The Poetical Works Of James Grainger ... With Memoirs Of His Life And Writings, By Robert Anderson ... And An Index Of The Linnean Names Of Plants, &c. By William Wright |
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ELEGY.
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 | The Poetical Works Of James Grainger |  |
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ELEGY.
[Hence, Love! I'll be no more Melinda's slave!]
[_]
Having quarrelled with Melinda , the following Elegy, which was sent to a common Friend, happily effected a reconciliation.
Hei mihi quod nullis amor est medicabilis herbis.
I
Hence, Love! I'll be no more Melinda's slave!Her eyes (false stars) shall pilot me no more!
'Tis time my weather-beaten bark to save,
My sails full time to furl, and make the shore.
II
I sued, sued humbly; was deny'd access;—I wrote; my letters back unop'd she sent;
Each word, each action, show'd intense distress;
Nor word nor action taught her to relent.
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III
Is this my recompence, ungrateful fair?Thy bloom, by me, the youth of Albion know!
A bloom, nor Time nor Sickness can impair;
The rose ne'er withers that the Muses blow.
IV
It now, my Friend, contents my inmost heart,That thy skill triumph'd o'er my late disease;
Though then I curs'd (blame Love) thy friendly art,
Spurn'd Reason's dictates, and rejected Ease.
V
Her every caprice should I fond adore?Her follies deify? her faults commend?
When she talk'd idly, must I hymn her lore?
Or false arraign'd me, should I not defend?
VI
Henceforth to books I'll dedicate my time;A serious student, fly the giddy gay;
Peruse the sages of each scienc'd clime;
Cull out the graces of each ethic lay.
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VII
Yes, I will read the bards, who lash the fair;Who, foes to Love, the genuine woman shew;
The bard who sung Belinda's ravish'd hair,
The sage who wanton Messalina drew.
VIII
What joy, when morning dawns, to mount my steed,And with sagacious hounds the hare pursue?
On L---'s banks entrap the finny breed?
Or, dress'd an archer, twang the fatal yew?
IX
What joy, with Friendship in my bower reclin'd,Where Tay and Earn their mingled waters roll,
With rosy wreaths my careless brow to bind,
And drown Remembrance in the jocund bowl?
X
But most thy volume, Nature! I'll explore;And Newton, thy sole secretary, read;
By Nature's works, to Nature's Parent soar,
The heart improving, while the mind I feed.
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XI
These, these secur'd, must ascertain my rest;Must fence my heart from Love's tyrannic sway:
Who seek abroad for Joy, can ne'er be blest,
The slave of Female whim can ne'er be gay.
XII
Yet, yet I find, that something's wanting still;In spite of friends, and hounds, I'm unemploy'd,
The brook's less pleasing, and less green the hill,
And O! how soon with Satire am I cloy'd!
XIII
Ah! 'twas Melinda gave the hills their green!Thou, L--- , stol'st thy clearness from her eyes!
Her look taught Friendship its enticing mien!
Her voice lent music to the hounds' full cries!
XIV
The torrent Softness pours upon my mind!I'm your's, incens'd Melinda! your's again!
Once more my loosen'd canvas courts the Wind!
Your slave, once more I stem Love's adverse main!
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