But who is he, that, by yon lonely brook,

With woods o'erhung, and precipices rude, Lies all abandon'd; yet, with dauntless look,

Sees ftreaming from his breast the purple flood?

Ah, Brutus ever thine be Virtue's tear!
Lo, his dim eyes to Liberty he turns!
As fcarce fupported on her broken fpear,
O'er her expiring fon the Goddess mourns.

Loose to the wind her azure mantle flies,

From her difhevell'd locks fhe rends the plume; No luftre lightens in her weeping eyes,

And on her tear-ftain'd cheek no rofes bloom.

Meanwhile the world, Ambition, owns thy fway;
Fame's loudest trumpet labours with thy name;

For thee the Mufe awakes her sweetest lay,
And Flatt'ry bids for thee her altars flame.

Nor in life's lofty bustling fphere alone,

The sphere where monarchs and where heroes toil, Sink Virtue's fons beneath Misfortune's frown,

While Guilt's thrill'd bofom leaps at Pleasure's fmile,

Full oft, where Solitude and Silence dwell,
Far, far remote, amid the lowly plain,
Refounds the voice of Woe from Virtue's cell;
Such is man's doom-and Pity weeps in vain.

Still Grief recoils. How vainly have I ftrove
Thy pow'r, O Melancholy, to withstand!
Tir'd, I fubmit; but yet, O yet remove,
Or eafe the preffure of thy heavy hand!

Such, according to Plutarch, was the fcene of Brutus's death.

Yet

Yet for a while let the bewilder'd foul

Find in fociety relief from woe ;

O yield a while to Friendship's foft controul!
Some refpite, Friendship, wilt thou not beftow!

Come, then, Philander, whofe exalted mind

Looks down from far on all that charms the great; For thou canft bear, unfhaken and refign'd,

The brightest fmiles, the blackeft frowns of Fate,

Come thou, whofe love unlimited, fincere,
Nor Faction cools, nor Injury destroys;
Who lend'ft to Mifery's moan a pitying ear,
And feel'ft with extafy another's joys:

Who know'ft man's frailty; with a fav`ring eye,
And melting heart, behold'ft a brother's fall;"
Who, unenflav'd by Fashion's narrow tie,

With manly freedom follow'ft Nature's call.

And bring thy Delia, fweetly-fmiling fair,
Whofe fpotlefs foul no rankling thoughts deform;
Her gentle accents calm each throbbing care,
And harmonize the thunder of the ftorm.

Tho' blefs'd with wifdom, and with wit refin'd,
She courts no homage, nor defires to shine;
In her each fentiment fublime is join'd

To female foftnefs, and a form divine.

Come, and difperfe th' involving fhadows drear;
Let chaften'd Mirth the focial hours employ :
O catch the swift-wing'd moment while 'tis near;
On fwifteft wing the moment flies of joy.

E'en while the carelefs, difencumber'd foul,

Sinks, all diffolving, into Pleasure's dream; E'en then to Time's tremendous verge we roll, With headlong hafte, along Life's furgy stream.

Can Gaiety the vanish'd years restore,

Or on the withering limbs fresh beauty shed; Or foothe the fad inevitable hour,

Or chear the dark, dark manfions of the dead?

Still founds the folemn knell in Fancy's ear,
That call'd Eliza to the filent tomb:

With her how jocund roll'd the sprightly year!
How fhone the nymph in Beauty's brightest bloom!

Ah! Beauty's bloom avails not in the grave,
Youth's lofty mien, nor Age's awful grace :
Moulder, alike unknown, the prince and slave,
Whelm'd in th' enormous wreck of human race,

The thought-fix'd portraiture, the breathing buft,
The arch with proud memorials array'd,
The long-liv'd pyramid, shall sink in duft,
To dumb Oblivion's ever-defart fhade.

Fancy from Joy ftill wanders far aftray;

Ah, Melancholy, how I feel thy pow'r! Long have I labour'd to elude thy fway

But, 'tis enough; for I refist no more.

The traveller thus, that o'er the midnight waste, Thro' many a lonesome path, is doom'd to roam, 'Wilder'd and weary, fits him down at last

For the long night, and diftant far his home.

ELEGY.

ELEG Y.

TO A YOUNG NOBLEMAN LEAVING THE UNIVERSITY.

BY MR. MASON.

E

RE yet, ingenious youth, thy steps retire

From Cam's fmooth margin, and the peaceful vale,

Where Science call'd thee to her studious quire,
And met thee mufing in her cloisters pale;
O! let thy friend (and may he boast the name)
Breathe from his artless reed one parting lay:
A lay like this thy early virtues claim,

And this let voluntary friendship pay.

Yet know, the time arrives, the dang'rous time,
When all those virtues, op'ning now so fair,
Tranfplanted to the world's tempeftuous clime,
Muft learn each paffion's boift'rous breath to bear :
There, if Ambition, peftilent and pale,

Or Luxury, fhould taint their vernal glow;
If cold Self-intereft, with her chilling gale,
Should blaft th' unfolding bloffoms ere they blow;
If mimick hues, by Art or Fashion spread,

Their genuine, fimple colouring, should fupply;
O! with them may these laureate honours fade,
And with them (if it can) my friendship die.
Then do not blame, if, tho' thyself inspire,
Cautious I ftrike the panegyrick ftring;
The Mufe full oft purfues a meteor fire,
And, vainly vent'rous, foars on waxen wing:
Too actively awake at Friendship's voice,
The poet's bofom pours the fervent strain,
Till fad Reflection blames the hafty choice,
And oft invokes Oblivion's aid in vain.

Call

Call we the shade of Pope, from that bless'd bow'r Where thron'd he fits with many a tuneful fage; Afk, if he ne'er bemoans that hapless hour

When St. John's name illumin'd Glory's page ; Afk, if the wretch, who dar'd his memory ftain, Afk, if his country's, his religion's foe, Deferv'd the meed that Marlbro' fail'd to gain,

The deathlefs meed he only could bestow:

The bard will tell thee, the mifguided praise

Clouds the celestial sunshine of his breast ;

E'en now, repentant of his erring lays,

He heaves a figh amid the realms of rest.
If Pope thro' friendship fail'd, indignant view,
Yet pity Dryden; hark, whene'er he fings,
How Adulation drops her courtly dew

On titled rhymers, and inglorious kings.
See, from the depths of his exhaustless mine,

His glitt❜ring stores the tuneful spendthrift throws Where Fear or Intereft bids, behold they shine; Now grace a Cromwell's, now a Charles's brows. Born with too gen'rous, or too mean a heart, Dryden! in vain to thee those stores were lent: Thy sweetest numbers but a trifling art; Thy strongest diction idly eloquent. The fimpleft lyre, if Truth directs it's lays, Warbles a melody ne'er heard from thine : Not to difguft with false or venal praise,

Was Parnell's modeft fame, and may be mine. Go then, my friend, nor let thy candid breast Condemn me, if I check the plausive string : Go to the wayward world; compleat the reft;

Be what the pureft Muse would wish to fing. Be still thyself: that open path of truth, Which led thee here, let manhood firm purfue; Retain the sweet fimplicity of youth,

And all thy virtue dictates, dare to do.