ELEGY VII. The CONSOLATION.
Did tuneful Hammond, skill'd in classic lore,
Sigh in soft verse, in vain, for love's return?
Did he, in vain, in softest strains deplore,
Condemn'd unpitied to a timeless urn?
And did his Delia listen while his strain
Made all the charms of Tibullus his own?
And was his learning and his genius vain
To chace from Delia's brow th'obdurate frown
Then ah what hope, what distant hope have I
To woo my lovelier Delia to these arms,
With verse expressive of the heaving sigh,
Which speaks my pains and her transcendent charms?
To me the deathless classics never taught
To breathe in artful notes the love-lorn care.
To me no aid laborious science brought:
Love and the Muse my only tutors are!
Thro' academic groves I never rov'd;
Meonides for me ne'er tun'd his shell;
Anacreon, Sappho, ne'er my verse improv'd;
Nor he
who knew the arts of love so well.
Simple my thoughts, my language void of art,
And, like my person, rude and unrefin'd:
More fit to seek some rustic damsel's heart,
Than woo fair Delia's all-accomplish'd mind.
Then cease fond verse, nor seek again her ear:
In pensive silence I'll my pipe forego.—
Yet no, the Muse my drooping heart shall cheer,
And balmy verse shall lull the poignant woe.
Bless'd be the hour when first the love of song
Stole on my heart, and fir'd my youthful mind:
For verse can soothe whom Love and Fortune wrong,
And Passion's force in friendly fetters bind.
Then tho' blind Fortune, deity unkind!
Nor my more cruel fair, their frowns abate;
Yet will I still retain a grateful mind,
Nor Heav'n accuse, nor murmur at my fate.
For when, to hear some runnel bubble soft,
Pensive I stretch'd upon the verdant plain,
Me, yet a boy, the Muse would tutor oft,
And Love instruct and meliorate the strain.
