To former scenes our fancy thus returns, To former scenes that little pleas'd when here! Our Winter chills us, and our Summer burns, Yet we dislike the changes of the year. To happier lands then restless fancy flies, [flow Where INDIAN streams thro' green savannahs Where brighter suns and ever-tranquil skies, Bid new fruits ripen, and new flow'rets blow. Let truth these fairer happier lands survey, And one brown hue the sun-burnt plain deforms. There oft as toiling in the maizy fields, Who dreams of nature free from nature's strife? For me, while Winter rages round the plains, With his dark days I'll human life compare; Not those more fraught with clouds, and winds, and rains, Than this with pining pain and anxious care. O whence this wondrous turn of mind our fate! We ever murmur at our present state; And yet the thought of parting breaks our rest: Why else, when heard in ev'ning's solemn gloom, Does the sad knell that, sounding o'er the plain, Tolls some poor lifeless body to the tomb, Thus thrill my breast with melancholy pain? The voice of reason echoes in my ear, Thus thou ere long must join thy kindred clay ; O Winter, round me spread thy joyless reign, Enough has Heaven indulg'd of joy below, There is, who deems all climes, all seasons fair, There is, who knows no restless passion's strife; Contentment smiling at each idle care; Contentment, thankful for the gift of life; She finds in Winter many a scene to please; gay, The sun at noon seen through the leafless trees, She marks th' advantage storms and clouds bestow, She bids for all our grateful praise arise To him whose mandate spake the world to form; Gave Spring's gay bloom, and Summer's cheerful skies, And Autumn's corn-clad field, and Winter's sounding storm. HYMN, FROM PSALM VIII. ALMIGHTY Pow'r, amazing are thy ways! AN ELEGY, DESCRIBING THE SORROW OF AN INGENUOUS MIND, ON THE MELANCHOLY EVENT OF A LICENTIOUS AMOUR. SHENSTONE. WHY mourns my friend? why weeps his down That cast eye? eye where mirth, where fancy us'd to shine; Thy cheerful meads reprove that swelling sigh; Spring ne'er enamel'd fairer meads than thine. Art thou not lodg'd in fortune's warm embrace ? Wert thou not form'd by nature's partial care? Bless'd in thy song, and bless'd in ev'ry grace That wins the friend, and that enchants the fair? Damon, said he, thy partial praise restrain ; Not Damon's friendship can my peace restore; Alas! his very praise awakes my pain, And my poor wounded bosom bleeds the more. |