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Then the keen anguish from thine eye shall start,
Sad as thou follow'ft my untimely bier;
"Fool that I was-if friends fo foon must part,
"To let fufpicion intermix a fear."

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Declining an invitation to vifit foreign countries, he takes occafion to intimate the advantages of his own.

W

To Lord TEMPLE.

HILE others, loft to friendship, loft to love, Waste their best minutes on a foreign strand, Be mine, with British nymph or fwain to rove, And court the genius of my native land. Deluded youth! that quits these verdant plains, To catch the follies of an alien foil! To win the vice his genuine foul disdains, Return exultant, and import the spoil!

In vain he boasts of his detefted prize;

No more it blooms to British climes convey`d, Cramp'd by the impulfe of ungenial skies,

See its fresh vigour in a moment fade!

Th' exotic folly knows its native clime;
An aukward stranger, if we waft it o'er;
Why then these toils, this coftly waste of time,
To spread foft poison on our happy shore ?

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I covet not the pride of foreign looms;

In fearch of foreign modes I fcorn to rove;
Nor, for the worthless bird of brighter plumes,
Would change the meaneft warbler of my grove.
No diftant clime fhall fervile airs impart,

Or form thefe limbs with pliant ease to play;
Trembling I view the Gaul's illufive art,
That Reals my lov'd rufticity away.

Tis long fince freedom fled th' Hefperian clime;
Her citron groves, her flower-embroider'd shore;
She faw the British oak afpire fublime,

And soft Campania's olive charms no more.
Let partial funs mature the weftern mine,
To fhed its luftre o'er th' Iberian maid;
Mien, beauty, shape, O native soil, are thine;
Thy peerless daughters afk no foreign aid.
Let Ceylon's envy'd plant * perfume the seas,
Till torn to season the Batavian bowl;
Ours is the breast whose genuine ardours please,
Nor need a drug to meliorate the foul.

Let the proud Soldan wound th' Arcadian groves,
Or with rude lips th' Aonian fount profane ;
The Muse no more by flowery Ladon roves,
She feeks her Thomson on the British plain.
Tell not of realms by ruthless war dismay'd;
Ah! hapless realms that war's oppreffion feel!
In vain may Austria boast her Noric blade,

If Auftria bleed beneath her boasted steel.

* The cinnamon.

Beneath

Beneath her palm Idume vents her moan;
Raptur'd fhe once beheld its friendly shade!
And hoary Memphis boafts her tombs alone,
The mournful types of mighty power decay'd!
No crefcent here difplays its baneful horns;

No turban'd hoft the voice of truth reproves; Learning's free fource the fage's breaft adorns, And poets, not inglorious, chaunt their loves. Boaft, favour'd Media, boaft thy flowery ftores ; Thy thoufand hues by chemic funs refin'd; 'Tis not the dress or mien thy foul adores, 'Tis the rich beauties of Britannia's mind. While Grenville's breaft* could virtue's ftores afford, What envy'd flota bore so fair a freight? The mine compar'd in vain its latent hoard, The gem its luftre, and the gold its weight. Thee, Grenville, thee with calmeft courage fraught, Thee the lov'd image of thy native shore ! Thee by the virtues arm'd, the graces taught, When shall we ceafe to boast, or to deplore? Prefumptuous war, which could thy life destroy, What shall it now in recompence decree? While friends that merit every earthly joy, Feel every anguish; feel the lofs of thee! Bid me no more a fervile realm compare, No more the Mufe of partial praife arraign; Britannia fees no foreign breast so fair, And, if the glory, glories not in vain.

D 4

ELEGY Written about the time of Capt. Grenville's dea

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In memory of a private family* in Worcestershire.

F

ROM a lone tower with reverend ivy crown'd, The pealing bell awak'd a tender sigh; Still, as the village caught the waving found,

A fwelling tear diftream'd from every eye. So droop'd, I ween, each Briton's breast of old, When the dull curfew spoke their freedom fled; For, fighing as the mournful accent roll'd,

Our hope, they cry'd, our kind fupport is dead! 'Twas good Palemon-near a shaded pool, A group of ancient elins umbrageous rofe; The flocking rooks, by instinct's native rule, This peaceful fcene, for their asylum, chose. A few small spires to Gothic fancy fair,

Amid the shades emerging, ftruck the view; 'Twas here his youth refpir'd its earliest air;

'Twas here his age breath'd out its last adieu. One favour'd fon engag'd his tendereft care; One pious youth his whole affection crown'd: In his young breaft the virtues fprung so fair, Such charms difplay'd, such sweets diffus'd around. But whilst gay transport in his face appears, A noxious vapour clogs the poifon'd sky; Blafts the fair crop-the fire is drown'd in tears, And, scarce furviving, fees his Cynthio die!

*The Penns of Harborough.

O'er

O'er the pale corse we saw him gently bend; Heart-chill'd with grief-" My thread, he cry'd, is fpun!

If heaven had meant I should my life extend,

Heaven had preferv'd my life's fupport, my fon. Snatch'd in thy prime! alas, the stroke were mild, Had my frail form obey'd the fate's decree! Blet were my lot, O Cynthio! O my child!

Had heaven fo pleas'd, and I had dy'd for thee." Five fleepless nights he stem'd this tide of woes; Five irkfome funs he faw, through tears, forlorn! On his pale corfe the fixth fad morning rofe;

From yonder dome the mournful bier was borne. "Twas on those downs, by Roman hosts annoy'd, Fought our bold fathers; ruftic, unrefin'd! Freedom's plain fons, in martial cares employ'd!

They ting'd their bodies, but unmask'd their mind. 'Twas there, in happier times, this virtuous race, Of milder merit, fix'd their calm retreat;

War's deadly crimson had forfook the place,
And freedom fondly lov'd the chosen feat.
No wild ambition fir'd their tranquil breast,

To fwell with empty founds a spotless name;
If fostering skies, the fun, the shower were bleft,
Their bounty fpread; their fields extent the fame.
Thote fields, profufe of raiment, food, and fire,
They forn'd to leffen, carclefs to extend;

Bade luxury to lavish courts aspire,

And avarice to city-breafts defcend.

None,

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