E LE GY

IX.

He defcribes his difinterestedness to a friend:

I

NE'ER must tinge my lip with Celtic wines ;. The pomp of India must I ne'er display; Nor boast the produce of Peruvian mines,

Nor, with Italian founds, deceive the day. Down yonder brook my crystal beverage flows; My grateful sheep their annual fleeces bring; Fair in my garden buds the damask rose,

And, from my grove, I hear the throftle fing.
My fellow fwains! avert your dazzled eyes;
In vain allur'd by glittering spoils they rove,
The fates ne'er meant them for the shepherd's prize,
Yet gave them ample recompence in love.
They gave you vigour from your parent's veins ;
They gave you toils; but toils your finews brace;
They gave you nymphs, that own their amorous pains,
And fhades, the refuge of the gentle race.

To carve your loves, to paint your mutual flames,
See! polish'd fair, the beech's friendly rind !
To fing soft carrols to your lovely dames,
See vocal grots, and echoing vales affign'd!
Would't thou, my Strephon, love's delighted slave!
Though fure the wreaths of chivalry to share,
Forego the ribbon thy Matilda gave,

And, giving, bade thee in remembrance wear?

I!

Ill fare my peace,

but every idle toy,

If to my mind

my Delia's form it brings, Has truer worth, imparts fincerer joy,

Than all that bears the radiant ftamp of kings.

my foul weeps, my breast with anguish bleeds, When love deplores the tyrant power of gain! Difdaining riches as the futile weeds,

I rife fuperior, and the rich difdain.

Oft from the stream, flow wandering down the glade, Penfive I hear the nuptial peal rebound; "Some mifer weds, I cry, the captive maid, "And fome fond lover fickens at the found."

Not Somervile, the Muse's friend of old,

Though now exalted to yon ambient sky,
So fhun'd a foul distain'd with earth and gold,
So lov'd the pure, the generous breast, as I.
Scorn'd be the wretch that quits his genial bowl,

His loves, his friendships, ev'n his self, refigns; Perverts the facred instinct of his foul,

And to a ducate's dirty sphere confines.

But come, my friend, with tafte, with fcience bleft, Ere age impair me, and ere gold allure;

Reftore thy dear idea to my breast,

The rich depofit fhall the fhrine fecure.

Let others toil to gain the fordid ore,

The charms of independence let us fing;
Bleft with thy friendship, can I wish for more?
I'll spurn the boasted wealth of Lydia's king.

ELEGY

TO FORTUNE; fuggefting his motive for repining at her difpenfations.

A

SK not the caufe, why this rebellious tongue

Loads with fresh curfes thy detested sway!

Afk not, thus branded in my fofteft fong,

Why ftands the flatter'd name, which all obey? Tis not, that in my shed I lurk forlorn,

Nor see my roof on Parian columns rise; That, on this breaft, no mimic ftar is borne, Rever'd, ah! more than those that light the skies. 'Tis not, that on the turf fupinely laid,

I fing or pipe, but to the flocks that graze; And, all inglorious, in the lonesome shade, My finger ftiffens, and my voice decays. Not, that my fancy mourns thy ftern command, When many an embryo dome is loft in air; While guardian prudence checks my eager hand, And, ere the turf is broken, cries," Forbear. Forbear, vain youth! be cautious, weigh thy gold, "Nor let yon rifing column more aspire; "Ah! better dwell in ruins, than behold

Thy fortunes mouldering, and thy domes entire. "Honorio built, but dar'd my laws defy;

"He planted, fcornful of my fage commands; "The peach's vernal bud regal'd his eye; "The fruitage ripen'd for more frugal hands.”

See

Scarce has the fun feven annual courfes roll'd, Scarce fhewn the whole that fortune can fupply; Since, not the mifer so caress'd his gold,

As I, for what it gave, was heard to figh.

On the world's ftage I wish'd some sprightly part;
To deck my native fleece with tawdry lace!
'Twas life, 'twas taste, and-oh my foolish heart;
Substantial joy was fix'd in power and place.
And you, ye works of art! allur'd mine

eye,

The breathing picture, and the living stone : "Though gold, though fplendour, heaven and fate. "deny,

"Yet might I call one Titian stroke my own!"
Smit with the charms of fame, whofe lovely spoil,
The wreath, the garland, fire the poet's pride,
I trim'd my lamp, confum'd the midnight oil –
But foon the paths of health and fame divide !
Oft too I pray'd, 'twas nature form'd the prayer,
To grace my native fcenes, my rural home;
To fee my trees exprefs their planter's care,

And gay, on Attic models, raise my dome.
But now 'tis o'er, the dear delufion 's o'er!
A ftagnant breezelefs air becalms my foul:
A fond afpiring candidate no more,

I fcorn the palm, before I reach the goal.
O youth! enchanting ftate, profufely bleft!
Blifs ev'n obtrusive courts the frolic mind;
Of health neglectful, yet by health careft;
Careless of favour, yet fecure to find.

For know I trod the trophy'd paths of power;

Felt every joy that fair ambition brings; And left the lonely roof of yonder bower, To stand beneath the canopies of kings. I bade low hinds the towering ardour fhare Nor meanly rofe, to bless myself alone : I fnatch'd the shepherd from his fleecy care, And bade his wholesome dictate guard the throne.. Low at my feet the suppliant peer I saw;

I faw proud empires my decision wait; My will was duty, and my word was law,

My fmile was tranfport, and my frown was fate." Ah me! faid I, nor power I feek, nor gain; Nor urg'd by hope of fame these toils endure; A fimple youth, that feels a lover's pain,

And, from his friend's condolance, hopes a cure. He, the dear youth, to whofe abodes I roam, Nor can mine honours, nor my fields extend; Yet for his fake I leave my diftant home,

Which oaks embofom, and which hills defend.
Beneath that home I fcorn the wintry wind;

The fpring, to fhade me, robes her fairest tree;
And if a friend my grafs-grown threshold find,
O how my lonely cot refounds with glee!
Yet, though averfe to gold in heaps amass'd,
I wish to blefs, I languish to bestow;

And though no friend to fame's obftreperous blast,
Still, to her dulcet murmurs not a foe.

Του