Poems by the Late Reverend Dr. Thomas Blacklock :: :: University of Virginia Library

Poems by the Late Reverend Dr. Thomas Blacklock

Together with an Essay on the Education of the Blind. To Which is Prefixed A New Account of the Life and Writings of the Author

Blacklock, Thomas (1721-1791)

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xxxi

To Mr. THOMAS BLACKLOCK.

To fame and to the muse unknown
Where arts and science never shone,
A hamlet stands secure:
Her rustic sons, to toil inur'd,
By blooming health and gain allur'd,
Their grateful soil manure.

What means my heart;—'Tis nature's pow'r:
Yes, here I date my natal hour,
My bursting heart would say:
Here sleep the swains from whom I sprung,
Whose conscience fell remorse ne'er stung;
For nature led their way.

Simplicity, unstain'd with crimes,
(A gem how rare in modern times;)
Was all from them I bore:
No sounding titles swell'd my pride;
My heart to mis'ry ne'er was ty'd,
By heaps of shining ore.

Heedless of wealth, of pow'r, of fame;
Heedless of each ambitious aim,

xxxii

Here flow'd my boyish years.
How oft these plains I've thoughtless prest;
Whistled, or sung some fair distrest,
Whose fate would steal my tears!

Thus rude, unpolish'd, unrefin'd;
While, plung'd in darkest night, my mind
Uncultivated lay;
With pity mov'd, my fate you view'd;
My way to light, to reason shew'd,
And op'd the source of day:

You loos'd and form'd my infant thought;
Your skill, your matchless goodness taught,
Where truth and bliss to find:
Painted, by thee, in all her charms,
Each gen'rous heart fair Virtue warms,
And swells the ravish'd mind.

Hail bright cœlestial, all divine!
O come! inspire this breast of mine
With all thy heav'nly pow'r:
Lead, lead me to thy happiness;
Point out thy path to that blest place,
Where grief shall be no more.

Richard Hewitt.

xxxiii

AN EPISTLE FROM Dr. BEATTIE, TO THE Reverend Mr. THOMAS BLACKLOCK.

Monstro quod ipse tibi possis dare; semita certe
Tranquillæ per virtutem patet unica vitæ.
Juvenal. Sat. X.

Hail to the poet! whose spontaneous lays
No pride restrains, nor venal flattery sways.
Who, nor from critics, nor from fashion's laws,
Learns to adjust his tribute of applause;
But bold to feel, and ardent to impart
What nature whispers to the generous heart,
Propitious to the moral song, commends,
For Virtue's sake, the humblest of her friends.

Peace to the grumblers of an envious age,
Vapid in spleen, or brisk in frothy rage!

xxxiv

Critics, who, ere they understand, defame;
And friends demure, who only do not blame;
And puppet-prattlers, whose unconscious throat
Transmits what the pert witling prompts by rote,
Pleas'd to their spite or scorn I yield the lays
That boast the sanction of a Blacklock's praise.
Let others court the blind and babbling crowd:
Mine be the favour of the wise and good.

O thou, to censure, as to guile unknown!
Indulgent to all merit but thy own!
Whose soul, though darkness wrap thine earthly frame,
Exults in virtue's pure ethereal flame;
Whose thoughts, congenial with the strains on high,
The muse adorns, but cannot dignify;
As northern lights, in glittering legions driven,
Embellish, not exalt, the starry heaven:
Say thou, for well thou know'st the art divine
To guide the fancy, and the soul refine,
What heights of excellence must he ascend,
Who longs to claim a Blacklock for his friend;
Who longs to emulate thy tuneful art;
But more thy meek simplicity of heart;
But more thy virtue patient, undismay'd,
At once though malice and mischance invade;
And, nor by learn'd nor priestly pride confin'd,
Thy zeal for truth, and love of human kind.

Like thee, with sweet ineffable controul,
Teach me to rouse or soothe th'impassion'd soul,

xxxv

And breathe the luxury of social woes;
Ah! ill-exchanged for all that mirth bestows.
Ye slaves of mirth, renounce your boasted plan,
For know, 'tis sympathy exalts the man.
But, midst the festive bower, or echoing hall,
Can riot listen to soft pity's call?
Rude he repels the soul-ennobling guest,
And yields to selfish joy his harden'd breast.

Teach me thine artless harmony of song,
Sweet, as the vernal warblings borne along
Arcadia's myrtle groves; ere art began,
With critic glance malevolent, to scan
Bold nature's generous charms, display'd profuse
In each warm cheek, and each enraptur'd muse.
Then had not Fraud impos'd, in Fashion's name,
For freedom lifeless form, and pride for shame;
And, for th' o'erflowings of a heart sincere,
The feature fix'd, untarnish'd with a tear;
The cautious, slow, and unenliven'd eye,
And breast inured to check the tender sigh.
Then love, unblamed, indulged the guiltless smile;
Deceit they fear'd not, for they knew not guile.
The social sense unawed, that scorn'd to own
The curb of law, save nature's law alone,
To godlike aims, and godlike actions fir'd;
And the full energy of thought inspir'd;
And the full dignity of pleasure, given
T' exalt desire, and yield a taste of heaven.

POEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS.

HORACE, ODE I. IMITATED.

INSCRIBED TO Dr. JOHN STEVENSON, Physician in Edinburgh.

O thou, whose goodness unconfin'd
Extends its wish to human kind;
By whose indulgence I aspire
To strike the sweet Horatian lyre:

There are who, on th' Olympic plain,
Delight the chariot's speed to rein;
Involv'd in glorious dust to roll;
To turn with glowing wheel the goal;

Who by repeated trophies rise,
And share with Gods their pomp and skies.
This man, if changeful crowds admire,
Fermented ev'n to mad desire,
Their fool or villain to elate
To all the honours of the state;
That, if his granary secures
Whate'er th' autumnal sun matures,
Pleas'd his paternal field to plow,
Remote from each ambitious view;
Vast India's wealth would bribe in vain,
To launch the bark, and cut the main.

The merchant, while the western breeze
Ferments to rage th' Icarian seas,
Urg'd by th' impending hand of fate,
Extols to heav'n his country-seat;
Its sweet retirement, fearless ease,
The fields, the air, the streams, the trees;
Yet fits the shatter'd bark again,
Resolv'd to brave the tumid main,
Resolv'd all hazards to endure,
Nor shun a plague, but, to be poor.

One with the free, the gen'rous bowl,
Absorbs his cares, and warms his soul:
Now wrapt in ease, supinely laid
Beneath the myrtle's am'rous shade;
Now where some sacred fountain flows,
Whose cadence soft invites repose;

While half the sultry summer's day
On silent pinions steals away.

Some bosoms boast a nobler flame,
In fields of death to toil for fame,
In war's grim front to tempt their fate;
Curst war! which brides and mothers hate:
As in each kindling hero's sight
Already glows the promis'd fight;
Their hearts with more than transport bound,
While drums and trumpets mix their sound.

Unmindful of his tender wife,
And ev'ry home-felt bliss of life,
The huntsman, in th' unshelter'd plains,
Heav'n's whole inclemency sustains;
Now scales the steepy mountain's side,
Now tempts the torrent's headlong tide;
Whether his faithful hounds in view,
With speed some timid prey pursue;
Or some fell monster of the wood
At once his hopes and snares elude.

Good to bestow, like Heav'n, is thine,
Concurring in one great design;
To cool the fever's burning rage,
To knit the feeble nerves of age;
To bid young health, with pleasure crown'd,
In rosy lustre smile around.

My humbler function shall I name;
My sole delight, my highest aim?
Inspir'd thro' breezy shades to stray,
Where choral nymphs and graces play;
Above th' unthinking herd to soar,
Who sink forgot, and are no more;
To snatch from fate an honest fame,
Is all I hope, and all I claim.
If to my vows Euterpe deign
The Doric reed's mellifluent strain,
Nor Polyhymnia, darling muse!
To tune the Lesbian harp refuse.
But, if You rank me with the choir,
Who touch, with happy hand, the lyre;
Exulting to the starry frame,
Sustain'd by all the wings of fame,
With bays adorn'd I then shall soar,
Obscure, depress'd, and scorn'd no more;
While Envy, vainly merit's foe,
With sable wings shall flag below;
And, doom'd to breathe a grosser air,
To reach my glorious height despair.

PSALM I.

Imitated.

How blest the man, how more than blest!
Whose heart no guilty thoughts employ;
God's endless sunshine fills his breast,
And smiling conscience whispers peace and joy.

Fair Rectitude's unerring way
His heav'n-conducted steps pursue;
While crowds in guilt and error stray,
Unstain'd his soul, and undeceiv'd his view.

While, with unmeaning laughter gay,
Scorn, on her throne erected high,
Emits a false delusive ray,
To catch th' astonish'd gaze of Folly's eye;

Deep in herself his soul retir'd,
Unmov'd, beholds the meteor blaze,
And, with all-perfect Beauty fir'd,
Nature, and nature's God, intent surveys.

Him from high heav'n, her native seat,
Eternal Wisdom's self inspires;
While he, with purpose fix'd as fate,
Pursues her dictates, and her charms admires.

In sunshine mild, and temp'rate air,
Where some refreshing fountain flows,
So nurs'd by nature's tend'rest care,
A lofty tree with autumn's treasure glows.

Around its boughs the summer gale
With pleasure waves the genial wing;
There no unfriendly colds prevail,
To chill the vigour of its endless spring.

Amid its hospitable shade
Heav'n's sweetest warblers tune the lay;
Nor shall its honours ever fade,
Nor immature its plenteous fruit decay.

By God's almighty arm sustain'd,
Thus Virtue soon or late shall rise;
Enjoy her conquest, nobly gain'd,
And share immortal triumph in the skies.

But fools, to sacred wisdom blind,
Who Vice's tempting call obey,
A diff'rent fate shall quickly find,
To every roaring storm an easy prey.

Thus when the warring winds arise,
With all their lawless fury driv'n,
Light chaff or dust incessant flies,
Whirl'd in swift eddies thro' the vault of heav'n.

When in tremendous pomp array'd,
Descending from the op'ning sky,
With full omnipotence display'd,
Her God shall call on nature to reply:

Then Vice, with shame and grief depress'd,
Transfix'd with horror and despair,
Shall feel hell kindling in her breast,
Nor to her Judge prefer her trembling pray'r:

For, with a father's fond regard,
To bliss he views fair Virtue tend;
While Vice obtains her just reward,
And all her paths in deep perdition end.

An HYMN to the SUPREME BEING,

In Imitation of the CIVth Psalm.

Quid prius dicam solitis parentis
Laudibus? qui res hominum ac deorum,
Qui mare et terras, variisque mundum
Temperat horis?
Horace.

Arise, my soul! on wings seraphic rise,
And praise th' almighty Sov'reign of the skies;
In whom alone essential glory shines,
Which not the heav'n of heav'ns, nor boundless space confines.

When darkness rul'd with universal sway,
He spoke, and kindled up the blaze of day;
First, fairest offspring of the omnific word!
Which, like a garment, cloath'd its sov'reign Lord.
On liquid air he bade the columns rise,
That prop the starry concave of the skies;
Diffus'd the blue expanse from pole to pole,
And spread circumfluent æther round the whole.

Soon as he bids impetuous tempests fly,
To wing his sounding chariot thro' the sky;
Impetuous Tempests the command obey,
Sustain his flight, and sweep th' aerial way.

Fraught with his mandates, from the realms on high,
Unnumber'd hosts of radiant heralds fly
From orb to orb, with progress unconfin'd,
As lightning swift, resistless as the wind.

In ambient air this pond'rous ball he hung,
And bade its centre rest for ever strong;
Heav'n, air, and sea, with all their storms, in vain
Assault the basis of the firm machine.

At thy Almighty voice old Ocean raves,
Wakes all his force, and gathers all his waves;
Nature lies mantled in a wat'ry robe,
And shoreless billows revel round the globe;
O'er highest hills the higher surges rise,
Mix with the clouds, and meet the fluid skies.
But when in thunder the rebuke was giv'n,
That shook th' eternal firmament of heav'n;
The grand rebuke th' affrighted waves obey,
And in confusion scour their uncouth way;
And posting rapid to the place decreed,
Wind down the hills, and sweep the humble mead.
Reluctant in their bounds the waves subside;
The bounds, impervious to the lashing tide,
Restrain its rage; whilst, with incessant roar,
It shakes the caverns, and assaults the shore.

By him, from mountains cloath'd in lucid snow,
Through fertile vales the mazy rivers flow.

Here the wild horse, unconscious of the rein,
That revels boundless o'er the wide campaign,
Imbibes the silver surge, with heat opprest,
To cool the fever of his glowing breast.

Here rising boughs, adorn'd with summer's pride,
Project their waving umbrage o'er the tide;
While, gently perching on the leafy spray,
Each feather'd warbler tunes his various lay:
And, while thy praise they symphonize around,
Creation echoes to the grateful sound.
Wide o'er the heav'ns the various bow he bends,
Its tinctures brightens, and its arch extends:
At the glad sign the airy conduits flow,
Soften the hills, and chear the meads below:
By genial fervour and prolific rain,
Swift vegetation cloathes the smiling plain:
Nature, profusely good, with bliss o'erflows,
And still is pregnant, tho' she still bestows.

Here verdant pastures wide extended lie,
And yield the grazing herd exuberant supply.
Luxuriant waving in the wanton air,
Here golden grain rewards the peasant's care:
Here vines mature with fresh carnation glow,
And heav'n above diffuses heav'n below.
Erect and tall here mountain cedars rise,
Wave in the starry vault, and emulate the skies.

Here the wing'd crowd, that skim the yielding air
With artful toil their little domes prepare;
Here hatch their tender young, and nurse their rising care.
Up the steep hill ascends the nimble doe,
While timid conies scour the plains below,
Or in the pendant rock elude the scenting foe.

He bade the silver majesty of night
Revolve her circles, and increase her light;
Assign'd a province to each rolling sphere,
And taught the sun to regulate the year.
At his command, wide hov'ring o'er the plain,
Primaeval night resumes her gloomy reign:
Then from their dens, impatient of delay,
The savage monsters bend their speedy way,
Howl thro' the spacious waste, and chase their frighted prey.
Here stalks the shaggy monarch of the wood,
Taught from thy providence to ask his food:
To thee, O Father, to thy bounteous skies,
He rears his mane, and rolls his glaring eyes;
He roars; the desert trembles wide around,
And repercussive hills repeat the sound.

Now orient gems the eastern skies adorn,
And joyful nature hails the op'ning morn:
The rovers, conscious of approaching day,
Fly to their shelters, and forget their prey.
Laborious man, with mod'rate slumber blest,
Springs chearful to his toil from downy rest;

Till grateful evening, with her argent train,
Bid labour cease, and ease the weary swain.

“Hail! sov'reign goodness, all-productive mind!
On all thy works thyself inscrib'd we find:
How various all, how variously endow'd,
How great their number, and each part how good!
How perfect then must the great Parent shine,
Who, with one act of energy divine,
Laid the vast plan, and finish'd the design!”

Where-e'er the pleasing search my thoughts pursue,
Unbounded goodness rises to my view;
Nor does our world alone its influence share;
Exhaustless bounty, and unwearied care
Extends through all th' infinitude of space,
And circles Nature with a kind embrace.

The azure kingdoms of the deep below,
Thy pow'r, thy wisdom, and thy goodness show:
Here multitudes of various beings stray,
Crowd the profound, or on the surface play:
Tall navies here their doubtful way explore,
And ev'ry product waft from ev'ry shore;
Hence meagre want expell'd, and sanguine strife,
For the mild charms of cultivated life;
Hence social union spreads from soul to soul,
And India joins in friendship with the pole.
Here the huge potent of the scaly train
Enormous sails incumbent o'er the main,

An animated isle; and in his way,
Dashes to heav'n's blue arch the foamy sea:
When skies and ocean mingle storm and flame,
Portending instant wreck to Nature's frame,
Pleas'd in the scene, he mocks, with conscious pride,
The volleyd light'ning, and the surging tide;
And, while the wrathful elements engage,
Foments with horrid sport the tempest's rage.
All these thy watchful providence supplies,
To thee alone they turn their waiting eyes;
For them thou open'st thy exhaustless store,
Till the capacious wish can grasp no more.

But, if one moment thou thy face should'st hide,
Thy glory clouded, or thy smiles deny'd,
Then widow'd Nature veils her mournful eyes,
And vents her grief in universal cries:
Then gloomy Death with all his meagre train,
Wide o'er the nations spreads his dismal reign;
Sea, earth, and air, the boundless ravage mourn,
And all their hosts to native dust return.

But when again thy glory is display'd,
Reviv'd Creation lifts her chearful head;
New rising forms thy potent smiles obey,
And life rekindles at the genial ray:
United thanks replenish'd Nature pays,
And heav'n and earth resound their Maker's praise.

When time shall in eternity be lost,
And hoary Nature languish into dust;
For ever young thy glory shall remain,
Vast as thy being, endless as thy reign.
Thou, from the regions of eternal day,
View'st all thy works at one immense survey:
Pleas'd, thou behold'st the whole propensely tend
To perfect happiness, its glorious end.

If thou to earth but turn thy wrathful eyes,
Her basis trembles, and her offspring dies:
Thou smit'st the hills, and, at th' Almighty blow,
Their summits kindle, and their inwards glow.

While this immortal spark of heav'nly flame
Distends my breast, and animates my frame;
To thee my ardent praises shall be borne
On the first breeze that wakes the blushing morn:
The latest star shall hear the pleasing sound,
And Nature in full choir shall join around.
When full of thee my soul excursive flies
Thro' air, earth, ocean, or thy regal skies;
From world to world, new wonders still I find,
And all the Godhead flashes on my mind.
When, wing'd with whirlwinds, Vice shall take its flight
To the deep bosom of eternal night,
To thee my soul shall endless praises pay:
Join, men and angels, join th' exalted lay!

PSALM CXXXIX.

Imitated.

Me, O my God! thy piercing eye,
In motion, or at rest, surveys;
If to the lonely couch I fly,
Or travel thro' frequented ways;
Where-e'er I move, thy boundless reign,
Thy mighty presence, circles all the scene.

Where shall my thoughts from thee retire,
Whose view pervades my inmost heart!
The latent, kindling, young desire,
The word, 'ere from my lips it part,
To thee their various forms display,
And shine reveal'd in thy unclouded day.

Behind me if I turn my eyes,
Or forward bend my wand'ring sight,
Whatever objects round me rise
Thro' the wide fields of air and light;
With thee impress'd, each various frame
The forming, moving, present God proclaim.

Father of all, omniscient Mind,
Thy wisdom who can comprehend?
Its highest point what eye can find,
Or to its lowest depths descend?

That wisdom, which, 'ere things began,
Saw full exprest th' all-comprehending plan!

What cavern deep, what hill sublime,
Beyond thy reach, shall I pursue?
What dark recess, what distant clime,
Shall hide me from thy distant view?
Where from thy spirit shall I fly,
Diffusive, vittal, felt thro' earth and sky?

If up to heav'n's aetherial height,
Thy prospect to elude, I rise;
In splendor there, severely bright,
Thy presence shall my sight surprise:
There, beaming from their source divine,
In full meridian, light and beauty shine.

Beneath the pendant globe if laid,
If plung'd in hell's abyss profound,
I call on night's impervious shade
To spread essential blackness round;
Conspicuous to thy wide survey,
Ev'n hell's grim horrors kindle into day.

Thee mighty God! my wond'ring soul,
Thee, all her conscious powers adore;
Whose being circumscribes the whole,
Whose eyes its utmost bounds explore:
Alike illum'd by native light,
Amid the sun's full blaze, or gloom of night.

If through the fields of aether borne,
The living winds my flight sustain;
If on the rosy wings of morn,
I seek the distant western main;
There, O my God! thou still art found,
Thy pow'r upholds me, and thy arms surround.

Thy essence fills this breathing frame,
It glows in ev'ry conscious part;
Lights up my soul with livelier flame,
And feeds with life my beating heart:
Unfelt along my veins it glides,
And through their mazes rolls the purple tides.

While in the silent womb inclos'd,
A growing embryo yet I lay,
Thy hand my various parts dispos'd,
Thy breath infus'd life's genial ray;
'Till, finish'd by thy wondrous plan,
I rose the dread, majestic form of man.

To thee, from whom my being came,
Whose smile is all the heav'n I know,
Replete with all my wondrous theme,
To thee my votive strains shall flow:
Great Archetype! who first design'd,
Expressive of thy glory, humankind.

Who can the stars of heav'n explore,
The flow'rs that deck the verdant plain,

Th' unnumber'd sands that form the shore,
The drops that swell the spacious main?
Let him thy wonders publish round,
Till earth and heav'n's eternal throne resound.

As subterraneous flames confin'd,
From earth's dark womb impetuous rise,
The conflagration, fann'd by wind,
Wraps realms, and blazes to the skies:
In lightning's flash, and thunder's roar,
Thus vice shall feel the tempest of thy pow'r.

Fly then, as far as pole from pole,
Ye sons of slaughter, quick retire;
At whose approach my kindling soul
Awakes to unextinguish'd ire:
Fly; nor provoke the thunder's aim,
You, who in scorn pronounce th' Almighty's name.

The wretch who dares thy pow'r defy,
And on thy vengeance loudly call,
On him not pity's melting eye,
Nor partial favour, e'er shall fall:
Still shall thy foes be mine, still share
Unpity'd torture, and unmix'd despair.

Behold, O God! behold me stand,
And to thy strict regard disclose
Whate'er was acted by my hand,
Whate'er my inmost thoughts propose:

If Vice indulg'd their candour stain,
Be all my portion bitterness and pain.

But, O! if nature, weak and frail,
To strong temptations oft give way;
If doubt, or passion, oft prevail
O'er wand'ring reason's feeble ray;
Let not thy frowns my fault reprove,
But guide thy creature with a Father's love.

An HYMN to DIVINE LOVE.

In Imitation of Spencer.

I

No more of lower flames, whose pleasing rage
With sighs and soft complaints I weakly fed;
At whose unworthy shrine, my budding age,
And willing Muse, their first devotion paid.
Fly, nurse of madness, to eternal shade:
Far from my soul abjur'd and banish'd fly,
And yield to nobler fires, that lift the soul more high.

II

O Love! coeval with thy parent God,
To thee I kneel, thy present aid implore;
At whose celestial voice and pow'rful nod

Old discord fled, and chaos ceas'd to roar,
Light smil'd, and order rose, unseen before,
But in the plan of the eternal Mind,
When God design'd the work, and lov'd the work design'd.

III

Thou fill'dst the waste of ocean, earth, and air,
With multitudes that swim, or walk, or fly:
From rolling worlds descends thy generous care,
To insect crowds that 'scape the nicest eye:
For each a sphere was circumscrib'd by thee,
To bless, and to be bless'd, their noblest end;
To which, with speedy course, they all unerring tend.

IV

Conscious of thee, with nobler pow'rs endu'd,
Next man, thy darling, into being rose,
Immortal, form'd for high beatitude,
Which neither end nor interruption knows,
Till evil, couch'd in fraud, began his woes:
Then to thy aid was boundless wisdom join'd,
And for apostate man redemption thus design'd.

V

By thee, his glories veil'd in mortal shroud,
God's darling offspring left his seat on high;
And heav'n and earth, amaz'd and trembling, view'd
Their wounded Sov'reign groan, and bleed, and die.
By thee, in triumph to his native sky,

On angels wings, the victor God aspir'd,
Relenting justice smil'd, and frowning wrath retir'd.

VI

To thee, munific, ever-flaming love!
One endless hymn united nature sings:
To thee the bright inhabitants above
Tune the glad voice, and sweep the warbling strings.
From pole to pole, on ever-waving wings,
Winds waft thy praise, by rolling planets tun'd;
Aid then, O love! my voice to emulate the sound.

VIII

It comes! it comes! I feel internal day;
Transfusive warmth through all my bosom glows;
My soul expanding gives the torrent way;
Thro' all my veins it kindles as it flows.
Thus, ravish'd from the scene of night and woes,
Oh! snatch me, bear me to thy happy reign;
There teach my tongue thy praise in more exalted strain.

An HYMN to BENEVOLENCE.

Hail! source of transport ever new;
Whilst thy kind dictates I pursue,
I taste a joy sincere;
Too vast for little minds to know,
Who on themselves alone bestow
Their wishes and their care.

Daughter of God! delight of man!
From thee felicity began;
Which still thy hand sustains:
By thee sweet Peace her empire spread,
Fair Science rais'd her laurel'd head,
And Discord gnash'd in chains.

Far as the pointed sunbeam flies,
Through peopled earth and starry skies,
All nature owns thy nod:
We see thy energy prevail
Through Being's ever-rising scale,
From nothing ev'n to God.

Envy, that tortures her own heart
With plagues and ever-burning smart,
Thy charms divine expel:
Aghast she shuts her livid eyes,
And, wing'd with tenfold fury, flies
To native night and hell.

By thee inspir'd, the gen'rous breast,
In blessing others only blest,
With goodness large and free,
Delights the widow's tears to stay,
To teach the blind their smoothest way,
And aid the feeble knee.

O come! and o'er my bosom reign,
Expand my heart, inflame each vein,
Thro' ev'ry action shine;
Each low, each selfish, wish controul,
With all thy essence warm my soul,
And make me wholly thine.

Nor let fair Virtue's mortal bane,
The soul-contracting thirst of gain,
My faintest wishes sway;
By her possess'd, ere hearts refine,
In hell's dark depth shall mercy shine,
And kindle endless day.

If from thy sacred paths I turn,
Nor feel their griefs, while others mourn,
Nor with their pleasures glow:
Banish'd from God, from bliss, and thee,
My own tormentor let me be,
And groan in hopeless woe.

An HYMN to FORTITUDE.

Night, brooding o'er her mute domain,
In awful silence wraps her reign;
Clouds press on clouds, and, as they rise,
Condense to solid gloom the skies.

Portentous, through the foggy air,
To wake the Daemon of despair,
The raven hoarse, and boding owl,
To Hecate curst anthems howl.

Intent, with execrable art,
To burn the veins, and tear the heart,
The witch, unhallow'd bones to raise,
Through fun'ral vaults and charnels strays;
Calls the damn'd shade from ev'ry cell,
And adds new labours to their hell.

And, shield me heav'n! what hollow sound,
Like fate's dread knell, runs echoing round?
The bell strikes one, that magic hour,
When rising fiends exert their pow'r.
And now, sure now, some cause unblest
Breathes more than horror thro' my breast:
How deep the breeze! how dim the light!
What spectres swim before my sight!
My frozen limbs pale terror chains,
And in wild eddies wheels my brains:

My icy blood forgets to roll,
And death ev'n seems to seize my soul.
What sacred pow'r, what healing art,
Shall bid my soul herself assert;
Shall rouze th' immortal active flame,
And teach her whence her being came?

O Fortitude! divinely bright,
O Virtue's child, and man's delight!
Descend, an amicable guest,
And with thy firmness steel my breast:
Descend propitious to my lays,
And, while my lyre resounds thy praise,
With energy divinely strong,
Exalt my soul, and warm my song.

When raving in eternal pains,
And loaded with ten thousand chains.
Vice, deep in Phlegeton, yet lay,
Nor with her visage blasted day;
No fear to guiltless man was known,
For God and Virtue reign'd alone.
But, when from native flames and night,
The cursed monster wing'd her flight,
Pale Fear, among her hideous train,
Chas'd sweet Contentment from her reign;
Plac'd death and hell before each eye,
And wrapt in mist the golden sky;
Banish'd from day each dear delight,
And shook with conscious starts the night.

When, from th' imperial seats on high,
The Lord of nature turn'd his eye
To view the state of things below;
Still blest to make his creatures so:
From earth he saw Astraea fly,
And seek her mansions in the sky;
Peace, crown'd with olives, left her throne.
And white-rob'd Innocence was gone:
While Vice, reveal'd in open day,
Sole tyrant, rul'd with iron sway;
And Virtue veil'd her weeping charms,
And fled for refuge to his arms,
Her altars scorn'd, her shrines defac'd—
Whom thus th' essential Good address'd.

“Thou, whom my soul adores alone,
Effulgent sharer of my throne,
Fair empress of eternity!
Who uncreated reign'st like me;
Whom I, who sole and boundless sway,
With pleasure infinite obey:
To yon diurnal scenes below,
Who feel their folly in their woe,
Again propitious turn thy flight,
Again oppose yon tyrant's might;
To earth thy cloudless charms disclose,
Revive thy friends, and blast thy foes:
Thy triumphs man shall raptur'd see,
Act, suffer, live, and die for thee.

But since all crimes their hell contain,
Since all must feel who merit pain,
Let Fortitude thy steps attend,
And be, like thee, to man a friend;
To urge him on the arduous road,
That leads to virtue, bliss, and God;
To blunt the sting of ev'ry grief,
And be to all a near relief.”

He said; and she, with smiles divine,
Which made all heav'n more brightly shine,
To earth return'd with all her train,
And brought the golden age again.
Since erring mortals, unconstrain'd,
The God, that warms their breast, profan'd,
She, guardian of their joys no more,
Could only leave them, and deplore:
They, now the easy prey of pain,
Curst in their wish, their choice obtain;
Till arm'd with heav'n and fate, she came
Her destin'd honours to reclaim.
Vice and her slaves beheld her flight,
And fled, like birds obscene, from light,
Back to th' abode of plagues return,
To sin and smart, blaspheme and burn.

Thou, Goddess! since, with sacred aid,
Hast ev'ry grief and pain allay'd,
To joy converted ev'ry smart,
And plac'd a heav'n in ev'ry heart:

By thee we act, by thee sustain,
Thou sacred antidote of pain!
At thy great nod the Alps subside,
Reluctant rivers turns their tide;
With all thy force alcides warm'd,
His hand against oppression arm'd:
By thee his mighty nerves were strung,
By thee his strength for ever young;
And whilst on brutal force he press'd,
His vigour, with his foes, increas'd.
By thee, like Jove's almighty hand,
Ambition's havock to withstand,
Timoleon rose, the scourge of Fate,
And hurl'd a tyrant from his state;
The brother in his soul subdu'd,
And warm'd the poniard in his blood;
A soul by so much virtue fir'd,
Not Greece alone, but Heav'n admir'd.

But in these dregs of human kind,
These days to guilt and fear resign'd,
How rare such views the heart elate!
To brave the last extremes of Fate;
Like heav'n's almighty pow'r serene,
With fix'd regard to view the scene,

When nature quakes beneath the storm,
And horror wears its direst form.
Tho' future worlds are now descry'd,
Tho' Paul has writ, and Jesus dy'd,
Dispell'd the dark infernal shade,
And all the heav'n of heav'ns display'd;
Curst with unnumber'd groundless fears,
How pale yon shiv'ring wretch appears!
For him the day-light shines in vain,
For him the fields no joys contain;
Nature's whole charms to him are lost,
No more the woods their music boast;
No more the meads their vernal bloom,
No more the gales their rich perfume:
Impending mists deform the sky,
And beauty withers in his eye.
In hopes his terror to elude,
By day he mingles with the crowd;
Yet finds his soul to fears a prey,
In busy crowds, and open day.
If night his lonely walk surprise,
What horrid visions round him rise!
That blasted oak, which meets his way,
Shown by the meteor's sudden ray,
The midnight murd'rer's known retreat,
Felt heav'n's avengeful bolt of late;
The clashing chain, the groan profound,
Loud from you ruin'd tow'r resound;
And now the spot he seems to tread,
Where some self-slaughter'd corse was laid:

He feels fixt earth beneath him bend,
Deep murmurs from her caves ascend;
Till all his soul, by fancy sway'd,
Sees lurid phantoms crowd the shade;
While shrouded manes palely stare,
And beck'ning wish to breathe their care:
Thus real woes from false he bears,
And feels the death, the hell, he fears.

O thou! whose spirit warms my song,
With energy divinely strong,
Erect his soul, confirm his breast,
And let him know the sweets of rest;
Till ev'ry human pain and care,
All that may be, and all that are,
But false imagin'd ills appear
Beneath our hope, our grief, or fear.
And, if I right invoke thy aid,
By thee be all my woes allay'd;
With scorn instruct me to defy
Imposing fear, and lawless joy;
To struggle thro' this scene of strife,
The pains of death, the pangs of life,
With constant brow to meet my fate,
And meet still more, Euanthe's hate.
And, when some swain her charms shall claim,
Who feels not half my gen'rous flame,
Whose cares her angel-voice beguiles,
On whom she bends her heav'nly smiles;

For whom she weeps, for whom she glows,
On whom her treasur'd soul bestows;
When perfect mutual joy they share,
Ah! joy enhanc'd by my despair!
Mix beings in each flaming kiss,
And blest, still rise to higher bliss:
Then, then, exert thy utmost pow'r,
And teach me Being to endure;
Lest reason from the helm should start,
And lawless fury rule my heart;
Lest madness all my soul subdue,
To ask her Maker, What dost thou?
Yet, could'st thou in that dreadful hour,
On my rack'd soul all Lethe pour,
Or fan me with the gelid breeze,
That chains in ice th' indignant seas;
Or wrap my heart in tenfold steel,
I still am man, and still must feel.

THE WISH SATISFIED.

AN IRREGULAR ODE.

I.

Too long, my soul! thou'rt tost below,
From hope to hope, from fear to fear:
How great, how lasting ev'ry woe!
Each joy how short, how insincere!

II.

Turn around thy searching eyes
Thro' all the bright varieties;
And, with exactest care,
Select from all the shining crowd,
Some lasting joy, some sov'reign good,
And fix thy wishes there.

III.

With toil amass a mighty store
Of glowing stones, or yellow ore;
Plant the fields with golden grain,
Crowd with lowing herds the plain,
Bid the marble domes ascend,
Bid the pleasant view extend,
Streams and groves and woods appear,
And spring and autumn fill the year:

Sure, these are joys, full, permanent, sincere;
Sure, now each boundless wish can ask no more.

IV.

On roses now reclin'd,
I languish into rest;
No vacuum in my mind,
No craving wish unblest:
But ah! in vain,
Some absent joy still gives me pain,
By toys elated, or by toys deprest.

V.

What melting joy can sooth my grief?
What balmy pleasure yield my soul relief?
'Tis found; the bliss already warms,
Sunk in love's persuasive arms,
Enjoying and enjoy'd:
To taste variety of charms
Be ev'ry happy hour employ'd.

VI.

As the speedy moments roll,
Let some new joy conspire;
Hebe, fill the rosy bowl;
Orpheus, tune the lyre;
To new-born rapture wake the soul,
And kindle young desire:
While, a beauteous choir around,
Tuneful virgins join the sound,

Panting bosoms, speaking eyes,
Yielding smiles, and trembling sighs:
Thro' melting error let their voices rove,
And trace th' inchanting maze of harmony and love.

VII.

Still, still insatiate of delight
My wishes open, as my joys increase:
What now shall stop their restless flight,
And yield them kind redress?
For something still unknown I sigh,
Beyond what strikes the touch, the ear, or eye:
Whence shall I seek, or how pursue
The phantom, that eludes my view,
And cheats my fond embrace?

VIII.

Thus, while her wanton toils fond pleasure spread,
By sense and passion blindly led,
I chas'd the Syren thro' the flow'ry maze,
And courted death ten thousand ways:
Kind heav'n beheld, with pitying eyes,
My restless toil, my fruitless sighs;
And, from the realms of endless day,
A bright Immortal wing'd his way;
Swift as a sun-beam down he flew,
And stood disclos'd, effulgent to my view.

IX.

“Fond man, he cry'd, thy fruitless search forbear;
Nor vainly hope, within this narrow sphere,
A certain happiness to find,
Unbounded as thy wish, eternal as thy mind:
In God, in perfect good alone,
The anxious soul can find repose;
Nor to a bliss beneath his throne,
One hour of full enjoyment owes:
He, only he, can fill each wide desire,
Who to each wish its being gave;
Not all the charms which mortal wishes fire,
Not all which angels in the skies admire,
But God's paternal smile, can bid it cease to crave.
Him then pursue, without delay;
He is thy prize, and virtue is thy way.”
Then to the winds his radiant plumes he spread,
And from my wond'ring eyes, more swift than lightning, fled.

To HAPPINESS.

An ODE.

I

The morning dawns, the ev'ning shades
Fair Nature's various face disguise;
No scene to rest my heart persuades,
No moment frees from tears my eyes:
Whate'er once charm'd the laughing hour,
Now boasts no more its pleasing pow'r;
Each former object of delight,
Beyond redemption, wings its flight;
And, where it smil'd, the darling of my sight,
Prospects of woe and horrid phantoms rise.

II

O Happiness! immortal Fair,
Where does thy subtil essence dwell?
Dost thou relax the Hermit's care,
Companion in the lonely cell?
Or, dost thou on the sunny plain
Inspire the reed, and chear the swain?
Or, scornful of each low retreat,
On fortune's favour dost thou wait;
And, in the gilded chambers of the great,
Protract the revel, and the pleasure swell?

III

Ah me! the Hermit's cell explore;
Thy absence he, like me, complains;
While murm'ring streams along the shore,
Echo the love-sick shepherd's strains:
Nor, where the gilded domes aspire,
Deign'st thou, O Goddess! to retire:
Though there the loves and graces play,
Though wine and music court thy stay;
Thou fly'st, alas! and who can trace thy way,
Or say what place thy heav'nly form contains?

IV

If to mankind I turn my view,
Flatter'd with hopes of social joy;
Rapine and blood mankind pursue,
As God had form'd them to destroy.
Discord, at whose tremendous view
Hell quakes with horror ever new,
No more by endless night deprest,
Pours all her venom thro' each breast;
And, while deep groans and carnage are increas'd,
Smiles grim, the rising mischief to enjoy.

V

Hence, hence, indignant turn thine eyes,
To my dejected soul I said;
See, to the shade Euanthe flies,
Go, find Euanthe in the shade:

Her angel-form thy sight shall charm,
Thy heart her angel-goodness warm;
There, shall no wants thy steps pursue,
No wakeful care contract thy brow;
Music each sound, and beauty ev'ry view,
Shall ev'ry sense with full delight invade.

VI

Exulting in the charming thought,
Thither with hasty steps I press;
And while th' enchanting maid I sought,
Thank'd heav'n for all my past distress:
Increasing hopes my journey chear'd,
And now in reach the bliss appear'd;
Grant this sole boon, O fate! I cry'd;
Be all thy other gifts deny'd,
In this shall all my wishes be supply'd;
And sure a love like mine deserves no less.

VII

In vain, alas! in vain my pray'r;
Fate mix'd the accents with the wind;
Th' illusive form dissolv'd in air,
And left my soul to grief resign'd:
As far from all my hopes she flies,
As deepest seas from loftiest skies:
Yet, still, on fancy deep imprest,
The sad, the dear ideas rest;
Yet still the recent sorrows heave my breast,
Hang black o'er life, and prey upon my mind.

VIII

Ah! Goddess, scarce to mortals known,
Who with thy shadow madly stray,
At length from heav'n, thy sacred throne,
Dart thro' my soul one chearful ray:
Ah! with some sacred lenient art,
Allay the anguish of my heart;
Ah! teach me, patient to sustain
Life's various stores of grief and pain;
Or, if I thus prefer my pray'r in vain,
Soon let me find thee in eternal day.

On EUANTHE's ABSENCE.

An ODE.

I

Blest heav'n! and thou fair world below!
Is there no cure to sooth my smart?
No balm to heal a lover's woe,
That bids his eyes for ever flow,
Consumes his soul, and pines his heart?
And will no friendly arm above
Relieve my tortur'd soul from love?

II

As swift-descending show'rs of rain,
Deform with mud the clearest streams;
As rising mists heav'n's azure stain,
Ting'd with Aurora's blush in vain;
As fades the flow'r in mid-day beams:
On life thus tender sorrows prey,
And wrap in gloom its promis'd day.

III

Ye plains, where dear Euanthe strays,
Ye various objects of her view,
Bedeck'd in beauty's brightest blaze;
Let all its forms, and all its rays,
Where-e'er she turns, her eyes pursue:
All fair, as she, let nature shine:
Ah! then, how lovely! how divine!

IV

Where-e'er the thymy vales descend,
And breathe ambrosial fragrance round,
Proportion just, thy line extend,
And teach the prospect where to end;
While woods or mountains mark the bound
That each fair scene which strikes her eye,
May charm with sweet variety.

V

Ye streams, that, in perpetual flow,
Still warble on your mazy way,
Murmur Euanthe, as you go;
Murmur a love-sick Poet's woe:
Ye feather'd warblers, join the lay;
Sing how I suffer, how complain;
Yet name not him who feels the pain.

VI

And thou, eternal ruling Pow'r!
If spotless virtue claims thy care,
Around unheard of blessings show'r;
Let some new pleasure crown each hour,
And make her blest, as good and fair:
Of all thy works, to mortals known,
The best and fairest she alone.

To a Young Gentleman bound for Guinea.

An ODE.

I

Attend the muse, whose numbers flow
Faithful to sacred friendship's woe;
And let the Scotian lyre
Obtain thy pity and thy care:
While thy lov'd walks and native air.
The solemn sounds inspire.

II

That native air, these walks, no more
Blest with their fav'rite, now deplore,
And join the plaintive strain:
While, urg'd by winds and waves, he flies,
Where unknown stars, thro' unknown skies,
Their trackless course maintain.

III

Yet think: by ev'ry keener smart,
That thrills a friend or brother's heart;
By all the griefs that rise,
And with dumb anguish heave thy breast,
When absence robs thy soul of rest,
And swells with tears the eyes:

IV

By all our sorrows ever new,
Think whom you fly, and what pursue;
And judge by your's our pain:
From friendship's dear tenacious arms,
You fly, perhaps, to war's alarms,
To angry skies and main.

V

The smiling plain, the solemn shade,
With all the various charms display'd,
That summer's face adorn;
Summer, with all that's gay or sweet,
With transport longs thy sense to meet,
And courts thy dear return.

VI

The gentle sun, the fanning gale,
The vocal wood, the fragrant vale,
Thy presence all implore:
Can then a waste of sea and sky,
That knows no limits, charm thine eye,
Thine year the tempest's roar?

VII

But why such weak attractions name,
While ev'ry warmer social claim
Demands the mournful lay?
Ah! hear a brother's moving sighs,
Thro' tears, behold a sister's eyes
Emit a faded ray.

VIII

Thy young allies, by nature taught
To feel the tender pang of thought,
Which friends in absence claim;
To thee, with sorrow all-sincere,
Oft pay the tributary tear,
Oft lisp with joy thy name.

IX

Nor these thy absence mourn alone,
O dearly lov'd! tho' faintly known;
One yet unsung remains:
Nature, when scarce fair light he knew,
Snatch'd heav'n, earth, beauty from his view,
And darkness round him reigns.

X

The muse with pity view'd his doom;
And, darting thro' th' eternal gloom
An intellectual ray,
Bade him with music's voice inspire
The plaintive flute, the sprightly lyre,
And tune th' impassion'd lay.

XI

Thus, tho' despairing of relief,
With ev'ry mark of heart-felt grief,
Thy absence we complain:
While now, perhaps, th' auspicious gale
Invites to spread the flying sail;
And all our tears are vain.

XII

Protect him heav'n: but hence each fear;
Since endless goodness, endless care
This mighty fabric guides;
Commands the tempest where to stray,
Directs the lightning's slanting way,
And rules the refluent tides.

XIII

See, from th' effulgence of his reign,
With pleas'd survey, Omniscience deign
Thy wondrous worth to view:
See, from the realms of endless day,
Immortal guardians wing their way,
And all thy steps pursue.

XIV

If sable clouds, whose wombs contain
The murm'ring bolt, or dashing rain,
The blue serene deform;
Myriads from heav'n's etherial height,
Shall clear the gloom, restore the light,
And chace th' impending storm.

An IRREGULAR ODE.

Sent to a Lady on her Marriage-Day.

I.

With all your wings, ye moments, fly,
And drive the tardy sun along;
Till that glad morn shall paint the sky,
Which wakes the muse, and claims the raptur'd song.

II.

See nature with our wishes join,
To aid the dear, the blest design;
See Time precipitate his way,
To bring th' expected happy day;
See, the wish'd-for dawn appears,
A more than wonted glow she wears:
Hark! Hymeneals sound;
Each muse awakes her softest lyre;
Each airy warbler swells the choir;
'Tis music all around.

III.

Awake, ye nymphs, the blushing bride,
T' eclipse Aurora's rosy pride;

While virgin shame retards her way,
And Love, half-angry, chides her stay:
While hopes and fears alternate reign,
Intermingling bliss and pain;
O'er all her charms diffuse peculiar grace,
Pant in her shiv'ring heart, and vary in her face.

IV.

At length consent, reluctant fair,
To bless thy long-expecting lover's eyes!
Too long his sighs are lost in air,
At length resign the bliss for which he dies:
The muses, prescient of your future joys,
Dilate my soul, and prompt the chearful lay;
While they, thro' coming times, with glad surprize,
The long successive brightning scenes survey.

V.

Lo! to your sight a blooming offspring rise,
And add new ardour to the nuptial ties;
While in each form you both united shine;
Fresh honours wait your temples to adorn:
For you glad Ceres fills the slowing horn,
And heav'n and fate to bless your days combine.

VI.

While life gives pleasure, life shall still remain,
Till Death, with gentle hand, shall shut the pleasing scene:
Safe, sable guide to that celestial shore,
Where pleasure knows no end, and change is fear'd no more!

To a COQUETTE.

An ODE.

I.

At length, vain, airy flutt'rer, fly;
Nor vex the public ear and eye
With all this noise and glare:
Thy wiser kindred gnats behold,
All shrouded in their parent mould,
Forsake the chilling air.

Of conquest there they safely dream;
Nor gentle breeze, nor transient gleam,
Allures them forth to play:
But thou, alike in frost and flame,
Insatiate of the cruel game,
Still on mankind would'st prey.

Thy conscious charms, thy practis'd arts,
Those adventitious beams that round thee shine,
Reserve for unexperienc'd hearts:
Superior spells despair to conquer mine.

II.

Go, bid the sunshine of thine eyes
Melt rigid winter, warm the skies,

And set the rivers free;
O'er fields immers'd in frost and snow,
Bid flow'rs with smiling verdure grow;
Then hope to soften me.

No, heav'n and freedom witness bear,
This heart no second frown shall fear,
No second yoke sustain:
Enough of female scorn I know;
Scarce fate could break my chain.

Ye hours, consum'd in hopeless pain,
Ye trees, inscrib'd with many a flaming vow,
Ye echoes, oft invok'd in vain,
Ye moon-light walks, ye tinkling rills, adieu!

III.

Your paint that idle hearts controuls;
Your fairy nets for feeble souls,
By partial fancy wrought;
Your Syren voice, your tempting air,
Your borrow'd visage falsely fair,
With me avail you nought.

Let ev'ry charm that wakes desire,
Let each insnaring art conspire;
Not all can hurt my rest:
Touch'd by Ithuriel's potent spear,
At once unmask'd the fiends appear,
In native blackness drest.

The speaking glance, the heaving breast,
The cheek with lilies ting'd and rosy dye;
False joys, which ruin all who taste,
How swift they fade in reason's piercing eye!

IV.

Seest thou yon taper's vivid ray,
Which emulates the blaze of day,
Diffusing far its light?
Tho' it from blasts shall stand secure,
Time urges on the destin'd hour,
And, lo! it sinks in night.

Such is thy glory, such its date,
Wav'd by the sportive hand of fate,
A while to catch our view:
Now bright to heav'n the blaze aspires,
Then sudden from our gaze retires,
And yields to wonders new.

Like this poor torch, thy haughty airs.
Thy short-liv'd splendor on a puff depends;
And, soon as fate the stroke prepares,
The flash in dust and nauseous vapours ends.

On the Refinements in Metaphysical Philosophy.

An ODE.

I

False wisdom, fly, with all thy owls;
The dust and cobwebs of the schools
For me have charms no more:
The gross Minerva of our days,
In mighty bulk my learn'd Essays
Reads joyful o'er and o'er.

II

Led by her hand a length of time,
Thro' sense and nonsense, prose and rhyme,
I beat my painful way;
Long, long, revolv'd the mystic page
Of many a Dutch and German Sage,
And hop'd at last for day.

III

But, as the mole, hid under ground,
Still works more dark as more profound,
So all my toils were vain:

For truth and sense indignant fly,
As far as ocean from the sky,
From all the formal train.

IV

The Stagyrite, whose fruitful quill
O'er free-born nature lords it still,
Sustain'd by form and phrase
Of dire portent and solemn sound,
Where meaning seldom can be found,
From me shall gain no praise.

V

But you, who would be truly wise,
To nature's light unveil your eyes,
Her gentle call obey:
She leads by no false wand'ring glare,
No voice ambiguous strikes your ear,
To bid you vainly stray.

VI

Not in the gloomy cell recluse,
For noble deeds or gen'rous views,
She bids us watch the night;
Fair Virtue shines, to all display'd.
Nor asks the tardy Schoolman's aid,
To teach us what is right.

VII

Pleasure and pain she sets in view,
And which to shun, and which pursue,
Instructs her pupil's heart:
Then, letter'd Pride, say, what thy gain,
To mask, with so much fruitless pain,
Thy ignorance with art?

VIII

Thy stiff grimace, and awful tone,
An idiot's wonder move alone;
And, spite of all thy rules,
The wise in ev'ry age conclude
Thy fairest prospects, rightly view'd,
The Paradise of Fools.

IX

The gamester's hope, when doom'd to lose,
The joys of wine, the wanton's vows,
The faithless calm at sea,
The courtier's word, the crowd's applause,
The Jesuit's faith, the sense of laws,
Are not more false than thee.

X

Blest he! who sees, without surprise,
The various systems fall and rise,
As shifts the fickle gale;
While all their utmost force exert,
To wound the foe's unguarded part,
And all alike prevail.

XI

Thus (sacred Bards of yore have sung),
High heav'n with martial clamours rung,
And deeds of mortal wrath;
When cranes and pigmies glory sought,
And in the fields of æther fought,
With mutual wounds and death.

XII

Let Logic's sons, mechanic throng,
Their syllogistic war prolong,
And reason's empire boast:
Inshrin'd in deep congenial gloom,
Eternal wrangling be their doom,
To truth and nature lost!

XIII

Amus'd by fancy's fleeting fire,
Let Malebranche still for Truth inquire,
And rack his aching sight:
While the coy goddess wings her way,
To scenes of uncreated day,
Absorb'd in dazzling light.

XIV

With firmer step and graver guise,
Whilst Locke in conscious triumph tries,
Her dwelling to explore;
Swift she eludes his ardent chace,
A shadow courts his fond embrace,
Which Hobbes caress'd before.

XV

Let Dodwell with the Fathers join,
To strip of energy divine
The heav'n-descended soul;
The test of Sense let Berkley scorn,
And both on borrow'd pinions borne,
Annihilate the whole.

XVI

In Academic vales retir'd,
With Plato's love and beauty fir'd;
My steps let candour guide;
By tenets vain unprepossest,
Those lawless tyrants of the breast,
Offspring of zeal and pride!

XVII

Or, while thro' nature's walks I stray,
Would Truth's bright source emit one ray,
And all my soul inflame;
Creation, and her bounteous laws,
Her order fix'd, her glorious cause,
Should be my fav'rite theme.

To Mrs. R--- On the Death of a promising Infant.

An ODE.

I

While, touch'd with all thy tender pain,
The muses breathe a mournful strain,
O! lift thy languid eye!
O! deign a calm auspicious ear;
The muse shall yield thee tear for tear,
And mingle sigh with sigh.

II

Not for the Thracian bard, whose lyre
Could rocks and woods with soul inspire,
By jealous fury slain,

While murm'ring on his trembling tongue
Eurydice imperfect hung,
The nine could more complain.

III

Ah! say, harmonious sisters, say:
When swift, to pierce the lovely prey,
Fate took its cruel aim;
When languish'd ev'ry tender grace,
Each op'ning bloom that ting'd his face,
And pangs convuls'd his frame:

IV

Say, could no song of melting woe,
Revoke the keen determin'd blow,
That clos'd his sparkling eye?
Thus roses oft, by early doom,
Robb'd of their blush and sweet perfume,
Grow pale, recline, and die.

V

Pale, pale and cold the beauteous frame!
Nor salient pulse, nor vital flame,
A mother's hopes restore:
In vain keen anguish tears her breast,
By ev'ry tender mark exprest,
He lives, he smiles no more!

VI

Such is the fate of human kind;
The fairest form, the brightest mind,
Can no exemption know:
The mighty mandate of the sky,
“That man when born begins to die,”
Extends to all below.

VII

In vain a mother's pray'rs ascend,
Should nature to her sorrows lend
The native voice of smart;
In vain would plaints their force essay
To hold precarious life one day,
Or fate's dread hand avert.

VIII

Fix'd as the rock that braves the main,
Fix'd as the poles that all sustain,
Its purpose stands secure:
The humble Hynd who toils for bread,
The scepter'd hand, the laurel'd head,
Alike confess its pow'r.

IX

Since time began, the stream of woes
Along its rapid current flows;
Still swells the groan profound:
While age, re-echoing still to age,
Transmits the annals of its rage,
And points the recent wound.

X

When human hopes sublimest tow'r,
Then, wanton in th' excess of pow'r,
The tyrant throws them down;
The orphan early robb'd of aid,
The widow'd wife, the plighted maid,
His sable triumph crown.

XI

At length to life and joy return;
Man was not destin'd still to mourn,
A prey to endless pain:
Heav'n's various hand, the heart to form,
With bliss and anguish, calm and storm,
Diversifies the scene:

XII

But hides with care from human eyes,
What bliss beyond this prospect lies;
Lest we, with life opprest,
Should grieve its burden to endure,
And, with excursion premature,
Pursue eternal rest.

XIII

From disappointment, grief, and care,
From every pang of sharp despair,
Thy charmer wings his way;
And, while new scenes his bosom fire,
He learns to strike the golden lyre,
And heav'n resounds his lay.

XIV

Lo! where his sacred reliques lie,
Immortal guardians from the sky
Their silver wings display;
Till, bright emerging from the tomb,
They rise to heav'n, their destin'd home,
And hail eternal day.

An ODE.

Written when Sick.

O Prime of life! O taste of joy!
Whither so early do you fly?
Scarce half your transient sweetness known,
Why are you vanish'd ere full-blown?

The beauteous progeny of spring,
That tinge the zyphyr's fragrant wing,
Each tender bloom, each short-liv'd flow'r,
Still flourish till their destin'd hour:
Your winter too, too soon will come,
And chill in death your vernal bloom.

On my wan cheek the colour dies,
Suffus'd and languid roll mine eyes;
Cold horrors thrill each sick'ning vein;
Deep broken sighs my bosom strain;
The salient pulse of health gives o'er,
And life and pleasure are no more.

To HEALTH:

An ODE.

Mother of all human joys,
Rosy cheeks, and sparkling eyes;
In whose train, for ever gay,
Smiling Loves and Graces play:
If complaints thy soul can move,
Or music charm, the voice of love!
Hither, Goddess, ere too late,
Turn, and stop impending fate.

Over earth, and sea, and sky,
Bid thy airy heralds fly;
With each balm which nature yields,
From the gardens, groves, and fields,

From each flow'r of varied hue,
From each herb that sips the dew,
From each tree of fragrant bloom,
Bid the gales their wings perfume;
And, around fair Celia's head,
All the mingled incense shed:
Till each living sweetness rise,
Paint her cheeks, and arm her eyes,
Mild as ev'ning's humid ray,
Yet awful as the blaze of day.

Celia if the fates restore,
Love and beauty weep no more:
But if they snatch the lovely prize,
All that's fair in Celia dies.

To a little Girl whom I had offended:

An ODE.

[_]

Written at Twelve Years of Age.

How long shall I attempt in vain
Thy smiles, my angel, to regain?
I'll kiss your hand, I'll weep, I'll kneel:
Will nought, fair tyrant, reconcile?

That goldfinch, with her painted wings,
Which gayly looks, and sweetly sings;
That, and if aught I have more fine,
All, all my charmer, shall be thine.

When next Mamma shall prove severe,
I'll interpose, and save my dear.
Soften, my fair, those angry eyes,
Nor tear thy heart with broken sighs:
Think, while that tender breast they strain,
For thee what anguish I sustain.

Should but thy fair companions view,
How ill that frown becomes thy brow;
With fear and grief in ev'ry eye,
Each would to each, astonish'd, cry,
Heav'ns! where is all her sweetness flown!
How strange a figure now she's grown!
Run, Nancy, let us run, lest we
Grow pettish, aukward things, as she.

'Tis done, 'tis done; my cherub smiles,
My griefs suspends, my fears beguiles:
How the quick pleasure heaves my breast!
Ah! still be kind, and I'll be blest!

To LESBIA.

[_]

Translated from Catullus.

Tho' sour, loquacious age reprove,
Let us, my Lesbia, live for love:
For, when the short-liv'd suns decline,
They but retire more bright to shine:
But we, when fleeting life is o'er,
And light and love can bless no more;
Are ravish'd from each dear delight,
To sleep one long eternal night,

Give me of kisses balmy store,
Ten thousand, and ten thousand more;
Still add ten thousand, doubly sweet;
The dear, dear number still repeat:
And, when the sum so high shall swell,
Scarce thought can reach, or tongue can tell;
Let us on kisses kisses crowd,
Till number sink in multitude;
Lest our full bliss should limits know,
And others, numb'ring, envious grow.

A TRANSLATION of an Old SCOTTISH SONG.

Since robb'd of all that charm'd my view,
Of all my soul e'er fancied fair,
Ye smiling native scenes, adieu!
With each delightful object there.

Ye vales, which to the raptur'd eye
Disclos'd the flow'ry pride of May;
Ye circling hills, whose summits high
Blush'd with the morning's earliest ray:

Where, heedless oft how far I stray'd,
And pleas'd my ruin to pursue;
I sung my dear, my cruel maid:
Adieu for ever! ah! adieu!

Ye dear associates of my breast,
Whose hearts with speechless sorrow swell;
And thou, with hoary age opprest,
Dear author of my life, farewel!

For me, alas! thy fruitless tears,
Far, far remote from friends and home,
Shall blast thy venerable years,
And bend thee pining to the tomb.

Sharp are the pangs by nature felt,
From dear relations torn away,
Yet sharper pangs my vitals melt,
To hopeless love a destin'd prey:

While she, as angry heav'n and main
Deaf to the helpless sailor's pray'r,
Enjoys my soul-consuming pain,
And wantons with my deep despair.

From cursed gold what ills arise!
What horrors life's fair prospect stain!
Friends blast their friends with angry eyes,
And brothers bleed, by brothers slain.

From cursed gold I trace my woe;
Could I this splendid mischief boast,
Nor would my tears unpitied flow,
Nor would my sighs in air be lost.

Ah! when a mother's cruel care
Nurs'd me an infant on the breast,
Had early fate surpris'd me there,
And wrapt me in eternal rest:

Then had this breast ne'er learn'd to beat,
And tremble with unpitied pain;
Nor had a maid's relentless hate,
Been, ev'n in death, deplor'd in vain.

Oft, in the pleasing toils of love,
With ev'ry winning art I try'd
To catch the coyly flutt'ring dove,
With killing eyes and plumy pride:

But, far on nimble pinions borne
From love's warm gales and flow'ry plains,
She sought the northern climes of scorn,
Where ever-freezing winter reigns.

Ah me! had heav'n and she prov'd kind,
Then full of age, and free from care,
How blest had I my life resign'd,
Where first I breath'd this vital air!

But since no flatt'ring hope remains,
Let me my wretched lot pursue:
Adieu, dear friends, and native scenes,
To all, but grief and love, adieu!

SONG

[_]

To the Tune of the Braes of Ballandyne.

I

Beneath a green shade, a lovely young swain,
One ev'ning reclin'd, to discover his pain:
So sad, yet so sweetly, he warbled his woe,
The winds ceas'd to breathe, and the fountains to flow:
Rude winds, with compassion, could hear him complain;
Yet Chloe, less gentle, was deaf to his strain.

II

How happy, he cry'd, my moments once flew!
Ere Chole's bright charms first flash'd in my view:
These eyes then with pleasure the dawn could survey;
Nor smil'd the fair morning more chearful than they:
Now scenes of distress please only my sight;
I'm tortur'd in pleasure, and languish in light.

III

Through changes in vain relief I pursue;
All, all but conspire my griefs to renew:
From sunshine to zephyrs and shades we repair;
To sunshine we fly from too piercing an air:
But love's ardent fever burns always the same;
No winter can cool it, no summer inflame.

IV

But see! the pale moon all clouded retires;
The breezes grow cool, not Strephon's desires:
I fly from the dangers of tempest and wind,
Yet nourish the madness that preys on my mind.
Ah wretch! how can life thus merit thy care,
Since length'ning its moments, but lengthens despair?

The RAVISH'D SHEPHERD.

A SONG.

I

Azure Dawn, whose chearful ray
Bids all nature's beauties rise,
Were thy glories doubly gay,
What art thou to Chloe's eyes?
Boast no more thy rosy light,
If Chloe smile thee into night.

II

Gentle Spring, whose kind return
Spreads diffusive pleasure round,
Bids each breast enamour'd burn,
And each flame with bliss be crown'd;

Should my Chloe leave the plain,
Fell winter soon would blast thy reign.

III

Ev'ry charm, whose high delight
Sense enjoys, or soul admires;
All that ardour can excite,
All excited love requires,
All that heav'n or earth call fair,
View Chloe's face, and read it there.

A PASTORAL SONG.

Sandy, the gay, the blooming swain,
Had lang frae love been free;
Lang made ilk heart that fill'd the plain
Dance quick with harmless glee.

As blythsome lambs that scour the green,
His mind was unconstrain'd;
Nae face could ever fix his een,
Nae sang his ear detain'd.

Ah! luckless youth! a short-liv'd joy
Thy cruel fates decree;
Fell tods shall on thy lambkins prey,
And love mair fell on thee.

'Twas e'er the sun exhal'd the dew,
Ae morn of chearful May,
Forth Girzy walk'd, the flow'rs to view,
A flow'r mair sweet than they!

Like sunbeams sheen her waving locks;
Her een like stars were bright;
The rose lent blushes to her cheek;
The lily purest white.

Jimp was her waist, like some tall pine
That keeps the woods in awe;
Her limbs like iv'ry columns turn'd,
Her breasts like hills of snaw.

Her robe around her loosely thrown,
Gave to the shepherd's een
What fearless innocence would show;
The rest was all unseen.

He fix'd his look, he sigh'd, he quak'd,
His colour went and came;
Dark grew his een, his ears resound,
His breast was all on flame.

Nae mair yon glen repeats his sang,
He jokes and smiles nae mair;
Unplaited now his cravat hung,
Undrest his chesnut hair.

To him how lang the shortest night!
How dark the brightest day!
Till, with the slow consuming fire,
His life was worn away.

Far, far frae shepherds and their flocks,
Opprest with care, he lean'd;
And, in a mirky, beachen shade,
To hills and dales thus plean'd:

“At length, my wayward heart, return,
Too far, alas! astray:
Say, whence you caught that bitter smart,
Which works me such decay.

Ay me! 'twas Love, 'twas Girzy's charms,
That first began my woes;
Could he sae saft, or she sae fair,
Prove such relentless foes?

Fierce winter nips the sweetest flower;
Keen lightning rives the tree;
Bleak mildew taints the fairest crop,
And love has blasted me.

Sagacious hounds the foxes chace;
The tender lambkins they;
Lambs follow close their mother ewes,
And ewes the blooms of May.

Sith a' that live, with a' their might,
Some dear delight pursue;
Cease, ruthless maid! to scorn the heart
That only pants for you.

Alas! for griefs, to her unken'd,
What pity can I gain?
And should she ken, yet love refuse,
Could that redress my pain?

Come, death, my wan, my frozen bride,
Ah! close those wearied eyes:
But death the happy still pursues,
Still from the wretched flies.

Could wealth avail; what wealth is mine
Her high-born mind to bend?
Her's are those wide delightful plains,
And her's the flocks I tend.

What tho', whene'er I tun'd my pipe,
Glad fairies heard the sound,
And, clad in freshest April green,
Aft tript the circle round:

Break, landward clown, thy dinsome reed,
And brag thy skill nae mair:
Can aught that gies na Girzy joy,
Be worth thy lightest care?

Adieu! ye harmless, sportive flocks!
Who now your lives shall guard?
Adieu! my faithful dog, who oft
The pleasing vigil shar'd:

Adieu! ye plains, and light, anes sweet,
Now painful to my view:
Adieu to life; and thou, mair dear,
Who caus'd my death; adieu!

On the Death of STELLA;

A PASTORAL.

Inscribed to her Sister.

See on those ruby lips the trembling breath,
Those cheeks now faded at the blast of death;
Cold is that breast which warm'd the world before;
And those love-darting eyes shall roll no more.

Now purple ev'ning ting'd the blue serene,
And milder breezes fann'd the verdant plain;
Beneath a blasted oak's portentous shade,
To speak his grief, a pensive swain was laid:
Birds ceas'd to warble at the mournful sound;
The laughing landskip sadden'd all around:

For Stella's fate he breath'd his tuneful moan,
Love, beauty, virtue, mourn your darling gone!

“O thou! by stronger ties than blood ally'd,
Who dy'd to pleasure, when a sister dy'd;
Thou living image of those charms we lost,
Charms which exulting nature once might boast!
Indulge the plaintive muse, whose simple strain
Repeats the heart-felt anguish of the swain:
For Stella's fate thus flow'd his tuneful moan,
Love, beauty, virtue, mourn your darling gone!

Are happiness and joy for ever fled,
Nor haunt the twilight grove, nor sunny glade?
Ah! fled for ever from my longing eye;
With Stella born, with Stella too they die:
Die, or with me your brightest image moan;
Love, beauty, virtue, mourn your darling gone!

Sweet to the thirsty tongue the chrystal stream,
To nightly wand'rers sweet the morning beam;
Sweet to the wither'd grass the gentle show'r;
To the fond lover sweet the nuptial hour;
Sweet fragrant gardens to the lab'ring bee,
And lovely Stella once was heav'n to me:
That heav'n is faded, and those joys are flown,
Love, beauty, virtue, mourn your darling gone!

Ah! where is now that form which charm'd my sight?
Ah! where that wisdom, sparkling heav'nly bright?
Ah! where that sweetness like the lays of spring,
When breathe its flow'rs, and all its warblers sing?
Now fade, ye flow'rs, ye warblers, join my moan;
Love, beauty, virtue, mourn your darling done?

Ah me! tho' winter desolate the field,
Again shall flow'rs their blended odours yield;
Again shall birds the vernal season hail,
And beauty paint, and music charm the vale:
But she no more to bless me shall appear;
No more her angel voice enchant my ear;
No more her angel smile relieve my moan:
Love, beauty, virtue, mourn your darling gone!

He ceas'd; for mighty grief his voice supprest,
Chill'd all his veins, and struggled in his breast;
From his wan cheek the rosy tincture flies;
The lustre languish'd in his closing eyes:
Too soon shall life return, unhappy swain!
If, with returning sense, returns thy pain.
Hills, woods, and streams, resound the shepherd's moan;
Love, beauty, virtue, mourn your darling gone!

A PASTORAL.

Inscribed to EUANTHE.

Whilst I rehearse unhappy Damon's lays,
At which his fleecy charge forgot to graze,
With drooping heads and griev'd attention, stood,
Nor frisk'd the green, nor sought the neighb'ring flood;
Essential Sweetness! deign with me to stray,
Where yon close shades exclude the heat of day;
Or where yon fountain murmurs soft along,
Mixt with his tears, and vocal to his song;
There hear the sad relation of his fate,
And pity all the pains thy charms create.

Close in th' adjacent shade, conceal'd from view,
I staid, and heard him thus his griefs pursue.

“Awake, my muse! the soft Sicilian strain;
Mild gleams the purple ev'ning o'er the plain;
Mild fan the breezes, mild the waters flow,
And heav'n and earth an equal quiet know;
With ease the shepherds and their flocks are blest,
And ev'ry grief, but mine, consents to rest.

Awake, my muse, the soft Sicilian strain;
Sicilian numbers may delude my pain:
The thirsty field, which scorching heat devours,
Is ne'er supply'd, tho' heav'n descend in show'rs:
From flow'r to flow'r the bee still plies her wing,
Of sweets insatiate, tho' she drain the spring:
Still from those eyes love calls their liquid store,
And, when their currents fail, still thirsts for more.

Awake, my muse! the soft Sicilian strain:
Yet why to ruthless storms should I complain?
Deaf storms and death itself complaints may move,
But groans are music to the tyrant Love.
O Love! thy genius and thy force I know,
Thy burning torch, and pestilential bow:
From some fermented tempest of the main,
At once commenc'd thy being, and thy reign;
Nurs'd by fell harpies in some howling wood,
Inur'd to slaughter, and regal'd with blood:
Relentless mischief! at whose dire command,
A mother stain'd with filial blood her hand:
Curst boy! curst mother! which most impious, say,
She who could wound, or he who could betray?

Awake, my muse! the soft Sicilian strain:
From love those sighs I breathe, those plagues sustain.
Why did I first Euanthe's charms admire,
Bless the soft smart, and fan the growing fire?
Why, happy still my danger to conceal,
Could I no ruin fear, till sure to feel?

So seeks the swain by night his doubtful way,
Led by th' insidious meteor's fleeting ray;
Still on, attracted by th' illusive beam,
He tempts the faithless marsh, or fatal stream:
Away with scorn the laughing Daemon flies,
While shades eternal seal the wretch's eyes.

Awake, my muse! the soft Sicilian strain;
Ah! can no last, no darling hope remain,
Round which my soul with all her strength may twine,
And, tho' but flatter'd, call the treasure mine?
Wretch! to the charmer's sphere canst thou ascend,
Or dar'st thou fancy she to thee will bend?
Say, shall the chirping grashopper assume
The varied accent, and the soaring plume;
Or shall that oak, the tallest of his race,
Stoop to his root, and meet yon shrub's embrace?

Awake, my muse! the soft Sicilian strain;
Those pallid cheeks how long shall sorrow stain?
Well I remember, O my soul! too well,
When in the snare of fate I thoughtless fell:
Languid and sick, she sought the distant shade,
Where, led by love or destiny, I stray'd:
There, from the nymphs retir'd, depress'd she lay,
To unremitting pain a smiling prey:
Ev'n then I saw her, as an angel, bright;
I saw, I lov'd, I perish'd at the sight;
I sigh'd, I blush'd, I gaz'd with fix'd surprise,
And all my soul hung raptur'd in my eyes.

Forbear, my muse! the soft Sicilian strain;
Which heav'n bestows, and art refines, in vain:
What tho' the heav'n-born muse my temples shade
With wreaths of fame, and bays that never fade?
What tho' the Sylvan pow'rs, while I complain,
Attend my flocks, and patronize my strain?
On me my stars, not gifts, but ills bestow,
And all the change I feel, is change of woe.

But see yon rock projected o'er the main,
Whose giddy prospect turns the gazer's brain:
Object is lost beneath its vast profound,
And deep and hoarse below the surges sound:
Oft, while th' unthinking world is lost in sleep,
My sable genius tempts me to the steep;
In fancy's view bids endless horrors move,
A barren fortune, and a hopeless love,
Life has no charms for me; why longer stay?
I hear the gloomy mandate, and obey.
What! fall the victim of a mean despair,
And crown the triumph of the cruel fair?
No, let me once some conscious merit show,
And tell the world, I can survive my woe.

Forbear, my muse! the soft Sicilian strain:
Fool! wretched fool! what frenzy fires thy brain?
See, choak'd with weeds, thy languid flow'rs recline,
Thy sheep unguarded, and unprop'd thy vine.
At length recall'd, to toil thy hands inure,
Or weave the basket, or the fold secure.

What tho' her cheeks a living blush display,
Pure as the dawn of heav'n's unclouded day;
Tho' love from ev'ry glance an arrow wings,
And all the muses warble, when she sings?
Forbear, my muse! the soft Sicilian strain;
Some nymph, as fair, a sprightlier note may gain:
There are who know to prize more genuine charms,
Which genius brightens, and which virtue warms:
Forbear, my muse! the soft Sicilian strain;
Some nymph, as fair, may smile, tho' she disdain.

The PLAINTIVE SHEPHERD.

A PASTORAL ELEGY.

Eheu! quid volui misero mihi? floribus austrum
Perditus, et liquidis immisi fontibus apros.
Virg.

Colin, whose lays the shepherds all admire,
For Phoebe long consum'd with hopeless fire;
Nor durst his tongue the hidden smart convey,
Nor tears the torment of his soul betray:
But to the wildness of the woods he flies,
And vents his grief in unregarded sighs:
Ye conscious woods, who still the sound retain,
Repeat the tuneful sorrows of the swain.

“And must I perish then, ah cruel maid!
To early fate, by love of thee, betray'd?
And can no tender art thy soul subdue,
Me, dying me, with milder eyes to view?
The flow'r that withers in its op'ning bloom,
Robb'd of its charming dyes, and sweet perfume;
The tender lamb that prematurely pines,
And life's untasted joys at once resigns;
For these thy tears in copious tributes flow,
For these thy bosom heaves with tender woe?
And canst thou then with tears their fate survey,
While, blasted by thy coldness, I decay?

And now the swains each to their cots are fled,
And not a warble echoes thro' the mead;
Now to their folds the panting flocks retreat;
Scorch'd with the summer noon's relentless heat:
From summer's heat the shades a refuge prove;
But what can shield my heart from fiercer love?
All-bounteous nature taught the fertile field,
For all our other ills a balm to yield;
But love, the sharpest pang the soul sustains,
Still cruel love incurable remains.

Yet, dear destroyer! yet my suff'rings hear:
By love's kind look, and pity's sacred tear,
By the strong griefs that in my bosom roll,
By all the native goodness of thy soul,
Regard my bloom declining to the grave,
And, like eternal Mercy, smile and save.

What tho' no sounding names my race adorn,
Sustain'd by labour, and obscurely born;
With fairest flow'rs the humble vales are spread,
While endless tempests beat the mountain's head.
What tho' by fate no riches are my share;
Riches are parents of eternal care;
While, in the lowly hut and silent grove,
Content plays smiling with her sister love.
What tho' no native charms my person grace,
Nor beauty moulds my form, nor paints my face;
The sweetest fruit may often pall the taste,
While sloes and brambles yield a safe repast.

Ah! prompt to hope, forbear thy fruitless strain;
Thy hopes are frantic, and thy lays are vain.
Say, can thy song appease the stormy deep,
Or lull th' impetuous hurricane asleep?
Thy numbers then her stedfast soul may move,
And change the purpose of determin'd love.

Die, Colin, die, nor groan with grief opprest;
Another image triumphs in her breast;
Another soon shall call the fair his own,
And heav'n and fate seem pleas'd their vows to crown.

Arise, Menalcas, with the dawn arise;
For thee thy Phoebe looks with longing eyes;
For thee the shepherds, a delighted throng,
Wake the soft reed, and hymeneal song;

For thee the hasty virgins rob the spring,
And, wrought with care, the nuptial garland bring.

Arise, Menalcas, with the dawn arise;
Ev'n time for thee with double swiftness flies:
Hours urging hours, with all their speed retire,
To give thy soul whate'er it can desire.

Yet, when the priest prepares the rites divine,
And when her trembling hand is clasp'd in thine,
Let not thy heart too soon indulge its joys;
But think on him whom thy delight destroys!
Thee too he lov'd; to thee his simple heart,
With easy faith and fondness breath'd its smart:
So fools their flocks to sanguine wolves resign,
So trust the cunning fox to prune the vine.
Think thou behold'st him from some gaping wound
Effuse his soul, and stain with blood the ground:
Think, while to earth his pale remains they bear,
His friends with shrieking sorrow pierce thine ear:
Or, to some torrent's headlong rage a prey,
Think thou behold'st him floating to the sea.

But now the sun declines his radiant head,
And rising hills project a length'ning shade:
Again to browze the green the flocks return,
Again the swains to sport, and I to mourn:
I homeward too must bend my painful way,
Left old Damoetas sternly chide my stay.

DESIDERIUM LUTETIAE;

From BUCHANAN, An ALLEGORICAL PASTORAL, In which he regrets his Absence from Paris, Imitated.

While far remote, thy swain, dear Chloe! sighs,
Depriv'd the vital sunshine of thine eyes;
Seven summer heats already warm the plains;
In storms and snow the sev'nth bleak winter reigns:
Yet not seven years revolving sad and slow,
Nor summer's heats, nor winter's storms and snow,
Can to my soul the smallest ease procure,
Or free from Love and Care one tedious hour.

Thee, when from heav'n descend the dews of morn,
To crop the verdant mead when flocks return;
Thee, when the sun has compass'd half his way,
And darts around unsufferable day;
Thee, when the ev'ning, o'er the world display'd,
From rising hills projects a length'ning shade;
Thee still I sing, unweary'd of my theme,
Source of my song, and object of my flame!

Ev'n night, in whose dark bosom nature laid,
Appears one blank, one undistinguish'd shade,
Ev'n night in vain, with all her horrors, tries
To blot thy lovely form from fancy's eyes.

When short-liv'd slumbers, long invok'd, descend,
To sooth each care, and ev'ry sense suspend,
Full to my sight once more thy charms appear;
Once more my ardent vows salute thine ear;
Once more my anxious soul, awake to bliss,
Feels, hears, detains thee in her close embrace:
In flutt'ring, thrilling, glowing transport tost,
Till sense itself in keen delight is lost.

From sleep I wake; but, oh! how chang'd the scene!
The charms illusive, and the pleasure vain!
The day returns; but ah! returning day,
When ev'ry grief but mine admits allay,
On these sad eyes its glory darts in vain;
Its light restor'd, restores my soul to pain.

The house I fly, impell'd by wild despair,
As if my griefs could only find me there.
Lost to the world, thro' lonely fields I rove;
Vain wish! to fly from destiny and love!
By wayward frenzy's restless impulse led,
Thro' devious wilds, with heedless course, I tread:
The cave remote, the dusky wood explore,
Where human step was ne'er imprest before:
And, with the native accents of despair,
Fatigue the conscious rocks, and desert air.

Kind Echo, faithful to my plaints alone,
Sighs all my sighs, and groans to ev'ry groan.
The streams, familiar to the voice of woe,
Each mournful sound remurmur as they flow.

Oft on some rock distracted I complain,
Which hangs projected o'er the ruffled main:
Oft view the azure surges as they roll,
And to deaf storms effuse my frantic soul.
“Attend my sorrows, O caerulean tide!
“Ye blue-ey'd nymphs that thro' the billows glide,
“Oh! waft me gently o'er your rough domain;
“Let me at length my darling coast attain:
“Or, if my wishes thus too much implore,
“Shipwreck'd and gasping let me reach the shore.
“While wash'd along the floods I hold my way,
“To ev'ry wind and ev'ry wave a prey,
“Dear hope and love shall bear my struggling frame,
“And unextingush'd keep the vital flame.”

Oft to the hast'ning zephyrs have I said:
“You, happy gales! shall fan my lovely maid.
“So may no pointed rocks your wings deform;
“So may your speedy journey meet no storm.
“As soft you whisper round my heav'nly fair,
“Play on her breast, or wanton with her hair;
“Faithful to love, the tender message bear,
“And breathe my endless sorrows in her ear.”

How oft rough Eurus have I ask'd in vain!
As with swift wings he brush'd the-foamy main:

“Blest wind! who late my distant charmer view'd,
“Say, has her soul no other wish pursu'd!
“With mutual fire, say, does her bosom glow;
“Feels she my wound, and pities she my woe?”

Heedless of all my tears, and all I say,
The winds, with blust'ring fury, wing their way.
A freezing horror, and a chilling pain,
Shoots thro' my heart, and stagnates ev'ry vein.
No rural pleasures yield my soul relief;
No melting shepherd's pipe consoles my grief:
The choral nymphs, that dancing chear the plain,
And Fauns, tho' sweet their song, yet sing in vain.
Deaf to the voice of joy, my tortur'd mind
Can only room for love and anguish find:
By these my soul and all its wishes caught,
Can to no other object yield a thought.

Lycisca, skilful with her lyre to move
Each tender wish, and melt the soul to love:
Melaenis too, with ev'ry sweetness crown'd,
By nature form'd with ev'ry glance to wound:
With emulation both my love pursue,
And both, with winning arts, my passion woo.
The freshest bloom of youth their cheeks display;
Their eyes are arm'd with beauty's keenest ray;
Av'rice itself might count their fleecy store,
(A prize beyond its wish!) and pant no more.

Me oft their dow'rs each gen'rous sire has told,
An hundred playful younglings from the fold,
Each with its dam; their mothers promise more,
And oft, and long, with secret gifts, implore.
Me nor an hundred playful younglings move,
Each with its dam; nor wealth can bribe my love;
Nor all the griefs th' imploring mothers show;
Nor all the secret gifts they would bestow;
Nor all the tender things the nymphs can say;
Nor all the soft desires the nymphs betray.

As winter to the spring in beauty yields,
Languor to health, and rocks to verdant fields;
As the fair virgin's cheek, with rosy dye
Blushing delight, with lightning arm'd her eye,
Beyond her mother's faded form appears,
Mark'd with the wrinkles and the snow of years;
As beauteous Tweed, and wealth-importing Thames
Flow each the envy of their country's streams:
So, loveliest of her sex, my heav'nly maid
Appears, and all their fainter glories fade.

Melaenis, whom love's soft enchantments arm,
Replete with charms, and conscious of each charm,
Oft on the glassy stream, with raptur'd eyes,
Surveys her form in mimic sweetness rise;
Oft, as the waters pleas'd reflect her face,
Adjusts her locks, and heightens ev'ry grace:
Oft thus she tries, with all her tuneful art,
To reach the soft accesses of my heart.

“Unhappy swain, whose wishes fondly stray,
“To slow-consuming fruitless fires a prey!
“Say, will those sighs and tears for ever flow
“In hopeless torment, and determin'd woe?
“Our fields, by nature's bounty blest, as thine,
“The mellow apple yield, and purple vine;
“Those too thou lov'st; their free enjoyment share,
“Nor plant vain tedious hopes, and reap despair.”

Me oft Lycisca, in the festive train,
Views as she lightly bounds along the plain:
Straight, with dissembled scorn, away she flies;
Yet still on me obliquely turns her eyes:
While, to the music of her trembling strings,
Amidst the dance sweet warbling, thus she sings:
“No tears the just revenge of heav'n can move;
“Heav'n's just revenge will punish slighted love.
“I've seen a huntsman, active as the morn,
“Salute her earliest blush with sounding horn;
“Pursue the bounding stag with op'ning cries,
“And slight the timid hare, his easy prize:
“Then, with the setting sun, his hounds restrain;
“Nor bounding stag, nor timid hare obtain.
“I've seen the sportsman latent nets display,
“To catch the feather'd warblers of the spray;
“Despise the finch that flutter'd round in air,
“And court the sweeter linnet to his snare:
“Yet weary, cold, successless, leave the plain;
“Nor painted finch, nor sweeter linnet, gain.

“I've seen a youth the polish'd pipe admire,
“And scorn the simple reed the swains inspire:
“The simple reed yet chears each tuneful swain;
“While still unblest the scorner pines in vain.
“Thus righteous heav'n chastises wanton pride,
“And bids intemp'rate insolence subside.”

Thus breathe the am'rous nymphs their fruitless pain,
In ears impervious to the softest strain.
But first with trembling lambs the wolf shall graze;
First hawks with linnets join in social lays;
First shall the tiger's sanguine thirst expire,
And tim'rous fawns the lion fierce admire;
Ere, with her lute Lycisca taught to charm,
This destin'd heart ere soft Melaenis warm.
First shall the finny nation leave the flood,
Shadows the hills, and birds the vocal wood;
The winds shall cease to breathe, the streams to flow;
Ere my desires another object know.
This infant bosom, yet in love untaught,
From Chloe first the pleasing ardour caught:
Chloe shall still its faithful empire claim,
Its first ambition, and its latest aim!
Till ev'ry wish and ev'ry hope be o'er,
And life and love inspire my frame no more.

PHILANTHES:

A MONODY.

Inscribed to Miss D---y H---y;

[_]

Occasioned by a series of interesting Events which happened at Dumfries on Friday, June 12, 1752, particularly that of her Father's death.

Quis desiderio sit pudor, aut modus
Tam chari capitis? Præcipe lugubres
Cantus Melpomene, cui liquidam pater
Vocem cum cithara dedit.

Horat.

ARGUMENT.

The subject proposed.—Address to Miss H---y.—General reflections inspir'd by the subject, and previous to it.—The scene opens with a prospect of Mrs. M---n's funeral solemnity: and changes to the untimely fate of a beautiful youth, son to Mr J---s H---ll, whose early genius, quick progress in learning, and gentle dispositions, inspired his friends with the highest expectations of his riper attainments.—Transition to the death of Dr. J---s H---y Physician: his character as such: the general sorrow occasioned by his fate: his character as a friend, as particularly qualified to sooth distress; as a gentleman; as an husband; as a father: his loss considered in all these relations, particularly as sustained by Miss H---y: her tender care of him during his sickness described.—The piece concludes with an apotheosis, in imitation of Virgil's Daphnis.

I.

A Swain, whose soul the tuneful nine inflame,
As to his western goal the sun declin'd,
Sung to the list'ning shades no common theme;
While the hoarse breathings of the hollow wind,
And deep resounding surge in concert join'd.
Deep was the surge, and deep the plaintive song,
While all the solemn scene in mute attention hung.

Nor thou, fair victim of so just a woe!
Tho' still the pangs of nature swell thy heart,
Disdain the faithful muse; whose numbers flow
Sacred, alas! to sympathetic smart:
For in thy griefs the muses claim a part;
'Tis all they can, in social tears to mourn,
And deck with cypress wreaths thy dear paternal urn.

The swain began, while conscious echoes round
Protract to sadder length his doleful lay.
Roll on, ye streams, in cadence more profound:
Ye humid vapours, veil the face of day:
O'er all the mournful plain
Let night and sorrow reign:
For Pan indignant from his fields retires,
Once haunts of gay delight;
Now every sense they fright,
Resound with shrieks of woe, and blaze with fun'ral fires.

II.

What tho' the radiant sun and clement sky
Alternate warmth and show'rs dispense below;
Tho' spring presages to the careful eye,
That autumn copious with her fruits shall glow?
For us in vain her choicest blessings flow:
To ease the bleeding heart, alas! in vain
Rich swells the purple grape, or waves the golden grain.

What summer-breeze, on swiftest pinions borne,
From fate's relentless hand its prey can save?
What sun in death's dark regions wake the morn,
Or warm the cold recesses of the grave?
Ah wretched man: whose breast scarce learns to heave
With kindling life; when, ere thy bud is blown,
Eternal winter breathes, and all its sweets are gone.

Thou all-enlivening flame, intensely bright!
Whose sacred beams illume each wand'ring sphere,
That thro' high heav'n reflects thy trembling light,
Conducting round this globe the varied year;
As thou pursu'st thy way,
Let this revolving day,
Deep-ting'd with conscious gloom, roll slow along:
In sable pomp array'd,
Let night diffuse her shade,
Nor sport the chearless hind, nor chant the vocal throng.

III.

Scarce, from the ardor of the mid-day gleam,
Had languid nature in the cool respir'd;
Scarce, by the margin of the silver stream,
Faint sung the birds in verdant shades retir'd;
Scarce, o'er the thirsty field with sun-shine fir'd,
Had ev'ning gales the sportive wing essay'd,
When sounds of hopeless woe the silent scene invade.

Sophronia, long for ev'ry virtue dear
That grac'd the wife, the mother, or the friend,
Depriv'd of life, now press'd the mournful bier,
In sad procession to the tomb sustain'd.
Ah me! in vain to heav'n and earth complain'd
With tender cries her num'rous orphan train;
The tears of wedded love profuse were shed in vain.

For her, was grief on ev'ry face impress'd;
For her, each bosom heav'd with tender sighs:
An husband late with all her virtues bless'd,
And weeping race in sad ideas rise:
For her depress'd and pale,
Your charms, ye Graces, veil.
Whom to adorn was once your chief delight:
Ye virtues all deplore
Your image, now no more,
And Hymen quench thy torch in tears and endless night.

IV.

Nor yet these dismal prospects disappear,
When o'er the weeping plain new horrors rise,
And louder accents pierce each frighted ear,
Accents of grief imbitter'd by surprise!
Frantic with woe, at once the tumult flies,
To snatch Adonis wash'd along the stream,
And all th' extended bank re-echoes to his name.

Rang'd on the brink the weeping matrons stand,
The lovely wreck of fortune to survey,
While o'er the flood he wav'd his beauteous hand,
Or in convulsive anguish struggling lay.
By slow degrees they view'd his force decay,
In fruitless efforts to regain the shore:
They view'd and mourn'd his fate: O heaven! they could no more.

Ye Naiads, guardians of the fatal flood,
Was beauty, sweetness, youth, no more your care?
For beauty, sweetness, youth, your pity woo'd,
Pow'rful to charm, if fate could learn to spare.
Stretch'd on cold earth he lies;
While, in his closing eyes,
No more the heav'n-illumin'd lustre shines;
His cheek, once nature's pride,
With blooming roses dy'd,
To unrelenting fate its op'ning blush resigns.

V.

Dear hapless youth! what felt thy mother's heart,
When in her view thy lifeless form was laid?
Such anguish when the soul and body part,
Such agonizing pangs the frame invade.
Was there no hand, she cry'd, my child to aid?
Could heav'n and earth unmov'd his fall survey,
Nor from th' insatiate waves redeem their lovely prey?

Did I for this my tend'rest cares employ,
To nourish and improve thy early bloom?
Are all my rising hopes, my promis'd joy,
Extinct in death's inexorable gloom?
No more shall life those faded charms relume,
Dear rip'ning sweetness! sunk no more to rise!
Thee nature mourns, like me, with fond maternal eyes.

Fortune and life, your gifts how insecure!
How fair you promise! but how ill perform!
Like tender fruit, they perish premature,
Scorch'd by the beam, or whelm'd beneath the storm.
For thee a fate more kind,
Thy mother's hopes assign'd,
Than thus to sink in early youth deplor'd:
But late thou fled'st my sight,
Thy parent's dear delight!
And art thou to my arms, ah! art thou thus restor'd?

VI.

Severe these ills; yet heavier still impend,
That wound with livelier grief the smarting soul:
As, ere the long-collected storm descend,
Red lightnings flash, and thunder shakes the pole;
Portentous, solemn, loud its murmurs roll:
While from the subject field the trembling hind
Views instant ruin threat the labours of mankind.

100

For scarce the bitter sigh and deep'ning groan
In fainter cadence died away in air,
When, lo! by fate a deadlier shaft was thrown,
Which open'd ev'ry source of deep despair:
As yet our souls those recent sorrows share,
Swift from th' adjacent field Menalcas flies,
While grief impels his steps, and tears bedew his eyes.

Weep on, he cry'd, let tears no measure know;
Hence from those fields let pleasure wing her way:
Ye shades, be hallow'd from this hour to woe:
No more with summer's pride, ye meads be gay.
Ah! why, with sweetness crown'd,
Should summer smile around?
Philanthes now is number'd with the dead:
Young health, all drown'd in tears,
A livid paleness wears;
Dim are her radiant eyes, and all her roses fade.

VII.

Him bright Hygeia, in life's early dawn,
Thro' nature's fav'rite walks with transport led,
Thro' woods umbrageous, or the op'ning lawn,
Or where fresh fountains lave the flow'ry mead:
There summer's treasures to his view display'd,
What herbs and flow'rs salubrious juice bestow,
Along the lowly vale, or mountain's arduous brow.

101

The paralytic nerve his art confess'd,
Quick-panting asthma, and consumption pale:
Corrosive pain he soften'd into rest,
And bade the fever's rage no more prevail.
Unhappy art! decreed at last to fail,
Why linger'd then thy salutary pow'r,
Nor from a life so dear repell'd the destin'd hour?

Your griefs, O love and friendship, how severe!
When high to heav'n his soul pursu'd her flight;
Your moving plaints still vibrate on my ear,
Still the sad vision swims before my sight.
O'er all the mournful scene,
Inconsolable pain,
In ev'ry various form, appear'd express'd:
The tear-distilling eye,
The long, deep, broken sigh,
Dissolv'd each tender soul, and heav'd in ev'ry breast.

VIII.

Such were their woes, and oh! how just, how due!
What tears could equal such immense distress?
Time, cure of lighter ills, must ours renew,
And years the sense of what we lose increase.
From whom shall now the wretched hope redress?
Religion where a nobler subject find,
So favour'd of the skies, so dear to human kind?

102

Fair friendship, smiling on his natal hour,
The babe selected in her sacred train;
She bade him round diffusive blessings show'r,
And in his bosom fix'd her fav'rite fane,
In glory thence how long, yet how serene,
Her vital influence spreads its chearing rays!
Worth felt the genial beam, and ripen'd in the blaze.

As lucid streams refresh the smiling plain,
Op'ning the flow'rs that on their borders grow;
As grateful to the herb, descending rain,
That shrunk and wither'd in the solar glow:
So, when his voice was heard,
Affliction disappear'd;
Pleasure with ravish'd ears imbib'd the sound;
Grief with its sweetness sooth'd,
Each cloudy feature smooth'd,
And ever-waking care forgot th' eternal wound.

IX.

Such elegance of taste, such graceful ease,
Infus'd by heav'n, thro' all his manners shone;
In him it seem'd to join what'er could please,
And plan the full perfection from its own:
He other fields and other swains had known,
Gentle as those of old by Phoebus taught,
When polish'd with his lute, like him they spoke and thought.

103

Thus form'd alike to bless, and to be bless'd,
Such heav'nly graces kindred graces found;
Her gentle turn the same, the same her taste,
With equal worth, and equal candour crown'd:
Long may she search creation's ample round,
The joys of such a friendship to explore;
But, once in him expir'd, to joy she lives no more.

As nature to her works supremely kind,
His tender soul with all the parent glow'd,
On all his race, his goodness unconfin'd,
One full exhaustless stream of fondness flow'd;
Pleas'd as each genius rose
New prospects to disclose,
To form the mind, and raise its gen'rous aim;
His thoughts, with virtue warm'd,
At once inspir'd and charm'd;
His looks, his words, his smiles transfus'd the sacred flame.

X.

Say ye, whose minds for long revolving years
The joys of sweet society have known,
Whose mutual fondness ev'ry hour endears,
Whose pains, whose pleasures, and whose souls are one;
O! say, for you can judge, and you alone,
What anguish pierc'd his widow'd consort's heart,
When from her dearer self for ever doom'd to part.

104

His children to the scene of death repair,
While more than filial sorrow bathes their eyes;
His smiles indulgent, his paternal care,
In sadly-pleasing recollection rise:
But young Dorinda, with distinguish'd sighs,
Effusing all her soul in soft regret,
Seems, while she mourns his loss, to share a father's fate.

Whether the day its wonted course renew'd,
Or midnight vigils wrapt the world in shade,
Her tender task assiduous she pursu'd,
To sooth his anguish, or his wants to aid;
To soften ev'ry pain,
The meaning look explain,
And scan the forming wish 'ere yet express'd:
The dying father smil'd
With fondness on his child,
And, when his tongue was mute, his eyes her goodness bless'd.

XI.

At length, fair mourner! cease thy rising woe:
Its object still surviving seeks the skies,
Where brighter suns in happier climates glow,
And ampler scenes with height'ning charms surprise:
There perfect life thy much lov'd fire enjoys,
The life of gods, exempt from grief and pain,
Where in immortal breasts immortal transports reign.

105

Ye mourning swains, your loud complaints forbear;
Still he, the Genius of our green retreat,
Shall with benignant care our labours chear,
And banish far each shock of adverse fate;
Mild suns and gentle show'rs on spring shall wait,
His hand with ev'ry fruit shall autumn store:
In heav'n your patron reigns, ye shepherds weep no more.

Henceforth his pow'r shall with your Lares join,
To bid your cots with peace and pleasure smile;
To bid disease and languor cease to pine,
And fair abundance crown each rural toil:
While birds their lays resume,
And spring her annual bloom,
Let verdant wreaths his sacred tomb adorn;
To him, each rising day
Devout libations pay:
In heav'n your patron reigns, no more, ye shepherds, mourn.

106

The WISH: An Elegy.

To URANIA.

Felices ter, et amplius,
Quos irrupta tenet copula, nec malis
Divulsus querimoniis
Suprema citius solvet amor die.
Hor.

Let others travel, with incessant pain,
The wealth of earth and ocean to secure;
Then, with fond hopes, caress the precious bane;
In grandeur abject, and in affluence poor.

But soon, too soon, in fancy's timid eyes,
Wild waves shall roll, and conflagrations spread;
While bright in arms, and of gigantic size,
The fear-form'd robber haunts the thorny bed.

Let me, in dreadless poverty retir'd,
The real joys of life, unenvied, share:
Favour'd by love, and by the muse inspir'd,
I'll yield to wealth its jealousy and care.

107

On rising ground, the prospect to command,
Unting'd with smoak, where vernal breezes blow,
In rural neatness let my cottage stand;
Here wave a wood, and there a river flow.

Oft from the neighb'ring hills and pastures round,
Let sheep with tender bleat salute my ear;
Nor fox insidious haunt the guiltless ground,
Nor man pursue the trade of murder near:

Far hence, kind heav'n! expel the savage train,
Inur'd to blood, and eager to destroy;
Who pointed steel with recent slaughter stain,
And place in groans and death their cruel joy.

Ye pow'rs of social life and tender song!
To you devoted shall my fields remain;
Here undisturb'd the peaceful day prolong,
Nor own a smart but love's delightful pain.

For you, my trees shall wave their leafy shade;
For you, my gardens tinge the lenient air;
For you, be autumn's blushing gifts display'd,
And all that nature yields of sweet or fair.

But, O! if plaints, which love and grief inspire,
In heav'nly breasts could e'er compassion find,
Grant me, ah! grant my heart's supreme desire,
And teach my dear Urania to be kind.

108

For her, black sadness clouds my brightest day;
For her, in tears the midnight vigils roll;
For her, cold horrors melt my pow'rs away,
And chill the living vigour of my soul.

Beneath her scorn each youthful ardour dies,
Its joys, its wishes, and its hopes, expire;
In vain the fields of science tempt my eyes;
In vain for me the muses string the lyre.

O! let her oft my humble dwelling grace,
Humble no more, if there she deign to shine;
For heav'n, unlimited by time or place,
Still waits on god-like worth and charms divine.

Amid the cooling fragrance of the morn,
How sweet with her thro' lonely fields to stray!
Her charms the loveliest landskip shall adorn,
And add new glories to the rising day.

With her, all nature shines in heighten'd bloom;
The silver stream in sweeter music flows;
Odours more rich the fanning gales perfume;
And deeper tinctures paint the spreading rose.

With her, the shades of night their horrors lose,
Its deepest silence charms if she be by;
Her voice the music of the dawn renews,
Its lambent radiance sparkles in her eye.

109

How sweet, with her, in wisdom's calm recess,
To brighten soft desire with wit refin'd?
Kind nature's laws with sacred Ashley trace,
And view the fairest features of the mind!

Or borne on Milton's flight, as heav'n sublime,
View its full blaze in open prospect glow;
Bless the first pair in Eden's happy clime,
Or drop the human tear for endless woe.

And when, in virtue and in peace grown old,
No arts the languid lamp of life restore;
Her let me grasp with hands convuls'd and cold,
Till ev'ry nerve relax'd can hold no more:

Long, long on her my dying eyes suspend,
Till the last beam shall vibrate on my sight;
Then soar where only greater joys attend,
And bear her image to eternal light.

Fond man, ah! whither would thy fancy rove?
'Tis thine to languish in unpitied smart;
'Tis thine, alas! eternal scorn to prove,
Nor feel one gleam of comfort warm thy heart.

But, if my fair this cruel law impose,
Pleas'd, to her will I all my soul resign;
To walk beneath the burden of my woes,
Or sink in death, nor at my fate repine.

110

Yet when, with woes unmingled and sincere,
To earth's cold womb in silence I descend;
Let her, to grace my obsequies, appear,
And with the weeping throng her sorrows blend.

Ah! no; be all her hours with pleasure crown'd,
And all her soul from ev'ry anguish free:
Should my sad fate that gentle bosom wound,
The joys of heav'n would be no joys to me.

On the Death of Mr. POPE.

An ELEGY.

Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung;
Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue;
Ev'n he, whose soul, now melts in mournful lays,
Shall shortly want the gen'rous tear he pays.
Pope's Unfortunate Lady.

While yet I scarce awake from dumb surprize,
And tepid streams profusely bathe my eyes;
While soul-dissolving sighs my bosom strain,
And all my being sinks oppress'd with pain;
Deign you, whose souls, like mine, are form'd to know
The nice poetic sense of bliss and woe;

111

To these sad accents deign a pitying ear:
Strong be our sorrow, as the cause severe.

O Pope, what tears thy obsequies attend!
Britain a bard deplores, mankind a friend:
For thee, their darling, weep th' Aonian choir,
Mute the soft voice, unstrung the tuneful lyre:
For thee, the virtuous and the sage shall mourn,
And virgin sorrows bathe thy sacred urn:
One veil of grief o'er heav'n and earth be thrown,
And vice and envy flaunt in smiles alone.
Erewhile depress'd in abject dust they lay,
Nor with their hideous forms affronted day;
While thy great genius, in their tortur'd sight,
Plac'd truth and virtue cloath'd with heav'nly light:
Now pleas'd, to open sunshine they return,
And o'er the fate exult which others mourn.

Ah me! far other thoughts my soul inspire;
Far other accents breathes the plaintive lyre:
Thee, tho' the muses bless'd with all their art,
And pour'd their sacred raptures on thy heart;
Tho' thy lov'd virtue, with a mother's pain,
Deplores thy fate, alas! deplores in vain?
Silent and pale thy tuneful frame remains;
Death seals thy sight, and freezes in thy veins:
“Cold is that breast, which warm'd the world before,
“And that heav'n-prompted tongue shall charm no more.”

112

Whom next shall heav'n to share thy honours chuse;
Whom consecrate to virtue and the muse?
The muse, by fate's eternal plan design'd
To light, exalt, and humanize the mind;
To bid kind pity melt, just anger glow;
To kindle joy, or prompt the sighs of woe;
To shake with horror, rack with tender smart,
And touch the finest springs that move the heart.

Curst he! who, without extasy sincere,
The poet's soul effus'd in song can hear:
His aid in vain shall indigence require;
Unmov'd he views his dearest friends expire:
Nature and nature's God that wretch detest;
Unsought his friendship, and his days unblest:
Hell's mazy frauds deep in his bosom roll,
And all her gloom hangs heavy on his soul.

As when the sun begins his eastern way,
To bless the nations with returning day,
Crown'd with unfading splendor, on he flies;
Reveals the world, and kindles all the skies:
The prostrate East the radiant God adore;
So, Pope, we view'd thee, but must view no more.

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Thee angels late beheld, with mute surprise,
Glow with their themes, and to their accents rise;
They view'd with wonder thy unbounded aim,
To trace the mazes of th' eternal scheme:
But heav'n those scenes to human view denies,
Those scenes impervious to celestial eyes:
Whoe'er attempts the path, shall lose his way,
And, wrapt in night, thro' endless error stray.

In thee what talent shall we most admire;
The critic's judgment, or the poet's fire?
Alike, in both, to glory is thy claim;
Thine Aristotle's taste, and Homer's flame.

Arm'd with impartial satire, when thy muse
Triumphant vice with all her rage pursues;
To hell's dread gloom the monster scours away,
Far from the haunts of men, and scenes of day:
There, curst and cursing, rack'd with raging woe,
Shakes with incessant howls the realms below.
But soon, too soon, the fiend to light shall rise;
Her steps the earth scarce bound, her head the skies;
Till his red terrors Jove again display,
Assert his laws, and vindicate his sway.

When Ovid's song bewails the Lesbian Fair,
Her slighted passion, and intense despair;
By thee improv'd, in each soul-moving line,
Not Ovid's wit, but Sappho's sorrows shine.

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When Eloisa mourns her hapless fate,
What heart can cease with all her pangs to beat!

While pointed wit, with flowing numbers grac'd,
Excites the laugh, ev'n in the guilty breast;
The gaudy coxcomb, and the fickle fair,
Shall dread the satire of thy ravish'd hair.

Not the Sicilian breath'd a sweeter song,
While Arethusa, charm'd and list'ning, hung;
For whom each muse, from her dear seat retir'd,
His flocks protected, and himself inspir'd:
Nor he who sung, while sorrow fill'd the plain,
How Cytherea mourn'd Adonis slain;
Nor Tityrus, who, in immortal lays,
Taught Mantua's echoes Galatea's praise.
No more let Mantua boast unrival'd fame;
Thy Windsor now shall equal honours claim:
Eternal fragrance shall each breeze perfume,
And in each grove eternal verdure bloom.

Ye tuneful shepherds, and ye beauteous maids,
From fair Ladona's banks, and Windsor's shades,
Whose souls in transport melted at his song,
Soft as your sighs, and as your wishes strong;
O come! your copious annual tributes bring,
The full luxuriance of the rifled spring;

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Strip various nature of each fairest flow'r,
And on his tomb the gay profusion show'r.
Let long-liv'd pansies here their scents bestow,
The violets languish, and the roses glow;
In yellow glory let the crocus shine,
Narcissus here his love-sick head recline;
Here hyacinths in purple sweetness rise,
And tulips ting'd with beauty's fairest dyes.

Who shall succeed thy worth, O darling swain!
Attempt thy reeds, or emulate thy strain?
Each painted warbler of the vocal grove
Laments thy fate, unmindful of his love:
Thee, thee the breezes, thee the fountains mourn,
And solemn moans responsive rocks return;
Shepherds and flocks protract the doleful sound,
And nought is heard but mingled plaints around.

When first Calliope thy fall survey'd,
Immortal tears her eyes profusely shed;
Her pow'rless hand the tuneful harp resign'd;
The conscious harp her griefs, low-murm'ring, join'd;
Her voice in trembling cadence dy'd away,
And, lost in anguish, all the goddess lay.
Such pangs she felt, when, from the realms of light,
The fates, in Homer, ravish'd her delight:
To thee her sacred hand consign'd his lyre,
And in thy bosom kindled all his fire:
Hence, in our tongue, his glorious labours drest,
Breathe all the god that warm'd their author's breast.

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When horrid war informs the sacred page,
And men and gods with mutual wrath engage,
The clash of arms, the trumpet's awful sound,
And groans and clamours shake the mountains round;
The nations rock, earth's solid bases groan,
And quake heav'n's arches to th' eternal throne.

Wheh Eolus dilates the lawless wind,
O'er nature's face to revel unconfin'd,
Bend heav'n's blue concave, sweep the fruitful plain,
Tear up the forest, and inrage the main;
In horrid native pomp the tempests shine,
Ferment, and roar, and aestuate in each line.

When Sisyphus, with many a weary groan,
Rolls up the hill the still-revolving stone;
The loaded line, like it, seems to recoil,
Strains his bent nerves, and heaves with his full toil:
But, when resulting rapid from its height,
Precipitate the numbers emulate the flight.

As when creative Energy, employ'd,
With various beings fill'd the boundless void;
With deep survey th' omniscient Parent view'd
The mighty fabric, and confess'd it good;
He view'd, exulting with immense delight,
The lovely transcript, as th' idea, bright:
So swell'd the bard with ecstasy divine,
When full and finish'd rose his bright design;

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So, from the Elysian bow'rs, he joy'd to see
All his immortal self reviv'd in thee.
While fame enjoys thy consecrated fane,
First of th' inspir'd, with him for ever reign;
With his, each distant age shall rank thy name,
And ev'n reluctant envy hiss acclaim.

But, ah! blind fate will no distinction know;
Swift down the torrent all alike must flow:
Wit, virtue, learning, are alike its prey;
All, all must tread th' irremeable way.

No more fond wishes in my breast shall roll,
Distend my heart, and kindle all my soul,
To breathe my honest raptures in thy ear,
And feel thy kindness in returns sincere;
Thy art, I hop'd, should teach the muse to sing,
Direct her flight, and prune her infant wing;
Now, muse, be dumb; or let thy song deplore
Thy pleasures blasted, and thy hopes no more.

Tremendous pow'rs! who rule th' eternal state,
Whose voice is thunder, and whose nod is fate;
Did I for empire, second to your own,
Cling round the shrine, and importune the throne?
Pray'd I, that fame should bear my name on high,
Thro' nation'd earth, or all-involving sky?
Woo'd I for me the sun to toil and shine,
The gem to brighten, or mature the mine?

118

Tho' deep involv'd in adamantine night,
Ask'd I again to view heav'n's chearful light?
Pope's love I sought; that only boon deny'd,
O life! what pleasure canst thou boast beside,
Worth my regard, or equal to my pride?

Thus mourns a tim'rous muse, unknown to fame,
Thus sheds her sweetest incense on thy name;
Whilst on her lips imperfect accents die,
Tear following tear, and sigh succeeding sigh:
She mourns, nor she alone, with fond regret,
A world, a feeling world, must weep thy fate.

Where polish'd arts and sacred science reign,
Where-e'er the Nine their tuneful presence deign;
There shall thy glory, with unclouded blaze,
Command immortal monuments of praise:
From clime to clime the circling sun shall view
Its rival splendour still his own pursue.
While the swift torrent from its source descends;
While round this globe heav'n's ample concave bends;
Whilst all its living lamps their course maintain,
And lead the beauteous year's revolving train;
So long shall men thy heav'nly song admire,
And nature's charms and thine at once expire.

119

ELEGY:

To the Memory of CONSTANTIA.

His saltem accumulem donis, et fungar inani
Munere.------
Virg.

By the pale glimmer of the conscious moon,
When slumber, on the humid eyes of woe,
Sheds its kind lenitive; what mournful voice
So sadly sweet, on my attentive ear,
Its moving plaint effuses: like the song
Of Philomel, when thro' the vocal air,
Impell'd by deep inconsolable grief,
She breathes her soft, her melancholy strain;
And nature with religious silence hears?
'Tis she; my wand'ring senses recognize
The well-known charm, and all my list'ning soul
Is expectation. Oh! 'tis that dear voice,
Whose gentle accents charm'd my happier days;
Ere sharp affliction's iron hand had prest
Her vernal youth, and sunk her with the blow.

Tell me, thou heav'nly excellence! whose form
Still rises to my view, whose melting song

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For ever echoes on my trembling ear,
Delightful ev'n in misery; O say!
What bright distinguish'd mansion in the sky
Receives thy suff'ring virtue from the storm,
That on thy tender blossom pour'd its rage?
Early, alas! too early didst thou feel
Its most tempestuous fury. From the calm,
The soft serenity of life how led
An unsuspecting victim! Ev'ry blast
Pierc'd to thy inmost soul, amid the waste
Of cruel fortune left to seek thy way
Unshelter'd and alone; while to thy groans
No gen'rous ear reclin'd, no friendly roof,
With hospitable umbrage, entertain'd
Thy drooping sweetness, uninur'd to pain.
That lib'ral hand, which, to the tortur'd sense
Of anguish, comfort's healing balm apply'd,
To heav'n and earth extended, vainly now
Implores the consolation once it gave,
Nor suppliant meets redress. That eye benign,
The seat of mercy, which to each distress,
Ev'n by thy foe sustain'd, the gentle tear,
A willing tribute, paid, now fruitless weeps,
Nor gains that pity it so oft bestow'd.

Thou loveliest sacrifice that ever fell
To perfidy and unrelenting hate!
How in the hour of confidence and hope,
When love and expectation to thy heart

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Spoke peace, and plac'd felicity in view;
How fled the bright illusion, and at once
Forsook thee plung'd in exquisite despair!
Thy friends; the insects of a summer-gale
That sport and flutter in the mid-day beam
Of gay prosperity, or from the flow'rs,
That in her sunshine bloom, with ardor suck
Sweetness unearn'd; thy temporary friends,
Or blind with headlong fury, or abus'd
By ev'ry gross imposture, or supine,
Lull'd by the songs of ease and pleasure, saw
Thy bitter destiny with cool regard.
Thy wrongs ev'n nature's voice proclaim'd in vain;
Deaf to her tender importuning call,
And all the father in his soul extinct,
Thy parent sat; while on thy guiltless head
Each various torment, that imbitters life,
Exhausted all their force: and, to insure
Their execrable conquest, black and fell,
Ev'n as her native region, Slander join'd;
And o'er thy virtue, spotless as the wish
Of infant souls, inexorable breath'd
Her pestilential vapour. Hence fair Truth,
Persuasive as the tongue of seraphs, urg'd
Unheard the cause of Innocence; the blush
Of fickle friendship hence forgot to glow.

Meanwhile from these retreats with hapless speed,
By ev'ry hope and ev'ry wish impell'd,
Thy steps explor'd protection. Whence explor'd?
Ah me! from whom, and to what cursed arms

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Wert thou betray'd: unfeeling as the rock
Which splits the vessel; while its helpless crew,
With shrieks of horror, deprecate their fate?
O earth! O righteous heav'n! could'st thou behold;
While yet thy patient hand the thunder grasp'd,
Nor hurl'd the flaming vengeance; could'st thou see
The violated vow, the marriage rite
Profan'd, and all the sacred ties, which bind
Or God or man, abandon'd to the scorn
Of vice by long impunity confirm'd?

But thou, perfidious! tremble.—If on high
The Hand of justice with impartial scale
Each word, each action poises, and exacts
Severe atonement from th' offending heart;
Oh! what hast thou to dread? what endless pangs,
What deep damnation must thy soul endure?
On earth 'twas thine to perpetrate a crime,
From whose grim visage guilt of shameless brow,
Ev'n in its wild career, might shrink appall'd:
'Tis thine to fear hereafter, if not feel,
Plagues that in hell no precedent can boast.
Ev'n in the silent, safe domestic hour,
Ev'n in the scene of tenderness and peace,
Remorse, more fierce than all the fiends below,
In fancy's ears, shall, with a thousand tongues,
Thunder despair and ruin: all her snakes
Shall rear their speckled crests aloft in air,
With ceaseless horrid hiss; shall brandish quick
Their forky tongues, or roll their kindling eyes
With sanguine, fiery glare. Ev'n while each sense

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Glows with the rapture of tumultuous joy,
The tears of injur'd beauty, the complaints
Of truth immaculate, by thee expos'd
To wrongs unnumber'd, shall disturb thy bliss;
Shall freeze thy blood with fear, and to thy sight
Anticipate th' impending wrath of heav'n.
In sleep, kind pause of being! when the nerve
Of toil unbends, when, from the heart of care,
Retires the sated vulture, when disease
And disappointment quaff lethean draughts
Of sweet oblivion; from his charge unblest,
Shall speed thy better angel: to thy dreams
Th' infernal gulph shall open, and disclose
Its latent horrors. O'er the burning lake
Of blue sulphureous gleam, the piercing shriek,
The scourge incessant, and the clanking chain,
Shall scare thee ev'n to frenzy. On thy mind
Its fiercest flames shall prey; while from its depth
Some gnashing fury beckons thy approach,
And, thirsty of perdition, waits to plunge
Thy naked soul, ten thousand fathom down,
Amidst the boiling surges. Such their fate,
Whose hearts, indocile, to the sacred lore
Of wisdom, truth, and virtue, banish far
The cry of soft compassion; nor can taste
Beatitude supreme in giving joy!
Thy race, the product of a lawless flame,
Ev'n while thy fond imagination plans
Their future grandeur, in thy mock'd embrace
Shall prematurely perish; or survive
To feel their father's infamy, and curse

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The tainted origin from which they sprung.
For, Oh! thy soul no soft compunction knew,
When that fair form, where all the Graces liv'd,
Perfection's brightest triumph, from thy breast,
The sport of milder winds and seas was thrown,
To glow or shiver in the keen extremes
Of ev'ry various climate: when that cheek,
Ting'd with the blush of heav'n's unfading rose,
Grew pale with pining anguish; when that voice,
By angels tun'd to harmony and love,
Trembled with agony; and, in thine ear,
Utter'd the last extremity of woe.

From foreign bounty she obtain'd that aid
Which friendship, love, humanity, at home,
Deny'd her blasted worth. From foreign hands
Her glowing lips receiv'd the cooling draught,
To sooth the fever's rage. From foreign eyes
The tear, by nature, love and friendship due,
Flow'd copious o'er the wreck, whose charms, in death
Still blooming, at the hand of ruin smil'd.
Destin'd, alas! in foreign climes to leave
Her pale remains unhonour'd; while the herse
Of wealthy guilt emblazon'd boasts the pride
Of painted heraldry, and sculptur'd stone
Protects or flatters its detested fame.
Vain trappings of mortality! When these
Shall crumble, like this worthless dust they hide;
Then thou, dear spirit in immortal joy,
Crown'd with intrinsic honours, shalt appear;

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And God himself, to list'ning worlds, proclaim
Thy injur'd tenderness, thy faith unstain'd,
Thy mildness long insulted, and thy worth
Severely try'd, and found at last sincere.

But where, Oh! where shall art or nature find,
For smarting sorrow's ever recent wound,
Some blest restorative; whose pow'rful charm
May sooth thy friend's regret, within his breast
Suspend the sigh spontaneous, bid the tear,
By sad reflexion prompted, cease to fall!
These, still as moments, days and years revolve,
A consecrated off'ring, shall attend
Thy dear idea uneffac'd by time:
Till the pale night of destiny obscure
Life's wasting taper; till each torpid sense
Feel death's chill hand, and grief complain no more.

126

A SOLILOQUY

[_]

Occasioned by the Author's escape from falling into a deep well, where he must have been irrecoverably lost, if a favourite lap-dog had not, by the sound of its feet upon the board with which the well was covered, warned him of his danger.

Quid quisque vitet, nunquam homini satis
Cautum est in horas.------
Horat.

Where am I!—O Eternal Pow'r of heav'n!
Relieve me; or, amid the silent gloom,
Can danger's cry approach no gen'rous ear,
Prompt to redress th' unhappy? O my heart!
What shall I do, or whither shall I turn?
Will no kind hand, benevolent as heav'n,
Save me involv'd in peril and in night!

Erect with horror stands my bristling hair;
My tongue forgets its motion; strength forsakes
My trembling limbs; my voice, impell'd in vain,
No passage finds; cold, cold as death, my blood,
Keen as the breath of winter, chills each vein.
For on the verge, the awful verge of fate
Scarce fix'd I stand; and one progressive step
Had plung'd me down, unfathomably deep,
To gulphs impervious to the chearful sun

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And fragrant breeze; to that abhorr'd abode,
Where Silence and Oblivion, sisters drear!
With cruel Death confed'rate empire hold,
In desolation and primæval gloom.

Ha! what unmans me thus? what, more than horror,
Relaxes ev'ry nerve, untunes my frame,
And chills my inmost soul?—Be still, my heart!
Nor flutt'ring thus, in vain attempt to burst
The barrier firm, by which thou art confin'd.
Resume your functions, limbs! restrain those knees
From smiting thus each other. Rouse, my soul!
Assert thy native dignity, and dare
To brave this king of terrors; to confront
His cloudy brow, and unrelenting frown,
With steady scorn, in conscious triumph bold.
Reason, that beam of uncreated day,
That ray of Deity, by God's own breath
Infus'd and kindled, reason will dispel
Those fancy'd terrors: reason will instruct thee,
That death is heav'n's kind interposing hand,
To snatch thee timely from impending woe;
From aggregated misery, whose pangs
Can find no other period but the grave.

For oh!—while others gaze on nature's face,
The verdant vale, the mountains, woods, and streams;
Or, with delight ineffable, survey
The sun, bright image of his parent God;
The seasons, in majestic order, round

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This vary'd globe revolving; young-ey'd spring,
Profuse of life and joy; summer, adorn'd
With keen effulgence, bright'ning heav'n and earth;
Autumn, replete with nature's various boon,
To bless the toiling hind; and winter, grand
With rapid storms, convulsing nature's frame:
Whilst others view heav'n's all-involving arch,
Bright with unnumber'd worlds; and, lost in joy,
Fair order and utility behold;
Or, unfatigu'd, th' amazing chain pursue,
Which, in one vast all-comprehending whole,
Unites th' immense stupendous works of God,
Conjoining part with part, and, thro' the frame,
Diffusing sacred harmony and joy:
To me those fair vicissitudes are lost,
And grace and beauty blotted from my view.
The verdant vale, the mountains, woods, and streams,
One horrid blank appear; the young-ey'd spring,
Effulgent summer, autumn deck'd in wealth
To bless the toiling hind, and winter grand
With rapid storms, revolve in vain for me:
Nor the bright sun, nor all-embracing arch
Of heav'n, shall e'er these wretched orbs behold.

O Beauty, Harmony! ye sister train
Of Graces; you, who, in th' admiring eye
Of God your charms display'd, ere yet, transcrib'd
On nature's form, your heav'nly features shone:
Why are you snatch'd for ever from my sight,
Whilst, in your stead, a boundless, waste expanse

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Of undistinguish'd horror covers all?
Wide o'er my prospect rueful darkness breathes
Her inauspicious vapour; in whose shade,
Fear, grief, and anguish, natives of her reign,
In social sadness, gloomy vigils keep:
With them I walk, with them still doom'd to share
Eternal blackness, without hopes of dawn.

Hence oft the hand of ignorance and scorn,
To barb'rous mirth abandon'd, points me out
With idiot grin: the supercilious eye
Oft, from the noise and glare of prosp'rous life,
On my obscurity diverts its gaze,
Exulting; and, with wanton pride elate,
Felicitates its own superior lot:
Inhuman triumph! Hence the piercing taunt
Of titled insolence inflicted deep.
Hence the warm blush that paints ingenuous shame,
By conscious want inspir'd; th' unpitied pang
Of love and friendship slighted. Hence the tear
Of impotent compassion, when the voice
Of pain, by others felt, quick smites my heart,
And rouses all its tenderness in vain.
All these, and more, on this devoted head,
Have with collected bitterness been pour'd.

Nor end my sorrows here. The sacred fane
Of knowledge, scarce accessible to me,
With heart-consuming anguish I behold;
Knowledge, for which my soul insatiate burns

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With ardent thirst. Nor can these useless hands,
Untutor'd in each life-sustaining art,
Nourish this wretched being, and supply
Frail nature's wants, that short cessation know.

Where now, ah! where is that supporting arm
Which to my weak, unequal infant steps
Its kind assistance lent? Ah! where that love,
That strong assiduous tenderness, which watch'd
My wishes yet scarce form'd; and, to my view,
Unimportun'd, like all-indulging heav'n,
Their objects brought? Ah! where that gentle voice
Which, with instruction, soft as summer dews
Or fleecy snows, descending on my soul,
Distinguish'd ev'ry hour with new delight?
Ah! where that virtue, which, amid the storms,
The mingled horrors of tumultuous life,
Untainted, unsubdu'd, the shock sustain'd?
So firm the oak which, in eternal night,
As deep its root extends, as high to heav'n
Its top majestic rises: such the smile
Of some benignant angel, from the throne
Of God dispatch'd, ambassador of peace;
Who on his look imprest his message bears,
And pleas'd, from earth averts impending ill,
Alas! no wife thy parting kisses shar'd:

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From thy expiring lips no child receiv'd
Thy last, dear blessing and thy last advice.
Friend, father, benefactor, all at once,
In thee forsook me, an unguarded prey
For ev'ry storm, whose lawless fury roars
Beneath the azure concave of the sky,
To toss, and on my head exhaust its rage.

Dejecting prospect! soon the hapless hour
May come; perhaps this moment it impends,
Which drives me forth to penury and cold,
Naked, and beat by all the storms of heav'n,
Friendless and guideless to explore my way;
Till on cold earth this poor, unshelter'd head
Reclining, vainly from the ruthless blast
Respite I beg, and in the shock expire.

Me miserable! wherefore, O my soul!
Was, on such hard conditions, life desir'd?
One step, one friendly step, without thy guilt,
Had plac'd me safe in that profound recess,
Where, undisturb'd, eternal quiet reigns,
And sweet forgetfulness of grief and care.
Why, then, my coward soul! didst thou recoil?
Why shun the final exit of thy woe?
Why shiver at approaching dissolution?

Say why, by nature's unresisted force,
Is ev'ry being, where volition reigns
And active choice, impell'd to shun their fate,

132

And dread destruction, as the worst of ills;
Say, why they shrink, why fly, why fight, why risk
Precarious life, to lengthen out its date,
Which, lengthen'd, is, at best, protracted pain?
Say, by what mystic charms, can life allure
Unnumber'd beings, who, beneath me far
Plac'd in th' extensive scale of nature, want
Those blessings heav'n accumulates on me?
Blessings superior; tho' the blaze of day
Pours on their sight its soul-refreshing stream,
To me extinct in everlasting shades:
Yet heav'n-taught music, at whose powerful voice,
Corrosive care and anguish, charm'd to peace,
Forsake the heart, and yield it all to joy,
Ne'er sooths their pangs. To their insensate view
Knowledge in vain her fairest treasure spreads.
To them the noblest gift of bounteous heav'n,
Sweet conversation, whose enliv'ning force
Elates, distends, and, with unfading strength,
Inspires the soul, remains for ever lost.
The sacred sympathy of social hearts:
Benevolence, supreme delight of heav'n;
Th' extensive wish, which in one wide embrace,
All beings circles, when the swelling soul
Partakes the joys of God; ne'er warms their breasts.

As yet my soul ne'er felt the oppressive weight
Of indigence unaided; swift redress,
Beyond the daring flight of hope, approach'd,
And ev'ry wish of nature amply blest.

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Tho', o'er the future series of my fate,
Ill omens seem to brood, and stars malign
To blend their baleful fire: oft, while the sun
Darts boundless glory thro' th' expanse of heav'n,
A gloom of congregated vapours rise,
Than night more dreadful in her blackest shroud,
And o'er the face of things incumbent hang,
Portending tempest; till the source of day
Again asserts the empire of the sky,
And, o'er the blotted scene of nature, throws
A keener splendor. So, perhaps, that care,
Thro' all creation felt, but most by man,
Which hears with kind regard the tender sigh
Of modest want, may dissipate my fears,
And bid my hours a happier flight assume.
Perhaps, enliv'ning hope! perhaps my soul
May drink at wisdom's fountain, and allay
Her unextinguish'd ardor in the stream:
Wisdom, the constant magnet, where each wish,
Set by the hand of nature, ever points,
Restless and faithful, as th' attractive force
By which all bodies to the centre tend.

What then! because th' indulgent Sire of all
Has, in the plan of things, prescrib'd my sphere;
Because consummate Wisdom thought not fit,
In affluence and pomp, to bid me shine;
Shall I regret my destiny, and curse
That state, by heav'n's paternal care, design'd
To train me up for scenes, with which compar'd,

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These ages, measur'd by the orbs of heav'n,
In blank annihilation fade away?
For scenes, where, finish'd by the almighty art,
Beauty and order open to the sight
In vivid glory; where the faintest rays
Out-flash the splendour of our mid-day sun?
Say, shall the Source of all, who first assign'd
To each constituent of this wond'rous frame
Its proper powers, its place and action due,
With due degrees of weakness, whence results
Concord ineffable; shall he reverse,
Or disconcert the universal scheme,
The gen'ral good, to flatter selfish pride
And blind desire?—Before th' Almighty voice
From non-existence call'd me into life,
What claim had I to being? what to shine
In this high rank of creatures, form'd to climb
The steep ascent of virtue, unrelax'd,
Till infinite perfection crown their toil?
Who, conscious of their origin divine,
Eternal order, beauty, truth, and good,
Perceive, like their great Parent, and admire.

Hush! then, my heart, with pious cares suppress
This timid pride and impotence of soul:
Learn now, why all those multitudes, which crowd
This spacious theatre, and gaze on heav'n,
Invincibly averse to meet their fate,
Avoid each danger: know this sacred truth;
All-perfect Wisdom, on each living soul,
Engrav'd this mandate, “to preserve their frame,

135

And hold entire the gen'ral orb of being.”
Then, with becoming rev'rence let each pow'r,
In deep attention, hear the voice of God;
That awful voice, which, speaking to the soul,
Commands its resignation to his law!

For this, has heav'n to virtue's glorious stage
Call'd me, and plac'd the garland in my view,
The wreath of conquest; basely to desert
The part assign'd me, and, with dastard fear,
From present pain, the cause of future bliss,
To shrink into the bosom of the grave?
How, then, is gratitude's vast debt repaid?
Where all the tender offices of love
Due to fraternal man, in which the heart,
Each blessing it communicates, enjoys?
How then shall I obey the first, great law
Of nature's Legislator, deep imprest
With double sanction; restless fear of death,
And fondness still to breathe this vital air?
Nor is th' injunction hard: who would not sink
A while in tears and sorrow; then emerge
With tenfold lustre; triumph o'er his pain;
And, with unfading glory, shine in heav'n?

Come then, my little guardian Genius! cloath'd
In that familiar form; my Phylax, come!
Let me caress thee, hug thee to my heart,
Which beats with joy of life preserv'd by thee.
Had not thy interposing fondness staid

136

My blind precipitation, now, ev'n now,
My soul, by nature's sharpest pangs expell'd,
Had left this frame; had pass'd the dreadful bound,
Which life from death divides; divides this scene
From vast eternity, whose deep'ning shades,
Impervious to the sharpest mortal sight,
Elude our keenest search.—But still I err.
Howe'er thy grateful, undesigning heart,
In ills foreseen, with promptitude might aid;
Yet this, beyond thy utmost reach of thought,
Not ev'n remotely distant could'st thou view.
Secure thy steps the fragile board could press,
Nor feel the least alarm where I had sunk:
Nor could'd thou judge the awful depth below,
Which, from its watry bottom, to receive
My fall, tremendous yawn'd. Thy utmost skill,
Thy deepest penetration here had stopt,
Short of its aim; and, in the strong embrace
Of ruin struggling, left me to expire.
No—heav'n's high Sov'reign, provident of all,
Thy passive organs moving, taught thee first
To check my heedless course; and hence I live.

Eternal Providence! whose equal sway
Weighs each event; whose ever-waking care,
Connecting high with low, minute with great,
Attunes the wond'rous whole, and bids each part
In one unbroken harmony conspire:
Hail! sacred Source of happiness and life!
Substantial Good, bright intellectual Sun!

137

To whom my soul, by sympathy innate,
Unweary'd tends; and finds, in thee alone,
Security, enjoyment, and repose.

By thee, O God! by thy paternal arm,
Thro' ev'ry period of my infant state,
Sustain'd I live to yield thee praises due.
O! could my lays, with heav'nly raptures warm,
High as thy throne, re-echo to the songs
Of angels; thence, O! could my pray'r obtain
One beam of inspiration, to inflame
And animate my numbers; heav'n's full choir,
In loftier strains, th' inspiring God might sing;
Yet not more ardent, more sincere, than mine.
But tho' my voice, beneath the seraph's note,
Must check its feeble accents, low deprest
By dull mortality; to thee, great Soul
Of heav'n and earth! to thee my hallow'd strain
Of gratitude and praise shall still ascend.

138

Miss ------ to the AUTHOR.

While friendship's gentle pow'rs my bosom fire,
Damon accept the lays which you inspire:
My long-neglected muse thy worth revives,
And gen'rous ardour from thy flame receives.
Domestic troubles long my mind oppress'd,
And made the muse a stranger to my breast;
Not friendship's softest charms could raise my song,
Till wak'd to life by thy persuasive tongue.
O Damon, could I boast thy wondrous skill,
Were but my genius equal to my will,
Thy praises I unweary'd would proclaim;
And place thee with the brightest sons of fame.
Sure, Damon, 'tis some god thy breast inspires,
And fills thy soul with those celestial fires:
Thy thoughts so just, so noble, so refin'd,
That elegant, that virtuous turn of mind,
May justly claim the praise of all mankind.

Why am I call'd to leave my native plains,
To range on barren hills with rustic swains?
Far from my fellow nymphs, a sprightly throng,
And far, too far from thy harmonious tongue!
Yet still thy praise shall be my fav'rite theme:
Each echo shall resound with Damon's fame,
And ev'ry tree shall bear his much-lov'd name.

139

O! could I bear thee to Acasto's seat,
To Phœbus and his sons a known retreat;
Acasto, whose great mind and honest soul
No hopes can bias, and no fears control.
He virtue's Patron long has firmly stood,
And, in a vicious age, been greatly good.
Oft has Acasto in some fragrant bow'r
Invok'd Urania, and confess'd her pow'r;
As oft the tuneful maid has own'd his lays,
And bless'd his song with well-deserved praise.
Were Damon there, to join the tuneful choir,
With all the beauties of his verse and lyre,
His wit would civilize our savage plains,
Polish our country nymphs, and rural swains.
But tho' hard fate deny my fond request,
It cannot tear thy mem'ry from my breast;
No—while life's blood runs warm in ev'ry vein,
For thee a lasting friendship I'll maintain:
And when this busy scene of life is o'er,
Nor earth retards the soul's excursions more,
I'll joy to meet thee in those happier scenes,
Where unallay'd, immortal pleasure reigns.
There, crown'd with youth unfading, let us stray
Thro' the bright regions of eternal day;
There, of essential happiness secur'd,
With joy we'll tell the pains we once endur'd.

Some pow'r conduct us thro' the glorious road,
And lead us safe to that divine abode,

140

Where bliss eternal waits the virtuous soul,
And joys on joys in endless circles roll.

1740. Clio.

The Author's Answer.

When Clio seem'd forgetful of my pain,
A soft impatience throbb'd in ev'ry vein;
Each tedious hour I thought an age of woe;
So few their pleasures, and their pace so slow:
But, when your moving accents reach'd my ear,
Just, as your taste, and as your heart, sincere;
My soul re-echo'd, while the melting strain
Beat in each pulse, and flow'd in ev'ry vein.

Ah! teach my verse, like your's, to be refin'd;
Your force of language, and your strength of mind:
Teach me that winning, soft, persuasive art,
Which ravishes the soul, and charms the heart:
Then ev'ry heighten'd pow'r I will employ
To paint your merit, and express my joy.
Less soft the strains, the numbers less refin'd,
With which great Orpheus polish'd human kind;
Whose magic force could lawless vice reprove,
And teach a world the sweets of social love.

141

When great Acasto's virtues grac'd your lays,
My soul was lost in the effulgent blaze;
Whose love, like heav'n, to all mankind extends,
Supplies the indigent, the weak defends;
Pursues the good of all with steady aim;
One bright, unweary'd, unextinguish'd flame.
What transport felt my soul, what keen delight,
When its full blaze of glory met my sight!
But soon, too soon, the happy gleam was o'er;
What joy can reign where Clio is no more?

Ah! hapless me! must yet more woes inspire
The mournful song, and tune the tragic lyre?
The last and greatest of the sable train?
Her Clio's absence must the muse complain,
From these intrusive thoughts all pleasure flies,
And leaves my soul benighted, like my eyes.

Yet, while absorb'd in thought alone I stray,
On ev'ry sense while silent sorrows prey,
Or from some arbour conscious of my pain,
While to the sighing breeze I sigh in vain;
May each new moment, fraught with new delight,
Crown your bright day, and bless your silent night:
May height'ning raptures ev'ry sense surprise,
Music your ears, gay prospects charm your eyes:

142

May all on earth, and all in heav'n conspire
To make your pleasures lasting and entire.
'Tis thine alone can sooth my anxious breast,
Secure of bliss, while conscious you are blest.

EPISTLE I.

To the same. From Edinburgh.

From where bleak north winds chill the frozen skies,
And lov'd Edina's lofty turrets rise,
Sing heav'nly muse! to thy lov'd Clio sing;
Tune thy faint voice, and stretch thy drooping wing.

Could I, like Uriel, on some pointed ray,
To your fair distant Eden wing my way,
Outstrip the moments, scorn the swiftest wind,
And leave ev'n wing'd desire to lag behind;
So strong, so swift, I'd fly the port to gain;
The speed of angels should pursue in vain.

Ah! whither, whither would my fancy stray?
Nor hope sustains, nor reason leads the way:
No, let my eyes in scalding sorrows flow,
Vast as my loss, and endless as my woe:

143

Flow, till the torrent quench this vital flame,
And, with increasing hours, increase the stream.
Yet, Clio, hear, in pity to my smart,
If gentle pity e'er could touch thy heart:
Let but one line suspend my constant care,
Too faint for hope, too lively for despair:
Thee let me still with wonted rapture find
The muses patroness, and poet's friend.

EPISTLE II.

To Dorinda, with Venice Preserv'd.

If friendship gains not pardon for the muse,
Immortal Otway, sure, will plead excuse:
For eyes like thine he wrote his moving lays,
Which feel the poet, and which weep his praise.
Whether great Jaffier tender griefs inspires,
Struggling with cruel fate, and high desires;
Or Belvidera's gentler accents flow,
When all her soul she breathes in love and woe:
Drawn from the heart the various passions shine,
And wounded nature bleeds in ev'ry line.
As when some turtle spies her lovely mate
Pierc'd by the ball, or flutt'ring in the net,

144

Her little heart just bursting with despair,
She droops her wings, and breathes her soul in air.

EPISTLE III.

To Mise Annie Rae: With the Manual of Epictetus, and Tablature of Cebes.

Go, happy leaves! to Anna's view disclose
What solid joy from real virtue flows;
When, like the world, self-pois'd, th' exalted soul,
Unshaken, scorns the storms that round her roll;
And, in herself collected, joys to find
Th' untainted image of th' Eternal Mind.

To bid mankind their end supreme pursue,
On God and nature fix their wand'ring view;
To teach reluctant passion to obey,
Check'd, or impell'd by reason's awful sway;
From films of error purge the mental eye,
Till undissembled good in prospect lie;
The soul with heav'n-born virtue to inflame:
Such was the Stoic's and Socratic's aim.

145

O! could they view from yon immortal scene,
Where beauty, truth and good, unclouded, reign,
Fair hands like thine revolve their labour'd page,
Imbibe their truth, and in their task engage;
With rapture would they hail so fair a sight,
And feel new bliss in heav'n's supreme delight.

To Miss D. H.

In Answer to a Letter she wrote the Author from Dumfries.

May Heaven's blest blessings on thy head descend,
Whose goodness recollects an absent friend;
Brighter and brighter may thy moments roll,
Joy warm thy heart, and virtue tune thy soul;
With length'ning life still happier be thy state,
As by thy worth, distinguish'd by thy fate.
Oh! if my ardent vows successful prove;
If merit charms, if God himself be love;
Of all the lots his bounty e'er assign'd
To bless the best, the noblest of mankind;
For none shall happier constellations shine,
None boast a sphere of ampler bliss than thine.

146

Few of thy sex, alas! how wond'rous few,
Bestow those kind regards to virtue due:
A humble name, of wealth too small a share,
A form unseemly, or a clownish air;
These casual faults the squeamish fair disgust,
Who to be thought refin'd, become unjust.
Not such Dorinda's more intense survey,
It looks for charms unconscious of decay;
Surface and form pervades with nobler taste,
And views God's image on the heart imprest.
O may I ever share thy kind esteem,
In fortune's change, and life's tumultuous dream:
If future hours be ting'd with colours gay,
There let thy friendship mix its heav'nly ray;
O'er all my fate if adverse planets reign,
O let thy gentle pity sooth my pain:
With this one precious good securely blest,
Let chance or fortune regulate the rest.

Since still to me extend thy gen'rous cares,
My study, health, employment, and affairs;
These ever in the same dull channel flow,
A lazy current, uniformly slow.
Thus still from hour to hour, from day to day,
Life's glimm'ring taper languishes away;
A doubtful flame, a dim portentous light,
That wastes, and sickens into endless night.

147

The modes of dress, the Sophist's keen debate,
The various politics of church or state,
A soul like thine will think but trivial news,
Beneath the care of friendship, and the muse.

In vain I urge dull thought from line to line,
Fancy grows restive to the fond design:
Here let the muse her weary pinions rest,
Be ever kind, and Oh! be ever blest.

To Miss A. H. on her Marriage.

I hate the stiff address, the studied phrase
Of formal compliment, and empty praise,
Where fancy labours to express the heart,
With all the paint, and impotence of art:
But when with merit friendship's charms conspire
To bid my hand resume the votive lyre,
Once more my veins their former raptures know,
And all the muses in my bosom glow.

O thou, whose soul with every sweetness crown'd,
Diffuses light, and life, and pleasure round;
Whose heart, with ev'ry tender sense endow'd,
Glows, like creative Love, serenely good;

148

Whose easy manners at one view display
Fancy's quick flash, and reason's steady ray;
While each internal charm, with sweet surprise,
Beams thro' thy form, and lights thy radiant eyes:
Bless'd with those joys, may all thy moments flow,
Which conscious virtue only can bestow:
That soft, eternal sunshine of the mind,
Sweet as thy charms, and as thy soul refin'd.
May heav'n protect thee with a father's care,
And make thee happy, as it made thee fair.
O may the man now sacred to thy choice,
With all his soul the real blessing prize;
One common end o'er all your views preside,
One wish impel you, and one purpose guide;
Be all your days auspicious, calm, and bright,
One scene of tender, pure, unmix'd delight,
Till time and fate exhaust their endless store,
And Heav'n alone can make your pleasure more.

To the Reverend Mr. Jameson.

Why mourns my friend, what cause shall I assign?
Why smarts that tender, honest soul of thine?
What star, a foe to all that's good and great,
Dares, with malignant influence, dash thy fate?

149

Why shrinks my heart with fears not understood?
What strange portentous sadness chills my blood?
O! breathe thy latent sorrows in mine ear,
And prompt the starting, sympathetic tear.
As tender mothers, with assiduous view,
Their infant offspring's wand'ring steps pursue,
As, wing'd from Heav'n, celestial guardians wait,
To snatch their fav'rite charge from instant fate:
Friendship thy close attendant shall remain,
Prepar'd to soften, or partake thy pain:
Whether thy form, to pale disease a prey,
Beneath its pressure pants the tedious day;
Or if some tender grief dissolves thy mind,
Each wish extinguish'd, and each hope resign'd:
For thee my spirits shall more languid flow;
For thee, the flame of life suspend its glow;
For thee this heart, with sorrows new shall groan,
And add thy part of anguish to its own.
Whatever scenes thy pensive walk invite,
Thither thy friend shall bend his speedy flight.
Say, shall our social steps together stray
Thro' groves that glimmer with a twilight ray?
Or thro' some boundless solitary plain,
Where Melancholy holds her pensive reign?
Say, thro' embow'ring myrtles shall we rove
Bedew'd with recent tears by hopeless love?
Or, where neglected worth, from men retir'd,
In uncomplaining agony expir'd?
There in the silent cypress shade reclin'd,
Let each in each a faithful suff'rer find;

150

There let our mingling plaints to Heav'n ascend;
There, let our eyes their ceaseless currents blend:
Our mingling plaints shall stop the passing gale,
And each enamour'd echo sigh the tale.
For whilst I speak, ev'n in this mortal hour,
Perhaps relentless death exerts its pow'r,
Perhaps the shaft already wings its way,
Too surely aim'd, and Barnet falls its prey.
Him nature, with no common care, design'd,
His form embellish'd, and his soul refin'd;
O! with what ardor did his piercing view,
Thro' every maze of nature, truth pursue!
Sacred to virtue, and the muse, his breast
With Heav'n's own loveliest image was imprest.
Like Heav'n's eternal goodness, unconfin'd
His soul, with one fond wish, embrac'd mankind:
For them his time, his cares were all employ'd;
Their griefs he felt; their happiness enjoy'd;
His parents now, in bitterness of pain,
Shall ask from Heav'n and earth their son in vain:
In vain, his friends, with pious gifts shall tell
How gay he blossom'd, and how early fell.
Thro' all his frame a fever's fury reigns,
Consumes his vitals, and inflames his veins,

151

In tears the salutary arts retreat,
And virtue views with pangs her darling's fate.

Here pause, my friend, and with due candour own
Affliction's cup not mix'd for thee alone;
Others, like thee, its dire contents must drain,
And share their full inheritance of pain.
But, O! may brighter hours thy life attend;
Such as from Heav'n on happy love descend;
Such gleams, as still on conscious virtue shine,
By God and man approv'd, be ever thine.
May reason, arm'd with each persuasive art,
Inspire thy precepts, as she guides thy heart:
Nor let thy soul the smallest portion know
Of all my past distress, or present woe.

152

An EPITAPH, on his Father.

Here drop, Benevolence, thy sacred tear,
A friend of human kind reposes here:
A man, content himself, and God, to know;
A heart, with every virtue form'd to glow:
Beneath each pressure, uniformly great;
In life untainted, unsurpriz'd by fate:
Such, tho' obscur'd by various ills, he shone;
Consol'd his neighbours woes, and bore his own:
Heav'n saw, and snatch'd from fortune's rage its prey,
To share the triumphs of eternal day.

To Mrs. Anne Blacklock, the Author's Mother.

[_]

With a Copy of the Scotch Edition of his Poems.

O thou! who gav'st me first this world t' explore,
Whose frame, for me, a mother's anguish bore;
For me, whose heart its vital current drain'd,
Whose bosom nurs'd me, and whose arms sustain'd:

153

What tho' thy son, dependent, weak, and blind,
Deplore his wishes check'd, his hopes confin'd?
Tho' want, impending, cloud each chearless day,
And death with life seem struggling for their prey?
Let this console, if not reward, thy pain,
Unhappy he may live, but not in vain.

PROLOGUE to OTHELLO

[_]

Spoken by Mr. Love, at the Opening of the Play-house in Dumfries.

Ye souls! by soft humanity inspir'd,
For gen'rous hearts and manners free admir'd;
Where taste and commerce, amicably join'd,
Embellish life, and cultivate the mind:
Without a blush you may support our stage;
No tainted joys shall here your view engage.
To tickle fools with prostituted art,
Debauch the fancy, and corrupt the heart,
Let others stoop; such meanness we despise,
And please with virtuous objects virtuous eyes.

The tender soul what dire convulsions tear,
When whisp'ring villains gain th' incautious ear;

154

How heav'nly mild, yet how intensely bright,
Fair Innocence, tho' clouded, strikes the sight;
What endless plagues from jealous fondness flow,
This night our faithful scenes attempt to show:
No new-born whim, no hasty flash of wit;
But nature's dictates, by great Shakespeare writ.

Immortal bard! who, with a master hand,
Could all the movements of the soul command;
With pity sooth, with terror shake her frame;
In love dissolve her, or to rage inflame.

To taste and virtue, heav'n-descended pair!
While pleas'd we thus devote our art and care;
To crown our ardor, let your fav'ring smile
Reward our hopes, and animate our toil:
So may your eyes no weeping moments know,
But when they share some Desdemona's woe.

155

PROLOGUE to HAMLET

[_]

Spoken by Mr. Love, at Dumfries.

Inspir'd with pleasing hope to entertain,
Once more we offer Shakespeare's heav'nly strain;
While hov'ring round, his laurel'd shade surveys
What eyes shall pour their tribute to his praise;
What hearts with tender pity shall regret
The bitter grief that clouds Ophelia's fate.

Once fair she flourish'd, nature's joy and pride,
But droop'd and wither'd, when a father dy'd.
Severe extremes of tenderness and woe,
When love and virtue mourn one common blow;
When griefs alternate o'er the bosom reign,
And ev'ry sense, and ev'ry thought is pain!
Here nature triumph'd, on her throne sublime,
And mock'd each pigmy muse of later time;
Till Shakespeare touch'd the soul with all her smart,
And stamp'd her living image on the heart.

From his instructive song we deeply feel,
How vainly guilt its horrors would conceal.
Tho' night and silence with the fraud conspire,
To bid the crime from human search retire;

156

Tho' yet the traitor seem from harm secure,
And fate a while suspend th' avenging hour:
Tho' fortune nurse him with a mother's care,
And deck her pageant in a short-liv'd glare:
In vain he struggles to disguise his smart,
A living plague corrodes his ulcer'd heart;
While ev'ry form of ruin meets his eyes,
And heav'n's vindictive terrors round him rise.

Such salutary truths their light diffuse,
Where honours due attend the tragic muse;
Deep by her sacred signature imprest,
They mingle with the soul, and warm the breast.
Hence taught of old, the pious and the sage,
With veneration, patroniz'd the stage.

But, soft! methinks you cry with some surprise,
“How long intend you thus to moralize?”
Our prologue deviates from establish'd rules,
Nor shocks the fair, nor calls the critics fools,
'Tis true; but, dully fond of common sense,
We still think spleen to wit has no pretence;
Think impudence is far remote from spirit,
And modesty, tho' aukward, has some merit.

157

To a Gentleman, who asked my Sentiments of him.

An EPIGRAM.

Dear Fabius! me if well you know,
You ne'er will take me for your foe;
If right yourself you comprehend,
You ne'er will take me for your friend.

On PUNCH:

An EPIGRAM.

Hence! restless care, and low design;
Hence! foreign compliments and wine:
Let gen'rous Britons, brave and free,
Still boast their Punch and honesty.
Life is a bumper fill'd by fate,
And we the guests who share the treat;
Where strong, insipid, sharp and sweet,
Each other duly temp'ring meet.
A while with joy the scene is crown'd;
A while the catch and toast go round:
And, when the full carouse is o'er,
Death puffs the lights, and shuts the door.
Say then, Physicians of each kind,
Who cure the body, or the mind;
What harm in drinking can there be,
Since Punch and life so well agree?

158

On MARRIAGE:

An EPIGRAM.

Young Celia, now a blooming bride,
Sat from her friends apart, and cry'd;
Her faithful Chloe view'd her care,
And thus consol'd the weeping fair:

Good heav'n! in tears! for shame! look gay;
Nor cloud with grief your nuptial day.
If brides in tears receive their spouses,
What must the hapless wretch who loses?
Besides, my dear, you know 'tis reason,
That all things have a proper season:
Now, 'tis in marriage a plain case,
That crying holds the second place.
Let vulgar souls in sorrow sink,
Who always act, and never think:
But, to reflecting minds like you,
Marriage can sure have nothing new.

159

On the SAME:

An EPIGRAM.

Whoever seals the marriage vow,
'Tis well agreed, makes one of two:
But who can tell, save G---d alone,
What numbers may make two of one.

An EPITAPH,

On a Favourite LAP-DOG.

I never bark'd when out of season;
I never bit without a reason;
I ne'er insulted weaker brother;
Nor wrong'd by force nor fraud another.
Though brutes are plac'd a rank below,
Happy for man, could he say so!

160

The Author's PICTURE.

While in my matchless graces wrapt I stand,
And touch each feature with a trembling hand;
Deign, lovely Self! with art and nature's pride,
To mix the colours, and the pencil guide.

Self is the grand pursuit of half mankind:
How vast a crowd by Self, like me, are blind!
By self, the fop, in magic colours, shown,
Tho' scorn'd by ev'ry eye, delights his own:
When age and wrinkles seize the conqu'ring maid,
Self, not the glass, reflects the flatt'ring shade.
Then, wonder-working self? begin the lay;
Thy charms to others, as to me, display.

Straight is my person, but of little size;
Lean are my cheeks, and hollow are my eyes:
My youthful down is, like my talents, rare;
Politely distant stands each single hair.
My voice too rough to charm a lady's ear;
So smooth, a child may listen without fear;
Not form'd in cadence soft and warbling lays,
To sooth the fair thro' pleasure's wanton ways.
My form so fine, so regular, so new;
My port so manly, and so fresh my hue;

161

Oft, as I meet the crowd, they laughing say,
“See, see Memento mori cross the way.”
The ravish'd Proserpine at last, we know,
Grew fondly jealous of her sable beau;
But thanks to nature! none from me need fly;
One heart the Devil could wound—so cannot I.

Yet, tho' my person fearless may be seen,
There is some danger in my graceful mien:
For, as some vessel, toss'd by wind and tide,
Bounds o'er the waves, and rocks from side to side;
In just vibration thus I always move:
This who can view, and not be forc'd to love?

Hail! charming Self! by whose propitious aid
My form in all its glory stands display'd:
Be present still; with inspiration kind,
Let the same faithful colours paint the mind.

Like all mankind, with vanity I'm bless'd;
Conscious of wit I never yet possess'd.
To strong desires my heart an easy prey,
Oft feels their force, but never owns their sway.
This hour, perhaps, as death I hate my foe;
The next I wonder why I should do so.
Tho' poor, the rich I view with careless eye;
Scorn a vain oath, and hate a serious lye.
I ne'er, for satire, torture common sense;
Nor show my wit at God's, nor man's expence.

162

Harmless I live, unknowing and unknown;
Wish well to all, and yet do good to none.
Unmerited contempt I hate to bear;
Yet on my faults, like others, am severe.
Dishonest flames my bosom never fire;
The bad I pity, and the good admire:
Fond of the muse, to her devote my days,
And scribble—not for pudding, but for praise.

These careless lines if any virgin hears,
Perhaps, in pity to my joyless years,
She may consent a gen'rous flame to own;
And I no longer sigh the nights alone.
But, should the fair, affected, vain, or nice,
Scream with the fears inspir'd by frogs or mice;
Cry, “Save us, heav'n! a spectre, not a man!”
Her hartshorn snatch, or interpose her fan:
If I my tender overture repeat;
O! may my vows her kind reception meet!
May she new graces on my form bestow,
And, with tall honours, dignify my brow!

163

ADDRESS TO THE LADIES,

A SATIRE.

Some country-girl, scarce to a curtsey bred,
Would I much rather than Cornelia wed.
Dryden's Juvenal.

167

Inscrib'd to Miss ------

Credo pudicitiam, Saturno rege, moratam
In terris, visamque diu.——
Juv.

In Saturn's reign, at Nature's early birth,
There was that thing call'd Chastity on earth.
Dryden.

O thou, whom still in vain I must adore,
To Beauty much in debt, to Fortune more;
With wit and taste enough thy faults to hide,
To gild thy folly, and to plume thy pride;
Soon shall my heart, a rebel to thy chain,
Assert its freedom, and thy pow'r disdain.
Yet 'ere kind Fate my liberty restore,
(When twice five hundred pounds can charm no more),
For thee the Muse shall tune th' instructive lay,
And thro' the maze of life direct thy way:
The Muse, long study'd in her sex's art,
The head designing, and corrupted heart,
For thee shall sing; nor thou too rashly blame
The last faint struggles of a dying flame.

168

The maid whom Nature with maternal care
Has form'd to scatter ruin ev'ry where,
When first on life her radiant eyes she throws,
Dress, flatt'ry, pleasure, billet-doux, and beaux;
Then, conscious of her weakness, let her fly
The tender lisp, the love-illumin'd eye;
Let her alike distrust her strength and art,
And cautious to some maiden aunt impart
The important charge, her honour and her heart.
But soon the first emotions of desire
Shall with simplicity and truth retire;
The conscious tongue, inspir'd by distant views,
Its first alliance with the soul shall lose;
The blood, by candour taught before to glow;
From other motives to the cheeks shall flow;
No more shall looks her sentiments explain,
But ev'ry flexile feature learn to feign.
Then let her issue forth to open light,
In all the blaze of native beauty bright;
Insatiate, conquest let her still pursue,
Secure from harm, and destin'd to undo.
Yet while the first of public toasts she reigns,
While half the nation struggles in her chains,
If not like thee, with Fortune's bounty blest,
Let her at last resign the world to rest,
Ere Time his empire o'er her charms assume,
And tinge with fainter hue her native bloom.

169

In vernal youth, and beauty's gayest pride,
The charming Flavia thus becomes a bride.
For what bless'd youth, O Muse, with truth declare,
Could Fate reserve the conquest of the fair?
To what resistless art, what charms divine,
What soft address, could she her heart resign?
Did youth, good-nature, sense, inflict the wound?
“No—peevish seventy with five thousand pound.”
Hail holy ties! by wond'rous charms endear'd,
The paralytic nerve, and hoary beard.
What mighty joys must bless such equal love,
When hand in hand gay Spring and Winter move?
Beneath the specious semblance of a wife
She flaunts a licens'd prostitute for life.
Why all this hurry? Flavia was afraid
Her fame should wither, or her beauty fade.

Favour'd of Heav'n, far happier stars are thine;
Long as thy wish shall thy meridian shine,
In youth or age still certain to command,
And see thy bloom coeval with thy land.

There is a time, to all the sex well known,
When 'tis a wretched thing to be alone;
When pregnant Night with ghosts and spectres teems,
And sportive fairies prompt tumultuous dreams;
Then, tho' no lower wish thy breast inflame,
Though spotless be thy fancy as thy name,

170

In solitary fears no longer pine,
But to protecting man thy charms resign.

And now, before the raptur'd swain should cloy
With known embraces, and repeated joy;
Now is the time thy wit, thy pow'rs to strain,
And tease him still some fav'rite boon to gain.
Now with eternal tempest stun his ears,
Now vary all the scene with fits and tears;
Now (pleas'd to view vicissitudes of pain,
To view thy tyranny new force obtain)
To all his tender arts and soft pursuit
Still be thy tongue inexorably mute.

Nor yet thy plagues to one alone confine,
Portending public ruin comets shine;
Angle for hearts, and when you catch the prey,
Long on the line your foolish captive play.

But should thy fond, officious fool be near,
With jealous looks, and with attentive ear;
Should he on ev'ry private hour intrude,
And watch those pleasures he was meant to shroud;
With all thy skill his jealous rage ferment,
The look inviting, and the soft complaint;
With equal favour ev'ry lover bless,
The gentle whisper, and the fond caress;
Till the weak dupe, in every tender sense,
Feels, more than hell, the torture of suspense.

171

Then if he dares to murmur at his fate,
Tell him with smiles, repentance is too late.
But if, with haughty tone, and lordly pride,
He dictates serious rules thy life to guide;
With weeping eyes, and melting sounds, regret
The destin'd sorrows which on woman wait;
To tyrant man subjected during life,
A wretched daughter, and more wretched wife;
Alike unbless'd, whate'er her form inspire,
Licentious ridicule, or low desire;
She pines away a life to bliss unknown;
A slave to ev'ry humour but her own;
While with despotic nod, and watchful gaze,
Her jealous master all her steps surveys:
With strict reserve each lover if she treat,
Then all her portion is contempt or hate;
But if more free she spend the cheerful day
Among the witty, innocent, and gay,
From all her hopes domestic pleasure flies,
Suspicion breathes, and lo! her honour dies.
Such cruel stars on woman still attend,
And couldst thou hope their fury to suspend?

Perhaps some lover may thy soul inflame,
For nature in each bosom is the same;
Then, but by slow degrees, his fate decide,
And gratify at once thy love and pride.
For love and pride, beneath each dark disguise,
Heave in your breast, and sparkle in your eyes:

172

Howe'er your sex in chastity pretend
To hate the lover, but admire the friend,
Desires more warm their natal throne maintain,
Platonic passions only reach the brain.

Though in the cloyster's secret cell immur'd
By bolts, by ev'ry name in heaven secur'd;
Though in the close seraglio's walls confin'd;
Ev'n there your fancy riots on mankind:
Your persons may be fix'd, your forms recluse
While minds are faithless, and while thoughts are loose.

Should Love at last (whom has not Love subdu'd?)
Full on thy sense some killing form obtrude;
O! then beware, nor with a lavish hand
Too promptly offer, ere thy swain demand.
Our mothers, great in virtues as in crimes,
Disdain'd the venal spirit of our times:
Vice, oft repell'd, their stubborn hearts essay'd;
But if at last their yielding soul she sway'd,
Nor hopes, nor fears, nor int'rest could restrain,
Heav'n charm'd, hell threaten'd, av'rice brib'd in vain.
Fools they, and folly's common lot they shar'd,
Instinct their guide, and pleasure their reward:
Their wiser race pursue a happier scheme,
Pleasure their instrument, and wealth their aim;
Nor maid, nor wife, unbrib'd her heart bestows,
Each dart is tipp'd with gold which Cupid throws.

173

Thus should the dice invite thy ventrous hand,
Or debts of honour fresh supplies demand;
Should china, monkeys, gems thy heart engage,
The gilded coach, or liv'ry'd equipage;
Half meet; half shun his wish; nor free, nor nice;
Delay the pleasure, to inhance the price.

While Night o'er heav'n and earth extends her shade,
And darker female cunning lends its aid,
Then, but with art, thy schemes of pleasure lay,
Lest Argus with his hundred eyes survey:
For gales officious ev'ry whisper bear,
Each room has echoes, and each wall an ear.
Yet Jealousy, oft fann'd with opiate airs,
Her charge abandons, and forgets her cares;
While Love awake exerts his happy pow'r,
And consecrates to joy the fated hour.

That well-concerted plans command success,
Learn from Timandra's fortune, and confess.
The clock strikes ten, in vain Timandra mourns,
Supper is serv'd, no husband yet returns.
Not yet return'd! Good heav'n avert my fear;
What unforeseen mischance detains my dear?
Perhaps in some dark alley, by surprise,
Beneath a villain's arm he murder'd lies;
Or by some apoplectic fit deprest,
Perhaps, alas! he seeks eternal rest,

174

Whilst I an early widow mourn in vain:
Haste! fly, ye slaves, restore my lord again!
She spoke, she shriek'd aloud, she rung the bell,
The senseless, lifeless, on the couch she fell.
Say, Muse; for Heav'n hides nothing from thy view,
Nor hell's deep track; say, what could then ensue?

Lorenzo, touch'd with sympathy divine,
Heard the shrill sound, and recognis'd the sign;
He came, he spoke, and if report say true,
Her life rekindled, and her fears withdrew.
The lover vanish'd, and the tumult past,
The unsuspecting husband came at last;
The spouse with equal joy his transports crown'd,
Nor on her lips were Cassio's kisses found.

Let Scandal next no slight attention share,
Scandal, the fav'rite science of the fair,
O'er which her fancy broods the summer-day,
And scheming wastes the midnight-taper's ray;
The laugh significant, the biting jest,
The whisper loud, the sentence half supprest,
The seeming pity for another's fame,
To praise with coldness, or with caution blame;
Still shall thy malice by those arts succeed,
And ev'ry hour a reputation bleed.
Thus shall thy words, thy looks, thy silence wound,
And plagues be wafted in each whisper round.

175

Nor on these topics long let Fancy dwell;
In one unite the pedant and the belle:
With learned jargon, ever misapply'd,
Harangue, illustrate, criticise, decide.
For in our days, to gain a sage's name,
We need not plod for sense, but banish shame:
'Tis this which opens every fair-one's eyes,
Religion, sense, and reason to despise;
'Tis thus their thoughts affected freedom boast,
And laugh at God, yet tremble at a ghost.
Truth is the object of each common view,
The gazing crowd her naked beauties woo;
The fair such manners scorn, but, brave and free,
Are damn'd for sacred singularity.

Thee with a mother's name should Fortune grace,
And propagate thy vices in thy race,
Let whim, not reason, all thy conduct guide,
And not the parent, but the rod, preside:
In all thy steps each wide extreme unite,
Capricious tenderness, or groundless spite.
Hence future ages shall with triumph see
Bridewell and Tyburn both enrich'd by thee.
To this our lives their hapless tenor owe,
Ting'd with the poison'd source from whence they flow.
Ah! me, had gracious Heav'n alone consign'd
A prey to burning wrath your worthless kind;
Or had the first fair she, to hell ally'd,
Creation's sole reproach, curs'd Heav'n and dy'd;

176

Nor introduc'd in Nature's faultless frame
The wretched heritage of guilt and shame.
Such the maternal pledges you bestow,
Expressive earnests of eternal woe.

Still as a constant curse regard thy home,
Thy pleasure's penance, and thy beauty's tomb;
Now mad with rage, now languishing with spleen,
There still in wretched dishabile be seen:
Long let thy nail its polish'd jet extend,
Around thy neck thy greasy locks descend;
And round thee, mingling in one spicy gale,
Kitchen and nurs'ry all their sweets exhale.

But if in more extensive spheres you move,
With all the glare of dress your form improve;
To aid its pomp let either India join,
Nor once reflect at whose expence you shine;
New airs, new fashions, new complexions try,
While paint and affectation can supply.
For Heav'n and Nature, uniform, and old,
One settled course in each production hold;
But belles, by native genius taught to please,
Correct their Maker's want of taste with ease.

But why this hasty rage, this sudden fright?
I meant to counsel, and you say I bite.
Ah! no; Heav'n knows 'twas far from my intent;
The world's too much a sinner to repent:
By its example taught, I change my view.
And swear the fair are right whate'er they do.

177

HORACE, Ode XIII. Book I.

Imitated.

Cum tu Lydia, Telephi, &c.

When Cælia dwells on Damon's name,
Insatiate of the pleasing theme,
Or in detail admires his charms,
His rosy neck, and waxen arms;
O! then, with fury scarce supprest,
My big heart labours in my breast;
From thought to thought across my soul
Incessant tides of passion roll;
My blood alternate chills and glows,
My wav'ring colour comes and goes;
While down my cheek the silent tear
Too plainly bids my grief appear;
Too plainly shows the latent flame
Whose slow consumption melts my frame.

I burn, when conscious of his sway,
The youth elated I survey,
Presume, with insolence of air
To frown, or dictate to my fair;
Or in the madness of delight,
When to thy arms he wings his flight,

178

And having snatch'd a rude embrace,
Profanes the softness of that face;
That face which heav'n itself imbues
With brightest charms and purest hues.
Oh! if my counsels touch thine ear,
(Love's counsels always are sincere),
From his ungovern'd transports fly,
Howe'er his form may please thine eye;
For conflagrations, fierce and strong,
Are fatal still, but never long:
And he who roughly treats the shrine,
Where modest worth and beauty shine,
Forgetful of his former fire,
Will soon no more these charms admire.

How bless'd, how more than bless'd are they
Whom love retains with equal sway;
Whose flame inviolably bright,
Still burns in its meridian height;
Nor jealous fears, nor cold disdain,
Disturb their peace, nor break their chain:
But, when the hours of life ebb fast,
For each in sighs they breathe their last!

179

To a LADY, With HAMMOND's ELEGIES;

An Elegy.

O Form'd at once to feel and to inspire
The noblest passions of the human breast,
Attend the accent of love's fav'rite lyre,
And let thy soul its moving force attest.

Expressive passion, in each sound convey'd,
Shall all its joy disclose, and all its smart;
Reason to modest tenderness persuade,
Smooth ev'ry thought, and tranquilize the heart.

False is that wisdom, impotent and vain,
Which scorns the sphere by heav'n to men assign'd,
Which treats love's purest fires with mock disdain,
And, human, soars above the human kind.

Silent the muse of elegy remain'd,
Her plaints untaught by nature to renew,
Whilst sportive art delusive sorrows feign'd,
With how much ease distinguish'd from the true!

180

Ev'n polish'd Waller mourns the constant scorn
Of Saccharissa, and his fate in vain:
With love his fancy, not his heart is torn;
We praise his wit, but cannot share his pain.

Such force has nature, so supremely fair,
With charms maternal her productions shine;
The vivid grace and unaffected air,
Proclaim them all her own, and all divine.

Should youthful merit in such strains implore,
Let beauty still vouchsafe a gentle tear.
What can the soul, with passion thrill'd, do more?
The song must prove the sentiment sincere.

Cold cunning ne'er, with animated strain,
To other breasts can warmth unfelt impart:
We see her labour with industrious pain,
And mock the turgid impotence of art.

181

ODE to AMYNTA.

By folly led from snare to snare,
Of bitter grief, suspence, and care,
A voluntary prey;
With ev'ry flatt'ring good resign'd,
Once more myself and peace to find,
From thee I force my way.

Yet with reluctant step and slow,
From all that's dear while thus I go,
Some pity let me claim!
Less smart th' expiring marty'r feels,
While racks distend or torturing wheels
Tear his devoted frame.

Nor think, like infants prone to change,
From sordid views or weak revenge,
My resolutions flow:
'Tis God's, 'tis nature's great behest,
On every living soul imprest,
To seek relief from woe;

Nor yet explore, with curious bent,
What, known, would but thy soul torment,
And all its hopes betray:

182

When painful truths invade the mind,
Ev'n wisdom wishes to be blind,
And hates th' officious ray.

Ye powers, who cordial and serene,
Protect the dear domestic scene,
To your retreats I fly;
At length by your's and reason's aid,
I may to rest this heart persuade,
And wipe the tearful eye.

There nature, o'er the heart supreme,
Shall every tender wish reclaim,
Where'er they fondly stray;
There friendship's arms my fall sustain,
When, languid with excess of pain,
My fainting nerves give way.

With cadence soft the flowing stream,
The fawning breeze, the lambent gleam,
Shall join their various power,
To bid each passion's rising tide
In philosophic ease subside,
And sooth my pensive hour.

183

An ELEGY.

Inscribed to C--- S--- Esq;

O Friend, by ev'ry sympathy endear'd,
Which soul with soul in sacred ties unite;
The hour arrives, so long, so justly fear'd,
Brings all its pangs, and sinks each joy in night.

For now from heav'n my unavailing pray'r
Toss'd devious, mingles with the sportive gale;
No tender arts can move my cruel fair,
Nor all love's silent eloquence prevail.

Though from my lips no sound unmeaning flows,
Though in each action fondness is exprest,
No kind return shall terminate my woes,
Nor heave th' eternal pressure from my breast.

Too well the weakness of my heart I knew;
Too well love's pow'r my soul had felt before:
Why did I then the pleasing ill pursue,
And tempt the malice of my fate once more?

Conscious how few among the fair succeed,
Who boast no merit but a tender heart,
Why was my soul again to chains decreed,
To unrewarded tears and endless smart?

184

The Siren hope, my tardy pace to chear,
In gay presage the short'ning prospect drest,
With art fallacious brought the object near,
And lull'd each rising doubt in fatal rest.

I saw success, or thought at least I saw,
Beck'ning with smiles to animate my speed,
Reason was mute, impress'd with trembling awe,
And mem'ry not one precedent could plead.

How curs'd is he who never learnt to fear
The keenest plagues his cruel stars portend!
Till o'er his head the black'ning clouds appear,
And heav'n's collected storms at once descend!

What further change of fortune can I wait?
What consummation to the last despair?
She flies, yet shews no pity for my fate;
She sees, yet deigns not in my griefs to share.

Yet the kind heart, where tender passions reign,
Will catch the softness when it first appears;
Explore each symptom of the sufferer's pain,
Sigh all his sighs, and number all his tears.

This tribute from humanity is due,
What then, just heav'ns! what would not love bestow,
Yet though the fair insensible I view,
For others bliss I would not change my woe.

185

O blind to truth, and to reflection blind,
At length to wisdom and thyself return!
See science wait thee with demeanour kind,
Whose frown or absence no fond lovers mourn.

Bounteous and free to all who ask her aid,
Her sacred light anticipates their call,
Points out the precipice on which they stray'd,
And with maternal care prevents their fall.

Daughter of God! whose features all express
Th' eternal beauty whence thy being sprung;
I to thy sacred shrine my steps address,
And catch each sound from thy heav'n-prompted tongue.

O! take me wholly to thy fond embrace,
Through all my soul thy radiant beams infuse;
Thence every cloud of pleasing error chace;
Adjust her organs, and enlarge her views.

Hence, ever fixt on virtue and on thee,
No lower wish shall her attention claim,
Till, like her sacred parent, pure and free,
She gain the native heav'n from whence she came.

186

To John M'Laurin, Esq; (now Lord Dreghorn, one of the Senators of the College of Justice).

With the Author's Poems.

O thou! in whom maturely bright appears
The flame of genius in the dawn of years;
Whom sacred wisdom's awful voice inspires;
Whom heav'n-born virtue's spotless beauty fires:
Still let these glorious aims engage thy view;
With straining nerves the arduous path pursue;
For this revolve the sacred, ancient page,
The raptur'd poet, and instructive sage:
Nor scorn the efforts of a modern muse,
Proud to reflect the glories they diffuse.
Then, while with conscious joy exults thy sire,
Viewing his son to equal fame aspire,
When the last echoes of my mortal lay,
Shall feebly mix with air and die away;
Still shall my life beyond the grave extend,
And ages know me for M'Laurin's friend.

187

EXTEMPORE VERSES,

Spoken at the Desire of a Gentleman.

Thou, genius of connubial love, attend;
Let silent wonder all thy powers suspend;
Whilst to thy glory I devote my lays,
And pour forth all my grateful heart in praise.

In lifeless strains let vulgar satire tell,
That marriage oft is mixt with heav'n and hell,
That conjugal delight is sour'd with spleen,
And peace and war compose the varied scene;
My muse a truth sublimer can assert,
And sing the triumphs of a mutual heart.
Thrice happy they, who through life's varied tide,
With equal peace and gentler motion glide;
Whom tho' the wave of fortune sinks or swells,
One reason governs, and one with impels;
Whose emulation is to love the best;
Who feel no bliss, but in each other blest;
Who know no pleasure but the joys they give,
Nor cease to love, but when they cease to live:
If fate these blessings in one lot combine,
Then let th' eternal page record them mine.

188

To the Reverend Mr. Spence, late Professor of Poetry at Oxford.

Written at Dumfries in the Year 1759.

To tomes of dull theology confin'd,
(Eternal opiates of the active mind)
Long lay my spirits, lull'd in deep repose,
Incapable alike of verse or prose.
Unmark'd by thought or action, every day
Appear'd, and pass'd in apathy away.

Our friend, the Doctor, view'd with deep regret,
My sad catastrophé, my lifeless state;
Explor'd each ancient sage, whose labours tell
The force of powerful herb, or magic spell.
Physic in vain its boasted influence try'd;
My stupor incantation's voice defy'd:
No charm could light my fancy's languid flame,
No charm but friendship's voice and Spence's name.
So from the cold embraces of the tomb,
Involv'd in deep impenetrable gloom,
Should heav'n's great mandate bid some wretch arise,
How would he view the sun with ravish'd eyes;
Admire each part of nature's beauteous scene,
And welcome life and happiness again!

189

Amaz'd the Doctor stood, and lost in thought,
Nor could believe the wonder he had wrought;
Till, fir'd at last with sacerdotal pride,
“'Tis mine;—the work is all my own,” he cried.
“Henceforth some nobler task my might shall prove,
“I mean some lofty mountain to remove,
“With woods and fountains bid it wing its way
“Thro' yielding air and settle in the sea.”
But recollecting, whence the virtue flow'd
To which returning life and sense I ow'd,
He snatch'd his pen, and with majestic tone;
“Hence Indolence and Sloth,” he cry'd, “be gone;
“Me Friendship's spirit, Spence's name inspire,
“My heart is pregnant, and my soul on fire;
“Thought crowds on thought, my brisk ideas flow,
“And much I long to tell, and much to know.”

Thus exorcis'd, to Lethe's dismal shore
Fled Indolence, and sought her haunts of yore,
With all her train forsook the poet's breast,
And left the man completely dispossess'd.
If to your very name, by bounteous heav'n,
Such blest, restoring influence has been giv'n,
How must your sweet approach, your aspect kind,
Your soul-reviving converse, warm the mind!

190

To Dr. BEATTIE.

With the Author's Poems.

O, Warm'd by inspiration's brightest fire,
For whom the muses string their fav'rite lyre,
Tho' with superior genius blest, yet deign
A kind reception to my humbler strain.

When florid youth impell'd, and fortune smil'd,
The vocal art my languid hours beguil'd:
Severer studies now my life engage;
Researches dull, that quench poetic rage;

From morn to ev'ning destin'd to explore
Th' verbal critic and the scholiast's lore;
Alas! what beam of heav'nly ardor shines
In musty lexicons and school divines?

Yet to the darling object of my heart,
A short, but pleasing retrospect I dart;
Revolve the labours of the tuneful quire,
And what I cannot imitate, admire.

O could my thoughts with all thy spirit glow;
As thine harmonious, could my accents flow;
Then, with approving ear, might'st thou attend,
Nor in a Blacklock blush to own a friend.

191

To the Rev. Dr. OGILVIE.

I decus, i, nostrum, melioribus utere fatis.
Virgil.

Dear to the Muses and their tuneful train,
Whom, long pursu'd, I scarce at last regain;
Why should'st thou wonder, if, when life declines,
His antiquated lyre thy friend resigns.
Haply, when youth elate with native force,
Or emulation fires the generous horse,
He bounds, he springs, each nerve elastic strains,
And if not victor, some distinction gains;
But should the careless master of the steed,
Cherish no more his mettle, or his speed,
Indignantly he shuns all future strife,
And wastes in indolent regret his life.
Such were his efforts, such his cold reward,
Whom once thy partial tongue pronounc'd a bard;
Excursive, on the gentle gales of spring,
He rov'd, whilst favour imp'd his timid wing:
Exhausted genius now no more inspires,
But mourns abortive hopes and faded fires;
The short-liv'd wreath, which once his temples grac'd,
Fades at the sickly breath of squeamish taste;
Whilst darker days his fainting flames immure
In chearless gloom and winter premature.

192

But thou, my friend, whom higher omens lead,
Bold to atchieve, and mighty to succeed,
For whom fresh laurels, in eternal bloom,
Impregnate heav'n and earth with rich perfume;
Pursue thy destin'd course, assert thy fame;
Ev'n Providence shall vindicate thy claim;
Ev'n nature's wreck, resounding thro' thy lays,
Shall in its final crash proclaim thy praise.

To a FRIEND, of whose Health and Success the Author had heard, after a long Absence.

Thou dearest of friends to my heart ever known,
Whose enjoyments and sufferings have still been my own,
Since early we met in susceptible youth,
When glowing for virtue, and toiling for truth;
To God one petition, with steady regard,
With ardor incessant, my spirit preferr'd,
Thy life to protract, and thy blessings augment,
Now my wish is obtain'd, and my bosom content.

You ask, by what means I my livelihood gain,
And how my long conflict with fortune maintain?
The question is kind, yet I cannot tell why,
'Tis hard for a spirit like mine to reply.

193

If a friend with a friend must be free and sincere,
My vesture is simple and sober my cheer;
But tho' few my resources, and vacant my purse,
One comfort is left me, things cannot be worse.
'Tis vain to repine, as philosophers say,
So I take what is offer'd, and live as I may;
To my wants, still returning, adapt my supplies,
And find in my hope what my fortune denies.

To the powerful and great had I keenly apply'd,
Had I toil'd for their pleasures, or flatter'd their pride,
In splendour and wealth I perhaps might have flam'd,
For learning, for virtue, for ev'ry thing fam'd.
The gamester, th' informer, the quack, and the smuggler,
The bully, the player, the mimic, the juggler,
The dispenser of libels, the teller of fortunes,
And others of equal respect and importance,
Find high reputation and ample subsistence,
Whilst craving necessity stands at a distance.

But who could determine, in soundness of brain,
By priesthood, or poetry, life to sustain?
Our Maker to serve, or our souls to improve,
Are tasks self-rewarded, and labours of love.
Such with hunger and thirst are deservedly paid,
'Tis glorious to starve by so noble a trade:
'Tis guilt and ambition for priests to pretend
Their fame to advance, and their fortune amend;

194

Their fame and their fortune, by pious mankind,
Are such trifles esteem'd as no mortal should mind.

Nor less by the world is the heav'n-gifted bard,
In his visions abandon'd to find his reward.
Can sensations of wretchedness ever invade
That breast which Apollo his temple has made?
On the top of Parnassus his hermitage lies;
And who can repine, when so near to the skies?
For him sweet ambrosia spontaneously grows;
For him Agannippe spontaneously flows.
Tho' the bev'rage be cool, and æthereal the diet,
Fine souls, thus regal'd, should be happy and quiet.
But I, who substantial nutrition require,
Would rather the muses should feed than inspire.
And whilst lofty Pindus my fancy explores,
To earth the wild fugitive hunger restores.

Yet lest what I mean be obscurely express'd,
No call is unanswer'd, no wish unredress'd:
But other resources supplied what was wanting,
Less barren employments than preaching or chanting.
For thee, whom I glory to claim as my friend,
May stars more propitious thy labours attend;
On earth be thy prospect still smiling and bright,
And thy portion hereafter immortal delight.

195

The GENEALOGY of NONSENSE.

With long and careful scrutiny in vain,
I search'd th' obscure recesses of my brain;
The muses oft, with mournful voice I woo'd,
To find a plea for silence if they could.
But thro' my search not one excuse appear'd,
And not a muse would answer if she heard.
Thus I remain'd in anxious, sad suspence,
Despairing aid from reason or from sense,
Till from a pow'r, of late well known to fame,
Tho' not invok'd, the wish'd solution came.

Now night incumbent shaded half the ball,
Silence assum'd her empire over all,
While on my eyes imperfect slumbers spread
Their downy wings, and hover'd round my head;
But still internal sense awake remain'd,
And still its first solicitude retain'd;
When, lo! with slow descent, obscurely bright,
Yet cloath'd in darkness visible, not light,
A form, high tow'ring to the distant skies,
In mimic grandeur, stood before my eyes:
As after storms waves faintly lash the shore,
As hollow winds in rocky caverns roar,

196

Such were the sounds which pierc'd my trembling ear,
And chill'd my soul with more than common fear.

Thus spoke the Pow'r:—“From yon extended void,
“Where Jove's creating hand was ne'er employ'd,
“Where soft with hard, and heavy mix'd with light,
“And heat with cold, maintain eternal fight;
“Where end the realms of order, form, and day;
“Where night and chaos hold primæval sway;
“Their first, their ever-darling offspring view,
“Who comes thy wonted calmness to renew.
“'Ere yet the mountains rear'd their heads on high,
“'Ere yet the radiant sun illum'd the sky,
“'Ere swelling hills, or humble vales were seen,
“Or woods the prospect chear'd with waving green;
“'Ere nature was, my wond'rous birth I date,
“More old than Chance, Necessity, or Fate;
“'Ere yet the Muses touch'd the vocal lyre,
“My reverend mother and tumultuous sire
“Beheld my wond'rous birth with vast amaze,
“And Discord's boundless empire roar'd my praise.

“In me, whate'er by nature is disjoin'd,
“All opposite extremes involv'd you find:
“Born to retain, by Fate's eternal doom,
“My sire's confusion, and my mother's gloom.
“Where'er extend the realms of letter'd pride,
“With uncontroll'd dominion I preside;

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“Thro' its deep gloom I dart the doubtful ray,
“And teach the learned idiots where to stray:
“The labouring chemist, and profound divine,
“Err, not seduc'd by Reason's light, but mine.
“From me alone these boast the wond'rous skill
“To make a myst'ry, more mysterious still;
“While those pursue by science, not their own,
“The universal cure, and philosophic stone.
“Thus, when the leaden pedant courts my aid,
“To cover ignorance with learning's shade,
“To swell the folio to a proper size,
“And throw the clouds of art o'er nature's eyes,
“My soporific pow'r the sages own;
“Hence by the sacred name of Dulness known:
“But if mercurial scribblers pant for fame,
“Those I inspire, and Nonsense is my name.
“Sustain'd by me, thy muse first took her flight,
“I circumscrib'd its limits and its height;
“By me she sinks, by me she soars along;
“I rule her silence, and I prompt her song.”

My doubts resolv'd, the Goddess wing'd her flight
Dissolv'd in air, and mix'd with formless night.
Much more the muse, reluctant, must suppress,
For all the pow'r of time and fate confess;
Too soft her accents, and too weak her pray'r,
For time or fate, or cruel posts to hear.

198

ODE, on Melissa's Birth-day.

I

Ye nymphs and swains, whom love inspires
With all his pure and faithful fires,
Hither with joyful steps repair;
You who his tenderest transports share!
For lo! in beauty's gayest pride,
Summer expands her bosom wide;
The sun no more in clouds inshrin'd,
Darts all his glories unconfin'd;
The feather'd choir from every spray
Salute Melissa's natal day.

II

Hither ye nymphs and shepherds haste,
Each with a flow'ry chaplet grac'd,
With transport while the shades resound,
And nature spreads her charms around;
While ev'ry breeze exhales perfumes,
And Bion his mute pipe resumes;
With Bion long disus'd to play,
Salute Melissa's natal day.

III

For Bion long deplor'd his pain
Thro' woods and devious wilds in vain;

199

At last impell'd by deep despair,
The swain preferr'd his ardent pray'r;
His ardent pray'r Melissa heard,
And every latent sorrow chear'd,
His days with social rapture blest,
And sooth'd each anxious care to rest.
Tune, shepherds, tune the festive lay,
And hail Melissa's natal day.

IV

With nature's incense to the skies
Let all your fervid wishes rise,
That heav'n and earth may join to shed
Their choicest blessings on her head;
That years protracted, as they flow,
May pleasures more sublime bestow;
While by succeeding years surpast,
The happiest still may be the Iast;
And thus each circling sun display,
A more auspicious natal day.

200

ODE to AURORA.

On Melissa's Birth-day.

Of Time and Nature eldest born,
Emerge thou rosy-finger'd morn,
Emerge, in purest dress array'd,
And chace from heav'n night's envious shade,
That I once more may, pleas'd, survey,
And hail Melissa's natal day.

Of time and nature eldest born,
Emerge, thou rosy-finger'd morn:
In order at the eastern gate
The Hours to draw thy chariot wait;
Whilst Zephyr, on his balmy wings,
Mild nature's fragrant tribute brings,
With odours sweet to strew thy way,
And grace the bland, revolving day.

But as thou lead'st the radiant sphere,
That gilds its birth, and marks the year,
And as his stronger glories rise,
Diffus'd around th' expanded skies,
Till cloth'd with beams serenely bright,
All heav'n's vast concave flames with light;

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So, when, thro' life's protracted day,
Melissa still pursues her way,
Her virtues with thy splendor vie,
Increasing to the mental eye:
Tho' less conspicuous, not less dear,
Long may they Bion's prospect chear;
So shall his heart no more repine,
Bless'd with her rays, tho' robb'd of thine.

To Dr. EVANS.

Dear Doctor, as it is most fit,
Your accusation I admit
In all its force, nor rack my brain,
By quirks and subterfuges vain,
To throw my conduct into shade,
And thus your just rebuke evade.
But, since convicted now I stand,
And wait correction from your hand,
Be merciful as thou art strong,
And recognise the power of song.
For, while in accents deep and hoarse,
She breathes contrition and remorse,
The Muse's penitential strain,
For pardon cannot sue in vain.
But, let me, with profound respect,
A sad mistake of your's correct.

202

When once th' Aonian maids discover
Some favour for a youthful lover,
You think their passion still as keen
For him at sixty as sixteen.
Alas the sex you little know,
Their ruling passion is a Beau.
The wrinkl'd brow, th' extinguish'd eye,
From female hearts ne'er gain a sigh.
The brilliant glance, the cheek vermil,
Th' elastic nerve, th' enchanting smile,
These, only these, can hearts confine
Of ladies human, or divine.
No mind, immortal tho' it be,
From life's vicissitudes is free.
The man who labours to acquit
Of imperfection human wit,
Will find he undertakes a task
That proves what his opponents ask;
And feel, to his eternal cost,
His own attempts refute his boast.
Forc'd, by experience and sensation,
I make this humble declaration:
For, should my pride my words restrain,
These lays would shew the fact too plain.
Cloth'd in a lion's skin, the ass
At first might for a lion pass;
But when the stupid creature bray'd,
His real self he soon betray'd,
And every stick and every stone
Were us'd, to shew him he was known.

203

Thus, batter'd by sarcastic sneers,
I shut my mouth and hide my ears;
Bless'd, if unhurt I may elude
The observation of the crowd.
Yet spite of all the ills that prey
On ebbing life, from day to day,
It warm'd my veins with youthful fire,
And rais'd my heart a cubit higher,
To hear your own kind words express
Your competition and success.
So, when portentous symptoms threat
Your patients with impending fate,
At your approach may they recede,
And sickness lift its drooping head;
While health and joy your nod obey,
And fly where'er you point their way.
One great atchievement still remains,
One triumph, worthy of your pains;
Could you the thefts of Time restore,
And make me what I was of yore,
In spite of fortune's utmost spleen,
Which bards oft feel to intervene,
I might, perhaps, as friend with friend,
At Shrewsbury some evenings spend;
There, in abuse that meant no harm,
Assert the soul of humour warm;
And laugh at those whose lives provoke
The satire we effuse in joke.

204

And, now, perhaps, you wish to know,
With your old friends, how matters go;
What state of health they still enjoy
And how their various hours employ?
But this detail more glibly flows
In easy stile and humble prose;
And, with more patience, will be heard,
To my Melissa when transferr'd.
If faults acknowledg'd be forgiven,
And all our former odds made even,
Pray write me soon, to let me see
How much superior you can be
To doctors in divinity.
Meanwhile, believe me still sincere,
Whatever guise my conduct wear,
And still with friendship, no less fervent,
Your most obedient, humble servant.

205

To Mr. DALZEL, Professor of Greek in the University of Edinburgh.

Ye fairy fields, where youthful fancy stray'd,
Ye landscapes vested in eternal green,
Cease my reluctant absence to upbraid;
Each joy I lose, when you no more are seen.

The raptur'd heart, th' enthusiastic eye,
The bright conception darting through the mind,
From my remotest hopes how far they fly,
And leave a gloomy solitude behind?

Æthereal people of each glowing scene,
Which meditation pictur'd in my sight,
Of ever beauteous and celestial mien:
Why sink you thus amid the shades of night?

No more the harp shall Polyhymnia tune,
No warbling flute Euterpe's breath inspire,
Ah! why for ever silent, why so soon
Should every muse forbear to strike the lyre?

To me a faded form e'en nature wears;
Its vivid colours every flow'r resigns,
The blasted lawns no tint of verdure chears,
Shorn of his beams the sun more faintly shines.

206

Age, hood-wink'd Age, exterminates the whole,
She o'er the prospect night and horror spreads;
Her endless winter intercepts the soul,
From limpid fountains and inchanted meads.

O come, Dalzel, whose comprehensive view,
Whate'er the muse exhibits, can survey,
The flying phantom teach me to pursue,
Direct my course, and animate my lay.

Yet from th' ungrateful bosom of the tomb
Should Jason's magic wife emerge once more,
Nor thou, nor she, my genius could relume;
Nor thou, nor she, the flame of youth restore.

207

To Dr. DOWNMAN, in London.

To the fond Muse, who sings of rural joys,
Involv'd in politics, and smoke and noise
Her Scotian sister gratulation sends,
Pleas'd that her taste, not on her place depends.
For oft contagions in the city breeze,
Hovering unseen, unfelt, the fancy seize:
Surrounding objects catch the roving eye,
And tastes with situations oft comply.
There party-passion wears the form of truth,
Pleasure in virtue's mask seduces youth,
Still handing round the sweet Circean bowl,
To warp the judgment, and pervert the soul.
Ye early plans, and wishes, then adieu,
We seek not what is fair, but what is new;
Each former prepossession leaves the heart,
And nature yields to meretricious art.

Oh! if in heav'n some chosen curse remain,
Nor thunders roll, nor lightnings flash in vain,
Curs'd be the wretch who cities first design'd,
To blast each native worth of human kind.
When first Astrea saw their strictures rise,
Fir'd with indignant rage, she sought the skies.

208

Th' ingenuous wish, that in one wide embrace
Clasp'd nature's frame, and glow'd for all her race,
Fair hospitality, in blessing blest,
Primeval candor, of translucent breast,
With horror shuddering at the baneful sight,
Retir'd, the vow'd companions of her flight:
Then from her bosom hell disgorg'd her train,
The lust of pleasure, and the thirst of gain,
Then pride luxurious rear'd her crest on high,
Deceit then forg'd the name, and cogg'd the die,
Then lawless tyrants from the throne decreed
Virtue to toil, and innocence to bleed.
In heart a tiger, tho' in looks a child,
Assassination stabb'd his friend, and smil'd;
While perjury, with unaverted eye,
Invok'd the god of truth, to seal a lie.

O conscious peace! to few indulg'd by fate,
When shall I find once more thy dear retreat?
When shall my steps the guiltless scenes explore,
Where virtue's smiles the age of gold restore
Where charity to all her arms extends,
And as she numbers faces, numbers friends?
Where unaffected sympathy appears
In cordial smiles, or undissembled tears?
Where Innocence and Mirth, the farmer's wealth,
Walk hand and hand with Exercise and Health?
Nor when the setting sun withdraws his ray,
And labour closes with the closing day,

209

Would I, with haughty insolence, avoid
The scenes where simple nature is enjoy'd;
But pleas'd, in frolic, or discourse engage
With sportive youth, or hospitable age,
Exert my talents to amuse the throng
In wond'rous legend, or in rural song.

Thus, by no wish for alteration seiz'd,
My neighbours pleasing, with my neighbours pleas'd,
Exempt from each excess of bliss or woe,
My setting hours should uniformly flow,
Till nature to the dust these limbs consign'd,
Leaving a short, but well-earn'd fame behind.

For thee, whom nature and the muse inspire
With taste refin'd, and elegant desire,
'Tis thine, where'er thou mov'st, thy bliss to find,
Drawn from the native treasures of thy mind;
To brighten life with love or friendship's ray,
Or through the Muse's land in raptures stray.
Oh! may thy soul her fav'rite objects gain,
And not a wish aspire to heav'n in vain!
Full on thy latest hours may genius shine,
And each domestic happiness be thine!

210

To the SAME.

Yes, 'tis resolv'd, in nature's spite,
Nay more, resolv'd in rhime to write:
Tho' to my chamber's walls confin'd
By beating rains, and roaring wind,
Tho' lowring, as the wintry sky,
Involv'd in spleen my spirits lye,
Tho' cold, as hyperborean snows,
No feeble ray of genius glows,
To friendship tribute let me pay,
And gratitude's behests obey.

Whilst man in this precarious station
Of struggle and of fluctuation,
Protracts his being, is it strange
That humour, genius, wit, should change?
The mind which most of force inherits,
Must feel vicissitude of spirits:
And happiest they, who least deprest,
Of life's bad bargain make the best.
Thus, tho' my song he can't commend,
Th' attempt will please my gentle friend;
For he of life's uncertain round
The cloudy and serene hath found.

211

Chearing, as summer's balmy showers,
To thirsty herbs and languid flowers,
Your late epistle reach'd my ear,
And fill'd my heart with joy sincere.
Before my eyes in prospect plain
Appear'd the consecrated fane.
Where Friendship's holy presence shines,
And grief disarms, and bliss refines.
Long may the beauteous fabric rise,
Unite all hearts and charm all eyes,
Above contingency and time,
Stable as earth, as heav'n sublime!
And while its more than solar light
Thro' nature's frame flows piercing bright,
May we thro' life's ambiguous maze
Imbibe its most auspicious rays;
View unimpair'd its sweet existence,
By length of years, or local distance;
And while our hearts revolve the past,
Still feel its warmest moments last!
With each kind wish which friendship knows,
For you Melissa's bosom glows.
Her heart capacious and sincere,
Where those once priz'd must still be dear,
Tho' long of silence she complains,
For Thespia all her love retains.

Now, whether prose your fancy please,
The stile of elegance and ease,

212

Or whether strains so debonair,
As might from anguish charm despair,
To us at least a pittance deal,
Who long to see your hand and seal.

To MELISSA.

Written in the Year 1790.

Dear, welcome sharer of my breast,
Of friends the kindest and the best,
What numbers shall the Muse employ,
To speak my gratitude and joy?
Twice ten times has the circling year,
And oftener, finish'd its career,
Since first in Hymen's sacred bands,
With mingl'd hearts we join'd our hands.

Auspicious hour! from whence I date
The brightest colours of my fate;
From whence felicity alone,
To my dejected heart was known.
For then, my days from woe to screen,
Thy watchful tenderness was seen;

213

Nor did its kind attentions miss
To heighten and improve my bliss.

Oft have I felt its pleasing power
Delude the solitary hour;
Oft has it charm'd the cruel smart,
When pain and anguish rack'd my heart.
Thus may our days which yet remain,
Be free from bitterness and pain!
So limpid streams still purer grow,
For ever bright'ning as they flow.

When death must come, for come it will,
And I heav'n's purposes fulfil,
When heart with heart, and soul with soul
Blending, I reach life's utmost goal,
When nature's debt this frame shall pay,
And earth receive my mortal clay;
Not unconcern'd shalt thou behold
My ashes mingling with the mold;
But drop a tear, and heave a sigh,
Yet hope to meet me in the sky;
When, life's continual suff'rings o'er,
We joyful meet, to part no more.

214

On Dr. BLACKLOCK's Birth-day.

By Mrs. BLACKLOCK.

Propitious day! to me for ever dear;
Oh! may'st thou still return from year to year,
Replete with choicest blessings heav'n can send,
And guard from ev'ry harm my dearest friend.
May we together tread life's various maze,
In strictest virtue, and in grateful praise
To thee, kind Providence, who hast ordain'd
One for the other sympathetic friend.
And when life's current in our veins grows cold,
Let each the other to their breast enfold
Their other dearer self; with age opprest,
Then, gracious God, receive us both to rest.

215

From Dr. DOWNMAN to Mrs. BLACKLOCK.

[_]

Occasioned by a Copy of Verses she addressed to her Husband.

As round Parnassus on a day
Melissa idly chanc'd to stray,
She gather'd from its native bed,
As there it grew, a rose-bud red.
Mean time Calliopé came by,
And Hymen, with obsequious eye,
Watching her looks, gallantly trod;
Fair was the muse, and bright the god.
The mortal, at th' unwonted sight
Was struck with dread, as well she might.
When thus the queen; “How could'st thou dare,
“Without my passport, venture here?
“That rose-bud cast upon the plain,
“And seek thy pristine shades again.”
But Hymen thus the muse bespoke;
“Oh! Goddess dear, thine ire revoke!
For, if I err not, on my life,
This wanderer is our Blacklock's wife.
At which she smiling milder grew,
For him of yore full well she knew.
Then Hymen thus address'd the dame;
“She pardons, tho' she still must blame.
“But take the rose-bud in your hand,
“And say, you bring, at my command,
“That present from Parnassus' grove,
“A grateful flower of married love.”

216

From Dr. DOWNMAN to Dr. BLACKLOCK.

Edina's walls can Fancy see,
And not, my Blacklock, think on thee?
'Ere I that gentle name forget,
This flesh must pay great nature's debt.
Hail! worthiest of the sons of men,
Not that the Muses held thy pen,
And plac'd before thy mental sight
Each hue of intellectual light:
But that a gen'rous soul is thine,
Richer by far than Plutus' mine;
With utmost niceness fram'd to feel
Another's woe, another's weal;
Where friendship heap'd up all her store,
That glorious treasure of the poor,
To grovelling vanity unknown,
Not to be purchas'd by a throne;
Where Patience, Resignation's child,
Misfortune of her power beguil'd;
Where Love her purple cestus bound
Where a retirement Virtue found,
Contentment a perpetual treat,
And Honour a delightful seat;
Religion could with Pleasure feast,
And met no Bigot, tho' a Priest.