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EL EGY X.

To fortune, fuggefting his motive for repining at her

difpenfations.

SK not the caufe, why this rebellious tongue

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Loads with fresh curfes thy detefted fway;

Ask not, thus branded in my softest song,

Why ftands the flatter'd name, which all obey?

'Tis not, that in my shed I lurk forlorn,
Nor fee 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 fupinely laid,
I fing or pipe, but to the flocks that graze ;
And, all inglorious, in the lonesome shade,
My finger ftiffens, and
my voice decays.

Not, that my fancy mourns thy ftern command,
When many an embrio dome is loft 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;

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Nor let yon rifing column more aspire;

Ah! better dwell in ruins, than behold

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Thy fortunes mould'ring, and thy domes entire.

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"HONORIO

"HONORIO built, but dar'd my laws defy; "He planted, scornful of my fage 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 murm'ring tide O'er fome rough rock that wou'd its wealth display, Difplays it aught but penury and pride?

Ah! conftrue wifely what fuch murmurs fay.

How wou'd fome flood, with ampler treasures blest,
Difdainful view the fcantling drops diftil!

How muft * VELINO shake his reedy crest!
How ev'ry cygnet mock the boastive rill !

Fortune, I yield! and fee, I give the fign;

At noon the poor mechanic wanders home; Collects the fquare, the level, and the line,

And, with retorted eye, forfakes the dome.

Yes, I can patient view the fhadelefs plains;
Can unrepining leave the rifing wall;
Check the fond love of art that fir'd my veins,
And my warm hopes, in full purfuit, recall.

A river in ITALY, that falls an hundred yards perpendicular.

Defcend,

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Descend, ye ftorms! deftroy my rifing pile;
Loos'd be the whirlwind's unremitting fway;
Contented I, altho' the gazer fmile

To see it scarce furvive a winter's day.

Let fome dull dotard bask in thy gay fhrine,
As in the fun regales his wanton herd;
Guiltless of envy, why fhou'd I repine,

That his rude voice, his grating reed's prefer'd?

Let him exult, with boundless wealth supply'd,
Mine and the swain's reluctant homage share;
But ah! his tawdry fhepherdefs's pride,

Gods! muft my DELIA, muft my DELIA bear?

Muft DELIA's foftnefs, elegance, and ease

Submit to MARIAN's drefs? to MARIAN'S gold? Muft MARIAN's robe from diftant INDIA pleafe? The fimple fleece my DELIA's limbs enfold?

"Yet fure on DELIA feems the ruffet fair;
"Ye glitt❜ring daughters of difguise adieu!"
So talk the wife, who judge of fhape and air,
But will the rural thane decide fo true?

Ah! what is native worth esteem'd of clowns? 'Tis thy false glare, O fortune! thine they see: 'Tis for my DELIA's fake I dread thy frowns, And my last gafp fhall curfes breathe on thee.

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ELEGY XI.

He complains how foon the pleafing novelty of life is over. To Mr. J

A

H me, my friend! it will not, will not laft! This fairy-fcene, that cheats our youthful eyes! The charm diffolves; th' aerial mufic's paft

The banquet ceases, and the vifion flies.

Where are the splendid forms, the rich perfumes,
Where the gay tapers, where the fpacious dome?
Vanish'd the coftly pearls, the crimson plumes,
And we, delightlefs, left to wander home!

Vain now are books, the fage's wifdom vain!
What has the world to bribe our steps aftray?
Ere reafon learns by study'd laws to reign,

The weaken'd paffions, felf-fubdued, obey.

Scarce has the fun fev'n annual courfes roll'd,
Scarce fhewn the whole that fortune can fupply;

Since, not the mifer fo carefs'd his gold,

As I, for what it gave, was heard to figh,

On the world's ftage I wish'd fome sprightly part;
To deck my native fleece with tawdry lace;
'Twas life, 'twas taste, and-oh my foolish heart!
Subftantial joy was fix'd in pow'r and place.

And

And you, ye works of art! allur'd mine eye, The breathing picture, and the living stone : "Tho' gold, tho' splendour, heav'n and fate deny, "Yet might I call one Titian ftroke my own!"

Smit with the charms of fame, whofe lovely spoil,
The wreath, the garland, fire the poet's pride,
I trim'd my lamp, confum'd the midnight oil—
But foon the paths of health and fame divide !

Oft too I pray'd, 'twas nature form'd the pray'r,
To grace my native scenes, my rural home;
To see my trees express their planter's care,
And gay, on Attic models, raise my dome.

But now 'tis o'er, the dear delufion's o'er!
A ftagnant breezelefs air becalms my foul:
A fond afpiring candidate no more,

I scorn the palm, before I reach the goal,

O youth! enchanting ftage, profufely bleft!
Blifs ev'n obtrufive courts the frolic mind
Of health neglectful, yet by health careft ;
Careless of favour, yet fecure to find,

Then glows the breast, as op'ning roses fair;
More free, more vivid than the linnet's wing;
Honeft as light, transparent ev'n as air,

Tender as buds, and lavish as the fpring.

Not

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