Just so man's boasted strength and power Shall fade before Death's lightest stroke, Laid lower than the meanest flower, Whose pride o'er-top't the oak; And he who, like a blighting blast, Dispeopled worlds with war's alarms Shall be himself destroyed at last By poor despised worms. Tyrants in vain their powers secure, And awe slaves' murmurs with a frown, For unawed Death at last is sure To sap the Babels down. A stone thrown upward to the skye Will quickly meet the ground agen; So men-gods of earth's vanity Shall drop at last to men; And Power and Pomp their all resign, Blood-purchased thrones and banquet halls. Fate waits to sack Ambition's shrine As bare as prison walls, Where the poor suffering wretch bows down To laws a lawless power hath passed; And pride, and power, and king, and clown Shall be Death's slaves at last. Time, the prime minister of Death! There's nought can bribe his honest will. He stops the richest tyrant's breath And lays his mischief still. Each wicked scheme for power all stops, With grandeurs false and mock display, As eve's shades from high mountain tops Fade with the rest away. Death levels all things in his march; Nought can resist his mighty strength; The palace proud, triumphal arch, Shall mete its shadow's length. The rich, the poor, one common bed Shall find in the unhonoured grave, Where weeds shall grow alike o'er head Of tyrant and of slave. THE WANTON CHLOE--A PASTORAL Young Chloe looks sweet as the rose, And her love might be reckoned no less, But her bosom so freely bestows That all may a portion possess. Her smiles would be cheering to see, But so freely they're lavished abroad That each silly swain, like to me, Can boast what the wanton bestowed. Her looks and her kisses so free Are for all, like the rain and the sky; As the blossom love is to the bee, Each swain is as welcome as I. And though I my folly can see, Yet still must I love and adore, Though I know the love whispered to me Has been told to so many before. 'T is sad that a bosom so fair, And soft lips so seemingly sweet, Should study false ways, to ensnare, And breathe in their kisses deceit. But beauty's no guide to the best: The rose, that out-blushes the morn, While it tempts the glad eye to its breast, Will pierce the fond hand with a thorn. Yet still must I love, silly swain! And put up with all her deceit, And try to be jealous, in vain, For I cannot help thinking her sweet. I see other swains in her bower, And I sigh, and excuse what I see, While I say to myself, "Is the flower Any worse when it's kissed by the bee?" THE OLD SHEPHERD