II.

But now, alone, by storms oppreft,
Which harshly in my ears refound;
No chearful voice with witty jeft,

No jocund pipe to ftill the found;
Untrain'd befide in verfe-like art,
How shall my pen exprefs my heart?
III.

In vain I call th' harmonious nine,
In vain implore Apollo's aid;
Obdurate, they refuse a line,

While spleen and care my rest invade,
Say, fhall we Morpheus next implore,
And try if dreams befriend us more?
IV.

Wifely at least he'll ftop my pen,

And with his poppies crown my brow :
Better by far in lonesome den

To fleep unheard of- than to glow
With treach'rous wildfire of the brain,
Th' intoxicated poet's bane.

Written at a Ferme Ornee near Birmingham; Auguft 7th, 1749.

'T

By the fame.

IS Nature here bids pleasing scenes arise,

And wifely gives them Cynthio, to revife:

To

To veil each blemish; brighten every grace;
Yet ftill preserve the lovely Parent's face.

How well the bard obeys, each valley tells ;

Thefe lucid ftreams, gay meads, and lonely cells;
Where modest art in filence lurks conceal'd:

While Nature fhines, fo gracefully reveal'd,
That She triumphant claims the total plan;
And, with fresh pride, adopts the work of man.

The GOLDFINCHES.

T

By Mr. JAGO.

An Elegy.

Ingenuas didiciffe fideliter arets

Emollit mores, nec finit effe feros.

O you, whofe groves protect the feather'd quires
Who lend their artless notes a willing ear,

To you, whom pity moves, and taste inspires,
The Doric ftrain belongs; O Shenstone, hear.

"Twas gentle spring, when all the tuneful race, By nature taught, in nuptial leagues combine: A goldfinch joy'd to meet the warm embrace,

And hearts and fortunes with her mate to join.

III. Thro

Thro' Nature's spacious walks at large they rang'd,
No fettled haunts, no fix'd abode their aim;
As chance or fancy led, their path they chang'd,
T'hemselves, in ev'ry vary'd fcene, the fame.

Till on a day to weighty cares refign'd,

With mutual choice, alternate, they agreed,
On rambling thoughts no more to turn their mind,
But fettle foberly, and raise a breed.

All in a garden, on a currant-bush,

With wond'rous art they built their waving feat:
In the next orchat liv'd a friendly thrush,
Nor diftant far, a woodlark's soft retreat.

Here bleft with ease, and in each other bleft,

With early fongs they wak'd the sprightly groves, Till time matur'd their bliss, or crown'd their neft With infant-pledges of their faithful loves.

And now what transport glow'd in either's eye!
What equal fondness dealt th' allotted food!
What joy each other's likeness to defcry,
And future fonnets in the chirping brood!

But ah! what earthly happiness can last ?
How does the fairest purpose often fail?
A truant-fchool-boy's wantonnefs could blaft
Their rifing hopes, and leave them both to wail.

The

The most ungentle of his tribe was he;

No gen'rous precept ever touch'd his heart : With concords falfe, and hideous profody

He fcrawl'd his task, and blunder'd o'er his part.

On barb'rous plunder bent, with favage eye

He mark'd where wrapt in down the younglins lay, Then rushing feiz'd the wretched family,

And bore them in his impious hands away.

But how fhall I relate in numbers rude

The pangs for poor Chryfomitris decreed! When from a neigh'bring spray aghast she view'd The cruel spoiler perpetrate the deed!

So wrapt in grief fome heart-ftruck matron stands, While horrid flames furround her children's room! On heav'n fhe calls, and wrings her trembling hands, Conftrain'd to fee, but not prevent their doom.

66

O grief of griefs! with fhrieking voice she cry'd, "What fight is this that I have liv'd fo fee? "O! that I had a maiden-goldfinch died,

"From love's false joys, and bitter forrows free?

"Was it for this, alas! with weary bill,

"Was it for this, I pois'd th' unwieldy ftraw? "For this I pick'd the mofs from yonder hill? "Nor fhun'd the pond'rous chat along to draw?

Chryfomitris, it seems, is the name for a goldfinch.

Was it for this, I cull'd the wool with care ?
"And ftrove with all my skill our work to crown'?
For this, with pain I bent the stubborn hair?
"And lin'd our cradle with the thistle's down?

Was it for this, my freedom I refign'd;

"And ceas'd to rove from beauteous plain to plain ? "For this I fate at home whole days confin'd, "And bore the fcorching heat, and pealing rain?

"Was it for this, my watchful eyes grow dim?
"The crimson roses on my cheek turn pale?
"Pale is my golden plumage, once fo trim;
"And all my wonted fpirits 'gin to fail.

"O plund'rer vile! O more than weezel fell!

"More treach'rous than the cat with prudish face! "More fierce than kites with whom the furies dwell! "More pilf'ring than the cuckow's prowling race!

"For thee may plumb or goofb'ry never grow,
"No juicy currant cool thy clammy throat:
"But bloody birch-twigs work thee fhameful woe,
" Nor ever goldfinch cheer thee with her note."

Thus fang the mournful bird her piteous tale;

The piteous tale her mournful mate return'd:
Then fide by fide they fought the distant vale,
And there in filent sadness inly mourn'd.
VOL. IV.

X

The