O! if the mufe muft flatter lawless fway,
And follow ftill where Fortune leads the way;
Or if no bafis bear my rifing name,
But the fall'n ruins of another's fame;
Then teach me, Heav'n ! to fcorn the guilty bays, Drive from my breaft that wretched thirst of
Unblemish'd let me live, or die unknown,
O grant an honeft fame, or grant me none !
BENEATH fome hoary mountain
I'll lay me down and weep,
Or near fome warbling fountain
Bewail myself asleep;
Where feather'd choirs combining
With gentle murmʼring streams,
And winds in concert joining
Raife fadly-pleafing dreams.
Temperance. The African Prince.
That traverses our vaft Numidian deferts
In quest of prey, and lives upon his bow,
But better practises this boasted virtue.
Coarfe are his meals, the fortune of the chace;
Amidst the running stream he flakes his thirst,
Toils all the day, and, at th' approach of night,
On the first friendly bank he throws him down,
Or refts his head upon a rock till morn:
Then rifes fresh, purfues his wonted game;
And if the following day he chance to find
A new repast, or an untafled fpring,
Bleffes his ftars, and thinks it luxury.'
I've known young Juba rife before the fun,
To beat the thicket where the tiger flept,
Or feek the lion in his dreadful haunts:
How did the colour mount into your cheeks
When first you rous'd him to the chace! I've
feen you
130 Mountains of Ice.-A Storm in a Defert.
Ev'n in the Libyan dog-days hunt him down, Then charge him clofe, provoke him to the rage Of fangs and claws, and, ftooping from your horfe,
Rivet the panting favage to the ground.
MOUNTAINS OF ICE.
ZEMBLA's cold rocks, the beauteous work of froft,
Rife white in hair, and glitter o'er the coast;
Pale funs, unfelt, at diftance roll away,
And on th' impaffive ice the lightnings play;
Eternal fnows the growing mafs supply,
Till the bright mountains prop th' incumbent sky:
As Atlas fix'd, each hoary pile appears,
The gather'd winter of a thoufand years.
A STORM IN A DESERT.
So where our wide Numidian waftes extend, Sudden th' impetuous hurricanes defcend, Wheel through the air, in circling eddies play, Tear up the fands, and fweep whole plains away.
The Goldfinch Starved in his Cage.
The helpless traveller, with wild surprise,
Sees the dry defert all around him rife,
And, fmother'd in the dufty whirlwind, dies.
THE GOLDFINCH STARVED IN HIS CAGE:
TIME was when I was free as air,
The thiftle's downy feed my fare,
My drink the morning dew;
I perch'd at will on ev'ry spray,
My form genteel, my plumage gay,
My ftrains for ever new.
But gaudy plumage, sprightly strain,
And form genteel, were all in vain,
And of a tranfient date;
For, caught and cag'd, and ftarv'd to death,
In dying fighs my little breath
Soon pafs'd the wiry grate.
Thanks, gentle fwain, for all my woes,
And thanks for this effectual clofe
And cure of ev'ry ill!
More cruelty could none exprefs,
And I, if you had shown me less,
Had been your pris'ner ftill.
The Pine-Apple and the Bee.
THE PINE-APPLE AND THE BEE.
THE pine-apples in triple row
Were basking hot, and all in blow;
A bee of moft difcerning tafte
Perceiv'd the fragrance as he pass'd;
On eager wing the spoiler came,
And fearch'd for crannies in the frame,
Urg'd his attempt on ev'ry fide,
To ev'ry pane his trunk applied;
But still in vain-the frame was tight,
And only pervious to the light:
Thus having wasted half his day,
He trimm'd his flight another way.
Our dear delights are often fuch:
Expos'd to view, but not to touch,
The fight our foolish heart inflames,
We long for pine-apples in frames:
With hopeless with one looks and lingers,
One breaks the glass and cuts his fingers;
But those whom truth and wifdom lead,
Can gather honey from a weed.
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