Vain joys, which envy'd greatness gains, How do ye bind with silken claims, Which ask Herculean strength to break! How with new terrours have ye arm'd The power whose slightest glance alarm'd! How many deaths of one ye make! Yet, dumb with wonder, I behold Man's thoughtless race in errour bold, Forget or scorn, the laws of death; With these no projects coincide, Nor vows nor toils, nor hopes they guide, Each thinks he draws immortal breath. Each blind to fate's approaching hour, Intrigues, or fights for wealth or power, And slumb'ring dangers dare provoke: And he who tott'ring scarce sustains A century's age, plans future gains, And feels an unexpected stroke. Go on, unbridled desp'rate band, Scorn rocks, gulfs, winds, search sea and land, And spoil new worlds wherever found. Seize, haste to seize the glittering prize, And sighs, and tears and prayers despise, Nor spare the temple's holy ground. They go, succeed, but look again, The desperate hand you seek in vain, Now trod in dust the peasant's scorn. But who, that saw their treasures swell, That heard th' insatiate rebel, Would e'er have thought them mortal born? See the world's victor mount his car, Blood marks his progress wide and far, Sure he shall reign while ages fly; No, vanish'd like a morning cloud, The hero was but just allow'd To fight, to conquer, and to die. And is it true, I ask with dread, That nations heap'd on nations bled Beneath his chariot's fervid wheel, With trophies to adorn the spot, Where his pale corse was left to rot, And doom'd the hungry reptile's meal? Yes, fortune weary'd with her play, Her toy, this hero, casts away, And scarce the form of man is seen: Awe chills my breast, my eyes o'erflow, Around my brows no roses glow, The cypress mine, funereal green. Yet in this hour of grief and fears, When awful Truth unveil'd appears, Some power unknown usurps my breast; Back to the world my thoughts are led, My feet in folly's labyrinth tread, And Fancy dreams that life is blest. How weak an empress is the mind, Whom Pleasure's flowery wreaths can bind, And captive to her altars lead! Weak Reason yields to Frenzy's rage, And all the world is Folly's stage, And all that act are fools indeed. And yet this strange and sudden flight, From gloomy cares to gay delight, This fickleness so light and vain, In life's delusive transient dream, Where men nor things are what they seem, Is all the real good we gain. _New Haven Gaz. and Conn. Mag._, I-339, Dec. 7, 1786, New Haven. NARCISSA [A poem, the third stanza of which is as follows:]