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 Johnson's Life and Genius.

��For me, though his example strike my view, Oh ! not for me his footsteps to pursue. Whether first Nature, unpropitious, cold, This clay compounded in a ruder mould ; Or the slow current, loit'ring at my heart, No gleam of wit or fancy can impart ; Whate'er the cause, from me no numbers flow, No visions warm me, and no raptures glow.

A mind like Scaliger's, superior still, No grief could conquer, no misfortune chill. Though for the maze of words his native skies He seem'd to quit, 'twas but again to rise ; To mount once more to the bright source of day, And view the wonders of th' setherial way. The love of Fame his gen'rous bosom fir'd ; Each Science hail'd him, and each Muse inspir'd, For him the Sons of Learning trimm'd the bays, And Nations grew harmonious in his praise.

My task perform'd, and all my labours o'er, For me what lot has Fortune now in store? The listless will succeeds, that worst disease, The rack of indolence, the sluggish ease. Care grows on care, and o'er my aching brain Black Melancholy pours her morbid train. No kind relief, no lenitive at hand, I seek at midnight clubs, the social Band; But midnight clubs, where wit with noise conspires, Where Comus revels, and where wine inspires, Delight no more ; I seek my lonely bed, And call on Sleep to sooth my languid head. But Sleep from these sad lids flies far away ; I mourn all night, and dread the coming day, Exhausted, tir'd, I throw my eyes around, To find some vacant spot on classic ground; And soon, vain hope ! I form a grand design ; Languor succeeds, and all my pow'rs decline. If Science open not her richest vein, Without materials all our toil is vain. A form to rugged stone when Phidias gives, Beneath his touch a new creation lives. Remove his marble, and his genius dies ; With Nature then no breathing statue vies.

Whate'er I plan, I feel my pow'rs confin'd By Fortune's frown and penury of mind.

I boast

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