Preserved By Plutarch
ON THE SITUATION OF THE BLEST.
While sable night o'er mortal' heads
Her gloomy mantle silent spreads,
On them with undiminish'd blaze
Pours shining Sol his splendid rays.
When issuing from the polish'd dome
To tread the fragrant meads they roam,
Charming the eye, on every side
The rose displays it's purple pride;
Each bough with golden fruitage bends,
Each flower a heavenly perfume sends.
There some restrain the courser's fire,
Some wake the soul-delighting lyre,
While rapturous bliss, and thrilling joy,
At once their every sense employ.
Thick from the shining altars round
Which frequent grace the hallow'd ground,
The rolling clouds of incense rise,
And waft their odors to the skies.
ON THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL.
'Tis friendly Death alone bestows
A refuge sure from human woes.
What though our mortal frames await
The inevitable stroke of Fate,
Given by the Gods, the immortal Mind
Unhurt, shall life eternal find:
Though oft when toil subdues the breast
Awhile she sink to silent rest,
Yet when in balmy sleep we lie
Around her active senses sly,
And clearly-boding dreams impart
Her judgment to the slumbering heart,
Which Bliss, fair Virtue's meed declare,
For Vice, the pangs of sad Despair.
