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Ho spends his empty hours at play,
Which fly as light as down away.

And there behold a bloomy mead,
A silver stream, a willow shade,
Beneath the shade a fisher stand,
Who, with the angle in his hand,
Swings the nibbling fry to land.

In blushes the descending Sun
Kisses the streams, while slow they run;
And yonder hill remoter grows,
Or dusky clouds do interpose.
The fields are left, the labouring hind
His weary oxen does unbind;
And vocal mountains, as they low,
Re-echo to the vales below;
The jocund shepherds piping come,
And drive the herd before them home;
And now begin to light their fires,
Which send up smoke in curling spires :
Wnile with light heart all homeward tend,
To Abergasney I descend.

But, oh! how bless'd would be the day,
Did I with Clio pace my way,
And not alone and solitary stray!

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THE INQUIRY.
Ye poor little sheep, ah! well may ye stray,
While sad is your shepherd, and Clio away!
Tell where have

you

been, have
On the mountain, or valley, or meadow, or grove?
Alas-aday, no-Ye are stray'd, and half dead;
Ye saw not my love, or ye all had been fed.

1' Abergisney:' the name of a seat belonging to the author's brother.

you met with

my love, Oh, Sun, did you see her?-ah! surely you did: 7 'Mong what willows, or woodbines, or reeds, is she hid? Ye tall whistling pines, that on yonder hill grow, And o'erlook the beautiful valley below, Did you see her a-roving in wood or in brake? Or bathing her fair limbs in some silent lake?

Ye mountains, that look on the vigorous East, And the North, and the South, and the wearisome

West, Pray tell where she hides her—you surely do knowAnd let not her lover pine after her so.

Oh, had I the wings of an eagle, I'd fly Along with bright Phoebus all over the sky; Like an eagle look down, with my wings wide dis

play'd, And dart in my eyes at each whispering shade: I'd search every tuft in my diligent tour, I'd unravel the woodbines, and look in each bower, Till I found out my Clio, and ended my pain, And made myself quiet, and happy again.

20

TO AARON HILL, ESQ.

ON HIS POEM CALLED GIDEON. [Those lines in this poem marked with inverted commas are taken out of

the poem called Gideon.]
TELL me, wondrous friend, where were you

When Gideon was your lofty song!
Where did the heavenly spirit bear you,
When
your

fair soul reflected strong
Gideon's actions, as they shined

Bright in the chambers of your mind! Say, have you trod Arabia's spicy vales,

Or gathered bays beside Euphrates' stream,

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Or lonely sung with Jordan's water-falls,

While heavenly Gideon was your sacred theme? Or have you many ages given

To close retirement and to books! And held a long discourse with Heaven,

And noticed Nature in her various looks! Full of inspiring wonder and delight,

Slow read I Gideon with a greedy eye, Like a pleased traveller that lingers sweet

On some fair and lofty plain

Where the sun does brightly shine, And glorious prospects all around him lie. On Gideon's pages beautifully shine,

Surprising pictures rising to my sight, With all the life of colours and of line,

And all the force of rounding shade and light,

And all the grace of something more divine! High on a hill, beneath an oak’s broad arm,

I see a youth divinely fair, • Pensive he leans his head on his left hand;

His smiling eye sheds sweetness mixed with awe, His right hand, with a milk-white wand, some figure

seems to draw! A nameless grace is scatter'd through his air, And o'er his shoulders loosely flows his amber-colour'd

hair!'
Above, with burning blush the morning glows,
The waking world all fair before him lies;

Slow from the plain the melting dews,
To kiss the sunbeams, climbing, rise,' &c.
Methinks the grove of Baal I see,

In terraced stages mount up high,
And wave its sable beauties in the sky.

TB * From stage to stage, broad steps of half-hid stone

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With curling moss and blady grass o'ergrown,
Lead awful

Down in a dungeon deep,
Where through thick walls, oblique the broken light
From narrow loopholes quivers to the sight,

With swift and furious stride,
Close-folded arms, and short and sudden starts.
The fretful prince, in dumb and sullen pride,
Revolves escape
Here in red colours glowing bold

A warlike figure strikes my eye!
The dreadful sudden sight his foes behold
Confounded so, they lose the power to fly;
• Backening they gaze at distance on his face,
Admire his posture, and confess his grace;
His right hand grasps his planted spear,' &c.
Alas! my Muse, through much good-will

, you err: And we the mighty author greatly wrong;

To gather beauties here and there,

As but a scatter'd few there were, While every word 's a beauty in his song!

60

TO MR SAVAGE,

SON OF THE LATE EARL RIVERS.

Sink not, my friend, beneath misfortune's weight,
Pleased to be found intrinsically great.
Shame on the dull, who think the soul looks less,
Because the body wants a glittering dress.
It is the mind's for ever bright attire,
The mind's embroidery, that the wise admire!
That which looks rich to the gross vulgar eyes
Is the fop's tinsel which the grave despise.

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Wealth dims the eyes of crowds, and while they gaze,

9 The coxcomb's ne'er discovered in the blaze! As few the vices of the wealthy see, So virtues are concealed by poverty. Earl Rivers!

In that name how wouldst thou
shine!
Thy verse how sweet! thy fancy how divine!
Critics and bards would, by their worth, be awed,
And all would think it merit to applaud.
But thou hast naught to please the vulgar eye,
No title hast, nor what might titles buy.
Thou wilt small praise, but much ill-nature find,
Clear to thy errors, to thy beauties blind;
And if, though few, they any faults can see,
How meanly bitter will cold censure be!
But, since we all, the wisest of us, err,
Sure'tis the greatest fault to be severe.

A few, however, yet expect to find,
Among the misty millions of mankind,
Who proudly stoop to aid an injured cause,
And o'er the sneer of coxcombs force applause,
Who, with felt pleasure, see fair Virtue rise,
And lift her upwards to the beck’ning prize!
Or mark her labouring in the modest breast,
And honour her the more, the more depress’d.

Thee, Savage, these (the justly great) admire,
Thee, quickening judgment's phlegm with fancy's fire!
Thee, slow to censure, earnest to commend,
An able critic, but a willing friend.

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