But health averfe from floth's fimooth region flies; And, in her absence, pleasure droops and dies. Her bright companions, mirth, delight, repofe, Smile where the fmiles, and ficken when she goes. A galaxy of powers! whose forins appear For ever beauteous, and for ever near.

Nor will foft fleep to floth's request incline,
He from her couches flies unbid to mine.

Vain is the fparkling bowl, the warbling ftrain,
Th' incentive fong, the labour'd viand vain!
Where the relentless reigns without control,
And checks each gay excurfion of the foul:
Unmov'd, though beauty, deck'd in all its charms,
Grace the rich couch, and spread the fofteft arms:
Till joyless indolence fuggefts defires;

Or drugs are fought to furnish languid fires :
Such languid fires as on the vitals prey,
Barren of blifs, but fertile of decay.
As artful heats, apply'd to thirfty lands,
Produce no flowers, and but debase the fands:
But let fair health her chearing smiles impart,
How fweet is nature, how fuperfluous art!
'Tis the the fountain's ready draught commends,
And smooths the flinty couch which fortune lends.
And when my hero from his toils retires,

Fills his gay bofom with unusual fires,

And, while no checks th' unbounded joy reprove,
Aids and refines the genuine fweets of love.
His fairest profpect rifing trophies frame;
His fweetest mufic is the voice of fame;
P

Pleasures

Pleasures to floth unknown! he never found
How fair the prospect, or how sweet the found.
See fame's gay ftructure from yon fummit charms,
And fires the manly breast to arts or arms:
Nor dread the steep ascent, by which you rise
From groveling vales to towers which reach the skies.
Love, fame, esteem, 't is labour must acquire;
The fmiling offspring of a rigid fire!

To fix the friend, your fervice must be fhewn ;
All, ere they lov'd your merit, lov'd their own.
That wondering Greece your portrait may admire,
That tuneful bards may ftring for you their lyre,
That books may praise, or coins record your name,
Such, fuch rewards 't is toil alone can claim !
And the fame column which displays to view
The conqueror's name, difplays the conqueft too.
'Twas flow experince, tedious mistress! taught
All that e'er nobly spoke, or bravely fought.
'Twas the the patriot, fhe the bard refin'd,
In arts that ferve, protect, or please mankind.
Not the vain vifions of inactive schools;
Not fancy's maxims, not opinion's rules,
E'er form'd the man whofe generous warmth extends
T'enrich his country, or to ferve his friends.
On active worth the laurel war bestows:
Peace rears her olive for industrious brows:
Nor earth, uncultur'd, yields its kind fupplies :
Nor heaven, its fhowers without a facrifice.
See far below fuch groveling scenes of fhame,
As lull to reft Ignavia's flumbering dame.

Her friends, from all the toils of fame secure,
Alas! inglorious, greater toils endure.

Doom'd all to mourn, who in her cause engage
A youth enervate, and a painful age;

A fickly faplefs mass, if reason flies ;
And, if the linger, impotently wife!

A thoughtless train, who, pamper'd, fleek, and gay,
Invite old age, and revel youth away;

From life's fresh vigour move the load of care,
And idly place it where thy leaft can bear.
When to the mind, difeas'd, for aid they fly,
What kind reflection shall the mind supply?
When, with loft health, what fhould the lofs allay,
Peace, peace is loft: a comfortless décay!

But to my friends, when youth, when pleasure flies,
And earth's dim beauties fade before their eyes,
Through death's dark vista flowery tracts are feen,
Elyfian plains, and groves for ever green.
If o'er their lives a refluent glance they caft,
Their's is the prefent who can praise the past.
Life has its blifs for thefe, when past its bloom,
As wither'd rofes yield a late perfume,

Serene, and fafe from paffion's stormy rage,
How calm they glide into the port of age!
Of the rude voyage less depriv'd than eas'd;
More tir'd than pain'd, and weaken'd than difeas'd.
For health on age, 't is temperance must bestow;
And peace from piety alone can flow;

And all the incenfe bounteous Jove requires,
Has fweets for him who feeds the facred fires.-

In cloister'd state let selfish fages dwell,

Proud that their heart is narrow as their cell!
And boast their mazy labyrinth of rules,

Far lefs the friends of virtue, than the fools:
Yet fuch in vain thy favouring smiles pretend;
For he is thine, who proves his country's friend.
Thus when my life well-spent the good enjoy,
And the mean envious labour to destroy;
When, ftrongly lur'd by fame's contiguous fhrine,
I yet devote my choicer vows to thine;
If all my toils thy promis'd favour claim,

O lead thy favourite through the gates of fame!
He ceas'd his vows, and, with disdainful air,
He turn'd to blast the late exulting fair.
But vanish'd, fled to fome more friendly shore,
The confcious phantom's beauty pleas'd no more:
Convinc'd, her spurious, charms of dress and face
Claim'd a quick conqueft, or a fure disgrace.
Fantastic power! whofe tranfient charms allur'd,
While error's mift the reafoning mind obscur'd ;
Not fuch the victrefs, virtue's, conftant queen,
Endur'd the teft of truth, and dar'd be feen.
Her brightening form and features seem'd to own,
'T was all her with, her intereft, to be known:
And when his longing view the fair declin'd,
Left a full image of her charms behind,.

Thus reigns the moon, with furtive fplendor crown'd, While glooms oppress us, and thick shades furround.

But

But let the fource of light its beams display,
Languid and faint the mimic flames decay,
And all the fickening fplendor fades away.

The PROGRESS of TASTE.

O R,

The FATE of DELICACY.

}

A POEM on the Temper and Studies of the AUTHOR; and how great a Misfortune it is, for a Man of small Estate to have much TASTE.

PART the FIRST.

PERHAPS fome cloud eclips'd the day,

When thus I tun'd my pensive lay. "The ship is launch'd-we catch the gale On life's extended ocean fail:

For happiness our course we bend,

Our ardent cry, our general end!

Yet, ah! the scenes which tempt our care
Are like the forms difpers'd in air,

Still dancing near diforder'd eyes;
And weakest his, who beft defcries!
Yet let me not my birth-right barter,
(For wifhing is the poet's charter;

All bards have leave to wish what 's wanted,
Though few e'er found their wishes granted;