The Wish

I ONLY ask a mod'rate fate, And tho' not in obscurity, I would not yet be plac'd too high; Between the two extreames I'd be, Not meanly low, nor yet too great, From both contempt and envy free.

If no glitt'ring wealth I have, Content of bounteous heav'n I crave, For that is more, Than all the India's shining store, To be unto the dust a slave. With heart, my little I will use, Nor let pain my life devour, Or for a griping heir refuse Myself one pleasant hour.

No stately Edifice to rear, My Wish would bound a small retreat, In temp'rate air, and furnish'd neat; No ornaments would I prepare, No costly labours of the loom, Should e'er adorn my humble room; To gild my roof, I nought require But the stern Winter's friendly fire.

Free from tumultuous cares and noise, If gracious heav'n my Wish would give, While sweet content augments my joys, Thus, my remaining hours I'd live. By arts ignoble never rise, The Miser's ill-got wealth despise; But blest my leisure hours I'd spend, The Muse enjoying, and my Friend.

HOW awful is the Night! beneath whose shade, Calm mournful silence e'er serenely reigns; And musing Meditation, heav'nly Maid! Unbends the mind, and sooths the heart-felt pains!

What pleasing terrors strike upon the soul While hills and vales around dusk swims away; While murmuring streams in plaintive numbers roll, And with their soft complainings close the day!

While silver Cynthia, with her pallid beams, Does clouded nature faintly re-illume, Tips tops of trees, and dancing on the streams, Adds livelier horror to the rising gloom!

What hand can picture forth the solemn scene, The deepning shade and the faint glimm'ring light! How much above th' expressive art of G—n Are the dim beauties of the dewy night!

How much this hour does noisy day excel To those who heav'nly contemplation love!— Now nought is hear'd but pensive Philomel The wat'ry fall, or Zephyr in the grove.

Now searching thought unlimited may rove, And into nature's deep recesses pry; Spread her fleet wings to mount the realms above, And gain the glowing glories of the sky.

Rich in expression, how sublimely bright, Those lucent arguments above us shine! Now, Atheist! now lift up thy wondring sight, And own the great creating pow'r divine.

Heav'ns! what a throng, what a dread endless train, Of complicated wonders yield surprize! Systems on systems, systems yet again, And suns on suns, continually arise!

Too daring thought! give o'er thy vain emprize, Nor rashly pry—at humble distance gaze! Should heav'n unveil those beauties to our eyes The dazzled sense would sink beneath the blaze.

But leave the glories of heav'n's spangl'd dome, And thy slow-steps to dreary church-yards lead; There lean attentive on yon marble tomb, And learn instruction from the silent dead.

How dismal is this place! whilst round I gaze, What chilling fears my thoughtful soul invade! Exaggerating Fancy shrubs doth raise, To dreadful spectres gliding cross the shade.

Pale sleep! thou emblem of eternal rest, When lock'd in thy coercive strong embrace, Those of all-bounteous Nature's gifts possest, Are but as those whose gloomy haunts I trace.

No objects now wide-straining eyes admit; Deaf is the ear, mute the persuasive tongue, Discerning judgment, and keen piercing wit Are lost in thee, aud warriors nerves unstrung!

Still led by thee imagination roves, On tow'ring pinion seeks some distant world; Or wanders pleas'd thro' soft enamel'd groves, Or down the dreadful precipice is hurl'd.

While sad reclining on this silent tomb, Surrounded with promiscuous dead I rest; Thee, I invoke! sweet friendly sleep, O come! Lock up my sense, and lull my troubl'd breast!