He, the dear youth, to whofe abodes I roam,
Nor can mine honours, nor my fields extend;
Yet for his fake I leave my diftant home,
Which oaks embosom, and which hills defend.
Beneath that home I fcorn the wintry wind;
The spring, to fhade me, robes her fairest tree; And if a friend my grafs-grown threshold find, O how my lonely cot refounds with glee!
Yet, tho' averfe to gold in heaps amafs'd,
I wish to blefs, I languish to bestow;
And tho' no friend to fame's obftreperous blaft,
Still, to her dulcet murmurs not a foe.
Too proud with servile tone to deign address ;
Too mean to think that honours are my due,
Yet fhou'd fome patron yield my ftores to blefs,
I fure fhou'd deem my boundless thanks were few.
But tell me, thou! that, like a meteor's fire,
Shot'ft blazing forth; difdaining dull degrees;
Shou'd I to wealth, to fame, to pow'r afpire,
Muft I not pass more rugged paths than these?
Muft I not groan beneath a guilty load,
Praise him I fcorn, and him I love betray?
Does not felonious envy bar the road?
Or falfehood's treach'rous foot befet the way?
Say fhou'd I pass thro' favour's crowded gate,
Muft not fair truth inglorious wait behind?
Whilft I approach the glitt'ring scenes of state,
My best companion no admittance find ?
Nurs'd in the fhades by freedom's lenient care,
Shall I the rigid fway of fortune own?
Taught by the voice of pious truth, prepare
To fpurn an altar, and adore a throne ?
And when proud fortune's ebbing tide recedes,
And when it leaves me no unshaken friend,
Shall I not weep that e'er I left the meads,
Which oaks embosom, and which hills defend?
Oh! if thefe ills the price of pow'r advance,
Check not my speed where social joys invite!
The troubled vifion caft a mournful glance,
And fighing vanifh'd in the fhades of night.
He describes his early love of poetry, and its confequences. To Mr. G.
H me! what envious magic thins my fold? What mutter'd fpell retards their late increase? Such lefs' ning fleeces must the fwain behold, That e'er with Doric pipe effays to please.
I faw my friends in ev'ning circles meet;
I took my vocal reed, and tun'd my lay;
I heard them fay my vocal reed was sweet;
Ah fool! to credit what I heard them fay!
Ill-fated bard! that feeks his skill to fhow,
Then courts the judgment of a friendly ear! Not the poor veteran, that permits his foe
To guide his doubtful ftep, has more to fear.
Nor cou'd my G-miftake the critic's laws,
"Till pious friendship mark'd the pleafing way:
Welcome fuch error! ever bleft the caufe!
Ev'n tho' it led me boundlefs leagues aftray!
N. B. Written after the death of Mr. POPE.
Couldst thou reprove me, when I nurs'd the flame
On lift'ning CHERWELL'S ofier banks reclin'd
While foe to fortune, unfeduc'd by fame,
I footh'd the biafs of a careless mind.
Youth's gentle kindred, health and love were met;
What tho' in ALMA's guardian arms I play'd?
How shall the muse those vacant hours forget?
Or deem that blifs by folid cares repaid?
Thou know'ft how tranfport thrills the tender breast,
Where love and fancy fix their op'ning reign;
How nature shines in livelier colours drest,
To blefs their union, and to grace their train.
So first when PHOEBUS met the Cyprian queen,
And favour'd RHODES beheld their paffion crown'd,
Unufual flow'rs enrich'd the painted green;
And swift fpontaneous roses blush'd around.
Now fadly lorn, from TWITNAM's widow'd bow'r,
The drooping mufes take their cafual way;
And where they ftop, a flood of tears they pour;
And where they weep, no more the fields are gay.
Where is the dappled pink, the fprightly rofe?
The cowflip's golden cup no more I fee:
Dark and difcolour'd ev'ry flow'r that blows,
To form the garland, Elegy! for thee !-
Enough of tears has wept the virtuous dead;
Ah might we now the pious rage controul!
Hush'd be my grief ere ev'ry fmile be fled,
Ere the deep fwelling figh fubvert the foul!
If near fome trophy fpring a ftripling bay,
Pleas'd we behold the graceful umbrage rife;
But foon too deep it works its baneful way,
And, low on earth, the proftrate ruín lies.
He defcribes his difintereftedness to a friend.
NE'ER must tinge my lip with Celtic wines;
The pomp of INDIA must I ne'er display;
Nor boast the produce of Peruvian mines,
Nor, with Italian founds, deceive the day.
Down yonder brook my crystal bev'rage flows;
My grateful sheep their annual fleeces bring;
Fair in my garden buds the damask rofe,
And, from my grove, I hear the throftle fing.
Alludes to what is reported of the bay tree, that if it is planted too near the walls of an edifice, its roots will work their way underneath, till they destroy the foundation.
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