O lov'd fimplicity! be thine the prize!
Affiduous art correct her page in vain!
His be the palm who, guiltlefs of difguife,
Contemns the pow'r, the dull refource to feign!

Still may the mourner, lavish of his tears
For lucre's venal meed, invite my scorn!
Still may the bard diffembling doubts and fears,
For praise, for flatt'ry fighing, figh forlorn!

Soft as the line of love-fick HAMMOND flows, 'Twas his fond heart effus'd the melting theme; Ah! never could AONIA's hill difclofe

So fair a fountain, or fo lov'd a stream.

Ye loveless bards! intent with artful pains-
To form a figh, or to contrive a tear!
Forgo your Pindus, and on- plains

Survey CAMILLA's charms, and grow fincere.

But thou, my friend! while in thy youthful foul
Love's gentle tyrant feats his aweful throne,
Write from thy bofom-let not art controul
The ready pen, that makes his edicts known.

Pleafing when youth is long expir'd, to trace

The forms our pencil, or our pen defign'd! "Such was our youthful air and fhape and face! "Such the foft image of our youthful mind!

Soft

Soft whilft we fleep beneath the rural bow'rs,
The loves and graces fteal unfeen away;
And where the turf diffus'd its pomp of flow'rs,
We wake to wint❜ry scenes of chill decay !

Curfe the fad fortune that detains thy fair;
Praise the soft hours that gave thee to her arms;
Paint thy proud fcorn of ev'ry vulgar care,

When hope exalts thee, or when doubt alarms.

Where with CENONE thou haft worn the day,
Near fount or stream, in meditation, rove;

If in the grove CENONE lov'd to ftray,

The faithful mufe fhall meet thee in the

grove,

ELEGY

On pofthumous reputation. To a friend.

GRIEF of griefs! that envy's frantic ire

Should rob the living virtue of its praise !

O foolish muses! that with zeal aspire

To deck the cold infenfate shrine with bays!

When the free spirit quits her humble frame,
To tread the skies with radiant garlands crown'd,
Say, will fhe hear the distant voice of fame?
Or hearing, fancy sweetness in the found?

Perhaps ev'n genius pours a flighted lay;

Perhaps ev❜n friendship sheds a fruitless tear ;
Ev'n LYTTELTON but vainly trims the bay,
And fondly graces HAMMOND's mournful bier.

Tho' weeping virgins haunt his favour'd urn,
Renew their chaplets, and repeat their fighs;
Tho', near his tomb, Sabæan odours burn,

The loit'ring fragrance will it reach the skies?

No, fhou'd his DELIA Votive wreaths prepare,
DELIA might place the votive wreaths in vain :

Yet the dear hope of DELIA's future care

Once crown'd his pleafures, and difpell'd his pain.

Yes

Yes-the fair profpect of furviving praise
Can ev'ry fenfe of present joys excel:
For this, great HADRIAN chofe laborious days;
Thro' this, expiring, bade a gay farewel.

Shall then our youths, who fame's bright fabric raise,
To life's precarious date confine their care?
O teach them you, to spread the facred bafe,
To plan a work, thro' lateft ages fair!

Is it fmall tranfport, as with curious eye

You trace the story of each Attic fage,
To think your blooming praise fhall time defy?
Shall waft like odours thro' the pleasing page

To mark the day, when, thro' the bulky tome,
Around your name the varying style refines?
And readers call their loft attention home,

Led by that index where true genius fhines?

Ah let not BRITONS doubt their focial aim,
Whose ardent bofoms catch this ancient fire!

old intereft melts before the vivid flame,

And patriot ardours, but with life, expire!

?

VOL. I.

C

ELEGY

On the untimely death of a certain learned acquaintance.

F proud PYGMALION quit his cumbrous frame,

IF

Funereal pomp the scanty tear fupplies ; Whilft heralds loud with venal voice proclaim, Lo! here the brave and the puiffant lies.

When humbler ALCON leaves his drooping friends,
Pageant nor plume diftinguish ALCON's bier;
The faithful mufe with votive fong attends,
And blots the mournful numbers with a tear.

He little knew the fly penurious art;

That odious art which fortune's fav'rites know; Form'd to beftow, he felt the warmest heart, But envious fate forbade him to beftow.

He little knew to ward the fecret wound;
He little knew that mortals cou'd enfnare;
Virtue he knew; the nobleft joy he found,

To fing her glories, and to paint her fair!

Ill was he fkill'd to guide his wand'ring fheep;
And unforeseen difafter thin'd his fold;
Yet, at another's lofs, the fwain would weep;

And, for his friend, his very crook were fold.

Ye