I NE'Er must tinge my lip with Celtic wines;

The pomp of India must I ne'er display;
Nor boast the produce of Peruvian mines,

Nor with Italian sounds deceive the day. Down yonder brook my crystal beverage flows;

My grateful sheep their annual fleeces bring; Fair in my garden buds the damask rose,

And from my grove I hear the throstle sing. My fellow swains! avert your dazzled eyes ;

In vain allur'd by glittering spoils they rove; The Fates ne'er meant them for the shepherd's prize,

Yet gave them ainple recompence in love. They gave you vigour from your parents' veins ;

They gave yon toils; but toils your sinews brace; They gave you nymphs that own their amorous pains,

And shades, the refuge of the gentle race. To carve your loves, to paint your mutual flames,

See! polish'd fair, the beech's friendly rind ! To sing soft carols to your lovely dames,

See vocal grots, and echoing vales assign'd! Wouldst thou, my Strephon, Love's delighted slave!

Though sure the wreaths of chivalry to share, Forego the ribbon thy Matilda gave,

And giving, bade thee in remembrance wear? Ill fare my peace, but every idle toy,

If to my mind my Delia's form it brings, Has truer worth, imparts sincerer joy,

Than all that bears the radiant stamp of kings.

O my soul weeps, my breast with anguish bleeds,

When Love deplores the tyrant pow'r of Gain ! Disdaining riches as the futile weeds,

I rise superior, and the rich disdain. Oft from the stream,slow-wandering down the glade,

Pensive I hear the nuptial peal rebound; Some miser weds,' I cry, the captive maid,

And some fond lover sickens at the sound.'
Not Somervile, the Muse's friend of old,

Though now exalted to yon ambient sky,
So shunn'd a soul distain'd with earth and gold,

So loy'd the pure, the generous breast, as I. Scorn'd be the wretch that quits his genial bowl,

His loves, his friendships, ev’n his self resigns ; Perverts the sacred instinct of his soul, · And to a ducat's dirty sphere confines. But come, my Friend! with tase, with science blest,

Ere age impair me, and ere gold allure; Restore thy dear idea to my breast,

The rich deposit shall the shrine secure. Let others toil to gain the sordid ore,

The charms of independence let us sing; Bless'd with thy friendship, can I wish for more?

I'll spurn the boasted wealth of Lydia's king'.


Ask not the cause wliy this rebellious tongue

Loads with fresh curses thy detested sway;
Ask not, thus branded in my softest song,
Why stands the flatter'd name which all obcy?

1 Cresas.

'Tis not, that in my shed I lurk forlorn,

Nor see my roof on Parian columns rise; That on this breast no mimic star is borne,

Rever'd, ah! more than those that light the skies. "Tis not, that on the turf supinely laid,

I sing or pipe, but to the flocks that graze; And, all inglorious, in the lonesome shade

My finger stiffens, and niy voice decays. Not, that my fancy mourns thy stern command,

When many an embryo dome is lost in air ; While guardian Prudence checks my eager hand,

And ere the turf is broken, cries, ' Forbear: - Forbear, vain Youth! be cautious, weigh thy gold,

Nor let yon rising column more aspire; Ah! better dwell in ruins than behold

Thy fortunes mouldering, and thy domes entire. · Honorio built, but dar'd my laws defy;

He planted, scornful of my sage commands; . The peach's vernal bud regal'd his eye,

The fruitage ripen’d for more frugal hands. • See the small stream that pours its marmuring tide

O'er some rough rock that would its wealth disDisplays it aught but penury and pride? [play,

Ah! construe wisely what such murmurs say.. . How would some flood, with ampler treasures

Disdainful view the scantling drops distil! [blest, How must Velino shake his reedy crest!

How every cygnet mock the boastive rill!
Fortune! I yield: and see, I give the sign;

At noon the poor mechanic wanders home,
Collects the square, the level, and the line,
And with retorted eye forsakes the dome.
1 A river in Italy, that falls 100 yards perpendicular.

Yes, I can patient view the shadeless plains;

Can unrepining leave the rising wall;
Check the fond love of art that fir'd my veins,

And my warm hopes in full pursuit recall.
Descend, ye storms ! destroy my rising pile;

Loos'd be the whirlwind's unremitting sway;
Contented I, although the gazer smile

To see it scarce survive a winter's day.
Let some dull dotard bask in thy gay shrine,

As in the sun regales his wanton herd;
Guiltless of envy, why should I repine

That his rude voice, his grating reed's preferr’d? Let him exult, with boundless wealth supplied,

Mine and the swain's reluctant homage share; But, ah! his tawdry shepherdess's pride,

Gods! must my Delia, must my Delia bear? Must Delia's softness, elegance, and ease,

Submit to Marian's dress ? to Marian's gold? Must Marian's robe from distant India please?

The simple fleece my Delia's limbs enfold? • Yet sure on Delia seems the russet fair ;

Ye glittering daughters of Disguise, adieu !
So talk the wise, who judge of shape and air,

But will the rural thane decide so true?
Ah! what is native worth esteem'd of clowns ?

'Tis thy false glare, O Fortune! thine they see; 'Tis for my Delia's sake I dread thy frowns,

And my last gasp shall curses breathe on thee.


Ah me! my Friend ! it will not, will not last!

This fairy scene that cheats our youthful eyes; The charm dissolves; the' aërial music's past;

The banquet ceases, and the vision flies. Where are the splendid forms, the rich perfumes,

Where the gay tapers, where the spacious dome? Vanish'd the costly pearls, the crimson plumes,

And we, delightless, left to wander home! Vain now are books, the sage's wisdom vain!

What has the world to bribe our steps astray? Ere Reason learns by studied laws to reign,

The weaken'd passions, self-subdued, obey. Scarce has the sun seven annual courses rolld,

Scarce shown the whole that Fortune can supply, Since not the miser so earess'd his gold

As I, for what it gave, was heard to sigh. On the world's stage I wish'd some sprightly part,

To deck my native fleece with tawdry lace! 'Twas life, 'twas taste, and--oh, my foolish heart !

Substantial joy was fix'd in pow'r and place. And you, ye works of Art! allur'd mine eye,

The breathing picture and the living stone: (deny, "Though gold, though splendor, Heav'n and Fate

Yet might I call one Titian stroke my own! Smit with the charms of Fame, whose lovely spoil, ti\/2ū2/2/2/2/2/2/2/2/Ầūti\/\/?2n2ti2m2?Â2Ò2§Â2Òâņģētiņ22222 I trimm'd my lamp, consum'd the midnight oil

But soon the paths of health and fame divide!

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