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To his lov'd haunts, or dearer friend, return! What art! what friendships! oh! what fame refign'd! -In yonder glade I trace his mournful urn.

Where is the breast can rage or hate retain,

And thefe glad Atreams and smiling lawns behold? Where is the breast can hear the woodland ftrain, And think fair freedom well exchang'd for gold!

Thro' thefe foft fhades delighted let me stray,

While o'er my head forgotten funs descend ! Thro' these dear valleys bend my cafual way, 'Till setting life a total fhade extend!

Here far from courts, and void of pompous cares,
I'll mufe how much I owe mine humbler fate:
Or fhrink to find, how much ambition dares,
To fhine in anguifh, and to grieve in state!

Canft thou, O fun that spotlefs throne difclofe,
Where her bold arm has left no fanguine ftain ?
Where, fhew me where, the lineal fcepter glows,
Pure, as the fimple crook, that rules the plain?

Tremendous pomp where hate, diftrust, and fear,
In kindred bofoms folve the focial tie;

There not the parent's fmile is half fincere';
Nor void of art the confort's melting eye.

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There with the friendly with, the kindly fame,
No face is brighten'd, and no bofoms beat;
Youth, manhood, age, avow one fordid aim,
And ev❜n the beardless lip effays deceit.

There coward rumours walk their murd'rous round;

;

The glance, that more than rural blame inftills Whispers, that ting'd with friendship doubly wound, Pity that injures, and concern that kills.

There anger whets, but love can ne'er engage;
Careffing brothers part but to revile;

There all men fmile, and prudence warns the wife,
To dread the fatal ftroke of all that fmile.

There all are rivals! fifter, fon, and fire,
With horrid purpofe hug deftructive arms;
There foft-ey'd maids in murd'rous plots confpire,
And scorn the gentler mischief of their charms.

Let fervile minds one endlefs watch endure;

Day, night, nor hour, their anxious guard refign; But lay me, fate! on flow'ry banks, secure Tho' my whole foul be, like my limbs, fupine,

Yes, may my tongue difdain a vaffal's care;
My lyre refound no prostituted lay;
More warm to merit, more elate to wear
The cap of freedom, than the crown of bays.

Sooth'd

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

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He takes occafion from the fate of ELEANOR of BRE→ TAGNE, to fuggeft the imperfect pleasures 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 caufe of justice own? Matchless 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 anguifh 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 efteemed the beauty of her time; was imprifoned forty years (till the time of her death) in Bristol castle.

Thro'

Succeffive funs a languid radiance threw ; To paint how fierce her angry guardian frown'd, To mark how fast 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 Restrain its lift'ning ear, its curious eye.

Believe me

the pretence is vain!

This boasted 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 whispers "Life is on the wing,
And hard his lot that languishes 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

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