There with the friendly wish, the kindly flame,
No face is brighten'd, and no bofoms beat;
Youth, manhood, age, avow one fordid aim,
And ev❜n the beardlefs lip affays deceit.
There coward rumours walk their murderous round;
The glance, that more than rural blame inftills;
Whispers, that ting'd with friendship doubly wound,
Pity that injures, and concern that kills.
Their anger whets, but love can ne'er engage;
Careffing brothers part but to revile;
There all men fmile, and prudence warns the wife,
To dread the fatal ftroke of all that fmile.
There all her rivals! fifter, fon, and fire,
With horrid purpose hug destructive arms;
There foft-ey'd maids in murderous plots confpire,
And fcorn the gentler mifchief of their charmis.
Let fervile minds one endless watch endure;
Day, night, nor hour, their anxious guard resign ;
But lay me, fate! on flowery banks, fecure,
Though my whole foul be, like my limbs, fupine.
Yes, may my tongue disdain a vassal's care;
My lyre refound no prostituted lay;
More warm to merit, more elate to wear
The cap of freedom, than the crown of bay.
Sooth'd by the murmurs of my pebbled flood,
I wish it not o'er golden fands to flow;
Chear'd by the verdure of my spiral wood,
I fcorn the quarry, where no shrub can grow.
No midnight pangs the fhepherd's peace purfue;
His tongue, his hand, attempts no fecret wound;
He fings his Delia, and if she be true,
His love at once, and his ambition 's crown'd.
He takes occafion, from the fate of ELEANOR Of BRETAGNE, to fuggeft the imperfect pleasures of a folitary life.
HEN beauty mourns, by fate's injurious doom,
Hid from the chearful glance of human eye; When nature's pride inglorious waits the tomb, Hard is that heart which checks the rifing figh. Fair Eleonora! would no gallant mind,
The caufe of love, the cause of justice own?
Matchlefs thy charms, and was no life refign'd
To fee them fparkle from their native throne?
Or had fair freedom's hand unveil'd thy charms,
Well might fuch brows the regal gem refign;
Thy radiant mien might scorn the guilt of arms,
Yet Albion's awful empire yield to thine.
O fhame of Britons! in one fullen tower
She wet with royal tears her daily cell;
She found keen anguish every rofe devour;
They sprung, they shone, they faded, and they fell.
Through one dim lattice fring'd with ivy round,
Succeffive funs a languid radiance threw;
To paint how fierce her angry guardian frown'd,
To mark how faft her waning beauty flew.
This, age might bear; then fated fancy palls,
Nor warmly hopes what fplendor can fupply;
Fond youth inceffant mourns, if rigid walls
Reftrain its liftening ear, its curious eye.
Believe me, ****, the pretence is vain!
This boafted calm that fmooths our early days,
For never yet could youthful mind restrain
Th' alternate pant for pleasure and for praise.
Ev'n me, by fhady oak or limpid fpring,
Ev'n me, the scenes of polish'd life allure;
Some genius whispers, "Life is on the wing,
And hard his lot that languishes obscure.
What though thy riper mind admire no more-
The fhining cincture, and the broider'd fold,
Can pierce like lightning through the figur'd ore,
And melt to drofs the radiant forms of gold.
Furs, ermins, rods, may well attract thy scorn;
The futile prefents of capricious power!
But wit, but worth, the public fphere adorn,
And who but envies then the focial hour?
Can virtue, careless of her pupil's meed,
Forget how *** fuftains the shepherd's caufe?
Content in fhades to tune a lonely reed,
Nor join the founding pean of applause ?
For public haunts, impell'd by Britain's weal,
See Grenville quit the Muse's favourite ease;
And fhall not fwains admire his noble zeal?
Admiring praife, admiring ftrive to please?
Life, fays the fage, affords no blifs fincere;
And courts and cells in vain our hopes renew :
But ah! where Grenvile charms the listening ear,
'Tis hard to think the chearlefs maxim true.
The groves may fmile; the rivers gently glide;
Soft through the vale refound the lonesome lay.
Ev'n thickets yield delight, if taste prefide;
But can they pleafe, when Lyttelton's away?
Pure as the fwain's the breast of *** glows,
Ah! were the fhepherd's phrafe, like his, refin'd! But, how improv'd the generous dictate flows
Through the clear medium of a polish'd mind!
Happy the youths who, warm with Britain's love,
Her inmoft with in ***'s periods hear!
Happy that in the radiant circle move,
Attendant orbs, where Lonsdale gilds the sphere ! While rural faith, and every polish'd art,
Each friendly charm, in *** confpire,
From public fcencs all penfive must you part;
All joyless to the greenet fields retire!
Go, plaintive youth! no more by fount or stream,
Like fome lone halcyon, social pleasure shun;
Go dare the light, enjoy its chearful beam,
And hail the bright proceffion of the fun.
Then cover'd by thy ripen'd shades, refume
The filent walk; no more by passion toft :
Then seek thy ruftic haunts; the dreary gloom,
Where every art, that colours life, is loft.".
In vain the liftening Mufe attends in vain!
Reftraints in hoftile bands her motions wait-
-Yet will I grieve, and fadden all my strain,
When injur'd beauty mourns the Mufe's fate.
TO DELIA, with fome flowers; complaining how much his benevolence fuffers on account of his humble fortune.
W Hate'er could sculpture's curious art employ,
Whate'er the lavifh hand of wealth can fhower,
Thefe would I give-and every gift enjoy,
That pleas'd my fair-but fate denies the power.
Bleft were my lot to feed the focial fires!
To learn the latent wifhes of a friend!
To give the boon his native taste admires,
And, for my transport, on his smile depend
Bleft too is he, whofe evening ramble strays,
Where droop the fons of indigence and care!
His little gifts their gladden'd eyes amaze,
And win, at fmall expence, their fondest prayer!
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