HOU dearest youth, who taught me first to know

a

What pleasures from a real friendship flow,

Where neither intereft nor design have part,
But all the warmth is native of the heart;
Thou know'ft to comfort, footh, or entertain,
Joy of my health, and cordial of my pain.
When life feem'd failing on her latest stage,
And fell disease anticipated age,
When wafting fickness and afflictive pain,
By Efculapius' fons oppos'd in vain;
Forc'd me reluctant, defperate, to explore
A warmer fun, and feek a milder shore;
Thy steady love with unexampled truth,
Forfook each gay companion of thy youth,
Whate'er the profp'rous or the great employs,
Bus'nefs and int'reft, and love's fofter joys,

The

The weary fteps of mis'ry to attend,

To share diftrefs, and make a wretch thy friend,
If o'er the mountain's fnowy height we ftray,
Where Carthage first explor'd the vent'rous way;
Or thro' the tainted air of Rome's parch'd plains,
Where Want refides, and Superftition reigns;
Chearful and unrepining, ftill you bear

Each dangerous rigour of the various year;
And kindly anxious for thy friend alone,
Lament his fuff'rings and forget thy own.

Oh! would kind Heav'n, thefe tedious fuff'rings past,
Permit me Ickworth, reft, and health at last,
In that lov'd shade, my youth's delightful feat,
My early pleasure, and my late retreat,
Where lavish Nature's favourite bleffings flow,
And all the feafons all their fweets beftow:
There might I trifle carelefly away

The milder evening of life's clouded day,

From bus'nefs and the world's intrufion free,

With books, with love, with beauty, and with thee;
No farther want, no wish yet unpoffefs'd

Could e'er difturb this unambitious breast.
Let those who Fortune's fhining gifts implore,
Who fue for glory, fplendor, wealth, or power,
View this unactive ftate, with fcornful eyes,
And pleasures they can never tafte, despise;
Let them still court that goddess' falser joys,

Who, while the grants their pray'r, their peace deftroys.

I envy

I envy

not the foremost of the great,

Not Walpole's felf, directing Europe's fate;
Still let him load Ambition's thorny fhrine,
Fame be his portion, and contentment mine.
But if the gods, finifter ftill, deny

To live in Ickworth, let me there but die;
Thy hand to close my eyes in death's long night,
Thy image to attract their latest sight:

Then to the grave attend thy poet's herfe,

And love his mem❜ry as you lov'd his verse.

To the Same. From Hampton-Court, 173 1

By the Same.

Bono loco res humanæ funt, quod nemo, nifi vitio fuo, mifer eft.

SENECA in Epift.

HILST in the fortunes of the gay and great,

WE

The glare of courts, and luxury of state;

All that the meaner covet and deplore,

The pomp of wealth, and infolence of `power:
Whilst in these various scenes of gilded life,
Of fraud, ambition, policy, and ftrife;
Where every word is dictated by art,
And ev'ry face the mask of ev'ry heart;

Whilft

1

Whilft with fuch diff'rent objects entertain❜d,
In all that's really felt, and all that's feign'd,
I fpeculate on human joys and woes,

Till from my pen the verse spontaneous flows;
To whom thefe artlefs off'rings fhould I bring,
To whom these undigested numbers fing,

But to a friend?-and to what friend but you,
Safe, juft, fincere, indulgent, kind and true?
Difdain not then these trifles to attend,

Nor fear to blame, nor ftudy to commend. '
Say, where falfe notions erring I pursue,
And with the plaufible confound the true :
Correct with all the freedom that I write; .
And guide my darken'd reason with thy light.
Thee partial heaven has blefs'd, profusely kind,
With wit, with judgment, and a tafte refin'd.
Thy fancy rich, and thy obfervance true,...
The laft ftill wakeful, and the first still new..
Rare bleffings! and to few divided known,
But giv'n united to thyself alone.
Inftruction are thy words, and lively truth,
The school of age, and the delight of youth.

When men their various difcontents relate,
And tell how wretched this our mortal ftate;
That life is but diverfify'd diftrefs,

The lot of all, and hardly more or lefs;

That kings and villagers have each their share,

These pinch'd with mean, and those with fplendid care;

That

That seeming pleasure is intrinfick woe,
And all call'd happiness, delusive show;
Food only for the fnakes in Envy's breast,
Who often grudges what is ne'er poffefs'd;
Say, for thou know'ft the follies of mankind,
Can't tell how obftinate, perverfe, and blind;
Say, are we thus opprefs'd by Nature's laws,
Or of our miseries, ourselves the cause ?

Sure oft, unjustly, we impute to Fate
A thousand evils which ourselves create;
Complain that life affords but little joy,
And yet that little foolishly deftroy.
We check the pleasures that too soon subside,
And break the current of too weak a tide.
Like Atalanta, golden trifles chace,

And baulk that fwiftnefs which might win the race;
For life has joys adapted to each stage,

Love for our youth, ambition for our age.
But wilful man inverting her decrees,

When young would govern, and when old would please,

Covets the fruits his autumn fhou'd bestow,

Nor taftes the fragrance whilft the bloffoms blow.
Then far-fled joys in vain he would restore,
His appetite unanswer'd by his pow'r :

Round beauty's neck he twists his wither'd arms,
Receiv'd with loathing to her venal charms :
He rakes the ashes, when the fire is spent,
Nor gains fruition, tho' he gains confent.

But