• Life,' says the sage,' affords no bliss sincere,

And courts and cells in vain our hopes renew; But, ah ! where Grenville charms the listening ear,

'Tis hard to think the cheerless maxim true. The groves may smile, the rivers gently glide,

Soft through the vale resound the lonesome lay; Ev'n thickets yield delight, if taste preside,

But can they please when Lyttelton's away? • Pure as the swain's the breast of ** glows;

Ah! were the shepherd's phrase like his refind! But how improv'd the generous dictate flows

Through the clear medium of a polish'd mind! • Happy the youths who, warm with Britain's love,

Her inmost wish in ** periods hear! Happy that in the radiant circle move,

Attendant orbs, where Lonsdale gilds the sphere! " While rural faith, and ev'ry polish'd art,

Each friendly charm, in *** conspire,
From public scenes all pensive must you part;

All joyless to the greenest fields retire ! “Go, plaintive youth ! no more by fount or stream,

Like some lone halcyon, social pleasure shun; Go, dare the light; enjoy its cheerful beam;

And hail the bright procession of the sun. " Then, cover'd by thy ripen'd shades, resume

The silent walk, no more by passion tost; Then seek thy rustic haunts, the dreary gloom,

Where every art that colours life is lost.' — In vain! the listening Muse attends in vain !

Restraints in hostile bands her motions waitYet will I grieve, and sądden all my strain,

When injur'd Beauty mourns the Muse's fate.




WHATE’ER could Sculpture's curious art employ,

Whate'er the lavish hand of Wealth can show'r, These would I give--and every gift enjoy · That pleas'd my fair—but Fate denies my pow'r. Bless'd were my lot to feed the social fires !

To learn the latent wishes of a friend ! To give the boon his native taste admires,

And for my transport on his smile depend! Bless'd, too, is he whose evening ramble strays

Where droop the sons of Indigence and Care ! His little gifts their gladden'd eyes amaze,

And win, at small expense, their fondest pray'r! And, oh! the joy, to shun the conscious light;

To spare the modest blush ; to give unseen! Like show'rs that fall behind the veil of night,

Yet deeply tinge the smiling vales with green. But happiest they who drooping realms relieve!

Whose virtues in our cultur'd vales appear! For whose sad fate a thousand shepherds grieve,

And fading fields allow the grief sincere.

To call lost Worth from its oppressive shade,

To fix its equal sphere, and see it shine, To hear it grateful own the generous aid;

This, this is transport_but must ne'er be mine!

Faint is my bounded bliss ; nor I refuse

To range where daisies open, rivers roll, While prose or song the languid hours amuse,

And soothe the fond impatience of my soul. Awhile I'll weave the roofs of jasmine bow'rs,

And urge with trivial cares the loitering year; Awhile I'll prune my grove, protect my flow'rs,

Then, unlamented, press an early bier ! Of those lov'd flowers the lifeless corse may share,

Some hireling hand a fading wreath bestow; The rest will breathe as sweet, will glow as fair,

As when their master smild to see them glow. The sequent morn shall wake the silvan quire;

The kid again shall wanton ere 'tis noon; Nature will smile, will wear her best attire ;

0! let not gentle Delia smile so soon! While the rude herse conveys me slow away,

And careless eyes my vulgar fate proclaim, Let thy kind tear my utmost worth o'erpay,

And, softly sighing, vindicate my fame.O Delia! cheer'd by thy superior praise,

I bless the silent path the Fates decree; Pleas'd, from the list of my inglorious days

To raise the moments crown'd with bliss and thee. DESCRIBING THE SORROW OF AN INGENUOUS MIND


AMOUR. Why mourns my friend? why weeps his downcast

eye? That eye where mirth, where fancy, us'd to shine; Thy cheerful meads reprove that swelling sigh ;

Spring ne'er enamell’d fairer meads than thine. Art thou not lodg'd in Fortune's warm embrace ?

Wert thou not form'd by Nature's partial care? Bless'd in thy song, and bless'd in every grace ,

That wins the friend, or that enchants the fair! Damon,' said he, “thy partial praise restrain;

Not Damon's friendship can my peace restore : Alas! his very praise awakes my pain,

And my poor wounded bosom bleeds the more. For, oh! that Nature on my birth had frown'd,

Or Fortune fix'd me to some lowly cell ! Then had my bosom 'scap'd this fatal wound,

Nor had I bid these vernal sweets farewell. • But led by Fortune's hand, her darling child,

My youth her vain licentious bliss admir'd; In Fortune's train the siren Flattery smild,

And rashly hallow'd all her queen inspir’d. « Of folly studious, ev'n of vices vain,

Ah, vices gilded by the rich and gay!
I chas'd the guileless daughters of the plain,

Nor dropp'd the chase till Jessy was my prey. • Poor artless maid ! to stain thy spotless name

Expense, and art, and toil, united strove; To lure a breast that felt the purest flame, Sustain'd by virtue, but betray'd by love.

School'd in the science of Love's mazy wiles,

I cloth'd each feature with affected scorn; I spoke of jealous doubts and fickle smiles,

And, feigning, left her anxious and forlorn.
· Then while the fancied rage alarm'd her care,

Warm to deny, and zealous to disprove,
I bade my words the wonted softness wear,

And seiz’d the minute of returning love.
• To thee, my Damon, dare I paint the rest?

Will yet thy love a candid ear incline? Assur'd that virtue, by misfortune pressid,

Feels not the sharpness of a pang like mine. • Nine envious moons maturd her growing shame,

Ere while to flaunt it in the face of day, When, scorn’d of Virtue, stigmatiz'd by Fame,

Low at my feet desponding Jessy lay.' “ Henry,” she said, “ by thy dear form subdued,

See the sad reliques of a nyinph undone! I find, I find this rising sob renew'd ;

I sigh in shades, and sicken at the sun. “ Amid the dreary gloom of night I cry,

When will the morn's once pleasing scenes return? Yet what can morn's returning ray supply,

But foes that triumph, or but friends that mourn! “ Alas! no more that joyous morn appears

That led the tranquil hours of spotless fame, For I have steep'd a father's couch in tears,

And ting'd a mother's glowing cheek with shame. “ The vocal birds that raise their matin strain,

The sportive lambs, increase my pensive moan; All seem to chase me from the cheerful plain,

And talk of truth and innocence alone.

« VorigeDoorgaan »