's. Why should I mention Juba's overthrow, And Scipio's death? Numidia's burning sands Still smoke with blood. 'Tis time we should decree What course to take. Our foe advances on us,

And envies us ev❜n Lybia's sultry deserts.

Fathers, pronounce your thoughts.

Are they still fix'd

To hold it out and fight it to the last?

Or, are your hearts subdu'd, at length, and wrought,
By time and ill success, to a submission?....

Sempronius, speak.

SEMPRONIUS-My voice is still for war.

Gods! can a Roman senate long debate
Which of the two to chuse, slav'ry or death?
No....let us rise at once; gird on our swords;
And, at the head of our remaining troops,
Attack the foe; break through the thick array
Of his throng'd legions; and charge home upon him,
Perhaps, some arm, more lucky than the rest,
May reach his heart, and free the world from bondage.
Rise, Fathers, rise! 'Tis Rome demands your help:
Rise, and revenge her slaughter'd citizens,
Or share their fate! The corpse of half her senate
Manure the fields of Thessaly, while we
Sit here, delib'rating in cold debates,
If we should sacrifice our lives to honour,
Or wear them out in servitude and chains.
Rouse up, for shame! Our brothers of Pharsalia
Point at their wounds, and cry aloud-to battle!
Great Pompy's shade complains that we are slow:
And Scipio's ghost walks unreveng❜d amongst us !
CATO.-Let not a torrent of impetuous zeal
Transport thee thus beyond the bounds of reason.
True fortitude is seen in great exploits,
That justice warrants, and that wisdom guides;
All else is tow'ring frenzy and distraction.
Are not the lives of those who draw the sword
In Rome's defence, entrusted to our care?
Should we thus lead them to a field of slaughter,
Might not th' impartial world, with reason, say
We lavish'd, at our deaths, the blood of thousands,
To grace our fall, and make our ruin glorious?
Lucius, we next would know what's your opinion.

LUCIUS-My thoughts, I must confess, are turn'd on peace.

Already have our quarrels fill❜d the world

With widows and with orphans. Scythia mourns

Our guilty wars, and earth's remotest regions

Lie half unpeopled by the feuds of Rome.

fis time to sheathe the sword, and spare mankind.

It is not Cæsar, but the gods, my fathers!

The gods declare against us, and repel

Our vain attempts. To urge the foe to battle,
(Prompted by blind revenge and wild despair)
Were to refuse th' awards of providence,
And not to rest in heav'n's determination.
Already have we shewn our love to Rome:
Now, let us shubmission to the gods.
We took up arms not to revenge ourselves,
But free the commonwealth. When this end fails,

Arms have no further use.

Our country's cause,

That drew our swords, now wrests 'em from our hands,
And bids us not delight in Roman blood
Unprofitably shed. What men could do
Is done already.

Heav'n and earth will witness,

If Rome must fall, that we are innocent.
CATO. Let us appear, not rash, nor diffident,
Immoderate value swells into a fault :

And fear admitted into public councils,

Betray like treason.

Let us shun 'em both.

Fathers, I cannot see that our affairs

Are grown thus desp'rate. We have bulwarks round us;
Within our walls, are troops inur'd to toil

In Afric heats, and season'd to the sun.
Numidia's spacious kingdom lies behind us,
Ready to rise at its young prince's call.
While there is hope, do not distrust the gods:
But wait, at least, till Cæsar's near approach
Force us to yield. 'Twill never be too late
To sue for chains, and own a conqueror.
Why should Rome fall a moment ere her time?
No-let us draw our term of freedom out
In its full length, and spin it to the last;
So shall we gain still one day's liberty.

And, let me perish, but, in Cato's judgment,
A day, an hour, of virtuous liberty,

Is worth a whole eternity of bondage.

CATO, solus, sitting in a thoughtful posture: In his hand Pla to's book on the immortality of the soul. A drawn sword on the table by him.

IT must by so, Plato-thou reason'st well

Else, whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,

This longing after immortality?

Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror,
Of falling into nought? Why shrinks the soul
Back on herself, and starties at destruction?
'Tis the divinity that stirs within us ;

'Tis heav'n itself, that points out—an hereafter,
And intimates-eternity to man.

Eternity-thou pleasing-dreadful thought!
Through what variety of untry'd beings,

Through what new scenes and changes must we pass !
The wide, th' unbounded prospect lies before me—
But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it
Here will I hold. If there's a pow'r above us,
(And that there is all nature cries aloud