Canst thou, O Sun! that spotless throne disclose,
Where her bold arm has left no sanguine stain?
Where, show me where, the lineal sceptre glows,
Pure as the simple crook that rules the plain?
Tremendous pomp! where hate, distrust, and fear,
In kindred bosoms solve the social tie;
There not the parent's smile is half sincere,

Nor void of art the consort's melting eye.

There with the friendly wish, the kindly flame,
No face is brighten’d and no bosoms beat;
Youth, manhood, age, avow one sordid aim,
And ev❜n the beardless lip essays deceit.

There cowardRumours walk their murderous round;
The glance that more than rural blame instils:
Whispers that ting'd with friendship, doubly wound;
Pity that injures, and concern that kills.

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

There all men smile, and prudence warns the sage
To dread the fatal stroke of all that smile.

There all are rivals! sister, son, and sire,

With horrid purpose hug destructive arms; There soft-ey'd maids in murderous plots conspire, And scorn the gentler mischief of their charms. Let servile minds one endless watch endure! Day, night, nor hour, their anxious guard resign ; But lay me, Fate! on flowery banks secure, Though my whole soul be, like my limbs, supine. Yes, may my tongue disdain a vassal's care; My lyre resound no prostituted lays;

More warm to merit, more elate to wear

The cap of Freedom than the crown of bays.

Sooth'd by the murmurs of my pebbled flood,
I wish it not o'er golden sands to flow:
Cheer'd by the verdure of my spiral wood,

I scorn the quarry where no shrub can grow. No midnight pangs the shepherd's peace pursue; His tongue, his hand, attempts no secret wound; He sings his Delia; and, if she be true,

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

HE TAKES OCCASION, FROM THE FATE OF ELEANOR OF BRETAGNE*, TO SUGGEST THE IMPERFECT PLEASURES OF A SOLITARY LIFE.

WHEN Beauty mourns, by Fate's injurious doom, Hid from the cheerful glance of human eye; When Nature's pride inglorious waits the tomb, Hard is that heart which checks the rising sigh. Fair Eleonora ! would no gallant mind

The cause of Love, the cause of Justice, own? Matchless thy charms, and was no life resign'd,

To see them sparkle from their native throne ? Or had fair Freedom's hand unveil'd thy charms, Well might such brows the regal gem resign; Thy radiant mien might scorn the guilt of arms, Yet Albion's awful empire yield to thine.

O shame of Britons! in one sullen tow'r

She wet with royal tears her daily cell; She found keen anguish every rose devour: They sprung, they shone, they faded, and they fell.

* Eleanor of Bretagne, the lawful heiress of the English crown, upon the death of Arthur, in the reign of King John. She was esteemed the beauty of her time; was imprisoned forty years (till the time of her death) in Bristol Castle.

Through one dim lattice, fring'd with ivy round,
Successive suns 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 sated Fancy palls,
Nor warmly hopes what splendour can supply;
Fond youth incessant mourns, if rigid walls
Restrain its listening 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
The' alternate pant for pleasure and for praise.
Ev'n me, by shady oak, or limpid spring,

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 though thy riper mind admire no more—
The shining cincture and the broider'd fold
Can pierce like lightning through the figur'd ore,
And melt to dross the radiant forms of gold.
'Furs, ermines, rods, may well attract thy scorn,
The futile presents of capricious Pow'r!
But wit, but worth, the public sphere adorn;
And who but envies then the social hour?
'Can Virtue, careless of her pupil's meed,
Forget how ** sustains the shepherd's cause ?
Content in shades to tune a lonely reed,

Nor join the sounding pean of applause ?
"For public haunts, impell'd by Britain's weal,
See Grenville quit the Muse's favourite ease;
And shall not swains admire his noble zeal?
Admiring praise, admiring strive to please?

Life (says the sage) affords no bliss sincere, And courts and cells in vain our hopes renew; But ah! where Grenville charms the listening ear, 'Tis hard to think the cheerless maxim true. The groves may smile, the rivers gently glide, Soft through the vale resound the lonesome lay; E'en thickets yield delight, if taste preside, But can they please when Lyttelton's away Pure as the swain's the breast of ** glows; Ah, were the shepherd's phrase like his refin'd! But how improv'd the generous dictate flows

Through the clear medium of a polish'd mind!
'Happy the youths who, warm with Britain's love,
Her inmost wish in ** periods hear!
Happy that in the radiant circle move,

Attendant orbs, where Lonsdale gilds the sphere!
While rural faith, and ev'ry polish'd art,
Each friendly charm, in *** conspire.

From public scenes all pensive must you part;
All joyless to the greenest fields retire!

Go, plaintive youth! no more by fount or stream,
Like some lone halcyon, social pleasure shun;
Go, dare the light; enjoy its cheerful beam,
And hail the bright procession of the sun.
Then, cover'd by thy ripen'd shades, resume
The silent walk, no more by passion toss'd;
Then seek thy rustic haunts, the dreary gloom,
Where every art that colours life is lost.'-
In vain! the listening Muse attends in vain!
Restraints in hostile bands her motions wait
Yet will I grieve, and sadden all my strain,
When injur'd Beauty mourns the Muse's fate.

TO DELIA, WITH SOME FLOWERS:

COMPLAINING HOW MUCH HIS BENEVOLENCE SUFFERS ON ACCOUNT OF HIS HUMBLE FORTUNE.

WHATE'ER Could Sculpture's curious art employ, Whate'er the lavish hand of Wealth can show'r, These would I give-and every gift enjoy

That pleas'd my fair-but Fate denies my pow'r.

Bless'd were my lot to feed the social fires!
To learn the latent wishes of a friend!
To give the boon his native taste admires,
And for my transport on his smile depend!

Bless'd, too, is he whose evening ramble strays
Where droop the sons of Indigence and care!
His little gifts their gladden'd eyes amaze,

And win, at small expense, their fondest pray'r !

And, oh! the joy, to shun the conscious light;

To spare the modest blush; to give unseen: Like showers that fall behind the veil of night,

Yet deeply tinge the smiling vales with green.

But happiest they who drooping realms relieve!
Whose virtues in our cultur'd vales appear!
For whose sad fate a thousand shepherds grieve,
And fading fields allow the grief sincere.

To call lost Worth from its oppressive shade,
To fix its equal sphere, and see it shine;
To hear it grateful own the generous aid;
This, this is transport-but must ne'er be mine!