Couldst thou reprove me, when I nurs'd the flame I footh'd the biafs of a careless mind. Youth's gentle kindred, health and love were met; Thou know'ft how transport thrills the tender breaft, Where love and fancy fix their op'ning reign; How nature shines in livelier colours drest, To bless their union, and to grace their train. So first when PHOEBUS met the Cyprian queen, And swift spontaneous roses blufh'd around. Now fadly lorn, from TWITNAM's widow'd bow'r, Where is the dappled pink, the sprightly rofe? Enough Ah might we now the pious rage controul! Hush'd be my grief ere ev'ry smile be fled, Ere the deep fwelling figh fubvert the foul! If near fome trophy spring a stripling bay, Pleas'd we behold the graceful umbrage rife; But foon too deep it works its baneful way, And, low on earth, the proftrate * ruin lies. * Alludes to what is reported of the bay-tree, that if it is planted too near the walls of an edifice, its roots will work their way underneath, till they deftroy the foundation. VOL. I. ELEGY I' NE'ER muft tinge my lip with Celtic wines; Down yonder brook my crystal bev'rage flows; And, from my grove, I hear the throstle fing. My fellow fwains! avert your dazled eyes; They gave you vigour from your parent's veins ; They gave you toils; but toils your finews brace; They gave you nymphs, that own their amorous pains, And fhades, the refuge of the gentle race. To carve your loves, to paint your mutual flames, To fing foft carrols to your lovely dames, Wou'dft Tho' fure the wreaths of chivalry to share, Forego the ribbon thy MATILDA gave? And giving, bade thee in remembrance wear. Ill fare my peace, but ev'ry idle toy, If to my mind my DELIA's form it brings, Has truer worth, imparts fincerer joy, Than all that bears the radiant ftamp of kings. my foul weeps, my breaft with anguish bleeds, When love deplores the tyrant pow'r of gain! Difdaining riches as the futile weeds, I rife fuperior, and the rich difdain. Oft from the stream, flow-wandering down the glade,' Penfive I hear the nuptial peal rebound; "Some mifer weds, I cry, the captive maid, "And fome fond lover fickens at the found." Not SOMERVILLE, the mufe's friend of old, Scorn'd be the wretch that quits his genial bowl, His loves, his friendships, ev'n his self, resigns; Perverts the facred instinct of his foul, And to a ducate's dirty sphere confines. But come, my friend, with tafte, with science bleft, Ere age impair me, and ere gold allure; Restore thy dear idea to my breast, The rich depofit shall the fhrine fecure. Let others toil to gain the fordid ore, The charms of independence let us fing; Bleft with thy friendship, can I wish for more? I'll spurn the boasted wealth of * LYDIA's king. Crafus. ELEGY |