He little knew to ward the secret wound;

He little knew that mortals could ensnare; Virtue he knew; the noblest joy he found, To sing her glories, and to paint her fair! Ill was he skill'd to guide his wandering sheep, And unforeseen disaster thinn'd his fold; Yet at another's loss the swain would weep, And for his friend his very crook was sold. Ye sons of wealth! protect the Muses' train; From winds protect them, and with food supply; Ah! helpless they, to ward the threaten'd pain, The meagre famine, and the wintry sky!

He lov❜d a nymph; amidst his slender store

He dar'd to love; and Cynthia was his theme: He breath'd his plaints along the rocky shore, They only echo'd o'er the winding stream. His nymph was fair! the sweetest bud that blows Revives less lovely from the recent show'r; So Philomel enamour'd eyes the rose;

Sweet bird! enamour'd of the sweetest flow'r. He lov'd the Muse; she taught him to complain; He saw his timorous loves on her depend: He lov'd the Muse, although she taught in vain ;

He lov'd the Muse, for she was Virtue's friend.

She guides the foot that treads on Parian ǹoors; She wins the ear when formal pleas are vain; She tempts patricians from the fatal doors

Of Vice's brothel forth to Virtue's fane.

He wish'd for wealth, for much he wish'd to give; He griev'd that virtue might not wealth obtain : Piteous of woes, and hopeless to relieve,

The pensive prospect sadden'd all his strain.

saw him faint! I saw him sink to rest!

Like one ordain'd to swell the vulgar throng; As though the Virtues had not warm'd his breast, As though the Muses not inspir'd his tongue. I saw his bier ignobly cross the plain;

Saw peasant hands the pious rite supply: The generous rustics mourn'd the friendly swain, But Pow'r and Wealth's unvarying cheek was dry! Such Alcon fell; in meagre want forlorn! Where were ye then,ye powerful Patrons! where? Would ye the purple should your limbs adorn, Go wash the conscious blemish with a tear.

OPHELIA'S URN.

TO MR. G.

THROUGH the dim veil of evening's dusky shade,
Near some lone fane, or yew's funereal green,
What dreary forms has magic Fear survey'd!
What shrouded spectres Superstition seen!
But you, secure, shall pour your sad complaint,
Nor dread the meagre phantom's wan array;
What none but Fear's officious hand can paint,
What none but Superstition's eye survey.
The glimmering twilight and the doubtful dawn
Shall see your step to these sad scenes return:
Constant, as crystal dews impearl the lawn,
Shall Strephon's tear bedew Ophelia's urn.
Sure nought unhallow'd shall presume to stray
Where sleep the reliques of that virtuous maid;
Nor aught unlovely bend its devious way

Where soft Ophelia's dear remains are laid.

Haply thy Muse, as with unceasing sighs
She keeps late vigils on her urn reclin'd,
May see light groups of pleasing visions rise,
And phantoms glide, but of celestial kind.
Then Fame, her clarion pendent at her side,
Shall seek forgiveness of Ophelia's shade;
Why has such worth, without distinction, died?
Why, like the desert's lily, bloom'd to fade?'
Then young Simplicity, averse to feign,

Shall, unmolested, breathe her softest sigh, And Candour with unwonted warmth complain, And Innocence indulge a wailful cry.

Then Elegance, with coy judicious hand,

Shall cull fresh flowerets for Ophelia's tomb; And Beauty chide the Fates' severe command, That show'd the frailty of so fair a bloom! And Fancy then, with wild ungovern'd woe, Shall her lov'd pupil's native taste explain; For mournful sable all her hues forego,

And ask sweet solace of the Muse in vain !

Ah! gentle forms! expect no fond relief;

Too much the sacred Nine their loss deplore: Well may ye grieve, nor find an end of griefYour best, your brightest, favourite is no more.

HE COMPARES

THE TURBULENCE OF LOVE WITH THE TRANQUILLITY OF FRIENDSHIP.

TO MELISSA, HIS FRIEND.

FROM Love, from angry Love's inclement reign
I pass a while to Friendship's equal skies ;
Thou, generous Maid! reliev'st my partial pain,
And cheer'st the victim of another's eyes.
'Tis thou, Melissa, thou deserv'st my care;
How can my will and reason disagree?
How can my passion live beneath despair!
How can my bosom sigh for aught but thee!
Ah! dear Melissa! pleas'd with thee to rove,
My soul has yet surviv'd its dreariest time;
Ill can I bear the various clime of Love!

Love is a pleasing but a various clime.
So smiles immortal Maro's favourite shore,
Parthenope, with every verdure crown'd;
When straight Vesuvio's horrid caldrons roar,
And the dry vapour blasts the regions round.
Oh, blissful regions! oh, unrivall'd plains!

When Maro to these fragrant haunts retir'd! Oh, fatal realms! and, oh, accurs'd domains! When Pliny mid sulphureous clouds expir'd! So smiles the surface of the treacherous main, As o'er its waves the peaceful halcyons play, When soon rude winds their wonted rule regain, And sky and ocean mingle in the fray.

But let or air contend or ocean rave;
Ev'n Hope subside, amid the billows tost;
Hope, still emergent, still contemns the wave,
And not a feature's wonted smile is lost.

TO A LADY,

ON THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS.

COME then, Dione, let us range the grove,
The science of the feather'd choirs explore,
Hear linnets argue, larks descant of love,

And blame the gloom of solitude no more.
My doubt subsides-'tis no Italian song,

Nor senseless ditty cheers the vernal tree : Ah! who that hears Dione's tuneful tongue

Shall doubt that music may with sense agree? And come, my Muse! that lov'st the silvan shade, Evolve the mazes, and the mist dispel ; Translate the song; convince my doubting maid No solemn dervise can explain so well.Pensive beneath the twilight shades I sate,

The slave of hopeless vows and cold disdain ! When Philomel address'd his mournful mate, And thus I construed the mellifluent strain:. Sing on, my bird!—the liquid notes prolong, At every note a lover sheds his tear; Sing on, my bird!—'tis Damon hears thy song, Nor doubt to gain applause when lovers hear. 'He the sad source of our complaining knows, A foe to Tereus and to lawless love! He mourns the story of our ancient woes;

Ah! could our music his complaint remove! 'Yon' plains are govern'd by a peerless maid; And see! pale Cynthia mounts the vaulted sky, A train of lovers court the chequer'd shade; Sing on, my bird! and hear thy mates reply.