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Cheerless and cold I feel the genial sun,
From thee while abfent I in exile rove;
Thy lovely prefence, faireft light, alone
Can warm my heart to gladness and to love.
PARTS OF AN ELEGY OF TIBULLUS.
("Divitias alius fulvo fibi congerat auro.")
ET others heap of wealth a fhining store,
And, much poffeffing, labour still for more;
Let them, difquieted with dire alarms,
Afpire to win a dangerous fame in arms:
Me tranquil poverty fhall lull to rest,
Humbly secure, and indolently bleft;
Warm'd by the blaze of my own chearful hearth,
I'll waste the wintery hours in focial mirth;
In Summer pleas'd attend to harvest toils,
In Autumn prefs the vineyard's purple spoils,
And oft to Delia in my bosom bear
Some kid, or lamb, that wants its mother's care:
With her I'll celebrate each gladfome day,
When fwains their sportive rites to Bacchus pay;
With her new milk on Pales' altar pour,
And deck with ripen'd fruits Pomona's bower.
At night, how foothing would it be to hear,
Safe in her arms, the tempeft howling near;
Or, while the wintery clouds their deluge pour,
Slumber affifted by the beating shower!
Ah! how much happier, than the fool who braves,
In fearch of wealth, the black tempeftuous waves!
While I, contented with my little ftore,
In tedious voyage feek no diftant fhore;
But, idly lolling on fome fhady feat,
Near cooling fountains fhun the dog-star's heat:
For what reward fo rich could Fortune give,
That I by abfence fhould my Delia grieve?
Let Great Meffalla fhine in martial toils,
And grace his palace with triumphal spoils;
Me Beauty holds, in ftrong though gentle chains,
Far from tumultuous war and dusty plains.
With thee, my love, to pafs my tranquil days,
How would I flight Ambition's painful praife!
How would I joy with thee, my love, to yoke
The ox, and feed my folitary flock!
On thy foft breaft might I but lean my head,
How downy fhould I think the woodland bed!
The wretch, who fleeps not by his fair-one's fide,
Detefts the gilded couch's ufelcfs pride,
Nor knows his weary, weeping eyes to clofe,
Though murmuring rills invite him to repofe.
Hard were his heart, who thee, my fair, could leave
For all the honours profperous war can give;
Though through the vanquish`d Eaft he spread his fame,
And Parthian tyrants trembled at his name;
Though, bright in arms, while hofts around him bleed,
With martial pride he preft his foaming fteed.
No pomps like these my humble vows require;
With thee I'll live, and in thy arms expire.
Thee may my closing eyes in death behold!
Thee may my faultering hand yet ftrive to hold!
Then, Delia, then, thy heart will melt in woe,
Then o'er my breathless clay thy tears will flow;
Thy tears will flow, for gentle is thy mind,
Nor doft thou think it weakness to be kind.
But, álr! fair mourner, I conjure thee, spare
Thy heaving breasts and loose dishevel'd hair :
Wound not thy form; left on th' Elysian coaft
Thy anguish should disturb my peaceful ghost.
But now nor death nor parting should employ
Our fprightly thoughts, or damp our bridal joy:
We'll live, my Delia; and from life remove
All care, all business, but delightful Love.
Old age in vain those pieasures would retrieve,
Which youth alone can taste, alone can give;
Then let us fnatch the moment to be bleft,
This hour is Love's-be Fortune's all the rest.
Is it, because you fear to share
The ills that Love moleft;
The jealous doubt, the tender care,
That rack the amorous breaft?
Alas! by fome degree of woe
We every blifs muft gain :
The heart can ne'er a transport know,
That never feels a pain.
VER SE S,
Written at Mr. POPE's Houfe at Twickenham, which he had lent to Mrs. GREVILLE.
O, Thames, and tell the bufy town,
Not all its wealth or pride
Could tempt me from the charms that crown
Thy rural flowery fide :
Thy flowery fide, where Pope has plac'd
The Mufes' green retreat,
With every fmile of Nature grac'd,
With every art complete.
But now, fweet Bard, thy heavenly song
Enchants us here no more;
Their darling glory loft too long
Thy once-lov'd shades deplore.
Yet ftill, for beauteous Greville's fake,
The Mufes here remain;
Greville, whofe eyes have power to make
A Pope of every fwain.
ONE without hope c'er lov'd the brightest fair :
But Love can hope, where Reafon would defpair.
To Mr. WEST, at WICKHAM *. Written in the Year 1740.
FAIR Nature's fweet fimplicity,
With elegance refin'd,
Well in thy feat, my friend, I fee,
But better in thy mind.
To both, from courts and all their state,
Eager I fly, to prove
Joys far above a Courtier's fate,
Tranquillity and Love.
See the Infcriptions in Mr. Weft's Poems.