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Cambridge, not to divert them, for it cannot, but merely to shew them how sincere I was when sick : I hope my sending it to them now may convince them I am no less sincere, though perhaps more simple, when well.

AD AMICOS.*
Yes, happy youths, on Camus' sedgy side
You feel each joy that friendship can divide;
Each realm of science and of art explore,
And with the ancient blend the modern lore.
Studious alone to learn whate'er may tend
'To raise the genius or the heart to mend :
Now pleas'd along the cloister'd walk you rove,
And trace the verdant mazes of the grove,
Where social oft, and oft alone, ye choose
To catch the zephyr and to court the muse.
Meantime at me (while all devoid of art
These lines give back the image of my heart)
At me the pow'r that comes or soon or late,
Or aims, or seems to aim, the dart of Fate:
From you remote, methinks alone I stand
Like some sad exile in a desert land ;
Around no friends their lenient care to join
In mutual warmth, and mix their heart with mine.
Or real pains, or those which fancy raise,
For ever blot the sunshine of my days ;
To sickness still, and still to grief a prey,
Health turns from me her rosy face away.

Just Heav'n! what sin, ere life begins to bloom,
Devotes my head untimely to the tomb :
Did e're this hand against a brother's life
Drug the dire bowl or point the murd'rous knife ?
Did e'er this tongue the slanderer's tale proclaim,
Or madly violate my Maker's name?
Did e'er this heart betray a friend or foe,
Or know a thought but all the world might know?
As yet just started from the lists of time,
My growing years have scarcely told their prime ;
Useless, as yet, through life I've idly run,
No pleasures tasted, and few duties done.
Ah! who, ere autumn's mellowing suns appear,
Would pluck the promise of the vernal year:

Almost all Tibullus's elegy is imitated in this little piece, from whence his transition to Mr. Pope's letter is very artfully contrived, and bespeaks a degree of judgment much beyond Mr. West's years.

+ Quid fraudare juvat vitem crescentibus uvis ?

Et modo nata mala vellere poma manu? So the original. The paraphrase seems to me infinitely more beautiful. There is a peculiar blemish in the second line, arising from the synonimes mala and poma.

Or, ere the grapes their purple hue betray,
Tear the crude cluster from the mourning spray.
Stern power of Fate, whose ebon sceptre rules
The Stygian deserts and Cimmerian pools,
Forbear, nor rasbly smite my youthful heart,
A victim yet unworthy of thy dart;
Ab, stay till age shall blast my withering face,
Shake in my head, and falter in my pace;
Then aim the shaft, then meditate the blow,
*And to the dead my willing shade shall go.

How weak is man to Reason's judging eye!
Born in this moment, in the next we die;
Part mortal clay, and part ethereal fire,
Too proud to creep, too humble to aspire.
In vain our plans of happiness we raise,
Pain is our lot, and patience is our praise ;
Wealth, lineage, honours, conquest, or a throne,
Are what the wise would fear to call their own.
Health is at best a vain precarious thing,
And fair-fac'd youth is ever on the wing;
t'Tis like the stream, beside whose wat’ry bed
Some blooming plant exalts his flow'ry head,
Nurs’d by the wave the spreading branches rise,
Shade all the ground and flourish to the skies ;
The waves the while beneath in secret flow,
And undermine the hollow bank below;
Wide and more wide the waters urge

their

way,
Bare all the roots and on their fibres prey.
Too late the plant bewails bis foolish pride,
And sinks, untimely, in the whelming tide.

But why repine, does life deserve my sigh?
Few will lament my loss whene'er I die.
For those the wretches I despise or hate,
I neither envy nor regard their fate.
Por me, whene'er all-conquering Death shall spread
His wings around my unrepining head,
ȘI care not; though this face be seen no more,
The world will pass as cheerful as before ;

* Here he quits Tibullus, the ten following verses have but a remote reference to Mr. Pope's letter.

+ Youth, at the very best, is but the betrayer of buman life in a gentler and smoother manner than age; 'tis like the stream that nourishes a plant upon a bank, and causes it to flourish and blossom to the sight, but at the same time is undermining it at the root in secret.”. Pope's Works, vol. 7, page 254, 1st. edit. Warburton.—Mr. West, by prolonging bis paraphrase of this simile, gives it additional beauty from that very circumstance, but he ought to have introduced it by Mr. Pope's own thought, “ Youth is a betrayer;" his couplet preceding the simile conveys too general a reflection.

# "I am not at all uneasy at the thought that many men, whom I never had any esteem for, are likely to enjoy this world after me. Vide ibid.

The morning after my exit the sun will rise as bright as ever, the flowers smell as sweet, the plants spring as green :" so far Mr. West copies his original;

Bright as before the day-star will appear,
The fields as verdant, and the skies as clear;
Nor storms nor comets will my doom declare,
Nor signs on earth, nor portents in the air;
Unknown and silent will depart my breath,
Nor nature e'er take notice of my death.
Yet some there are (ere spent my vital days)
Within whose breasts my tomb I wish to raise.
Lov'd in my life, lamented in my end,
Their praise would crown me as their precepts mend
To them may these fond lines my name endear,

Not from the Poet, but the Friend sincere.
Christ Church, July 4, 1737.

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After a month's expectation of you, and a fortnight's despair, at Cambridge, I am come to town, and to better hopes of seeing you. If what you sent me last be the product of your melancholy, what may

I not expect from

your more cheerful hours ? For by this time the ill health that you complain of is (I hope) quite departed, though, if I were self-interested, I ought to wish for the continuance of any thing that could be the occasion of so much pleasure to me. Low spirits are my true and faithful companions ; they get up with me, go to bed with me, make journeys and returns as I do; nay, and pay visits, and will even affect to be jocose, and force a feeble laugh with me; but most commonly we sit alone together, and are the prettiest insipid company

in the world. However, when you come, I believe they must undergo the fate of all humble companions, and be discarded. Would I could turn them to the same use that you have done, and make an Apollo of them. If they could write such verses with me, not

but, instead of the following part of the sentence, “ People will laugh as heartily and marry as fast as they used to do,” he inserts a more solemn idea,

Nor storms nor comets, &c. justly perceiving that the elegiac turn of his epistle would not admit so ludicrous a thought, as it was in its place in Mr. Pope's familiar letter; so that we see, young as he was, he had obtained the art of judiciously selecting, one of the first provinces of good taste.

hartshorn, nor spirit of amber, nor all that furnishes the
closet of an apothecary's widow, should persuade me to
part with them: but, while I write to you, I hear the
bad news of Lady Walpole’s death on Saturday night
last. Forgive me if the thought of what my poor
Horace must feel, on that account, obliges me to have
done in reminding you that I am,

Yours, &c.
London, Aug. 22, 1737.

IX.

MR. GRAY TO MR. WALPOLE.

1

I was hindered in my last, and so could not give you all the trouble I would have done. The description of a road, which your coach wheels have so often honoured, it would be needless to give you ; suffice it that I arrived safe* at my uncle's, who is a great hunter in imagination; his dogs take up every chair in the house, so I am forced to stand at this present writing : and, though the gout forbids him galloping after them in the field, yet he continues still to regale his ears and nose with their comfortable noise and stink. He holds me mighty cheap, I perceive, for walking when I should ride, and reading when I should hunt. My comfort amidst all this is, that I have, at the distance of half a mile, through a green lane, a forest (the vulgar call it a common) all my own, at least as good as so, for I spy no human thing in it but myself. It is a little chaos of mountains and precipices ; mountains, it is true, that do not ascend much above the clouds, nor are the declivities quite so amazing as Dover cliff; but just such hills as people, who love their necks as well as I do, may venture to climb, and craggs that give the eye as much pleasure as if they were more dangerous : both vale and hill are covered with most venerable beeches, and other

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* At Burnham in Buckinghamshire.

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very reverend vegetables, that, like most other ancient
people, are always dreaming out their old stories to the
winds,

And as they bow their hoary tops relate,
In murm'ring sounds, the dark decrees of Fate ;
While visions, as poetic eyes avow,

Cling to each leaf, and swarm on every bough.
At the foot of one of these squats me I (Il penseroso),
and there grow to the trunk for a whole morning. The
timorous hare and sportive squirrel gambol around
me like Adam in Paradise, before he had an Eve; but
I think he did not use to read Virgil, as I commonly
do there. In this situation I often converse with my
Horace, aloud too; that is, talk to you, but I do not
remember that I ever heard you answer me. I beg
pardon for taking all the conversation to myself, but it
is entirely your own fault. We have old Mr. Southern
at a gentleman's house a little way off, who often comes
to see us; he is now seventy-seven years old, * and has
almost wholly lost his memory; but is as agreeable as
an old man can be, at least I persuade myself so when
I look at him, and think of Isabella and Oroonoko. I
shall be in town in about three weeks. Adieu.

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September, 1737.

X. MR. GRAY TO MR. WALPOLE.T
I SYMPATHIZE with you in the sufferings which you
foresee are coming upon you.

We are both at present,
I imagine, in no very agreeable situation; for my part
I am under the misfortune of having nothing to do, but
it is a misfortune which, thank my stars, I can pretty
well bear. You are in a confusion of wine, and roar-

* He lived nine years longer, and died at the great age of eighty-six. Mr. Gray always thought highly of his pathetic powers, at the same time that he blamed his ill taste for mixing them so injudiciously with farce, in order to produce that monstrous species of composition called Tragi-comedy.

† At this time with his father at Houghton. Mr. Gray writes from the same place he did before, from his uncle's house in Buckinghamshire.

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