I ELE GY IX. He defcribes his difinterestedness to a friend. NE'ER muft tinge my lip with Celtic wines; Down yonder brook my crystal bev'rage flows; And, from my grove, I hear the throftle fing. My fellow fwains! avert your dazled eyes; In vain allur'd by glitt'ring fpoils they rove; The fates ne'er meant them for the fhepherd's prize, Yet gave them ample recompence, in love. They gave you vigour from your parent's veins; They gave you toils; but toils your finews brace; They gave you nymphs, that own their amorous pains, And fhades, the refuge of the gentle race. To carve your loves, to paint your mutual flames, To fing foft carrols to your lovely dames, Wou'dft Wou'dit thou, my STREPHON, love's delighted flave! And giving, bade thee in remembrance wear. Ill fare my peace, but ev'ry idle toy, If to my mind my DELIA's form it brings, Has truer worth, imparts fincerer joy, Than all that bears the radiant stamp of kings. O my foul weeps, my breast with anguish bleeds, I rife fuperior, and the rich difdain. Oft from the stream, flow-wandering down the glade, Penfive I hear the nuptial peal rebound; "Some mifer weds, I cry, the captive maid, "And fome fond lover fickens at the found." Not SOMERVILLE, the mufe's friend of old, Scorn'd be the wretch that quits his genial bowl, His loves, his friendships, ev'n his felf, refigns; Perverts the facred instinct of his foul, And to a ducate's dirty fphere confines. But come, my friend, with tafte, with fcience bleft, Ere age impair me, and ere gold allure; Restore thy dear idea to my breast, The rich depofit fhall the shrine secure. Let others toil to gain the fordid ore, The charms of independence let us fing; Bleft with thy friendship, can I wish for more? I'll spurn the boasted wealth of * LYDIA's king. * Crafus. ELEGY EL EGY X, To fortune, fuggefting his motive for repining at her A difpenfations. SK not the caufe, why this rebellious tongue Loads with fresh curfes thy detefted fway; Ask not, thus branded in my foftest song, Why stands the flatter'd name, which all obey? 'Tis not, that in my shed I lurk forlorn, Nor fee my roof on Parian columns rise; That, on this breast, no mimic star is borne, Rever'd, ah! more than thofe that light the skies. 'Tis not, that on the turf fupinely laid, I fing or pipe, but to the flocks that graze; And, all inglorious, in the lonesome shade, My finger stiffens, and my voice decays. Not, that my fancy mourns thy ftern command, "Forbear, vain youth! be cautious, weigh thy gold; "Nor let yon rifing column more afpire; "Ah! better dwell in ruins, than behold "Thy fortunes mould'ring, and thy domes entire. "HONORIO built, but dar'd my laws defy; "He planted, scornful of my fage commands; "The peach's vernal bud regal'd his eye; "The fruitage ripen'd for more frugal hands.” See the small stream that pours its murm'ring tide O'er fome rough rock that wou'd its wealth display, Difplays it aught but penury and pride? Ah! conftrue wifely what fuch murmurs fay. How wou'd fome flood, with ampler treasures bleft, How muft*VELINO fhake his reedy crest! Fortune, I yield! and fee, I give the fign; At noon the poor mechanic wanders home, Collects the fquare, the level, and the line, And, with retorted eye, forfakes the dome. Yes, I can patient view the fhadeless plains; * A river in ITALY, that falls an hundred yards perpendicular, Defcend, |