In vain I call th' harmonious Nine,
In vain implore Apollo's aid;
Obdurate, they refuse a line,
While spleen and care my reft invade,
Say, fhall we Morpheus next implore,
if dreams befriend us more?
Wifely at least he'll ftop my pen,
And with his poppies crown my brow
Better by far in lonesome den
To fleep unheard of-than to glow
With treach❜rous wildfire of the brain,
Th' intoxicated poet's bane.
Written at a Ferme Ornee near Birmingham; Auguft 7th, 1749.
IS Nature here bids pleafing scenes arise,
And wifely gives them Cynthio, to revife;
To veil each blemish; brighten every grace;
Yet ftill preserve the lovely Parent's face.
How well the bard obeys, each valley tells; Thefe lucid ftreams, gay meads, and lonely cells si
Where modeft art in filence lurks conceal'd :
While Nature shines, fo gracefully reveal'd,
That fhe triumphant claims the total plan;
And, with fresh pride, adopts the work of man.
The GOLDFINCHES. An Elegy.
-Ingenuas didiciffe fideliter artes
Emollit mores, nec finit effe feros.
O you, whofe groves protect the feather'd quires,
Who lend their artless notes a willing ear,
To you, whom pity moves, and taste inspires,
The Doric ftrain belongs; O Shenftone, hear.
'Twas gentle spring, when all the tuneful race, By nature taught, in nuptial leagues combine: A goldfinch joy'd to meet the warm embrace,
And hearts and fortunes with her mate to join.
Thro' Nature's spacious walks at large they rang'd,
No fettled haunts, no fix'd abode their aim;
As chance or fancy led, their path they chang'd,
Themselves in every vary'd scene, the fame.
'Till on a day to weighty cares refign'd,
With mutual choice, alternate, they agreed,
On rambling thoughts no more to turn their mind,
But fettle foberly, and raise a breed.
All in a garden, on a currant-bush,
With wond'rous art they built their waving seat :
In the next orchat liv'd a friendly thrush,
Nor distant far, a woodlark's soft retreat.
Here bleft with eafe, and in each other bleft,
With early fongs they wak'd the fprightly groves,
"Till time matur'd their blifs, and crown'd their nest
With infant pledges of their faithful loves.
And now what transport glow'd in either's eye!
What equal fondness dealt th' allotted food!
What joy each other's likeness to defcry,
And future fonnets in the chirping brood!
But ah! what earthly happiness can last ?
How does the fairest purpose often fail?
A truant-school-boy's wantonnefs could blaft
Their rifing hopes, and leave them both to wail.
The most ungentle of his tribe was he;
No gen'rous precept ever touch'd his heart:
With concords falfe, and hideous profody
He fcrawl'd his task, and blunder'd o'er his part.
On barb'rous plunder bent, with favage eye
He mark'd where wrapt in down the younglins lay,
Then rushing feiz'd the wretched family,
And bore them in his impious hands away.
But how fhall I relate in numbers rude
The pangs for poor Chryfomitris decreed!
When from a neighb'ring fpray aghaft fhe view'd
The favage ruffian's inauspicious deed!
So wrapt in grief fome heart-ftruck matron ftands,
While horrid flames furround her children's room!
On heav'n fhe calls, and wrings her trembling hands,
Conftrain'd to fee, but not prevent their doom.
"O grief of griefs! with fhrieking voice she cry'd,
"What fight is this that I have liv'd to see?
"O! that I had a maiden-goldfinch died,
"From love's false joys, and bitter forrows free!
"Was it for this, alas! with weary bill,
"Was it for this, I pois'd th' unwieldy ftraw?
"For this I pick'd the mofs from yonder hill?
"Nor fhun'd the pond'rous chat along to draw?
"Was it for this, I cull'd the wool with care;
"And ftrove with all my skill our work to crown?
For this, with pain I bent the stubborn hair;
"And lin'd our cradle with the thiftle's down?
Chryfemitris, it seems, is the name for a goldfinch.
Was it for this my freedom I refign'd;
"And ceas'd to rove from beauteous plain to plain ? "For this I fate at home whole days confin'd,
"And bore the scorching heat, and pealing rain?
"Was it for this, my watchful eyes grow dim?
"The crimson roses on my cheek turn pale?
Pale is my golden plumage, once fo trim;
"And all my wonted spirits 'gin to fail.
O plund❜rer vile! O more than weezel fell!
"More treach'rous than the cat with prudish face!
"More fierce than kites with whom the furies dwell!
"More pilf'ring than the cuckow's prowling race!
"For thee may plumb or goofb'ry never grow,
"No juicy currant cool thy clammy throat:
"But bloody birch-twigs work thee shameful woe,
"Nor ever goldfinch cheer thee with her note."
Thus fang the mournful bird her piteous tale,
The piteous tale her mournful mate return'd:
Then fide by fide they fought the diftant vale,
And there in filent sadness inly mourn'd,
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