Too proud with fervile tone to deign address;
Too mean to think that honours are my due,
Yet fhould fome patron yield my stores to blefs,
I fure should deem my boundless thanks were few..
But tell me, thou! that, like a meteor's fire,

Shot'ft blazing forth; disdaining dull degrees ;
Should I to wealth, to fame, to power afpire,
Muft I not pafs more rugged paths than these ?
Muft I not groan beneath a guilty load,

Praise him I scorn, and him I love betray?
Does not felonious envy bar the road?

Or falfehood's treacherous foot befet the way?
Say should I pass through favour's crowded gate,
Muft not fair truth inglorious wait behind?
Whilft I approach the glittering fcenes of state,
My best companion no admittance find?
Nurs'd in the shades by freedom's lenient care,
Shall I the rigid sway of fortune own?
Taught by the voice of pious truth, prepare
To fpurn an altar, and adore a throne?
And when proud fortune's ebbing tide recedes,
And when it leaves me no unshaken friend,
Shall I not weep that e'er I left the meads,

Which oaks embofom, and which hills defend?
Oh! if thefe ills the price of power advance,
Check not my speed where social joys invite!
The troubled vifion caft a mournful glance,
And fighing vanish'd in the shades of night.

ELEGY

He defcribes his early love of poetry, and its confequences. To Mr. GRAVES, 1745.

Written after the death of Mr. P OP E.

A

H me! what envious magic thins fold?

my

What mutter'd spell retards their late increase ?

Such leffening fleeces must the swain behold,

That e'er with Doric pipe effays to please.

I faw my friends in evening circles meet;
I took my vocal reed, and tun'd my lay;
I heard them say my vocal reed was sweet :

Ah fool! to credit what I heard them say!
Ill-fated bard! that feeks his fkill to fhow,

Then courts the judgment of a friendly ear!
Not the poor veteran, that permits his foe

To guide his doubtful step, has more to fear.
Nor could my Graves mistake the critic's laws,

Till pious friendship mark'd the pleasing way:
Welcome fuch error! ever bleft the cause !

Ev'n though it led me boundless leagues astray!
Couldst thou reprove me, when I nurs'd the flame

On liftening Cherwell's ofier banks reclin'd?
While, foe to fortune, unfeduc'd by fame,

I footh'd the bias of a careless mind.

Youth's

Youth's gentle kindred, health and love were met?
What though in Alma's guardian arms I play'd?
How fhall the Mufe thofe vacant hours forget?
Or deem that blifs by folid cares repaid?

Thou know'st how tranfport thrills the tender breast,
Where love and fancy fix their opening reign;
How nature fhines in livelier colours dreft,

To bless their union, and to grace their train. So first when Phoebus met the Cyprian queen, And favour'd Rhodes beheld their paffion crown'd, Unufual flowers enrich'd the painted green; And swift fpontaneous rofes blush'd around. Now fadly lorn, from Twitnam's widow'd bower, The drooping Mufes take their cafual way; And where they stop, a flood of tears they pour And where they weep, no more the fields are gay. Where is the dappled pink, the sprightly rofe? The cowflip's golden cup no more I see : Dark and difcolour'd every flower that blows, To form the garland, Elegy for thee !Enough of tears has wept the virtuous dead;

Ah might we now the pious rage controul; Hufh'd be my grief ere every fmile be fled,

Ere the deep fwelling figh fubvert the foul! If near fome trophy fpring a ftripling bay, Pleas'd we behold the graceful umbrage rife; But foon too deep it works its baneful way, And, low on earth, the proftrate ruin lies.

ELEGY

ELE GY IX.

He defcribes his difinterestedness to a friend.

I

NE'ER must tinge my lip with Celtic wines; The pomp of India must I ne'er display ; Nor boast the produce of Peruvian mines,

Nor, with Italian founds, deceive the day. Down yonder brook my crystal beverage flows;; My grateful sheep their annual fleeces bring; Fair in my garden buds the damask rose,

And, from my grove, I hear the throstle fing. My fellow fwains! avert your dazzled eyes ;

In vain allur'd by glittering spoils they rove, The fates ne'er meant them for the shepherd's prize, Yet gave them ample recompence in love.

They gave you vigour from your parent's veins ;
They gave you toils; but toils your finews brace;
They gave you nymphs, that own their amorous pains,
And shades, the refuge of the gentle race.

To carve your loves, to paint your mutual flames,
See! polish'd fair, the beech's friendly rind!
To fing foft carrols to your lovely danes,

See vocal grots, and echoing vales affign'd! Would't thou, my Strephon, love's delighted flave! Though fure the wreaths of chivalry to share, Forego the ribbon thy Matilda gave,

And, giving, bade thee in remembrance wear?

Ill fare my peace, but every idle toy,
If to my mind my Delia's form it brings,
Has truer worth, imparts fincerer joy,

Than all that bears the radiant ftamp of kings. my foul weeps, my breast with anguish bleeds, When love deplores the tyrant power of gain! Difdaining riches as the futile weeds,

I rife fuperior, and the rich disdain.

Oft from the ftream, flow wandering down the glade, Penfive I hear the nuptial peal rebound; "Some mifer weds, I cry, the captive maid, "And fome fond lover fickens at the found."

Not Somervile, the Mufe's friend of old,

Though now exalted to yon ambient sky, So fhun'd a foul distain'd with earth and gold, So lov'd the pure, the generous breast, as I. Scorn'd be the wretch that quits his genial bowl, His loves, his friendships, ev'n his felf, refigns; Perverts the facred instinct of his foul,

And to a ducate's dirty sphere confines.

But come, my friend, with tafte, with fcience bleft, Ere age impair me, and ere gold allure;

Reftore thy dear idea to my breast,

The rich depofit fhall the fhrine fecure.

Let others toil to gain the fordid ore,

The charms of independence let us fing;
Bleft with thy friendship, can I wish for more?
I'll spurn the boasted wealth of Lydia's king.

ELEGY