The Virginia Gazette

POET'S CORNER.

Part of the Last Chorus of the second Act of Seneca's Troades.

VAIN is the State of visionary Man,
His Pleasures transient, and his Life a Span!
At Morn he blooms, with conscious Pride elate
At Eve he shrinks, and dreads impending Fate:
So the gay Flower that decks the Woodland Glade
Is doom'd to blossom, and is doom'd to fade,
When Fate demands our tributary Breath,
Then say, O Reasoner! what thou dread'st in Death!
Oft, on a Dunghill, Virtue's left to rot,
Its Worth neglected, and its Charms forgot:
Whilst gaudy Villains reap the wish'd for Prize,
And ill got Trappings strike our wondering Eyes.
How round the Heart the soft Affections twine:
When the Tear falls at injur'd Virtue's Shrine
But oft we stretch our Aid to Worth in vain
And Pity adds but to a Life of Pain
The Rose that Scents the Zephyr's balmy Wing
Beneath its Leaves retains a poignant Sting:
No real Joys from Wealth or Fortune flow,
Nay Length of Life is but protracted Woe.
Then what is Death? Why should the Name affright!
The empty Bugbear of a Winter's Night!
Why Should we shudder at this final Blow,
Which soothes each Care; and drowns the Voice of Woe?
Let Minds which float on Fancy's airy Wing
Paint Fields Elysian and eternal Spring,
Let sad Enthusiasts form a dreary Cave,
And feel the Blast which curls Cocytus' Wave,
Be mine the Lot to pass unheeded through
Life's mazy Path, and take a transient View
Of fleeting Bliss, while now and then a Smile
Plays on my Lips, each Sorrow to beguile;
Not over-fond of Life, nor fearing Death,
Content and tranquil I'll resign my Breath
For though with airy Joys our Fancies teem,
Sure Life and Death are but an anxious Dream.