Sooth'd by the murmurs of my pebbled flood,
I wish it not o'er golden fands to flow;
Chear'd by the verdure of my spiral wood,

I fcorn the quarry, where no fhrub can grow.

No midnight pangs the fhepherd's peace purfue;
His tongue, his hand, attempts no fecret wound;
He fings his DELIA, and if she be true,

His love at once, and his ambition's crown'd,

ELEGY

ELE GY XXIV.

He takes occafion from the fate of ELEANOR of BRET TAGNE*, to fuggeft the imperfect pleafures of a folitary life.

Hen beauty mourns, by fate's injurious doom,

WH

Hid from the chearful glance of human eye; When nature's pride inglorious waits the tomb, Hard is that heart which checks the rifing figh,

Fair ELEONORA! wou'd no gallant mind

The cause of love, the cause of juftice own? Matchlefs thy charms, and was no life refign'd

To see them sparkle from their native throne?

Or had fair freedom's hand unveil'd thy charms,
Well might fuch brows the regal gem refign;
Thy radiant mien might fcorn the guilt of arms,
Yet ALBION's aweful empire yield to thine.

O fhame of BRITONS! in one fullen tow'r
She wet with royal tears her daily cell;
She found keen anguish ev'ry rofe devour;

They sprung, they fhone, they faded, and they fell

* ELEANOR OF BRETAGNE, the lawful heirefs of the English crown, upon the death of ARTHUR, in the reign of king JOHN. She was esteemed the beauty of her time; was imprifoned forty years (till the time of her death) in Bristol castle.

Thro'

Thro' one dim lattice fring'd with ivy round,
Succeffive funs a languid radiance threw ;

To paint how fierce her angry guardian frown'd,
To mark how faft her waning beauty flew.

This, age might bear, then fated fancy palls,
Nor warmly hopes what fplendor can fupply;
Fond youth inceffant mourns, if rigid walls
Reftrain its lift'ning ear, its curious eye.

Believe me **** the pretence is vain!
This boafted calm that smooths our early days,
For never yet could youthful mind restrain
Th' alternate pant for pleasure and for praise.

Ev'n me, by fhady oak or limpid fpring,
Ev'n 'me, the scenes of polish'd life allure;
Some genius whifpers "Life is on the wing,
And hard his lot that languifhes obscure.

What tho' thy riper mind admire no more

The fhining cincture, and the broider'd fold Can pierce like light'ning thro' the figur'd ore, And melt to drofs the radiant forms of gold,

Furs, ermins, rods may well attract thy scorn
The futile prefents of capricious pow'r !
But wit, but worth, the public sphere adorn,

And who but envies then the focial hour?

Can

Can virtue, careless of her pupil's meed,

Forget how * *

* fuftains the shepherd's caufe?

Content in fhades to tune a lonely reed,
Nor join the founding pæan of applause ?

For public haunts, impell'd by BRITAIN'S weal,
See GRENVILLE quit the mufe's fav'rite ease;
And fhall not fwains admire his noble zeal?
Admiring praise, admiring strive to please?

Life, fays the fage, affords no blifs fincere ;
And courts, and cells in vain our hopes renew:
But ah! where GRENVILLE charms the lift'ning ear,
"Tis hard to think the chearless maxim trué.

The groves may smile; the rivers gently glide;
Soft thro' the vale refound the lonesome lay;
Ev'n thickets yield delight, if taste prefide,
But can they please. when LYTTELTON's away?

Pure as the fwain's the breast of *

glows,

Ah! were the fhepherd's phrase, like his, refin'd! But, how improv'd the generous dictate flows Thro' the clear medium of a polish'd mind!

Happy the youths who warm with BRITAIN's love,
Her inmoft wifh in *** periods hear!
Happy that in the radiant circle inove,

Attendant orbs, where LONSDALE gilds the fphere!

While

While rural faith, and every polish'd art,
Each friendly charm, in * * * confpire,
From public scenes all penfive must you part;
All joyless to the greenest fields retire!

Go, plaintive youth! no more by fount or stream,
Like fome lone halcyon, focial pleasure fhun;
Go dare the light, enjoy its chearful beam,
And hail the bright proceffion of the fun.

Then cover'd by thy ripen'd fhades, resume
The filent walk; no more by paffion toft:
Then seek thy ruftic haunts; the dreary gloom,
Where ev'ry art that colours life, is lost.”—

In vain! the lift'ning muse attends in vain!

Restraints in hoftile bands her motions wait-Yet will I grieve, and fadden all my ftrain, When injur'd beauty mourns the mufe's fate.

ELEGY