TO A FRIEND,

ON SOME SLIGHT OCCASION ESTRANGED FROM HIM.

HEALTH to my friend, and many a cheerful day!
Around his seat may peaceful shades abide !
Smooth flow the minutes, fraught with smiles, away,
And till they crown our union gently glide!
Ah me! too swiftly fleets our vernal bloom!
Lost to our wonted friendship, lost to joy !
Soon may thy breast the cordial wish resume,

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;
For me no more the vernal roses bloom!
I see stern Fate his ebon wand display,

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 то VISIT FOREIGN

TO INTIMATE

COUNTRIES, HE TAKES OCCASION
THE ADVANTAGES OF HIS OWN.

TO LORD TEMPLE.

WHILE others, lost to friendship, lost to love,
Waste their best minutes on a foreign strand,
Be mine with British nymph or swain to rove,
And court the genius of my native land.
Deluded youth! that quits these verdant plains,
To catch the follies of an alien soil!
To win the vice his genuine soul disdains,
Return exultant, and import the spoil!

In vain he boasts of his detested prize;
No more it blooms, to British climes convey'd:
Cramp'd by the impulse of ungenial skies,

See its fresh vigour in a moment fade!

The' exotic folly knows its native clime,

An aukward stranger, if we waft it o'er : Why then these toils, this costly waste of time, To spread soft poison on our happy shore?

I covet not the pride of foreign looms:

In search of foreign modes I scorn to rove;
Nor for the worthless bird of brighter plumes
Would change the meanest warbler of my grove.
No distant clime shall servile airs impart,

Or form these limbs with pliant ease to play;
Trembling I view the Gaul's illusive art
That steals my lov'd rusticity away.

'Tis long since Freedom fled the' Hesperian clime, Her citron groves, her flower-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 wars'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 power decay'd!

The cinnamon.

No crescent here displays its baneful horns;
No turban'd host the voice of Truth reproves;
Learning's free source the sage's breast adorns,
And poets, not inglorious, chant their loves.
Boast, favour'd Media! boast thy flowery stores;
Thy thousand hues by chemic suns refin'd;
'Tis not the dress or mien my soul adores,
'Tis the rich beauties of Britannia's mind.
While Grenville's*breast could virtue's stores afford,
What envied flota bore so fair a freight?
The mine compar'd in vain its latent hoard,
The gem its lustre, and the gold its weight.
Thee, Grenville! thee,with calmest courage fraught!
Thee, the lov'd image of thy native shore!
Thee, by the Virtues arm'd, the Graces taught!
When shall we cease to boast or to deplore?

Presumptuous War, which could thy life destroy,
What shall it now in recompense decree?
While friends, that merit every earthly joy,
Feel every anguish ; feel-the loss of thee!'
Bid me no more a servile realm compare,
No more the Muse of partial praise arraign;
Britannia sees no foreign breast so fair,
And if she glory, glories not in vain.

* Written about the time of Captain Grenville's death,

IN MEMORY OF A PRIVATE FAMILY,*

IN WORCESTERSHIRE.

FROM a lone tower with reverend ivy crown'd,
The pealing bell awak'd a tender sigh;
Still as the village caught the waving sound,
A swelling tear distream'd from every eye.

So droop'd, I ween, each Briton's breast of old,
When the dull curfew spoke their freedom fled;
For sighing as the mournful accent roll'd,

'Our hope, (they cried) our kind support, is dead! "Twas good Palemon!-Near a shaded pool, A group of ancient elms umbrageous rose; The flocking rooks, by Instinct's native rule, This peaceful scene for their asylum chose.

A few small spires, to gothic fancy fair,

Amid the shades emerging, struck the view; "Twas here his youth respir'd its earliest air;

'Twas here his age breath'd out its last adieu. One favour'd son engag'd his tenderest care; One pious youth his whole affection crown'd; In his young breast the virtues sprung so fair, Such charms display'd,such sweets diffus'd around. But whilst gay transport in his face appears,

A noxious vapour clogs the poison'd sky, Blasts the fair crop-the sire is drown'd in tears, And, scarce surviving, sees his Cynthio die!

*The Penns of Harborough ; a place whose name in the Saxon language alludes to an army: and there is a tradition that there was a battle fought on the Downs adjoining, betwixt the Britons and the Romans.