To many a fanciful spring His lyre was melodiously strung; While fairies and fawns, in a ring, Have applauded the swain as he sung. To the cheerful he ushered his smiles; Tho' titles and wealth were his due ; What the goddess would never regard. Avails aught the generous heart, Her kindly relief to the mind? 'Twas but faint the relief to dismay, The cells of the wretched among; Tho' Sympathy sung in the lay; Tho' melody fell from his tongue. Let the favoured of Fortune attend But they to Compassion are dumb; Till Misfortune has marked them her own. Now the shades of the evening depend ; Where reposes the Shepherd's cold clay. Adieu, then, the songs of the swain: THE DELIGHTS OF VIRTUE. RETURNING morn, in orient blush arrayed, With gentle radiance hailed the sky serene; No rustling breezes waved the verdant shade; No swelling surge disturbed the azure main. These moments, MEDITATION! sure are thine; These are the halcyon joys you wish to find, When Nature's peaceful elements combine The Muse, exalted by thy sacred power, That ushered beaming Fancy to her view. Fresh from old Neptune's fluid mansion sprung The Sun, reviver of each drooping flower; At his approach, the lark, with matin song, In notes of gratitude confessed his power. So shines fair Virtue, shedding light divine On those who wish to profit by her ways; Who ne'er at parting with their vice repine, To taste the comforts of her blissful rays. She, with fresh hopes each sorrow can beguile, Can dissipate Adversity's deep gloom, Make meagre Poverty contented smile, And the sad wretch forget his hapless doom. Sweeter than shady groves in Summer's pride, Than flowery dales or grassy meads, is she; Delightful as the honeyed streams that glide From the rich labours of the busy bee. S Her paths and alleys are for ever green :There Innocence, in snowy robes arrayed, With smiles of pure content, is hailed the queen And happy mistress of the sacred shade. O let no transient gleam of earthly joy Soon will the winged moments speed away, wear: Grandeur must shudder at the sad decay, And Pride look humble when he ponders there. Deprived of Virtue, where is Beauty's power? Her dimpled smiles, her roses, charm no more. So much can guilt the loveliest form deflower:We loathe that beauty which we loved before. How fair are Virtue's buds, where'er they blow, DIRGE. THE waving yew or cypress wreath Since Strephon's virtue's sunk to rest, The just, the good, more honours share In what the conscious heart bestows, Than Vice adorned with sculptor's care, In all the venal pomp of woes. A sad-eyed mourner at his tomb, Thou, Friendship! pay thy rites divine, And echo thro' the midnight gloom That Strephon's early fall was thine. |