Cheerlefs and cold I feel the genial fun,
From thee while absent 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.
Tranflated, 1729-30.
("Divitias alius fulvo fibi congerat auro.")
ET others heap of wealth a shining store,
And, much poffeffing, labour ftill for more;
Let them, difquieted with dire alarms,
Afpire to win a dangerous fame in arms :
Me tranquil poverty shall lull to rest,
Humbly fecure, and indolently bleft;
Warm'd by the blaze of my own chearful hearth,
I'll waste the wintery hours in focial mirth i
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 gladsome 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 tempestuous waves !
While I, contented with my little store,
In tedious voyage feek no diftant shore;
But, idly lolling on some shady feat,
Near cooling fountains fhun the dog-star's heat :
For what reward fo rich could Fortune give,
That I by abfence should my Delia grieve?
Let Great Meffalla fhine in martial toils,
And grace his palace with triumphal spoils;
Me Beauty holds, in strong though gentle chains,
Far from tumultuous war and dusty plains.
With thee, my love, to pass 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 soft breast might I but lean my head,
How downy should I think the woodland bed!
The wretch, who fleeps not by his fair-one's fide,
Detefts the gilded couch's useless pride,
Nor knows his weary, weeping eyes to clofe,
Though murmuring rills invite him to repose.
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 strive to hold!
Then, Delia, then, thy heart will melt in woe,
Then o'er my breathlefs clay thy tears will flow;
Thy tears will flow, for gentle is thy mind,
Nor doft thou think it weakness to be kind.
But, ah! fair mourner, I conjure thee, fpare
Thy heaving breafts and loofe dishevel'd hair:
Wound not thy form; left on th' Elysian coaft
Thy anguifh fhould disturb my peaceful ghost.
But now nor death nor parting fhould employ
Our sprightly 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 pleasures 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 reft,
II.
Is it, because you fear to share
The ills that Love molest;
The jealous doubt, the tender care,
That rack the amorous breast ?
III.
Alas! by some degree of woe
We
every
bliss inust gain :
The heart can ne'er a transport know,
That never feels a pain.
V E R S E S,
Written at Mr. POPE's Hoase at Twickenham,
which he had lent to Mrs. GREVILLE.
Go
0, Thames, and tell the busy town,
Not all its wealth or pride
Could tempt me from the charms that crown
Thy rural flowery side :
II.
Thy flowery fide, where Pope has plac'd
The Muses' green retreat,
With every smile 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 fhades deplore.
Yet ftill, for beauteous Greville's fake,
The Mufes here remain;
Greville, whofe eyes have power to make
A Pope of every swain.
ONE without hope e'er lov'd the brightest fair: |
But Love can hope, where Reafon would despair.
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, 1 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.
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