The gloom difpels, the charnel fmiles,
Light flashes thro' the vaulted iles.
Blow filky foft, thou western gale,
O goddess of the desart, hail!
She burfts from you cliff-riven cave,
Infulted by the wintry wave;
Her brow an ivy garland binds,
Her treffes wanton with the winds,
A lion's fpoils, without a zone,
Around her limbs are careless thrown;
Her right hand wields a knotted mace,
roll wild, a ftride her pace;
Her left a magic mirror holds,
In which the oft herself beholds.
O goddess of the defart, hail!
And fofter blow, thou western gale!
Since in each fcheme of life I've fail'd,
And disappointment seems entail'd ;
Since all on earth I valued moft,
My guide, my stay, my friend is loft;
You, only you, can make me bleft,
And hufh the tempeft in my breaft. *
Then gently deign to guide my feet
To your hermit-trodden feat,
Where I may live at laft my own,
Where I at last may die unknown.
I spoke, the twin'd her magic ray,
And thus fhe faid, or feem'd to say.
Youth, you're mistaken, if you think to find
In fhades a medicine for a troubled mind;
Wan Grief will haunt you wherefoe'er you go,
Sigh in the breeze, and in the ftreamlet flow,
There pale Inaction pines his life away,
And, fatiate, curfes the return of day:
There naked Frenzy laughing wild with pain,
Or bares the blade, or plunges in the main :
There Superftition broods o'er all her fears,
And yells of dæmons in the Zephyr hears.
But if a hermit you're refolv'd to dwell,
And bid to focial life a last farewell;
'Tis impious.
God never made an independent man,
"Twould jarr the concord of his general plan:
See every part of that ftupendous whole,
"Whose body Nature is, and God the foul;"
To one great end, the general good, conspire,
From matter, brute, to man, to seraph, fire.
Should man thro' Nature folitary roam,
His will his fovereign, every where his home,
What force wou'd guard him from the lion's jaw ?^.
What swiftnefs wing him from the panther's paw?
Or fhould Fate lead him to fome fafer fhore,
Where panthers never prowl, nor lions roar;
Where liberal Nature all her charms beftows,
Suns fhine, birds fing, flowers bloom, and water flows,
Fool, doft thou think he'd revel on the store,
Abfolve the care of Heaven, nor ask for more?
Tho' waters flow'd, flow'rs bloom'd, and Phœbus fhone,
He'd figh, he'd murmur that he was alone.
For know, the Maker on the human breast
A fense of kindred, country, man, imprest;
And focial life to better, aid, adorn,
With proper faculties each mortal's born.
Tho' Nature's works the ruling mind declare,
And well deferve enquiry's ferious care,
The God (whate'er Mifanthrophy may fay)
Shines, beams in man with most unclouded ray.
What boots it thee to fly from pole to pole?
Hang o'er the fun, and with the planets roll?
What boots thro' space's furtheft bourns to roam ?
If thou, O man, a stranger art at home.
Then know thyself, the human mind furvey,
The use, the pleasure will the toil repay.
Hence Inspiration plans his manner'd lays,
Hence Homer's crown, and Shakespear hence thy bays.
Hence he, the pride of Athens and the shame,
The best and wifeft of mankind became.
Nor study only, practise what you know,
Your life, your knowledge, to mankind you owe.
With Plato's olive wreath the bays entwine;
Those who in study, shou'd in practice shine.
Say, does the learned Lord of Hagley's fhade,
Charm man fo much by moffy fountains laid,
As when arouz'd, he stems Corruption's course,
And shakes the fenate with a Tully's force?
When Freedom gafp'd beneath a Cæfar's feet,
Then Publick Virtue might to shades retreat;
But where she breathes, the leaft may useful be,
And Freedom, Britain, ftill belong to thee.
Tho' man's ungrateful, or tho' Fortune frown;
Is the reward of worth a fong, or crown?
Nor yet unrecompens'd are Virtue's pains,
Good Allen lives, and bounteous Brunswick reigns.
On each condition difappointments wait,
Enter the hut, and force the guarded gate.
Nor dare repine, tho' early Friendship bleed,
From love, the world, and all its cares he's freed.
But know, Adverfity's the child of God;
Whom Heaven approves of most, most feel her rod.
When smooth old Ocean and each storm's asleep,
Then Ignorance may plough the watery deep;
But when the dæmons of the tempest rave,
Skill muft conduct the veffel thro' the wave.
Sidney, what good man envies not thy blow?
Who wou'd not wifh b Anytus for a foe?
Intrepid Virtue triumphs over Fate,
The good can never be unfortunate.
And be this maxim graven in thy mind,
The height of virtue is to ferve mankind.
But when old age has filver'd o'er thy head,
When memory fails, and all thy vigour's filed,
One of the accufers of Socrates.
Then may'ft thou feek the ftillness of retreat,
Then hear aloof the human tempest beat,
Then will I greet thee to my woodland cave,
Allay the pangs of age, and fmooth thy grave.
STEPHEN POYNTZ, Efq; &c. &c.
Sir CHARLES HAN. WILLIAMS, Kt. of the Bath.
Senfere quid mens rite, quid indoles
Nutrita fauftis fub penetralibus
Poffet
Doctrina fed vim promovet infitam,
Rectique cultus pectora roborant.
WHILST William's deeds and William's praise
Each English breaft with transport raise,
Each English tongue employ; Say, Poyntz, if thy elated heart Affumes not a fuperior part,
A larger share of joy?
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