Sooth'd by the murmurs of my pebbled flood,
I wish it not o'er golden fands to flow;
Chear'd by the verdure of my spiral wood,

I fcorn the quarry, where no fhrub can grow.

No midnight pangs the fhepherd's peace pursue ; His tongue, his hand, attempts no fecret wound; He fings his DELIA, and if she be true,

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

He takes occafion from the fate of ELEANOR of BRE TAGNE *, to fuggeft the imperfect pleasures of a folitary life.

Hen beauty mourns, by fate's injurious doom,

WH

Hid from the chearful glance of human eye; When nature's pride inglorious waits the tomb, Hard is that heart which checks the rifing figh.

Fair ELEONORA! wou'd no gallant mind

The cause of love, the cause of justice own? Matchless thy charms, and was no life refign'd

To see them sparkle from their native throne?

Or had fair freedom's hand unveil'd thy charms,
Well might fuch brows the regal gem refign;
Thy radiant mien might scorn the guilt of arms,
Yet ALBION's aweful empire yield to thine.

O fhame of BRITONS! in one fullen tow'r
She wet with royal tears her daily cell;
She found keen anguish ev'ry rose devour;

They sprung, they fhone, 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 imprifoned forty years (till the time of her death) in Bristol castle.

Thro

Thro' one dim lattice fring'd with ivy round,
Succeffive funs à languid radiance threw ;
To paint how fierce her angry guardian frown'd,
To mark how faft her waning beauty flew.

This, age might bear; then fated fancy palls,
Nor warmly hopes what fplendor can fupply;
Fond youth inceffant mourns, if rigid walls
Restrain its lift'ning ear, its curious eye.

Believe me

* the pretence is vain!
This boafted calm that fmooths our early days,
For never yet could youthful mind restrain
Th' alternate pant for pleasure and for praise.

Ev'n me, by fhady oak or limpid spring,

Ev'n me, the scenes of polish'd life alluré ; Some genius whispers "Life is on the wing, And hard his lot that languishes obscure.

What tho' thy riper mind admire no more→→→
The fhining cincture, and the "broider'd fold
Can pierce like light'ning thro' the figur❜d ore,
And melt to drofs the radiant forms of gold.

Furs, ermins, rods may well attract thy scarn;
The futile prefents of capricious pow'r!.
But wit, but worth, the public sphere adorn,

And who but envies then the focial hour?

Can

Can virtue, careless of her pupil's meed,
Forget how *** fuftains the shepherd's cause?
Content in fhades to tune a lonely reed,
Nor join the founding pean of applause ?

For public haunts, impell'd by BRITAIN'S wéal,
See GRENVILLE quit the mufe's fav'rite ease;
And fhall not fwains admire his noble zeal ?
Admiring praife, admiring ftrive to please?

Life, fays the fage, affords no blifs fincere;
And courts, and cells in vain our hopes renew:
But ah! where GRENVILLE charms the lift'ning ear,
'Tis hard to think the chearless maxim true,

The groves may fmile; the rivers gently glide;
Soft thro' the vale refound the lonesome lay;
Ev'n thickets yield delight, if taste prefide,

But can they please, when LYTTELTON's away

?

Pure as the fwain's the breaft of *** glows,
Ah! were the fhepherd's phrase, like his, refin'd!
But, how improv'd the generous dictate flows
Thro' the clear medium of a polish'd mind!

Happy the youths who warm with BRITAIN's love,
Her inmoft wifh in *** periods hear!
Happy that in the radiant circle move,

Attendant orbs, where LONSDALE gilds the fphere!

While rural faith, and every polish'd art,

Each friendly charm, in

confpire,

From public scenes all penfive must you part;
All joyless to the greeneft fields retire!

Go, plaintive youth! no more by fount or stream,
Like fome lone halcyon, focial pleasure shun;
Go dare the light, enjoy its chearful beam,
And hail the bright proceffion of the fun.

Then cover'd by thy ripen'd fhades, resume
The filent walk; no more by paffion tost:
Then seek thy ruftic haunts; the dreary gloom,
Where ev'ry art that colours life, is lost.”—

In vain! the list'ning mufe attends in vain!

Restraints in hoftile bands her motions wait-Yet will I grieve, and fadden all my ftrain,

When injur'd beauty mourns the muse's fate.

ELEGY