University of Virginia Library

“Pen'ry,” no Alfred! 'tis not thine,
In thy rich Soul's exhaustless Mine
Abounds more Wealth, than Ganges golden Shores
E'er on the tawny Chiefs bestow'd,
When parting from the sacred Flood,
The falsly, glitt'ring, yellow Sand,
Spreads Treasure thro' the torrid Land,
Or tho' from out the burning Soil,
Drawn by the harden'd Hand of Toil,
The precious sparkling Drops are plac'd
Round the slim Zone of Beauty's Waist,
And add new Splendour to some Monarch's Stores.
Does not the vernal Morning rise
With Radiance to thy grateful Eyes?
Does not the breezy Flow of Eve
A Transport to thy Bosom give?
And ev'ry life-dissolving Sigh,
Fill thy rapt Soul with Extacy,
When thy lost Charmer on thy Vision beams,
And feeds wild Fancy with delusive Dreams?

Ah! Alfred, I of Griefs could speak,
'Till at soft Pity's call
The iron Tears would fall
In burning Streams down hard Oppression's Cheek.
But no! I quit the heartless Lay,
And cast the unavailing Theme away.

When wand'ring o'er the fragrant Vale,
Soft Warblings wafting thro' the Gale,
Does not thy Soul a Pardon find
For Words unjust, and Deeds unkind?
Do not the cruel Herd inspire
Compassion or Disdain?
Can Scorn's cold Eye thy bosom fire.
To yield one Wrong again?
No! Alfred, no! the Muse is thine!
And where her Bounties flow,
All the bright beaming Virtues shine,
The warm Affections glow.
Then can that Dust poor Misers hoard,
Enrich thy wealthy Soul?
Can sordid Ore one Bliss afford?
One tyrant Pang controul?
The friendless Flatt'rer's smile to prove,
To purchase venal Beauty's Eye,
To swell mad Envy's frantic Sigh,
And lose each Sympathy of Love;
Such are the Joys which Gold can give,
And such e'en Misers may receive,
But such can ne'er be thine.—
The Muse extends her open Arms,
She courts thee with unbounded Charms,
Her Pencil paints each glowing Scene,
Her Musick floats along the Green,
By her the laurel'd Virtues live,
She bids degraded Vice, the Blush of Conscience give.
Science is her's, and ev'ry Art divine.
Then like Philenia quit the Herd,
Where Mercy is unknown:
And be thy votive Prayer preffer'd,
At great Apollo's Throne.

Sweet Solitude, kind Nurse of Song,
Allures me from the joyless Throng,
Spreads her reposing Breast to me,
And bids my tuneless Harp waft long Adieus to cities and to thee.