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O lov'd simplicity! be thine the prize !
Asiduous art correct her page in vain ! His be the palm who, guiltless of disguise,
Contemns the pow’r, the dul) resource to feign!
Still may the mourner, lavish of his tears
For lucre's venal meed, invite my fcorn! Still
may the bard dissembling doubts and fears, For praise, for flatt'ry sighing, sigh forlorn!
Soft as the line of love-fick HAMMOND Pows,
'Twas his fond heart effus'd the melting theme; Ah! never could Aonia's hill disclose
So fair a fountain, or so lov'd a stream,
Ye loveless bards ! intent with artful pains
To form a sigh, or to contrive a tear! Forgo your Pindus, and on plains
Survey Camilla's charms, and grow sincere.
But thou, my friend! while in thy youthful soul
Love's gentle tyrant seats his aweful throne, Write from thy bosom-let not art controul
The ready pen, that makes his edicts known.
Pleasing when youth is long expir'd, to trace
The forms our pencil, or our pen delignd ! “Such was our youthful air and shape and face ! “Such the soft image of our youthful mind!
Soft whilst we seep beneath the rural bow'rs,
The loves and graces steal unseen away ; And where the turf diffusd its
of Aow'rs, We wake to wint’ry scenes of chill decay !
Curse the fad fortune that detains thy fair ;
Praise the soft hours that gave thee to her arms; Paint thy proud scorn of ev'ry vulgar care,
When hope exalts thee, or when doubt alarms.
Where with none thou hast worn the day,
Near fount or stream, in meditation, rove; If in the grove none lov'd to stray,
The faithful muse shall meet thee in the grove.
E L EGY
On pofthumous reputation. To a friend.
O 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 insensate shrine with bays !
When the free spirit quits her humble frame,
To tread the skies with radiant garlands crown'd, Say, will she hear the distant voice of fame?
Or hearing, fancy sweetness in the found?
Perhaps ev'n genius pours a Nighted lay ;
Perhaps ev'n friendship sheds a fruitless tear; Evn 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 sighs ; Tho', near his tomb, Sabæan odours burn,
The loit'ring fragrance will it reach the skies?
No, shou'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 pleasures, and dispe!l'd his pain.
Yes—the fair prospect of surviving praise
Can ev'ry sense of present joys excel :
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 sacred base,
To plan a work, thro' latest ages fair!
Is it small transport, as with curious eye
You trace the story of each Attic sage,
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 shines ?
Ah let not Britons doubt their social aim,
Whose ardent bosoms catch this ancient fire !
On the untimely death of a certain learned acquaintance.
Funereal pomp the scanty tear fupplies; Whilft heralds loud with venal voice proclaim,
Lo! here the brave and the puissant lies.
When humbler Alcon leaves his drooping friends,
Pageant nor plume distinguish Alcon's bier ; The faithful muse 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 bestow, he felt the warmest heart,
But envious fate forbade him to bestow.
He little knew to ward the secret wound
He little knew that mortals cou'd ensnare Virtue he knew; the noblest joy he found,
To fing her glories, and to paint her fair!
Ill was he skill'd to guide his wand'ring sheep;
And unforeseen disaster chin’d his fold ;
And, for his friend, his very crook were sold.