She guides the foot that treads on Parian floors;
She wins the ear when formal pleas are vain ;
She tempts Patricians from the fatal doors
Of Vice's brothel forth to Virtue's fane.
He wish'd for wealth, for much he wish'd to give; He griev'd that virtue might not wealth obtain: Piteous of woes, and hopeless to relieve,
The pensive prospect sadden'd all his strain.
I saw him faint! I saw him sink to rest!
Like one ordain'd to swell the vulgar throng;
As tho' the Virtues had not warm'd his breast,
As tho' the Muses not inspir'd his tongue.
I saw his bier ignobly cross the plain;
Saw peasant hands the pious rite supply:
The gen'rous rustics mourn'd the friendly swain, But Pow'r and Wealth's unvarying cheek was dry!
Such Alcon fell; in meagre want forlorn !
Where were ye then, ye pow'rful Patrons! where?
Would ye the purple should your limbs adorn,
Go wash the conscious blemish with a tear.
Ophelia's Urn. To Mr. G.
THRO' the dim veil of ev'ning's dusky shade,
Near some lone fane, or yew's funereal green,
What dreary forms has magic Fear survey'd!
What shrouded spectres Superstition seen!
But you, secure, shall pour your sad complaint,
Nor dread the meagre phantom's wan array;
What none but Fear's officious hand can paint,
What none but Superstition's eye survey.
The glimm'ring twilight and the doubtful dawn
Shall see your step to these sad scenes return:
Constant, as crystal dews impearl the lawn,
Shall Strephon's tear bedew Ophelia's urn.
Sure nought unhallow'd shall presume to stray
Where sleep the reliques of that virtuous maid;
Nor aught unlovely bend its devious way
Where soft Ophelia's dear remains are laid.
Haply thy Muse, as with unceasing sighs
She keeps late vigils on her urn reclin'd,
May see light groups of pleasing visions rise,
And phantoms glide, but of celestial kind.·
Then Fame, her clarion pendant at her side,
Shall seek forgiveness of Ophelia's shade ;
"Why has such worth, without distinction, dy'd?
"Why, like the desert's lily, bloom'd to fade?"
Then young Simplicity, averse to feign,
Shall, unmolested breathe her softest sigh,
And Candour with unwonted warmth complain,
And Innocence indulge a wailful cry.
Then Elegance, with coy judicious hand,
Shall cull fresh flow'rets for Ophelia's tomb;
And Beauty chide the Fates' severe command,
That shew'd the frailty of so fair a bloom!
And Fancy then, with wild ungovern'd woe,
Shall her lov'd pupil's native taste explain;
For mournful sable all her hues forego,
And ask sweet solace of the Muse in vain!
Ah! gentle Forms! expect no fond relief;
Too much the sacred Nine their loss deplore :
Well may ye grieve, nor find an end of grief-
Your best, your brightest, fav'rite is no more.
He compares the turbulence of love with the tranquillity of friendship. To Melissa bis friend.
FROM
ROM Love, from angry Love's inclement reign
I pass a while to Friendship's equal skies;
Thou, gen'rous Maid! reliev'st my partial pain,
And cheer'st the victim of another's eyes.
'Tis thou, Melissa, thou deserv'st my care;
How can my will and reason disagree?
How can my passion live beneath despair?
How can my bosom sigh for aught but thee?
Ah! dear Melissa! pleas'd with thee to rove,
My soul has yet surviv'd its dreariest time;
Ill can I bear the various clime of Love!
Love is a pleasing but a various clime.
So smiles immortal Maro's fav'rite shore,
Parthenope, with ev'ry verdure crown'd;
When straight Vesuvio's horrid caldrons roar,
And the dry vapour blasts the regions round.
Oh! blissful regions! oh! unrivall'd plains!
When Maro to these fragrant haunts retir'd!
Oh! fatal realms! and, oh! accurs'd domains!
When Pliny 'mid sulphurecus clouds expir'd!
So smiles the surface of the treach'rous main,
As o'er its waves the peaceful halcyons play,
When soon rude winds their wonted rule regain,
And sky and ocean mingle in the fray.
But let or air contend or ocean rave;
Ev'n hope subside, amid the billows tost;
Hope, still emergent, still contemns the wave,
And not a feature's wonted smile is lost.
To a Lady, on the language of birdss
COME then, Dione, let us range the grove,
The science of the feather'd choirs explore,
Here linnets argue, larks descant of love,
And blame the gloom of solitude no more.
My doubt subsides-'tis no Italian song,
Nor senseless ditty, chears the vernal tree:
Ah! who that hears Dione's tuneful tongue,
Shall doubt that music may with sense agree ?
And come, my Muse! that lov'st the sylvan shade,
Evolve the mazes, and the mist dispel;
Translate the song; convince my doubting maid
No solemn dervise can explain so well.-
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