Author of Good! to thee I turn : Thy ever wakeful eye Alone can all my wants difcern, O let thy fear within me dwell, And O! by Error's force fubdu'd, Not to my wish, but to my want, Unafk'd, what good thou knowest grant; AN ELEGIACK EPISTLE TO A FRIEND. BY MR. GAY*. RIEND of my youth, fhedd'ft thou the pitying tear FRIE O'er the fad reliques of my happier days? Of nature tender, as of foul fincere, Pour'st thou for me the melancholy lays? Oh, truly faid!-the diftant landscape bright, Is faded now, and funk in fhades of night, *Written when he laboured under a dejection of fpirits. Yet had I hop'd, when firft, in happier times, How vain the thought! hope after hope expires! Yet, could my heart the felfish comfort know, Full well I know, in life's uncertain road, Full well I know, in this low vile abode, Beneath the chaft'ning rod what numbers groan, Born to a happier ftate, how many pine Beneath th' oppreffor's pow'r-or feel the smart Of bitter want-or foreign evils join To the fad fymptoms of a broken heart! How many, fated from their birth to view Misfortunes growing with their rip'ning years, The fame fad track, thro' various fcenes, pursue, Still journeying onward thro' a vale of tears. To them, alas! what boots the light of heav'n, Death's long fad night, or life's fhort bufy day! Me Me not fuch themes delight!—I more rejoice, For why should he who roves the dreary waste, If e'er a gleam of comfort glads my foul, If e'er my brow to wonted fmiles unbends; 'Tis when the fleeting minutes, as they roll, Can add one gleam of pleasure to my friends! E'en in these shades, the laft retreat of grief, And ease the breaft furcharg'd with mortal woe. Long has my bark in rudeft tempeft tofs'd, And when that hour fhall come, (as come it must, When those black gates that ever open stand, Receive me on th' irremeable fhore; When life's frail glass has run it's latest sand, Then Then may my friend weep o'er the fun'ral hearse; To mark the spot that holds my filent tomb! This, and no more-the reft let Heav'n provide: To find nought worse than I have left below. H ODE TO MELANCHOLY, BY DR. OGILVIE. AIL, queen of thought fublime! propitious Pow'r, O bear me, goddefs, to thy peaceful feat! Whether to Hecla's cloud-wrapt brow convey'd, Or lodg'd where mountains screen thy deep retreat, Or wand'ring wild thro' Chili's boundless shade, Say, rove thy steps o'er Libia's naked waste? Fix'd on fome hanging rock's projected brow, Or tray thy feet where pale dejected Woe Pours her long wail from fome lamented tomb ? Hark! Hark! yon deep echo ftrikes the trembling ear! See Night's dun curtain wraps the darksome pole! O'er heav'n's blue arch yon rolling worlds appear, And rouze to folemn thought th' aspiring foul. O lead my steps beneath the moon's dim ray, Or bear me far to yon bleak dismal plain, Roams o'er the wild where once great Babel stood : That queen of nations! whofe fuperior call Rouz'd the broad east, and bid her arms destroy ! When warm'd to mirth-let Judgment mark her fall, And deep Reflection dash the lip of Joy. Short is Ambition's gay, deceitful dream; Though wreaths of blooming laurel bind her brow, Calm Thought difpels the vifionary scheme, And Time's cold breath diffolves the with'ring bough. Slow as fome miner faps th' afpiring tow'r, When working secret with destructive aim: Unfeen, unheard, thus moves the ftealing hour, But works the fall of empire, pomp, and name. Then let thy pencil mark the traits of man; Then give one touch, and dash it deep with shade. Beneath |