Ah me! too fwiftly fleets our vernal bloom!

Loft to our wonted friendship, loft to joy! Soon may thy breast the cordial with refume,

Ere wintry doubt its tender warmth destroy. Say, were it ours, by fortune's wild command, By chance to meet beneath the torrid zone ; Would't thou reject thy Damon's plighted hand? Would'st thou with fcorn thy once-lov'd friend dif

own?

Life is that stranger land, that alien clime:
Shall kindred fouls forego their social claim ?
Launch'd in the vast abyss of space and time,
Shall dark fufpicion quench the generous flame?
Myriads of fouls, that knew one parent mold,
See fadly fever'd by the laws of chance!
Myriads, in time's perennial lift enroll'd,
Forbid by fate to change one tranfient glance!
But we have met-where ills of every form,
Where paffions rage, and hurricanes defcend :
Say, shall we nurse the rage, affist the storm ?
And guide them to the bofom-of a friend!
Yes, we have met-through rapine, fraud, and wrong:
Might our joint aid the paths of peace explore!
Why leave thy friend amid the boisterous throng,
Ere death divide us, and we part no more?
For oh! pale ficknefs warns thy friend away;
For me no more the vernal rofes bloom!
I fee ftern fate his ebon wand display;

And point the wither'd regions of the tomb.

Then

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 muft part,
"To let fufpicion intermix a fear."

ELE GY XIV.

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

To Lord TEMPLE.

WHILE others, loft to friendship, loft to love,

Waste their best minutes on a foreign ftrand, 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 difdains, 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 fkies,

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 ?

I covet not the pride of foreign looms;

In fearch of foreign modes I fcorn to rove;
Nor, for the worthlefs 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 eafe to play;
Trembling I view the Gaul's illufive art,
That fteals my lov'd rufticity away.

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

And foft Campania's olive charms no more.
Let partial funs mature the western mine,
To fhed its luftre o'er th' Iberian maid;
Mien, beauty, fhape, O native foil, are thine;
Thy peerlefs daughters afk no foreign aid.
Let Ceylon's envy'd plant perfume the feas,
Till torn to feafon the Batavian bowl;
Ours is the breast whofe 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 Mufe no more by flowery Ladon roves,
She feeks her Thomson on the British plain.
Tell not of realms by ruthlefs war dismay'd;
Ah! hapless realms that war's oppreffion feel!
In vain may Auftria boast her Noric blade,

If Auftria bleed beneath her boafted fteel.

*The cinnamon,

Beneath

Beneath her palm Idume vents her moan;
Raptur'd the once beheld its friendly fhade!
And hoary Memphis boasts her tombs alone,
The mournful types of mighty power decay'd!
No crefcent here displays`its baneful horns ;

No turban'd hoft the voice of truth reproves;
Learning's free fource the fage's breast adorns,
And poets, not inglorious, chaunt their loves.
Boaft, favour'd Media, boaft thy flowery ftores;
Thy thousand 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 anguifh; feel the lofs of thee!
Bid me no more a fervile realm compare,
No more the Mufe of partial praise arraign;
Britannia fees no foreign breast so fair,
And, if the glory, glories not in vain.

Written about the time of Capt. Grenville's death.

ELE GY XV.

In memory of a private family * in Worcestershire.

FROM

a lone tower with reverend ivy crown'd,

The pealing bell awak'd a tender figh;
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 elms umbrageous rofe;
The flocking rooks, by inftinct's native rule,
This peaceful scene, for their afylum, chofe.
A few small spires to Gothic fancy fair,

Amid the fhades 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 tenderest care;
One pious youth his whole affection crown'd:
In his young breast the virtues sprung so fair,
Such charms difplay'd, fuch fweets 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, fcarce furviving, fees his Cynthio die!

The Penns of Harborough.

O'er