For him, alas! who never learn'd the art
To stifle conscience and a throbbing heart;
Who, though too proud to mingle in the fray
Whence truth and virtue bear no palms away,
Yet views with pity folly's bustling scene,
Th' ambitious sick with hope, the rich with spleen,
The great exulting in a joyless prize-
Yea, pities even the fop he must despise ;-
For him what then remains ?—The humble shed,
Th' ennobling converse of the awful dead,
Beauty's pure ray diffused from nature's face,
Fancy's sweet charm, and truth's majestic grace;
Truth, not of hard access, or threat'ning mien,
As by the vain unfeeling wrangler seen,
But bland and gentle as the early ray,
That gilds the wilderness, and lights the way-
The messenger of joy to man below,
Friend of our frailty, solace of our woe.
Thus by Heaven's bounty rich, shall he repine
If others in the toys of fortune shine?
Needs he a title to exalt his race,
Who from th' Eternal his descent can trace?
Or fame's loud trump to stun him to repose,
Whose soul resign'd no guilty tumult knows?
To roam with toil, in restless uproar hurl'd,
One little corner of a little world;
Can this enlarge or dignify the soul,
Whose wing unwearied darts from pole to pole?
Can glowworms glitter on the car of morn,
Or gold the progeny of heaven adorn ?
How long, enamour'd of fictitious joy,
Shall false desire the lavish'd hour employ!
How long with random steps shall mortals roam, Unknown their path, and more unknown their home! Ah! still delusive the vain pleasure flies,
Or, grasp'd, insults our baffled hope, and dies.
Meanwhile, behind, with renovated force,
Care and disgust pursue our slack'ning course,
And shall o'ertake, even in the noon of age,
Long ere the sting of anguish cease to rage,
And long ere death, sole friend of the distress'd,
Dismiss the pilgrim to eternal rest.
Thus, wayward hope still wandering from within,
Lured by the phantoms of th' external scene,
We scorn what Heaven our only bliss design'd,
The humble triumph of a tranquil mind;
And that alone pursue which fortune brings,
Th' applause of multitudes, or smile of kings.
But ah! can these or those afford delight?
Can man be happy in his Maker's spite?
Vain thankless man, averse to nature's sway,
Feels every moment that he must obey.
Close and more closely clasp the stubborn chains,
And each new struggle rouses keener pains.
Thus, stung with appetite, with anguish torn,
Urged by despair, still more and more forlorn,
Till each fantastic hope expire in woe,
And the cold cheerless heart forget to glow,
We perish, muttering this unrighteous strain :
"Joy was not made for man-and life is vain."
Sweet peace of heart, from false desire refined,
That pour'st elysian sunshine on the mind,
Oh, come, bid each tumultuous wish be still,
And bend to nature's law each froward will;
Let hope's wild wing ne'er stoop to fortune's sphere,
For terror, anguish, discontent are there;
But soar with strong and steady flight sublime
Where disappointment never dared to climb.
Oh, come, serenely gay, and with thee bring
The vital breath of heaven's eternal spring-
Th' amusive dream of blameless fancy born,
The calm oblivious night and sprightly morn.
Bring resignation, undebased with fear;
And melancholy, serious, not severe;
And fortitude, by chance nor time controll'd,
Meek with the gentle, with the haughty bold;
Devotion deck'd in smiles of filial love;
And thought, conversing with the worlds above.
So shall my days nor vain nor joyless roll,
Nor with regret survey th' approaching goal;
Too happy, if I gain that noblest prize,
The well-earn'd favour of the good and wise.
TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LADY
CHARLOTTE GORDON,
DRESSED IN A TARTAN SCOTCH BONNET, WITH PLUMES.
WHY, lady, wilt thou bind thy lovely brow
With the dread semblance of that warlike helm, That nodding plume, and wreath of various glow, That graced the chiefs of Scotia's ancient realm ?
Thou know'st that virtue is of power the source,
And all her magic to thine eyes is given ;
We own their empire while we feel their force,
Beaming with the benignity of heaven.
The plumy helmet and the martial mien
Might dignify Minerva's awful charms; But more resistless far th' Idalian queen
Smiles, graces, gentleness, her only arms.
Παρά τήν σκίην βάθυλλε,
Κάθισον.
BATHYLLUS, in yonder lone grove
All carelessly let us recline:
To shade us the branches above
Their leaf-waving tendrils combine;
While a streamlet, inviting repose,
Soft-murmuring wanders away,
And gales warble wild through the boughs,
Who there would not pass the sweet day?
THE BEGINNING OF THE FIRST BOOK OF LUCRETIUS.
"Eneadum genetrix."-v. 1—45.
MOTHER of mighty Rome's imperial line,
Delight of man, and of the powers divine,
Venus, all-bounteous queen! whose genial power
Diffuses beauty in unbounded store
Through seas and fertile plains, and all that lies
Beneath the starr'd expansion of the skies.
Prepared by thee, the embryo springs to day,
And opes its eyelids on the golden ray.
At thy approach the clouds tumultuous fly,
And the hush'd storms in gentle breezes die;
Flowers instantaneous spring; the billows sleep;
A wavy radiance smiles along the deep;
At thy approach, th' untroubled sky refines,
And all serene heaven's lofty concave shines.
Soon as her blooming form the spring reveals,
And zephyr breathes his warm prolific gales,
The feather'd tribes first catch the genial flame,
And to the groves thy glad return proclaim ;
Thence to the beasts the soft infection spreads;
The raging cattle spurn the grassy meads,
Burst o'er the plains, and, frantic, in their course
Cleave the wild torrents with resistless force.
Won by thy charms, thy dictates all obey,
And eager follow where thou lead'st the way.
Whatever haunts the mountains or the main,
The rapid river or the verdant plain,
Or forms its leafy mansion in the shades,
All, all thy universal power pervades—
Each panting bosom melts to soft desires,
And with the love of propagation fires.
And since thy sovereign influence guides the reins
Of nature, and the universe sustains;
Since naught without thee bursts the bonds of night,
To hail the happy realms of heavenly light;
Since love, and joy, and harmony are thine,
Guide me, O goddess, by thy power divine,
And to my rising lays thy succour bring,
While I the universe attempt to sing.
Oh, may my verse deserved applause obtain
Of him for whom I try the daring strain,
My Memmius, him, whom thou, profusely kind,
Adorn'st with every excellence refined.
And that immortal charms my song may grace,
Let war, with all its cruel labours, cease;
Oh, hush the dismal din of arms once more,
And calm the jarring world from shore to shore.
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