Oft too I pray'd, 'twas Nature form'd the pray'r, I scorn the palm before I reach the goal. Then glows the breast, as opening roses fair; Tender as buds, and lavish as the spring. Not all the force of manhood's active might, The self-same hawthorns bud, and cowslips blow! O life! how soon of every bliss forlorn! We start false joys, and urge the devious race; A tender prey; that cheers our youthful morn, Then sinks untimely, and defrauds the chase. HIS RECANTATION. No more the Muse obtrudes her thin disguise, No more she paints the breast from passion free; I feel, I feel one loitering wish survive Ah! need I, Florio, name that wish to thee? The star of Venus ushers in the day, The first, the loveliest of the train that shine! The star of Venus lends her brightest ray, When other stars their friendly beams resign. Still in my breast one soft desire remains, Pure as that star, from guilt, from interest, free; Has gentle Delia tripp'd across the plains, And need I, Florio, name that wish to thee? While, cloy'd to find the scenes of life the same, I tune with careless hand my languid lays, Some secret impulse wakes my former flame, And fires my strain with hopes of brighter days. I slept not long beneath yon rural bowers, And lo! my crook with flow'rs adorn'd I see ; Has gentle Delia bound my crook with flowers, And need I, Florio, name my hopes to thee? TO A FRIEND, ON SOME SLIGHT OCCASION ESTRANGED FROM HIM. HEALTH to my friend, and many a cheerful day! Lost to our wonted friendship, lost to joy! Ere wintry doubt its tender warmth destroy! Say, were it ours, by Fortune's wild command, By chance to meet beneath the torrid zone, Wouldst thou reject thy Damon's plighted hand? Wouldst thou with scorn thy once-lov'd friend disown? Life is that stranger land, that alien clime; Shall kindred souls forego their social claim? Launch'd in the vast abyss of space and time, Shall dark suspicion quench the generous flame? Myriads of souls, that knew one parent mould, See sadly sever'd by the laws of Chance! Myriads, in Time's perennial list enroll'd, Forbid by Fate to change one transient glance! But we have met-where ills of every form, Where passions rage, and hurricanes descend; Say, shall we nurse the rage, assist the storm, And guide them to the bosom-of a friend? Yes, we have met-through rapine, fraud, and wrong: Might our joint aid the paths of peace explore! Why leave thy friend amid the boisterous throng, Ere death divide us, and we part no more? For, oh! pale Sickness warns thy friend away; And point the wither'd regions of the tomb. Then the keen anguish from thine eye shall start, Sad as thou follow'st my untimely bier; Fool that I was-if friends so soon must part,To let suspicion intermix a fear.' DECLINING AN INVITATION TO VISIT FOREIGN COUNTRIES, HE TAKES OCCASION TO INTIMATE THE ADVANTAGES OF HIS OWN. TO LORD TEMPLE. WHILE others, lost to friendship, lost to love, No more it blooms, to British climes convey'd ; The' exotic folly knows its native clime, I covet not the pride of foreign looms : In search of foreign modes I scorn to rove; Or form these limbs with pliant ease to play; 'Tis long since Freedom fled the' Hesperian clime, Her citron groves, her flow'r-embroider'd shore; She saw the British oak aspire sublime, And soft Campania's olive charms no more. Let partial suns mature the western mine, To shed its lustre o'er the' Iberian maid; Mien, beauty, shape, O native soil! are thine; Thy peerless daughters ask no foreign aid. Let Ceylon's envied plant' perfume the seas, Till torn to season the Batavian bowl; Ours is the breast whose genuine ardours please, Nor need a drug to meliorate the soul. Let the proud Soldan wound the' Arcadian groves, Or with rude lips the' Aonian fount profane; The Muse no more by flowery Ladon roves, She seeks her Thomson on the British plain. Tell not of realms by ruthless war dismay'd; Ah! hapless realms! that war's oppression feel! In vain may Austria boast her Noric blade, If Austria bleed beneath her boasted steel. Beneath her palm Idume vents her moan; Raptur'd, she once beheld its friendly shade; And hoary Memphis boasts her tombs alone, The mournful types of mighty pow'r decay'd! 1 The cinnamon. |