GRIM Monarch! see depriv'd of vital breath,
A young Physician in the dust of death!
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While deep you mourn beneath the cypress-shade
The hand of Death, and your dear daughter laid
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All-Conquering Death! by thy resistless pow'r,
Hope's tow'ring plumage falls to rise no more!
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While others chant of gay Elysian scenes,
Of balmy zephyrs, and of flow'ry plains,
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To cultivate in ev'ry noble mind
Habitual grace, and sentiments refin'd,
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Grim monarch! see, depriv'd of vital breath,
A young physician in the dust of death:
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Though thou did'st hear the tempest from afar,
And felt'st the horrors of the wat'ry war,
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We trace the pow'r of Death from tomb to tomb,
And his are all the ages yet to come.
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O'erwhelming sorrow now demands my song:
From death the overwhelming sorrow sprung.
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Indulgent muse! my grov'ling mind inspire,
And fill my bosom with celestial fire.
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Say, muse divine, can hostile scenes delight
The warrior's bosom in the fields of fight?
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While an intrinsic ardor prompts to write,
The muses promise to assist my pen;
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Hail, happy day, when, smiling like the morn,
Fair Freedom rose New-England to adorn:
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No more the flow'ry scenes of pleasure rife,
Nor charming prospects greet the mental eyes,
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I.
LO! for this dark terrestrial ball
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Where contemplation finds her sacred spring,
Where heav'nly music makes the arches ring,
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Who taught thee conflict with the pow'rs of night,
To vanquish satan in the fields of light?
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Say, heav'nly muse, what king or mighty God,
That moves sublime from Idumea's road?
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To show the lab'ring bosom's deep intent,
And thought in living characters to paint,
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THROUGH airy roads he wings his instant flight
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FROM dark abodes to fair etherial light
Th' enraptur'd innocent has wing'd her flight;
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Maecenas, you, beneath the myrtle shade,
Read o'er what poets sung, and shepherds play'd.
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On Death's domain intent I fix my eyes,
Where human nature in vast ruin lies,
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Your subjects hope, dread Sire--
The crown upon your brows may flourish long,
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The poet asks, and Phillis can't refuse
To show th' obedience of the Infant muse.
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I.
A bird delicious to the taste,
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MNEME begin. Inspire, ye sacred nine,
Your vent'rous Afric in her great design.
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Must Ethiopians be employ'd for you?
Much I rejoice if any good I do.
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ATTEND my lays, ye ever honour'd nine,
Assist my labours, and my strains refine;
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E'er yet the morning heav'd its Orient head
Behold him praising with the happy dead.
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