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Spare farther the descriptive song~

Nature shudders at the sight.

Protract not, curious ears, the mournful tale, But o'er the hapless groupe, low drop Compassion's

veil.

ODE XXX.

то

MELANCHOLY.

BY MRS. CARTER.

Come, Melancholy! silent power,
Companion of my lonely hour,

To sober thought confin'd ;
Thou sweetly sad ideal guest,
In all thy soothing charms confest,

Indulge my pensive mind.

No longer wildly hurried thro'
The tides of mirth, that ebb and flow

In folly's noisy stream:
I from the busy crowd retire,
To court the objects that inspire

Thy philosophic dream.

Thro'

yon
dark
grove

of mournful yews With solitary steps I muse,

By thy direction led :

Here, cold to pleasure's tempting forms, Consociate with my sister-worms,

And mingle with the dead.

Ye midnight horrors ! awful gloom I
Ye silent regions of the tomb !

My future peaceful bed :
Here shall my weary eyes be clos’d,
And every sorrow lie repos'd

In death's refreshing shade.

Ye pale inhabitants of night,
Before my intellectual sight

In solemn pomp ascend :
O tell how trifling now appears
The train of idle hopes and fears

That varying life attend !

Ye faithless idols of our sense,
Here own how vain your fond pretence,

Ye empty names of joy!
Your transient forms like shadows pass,
Frail offspring of the magic glass,

Before the mental eye.

The dazzling colours, falsely bright,
Attract the gazing vulgar sight

With superficial state :

Thro' Reason's clearer optics view'd,
How stript of all its pomp, how rude

Appears the painted cheat.

Can wild Ambition's tyrant power,
Or ill-got Wealth's superfluous store,

The dread of death controul ?
Can Pleasure's more bewitching charms
Avert or soothe the dire alarms

That shake the parting soul?

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Religion ! e'er the hand of Fate
Shall make Reflection plead too late,

My erring senses teach,
Amidst the flattering hopes of youth,
To meditate the solemn truth,

These awful relics preach.

Thy penetrating beams disperse
The mist of error, whence our fears

Derive their fatal spring :
'Tis thine the trembling heart to warm,
And soften to an angel form

The pale terrific king.

When sunk by guilt in sad despair,
Repentance breathes her humble prayer,

And owns thy threatenings just :

Thy voice the shuddering suppliant chears, With Mercy calms her torturing fears,

And lifts her from the dust.

Sublim'd by thee, the soul aspires
Beyond the range of low desires,

In nobler views elate:
Unmov'd her destin'd change surveys,
And, arm’d by faith, intrepid pays

The universal debt.

In Death's soft slumber lull'd to rest,
She sleeps, by smiling visions blest

That gently whisper Peace :
Till the last morn's fair opening ray
Unfolds the bright eternal day

Of active life and bliss.

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