Author of Good! to thee I turn :

Thy ever wakeful eye

Alone can all my wants difcern,
Thy hand alone supply.

O let thy fear within me dwell,
Thy love my footsteps guide;
That love shall vainer loves expel,
That fear all fears befide.

And O! by Error's force fubdu'd,
Since oft my ftubborn will,
Prepoft'rous, fhuns the latent good,
And grafps the fpecious ill;

Not to my wish, but to my want,
Do thou thy gifts apply:

Unafk'd, what good thou knowest grant;
What ill, tho' afk'd, deny."

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,
Whofe vivid colours glitter'd on the eye,

Is faded now, and funk in fhades of night,
As on fome chilly eve the clofing flow'rets die.

*Written when he laboured under a dejection of fpirits.

Yet had I hop'd, when firft, in happier times,
I trod the magick paths where Fancy led,
The Mufe to foster in more friendly climes,
Where never Mis'ry rear'd it's hated head..

How vain the thought! hope after hope expires!
Friend after friend, joy after joy, is loft!
My dearest wishes feed the fun'ral fires,
And life is purchas'd at too dear a cost!

Yet, could my heart the felfish comfort know,
That not alone I murmur and complain,
Well might I find companions in my woe
All born to grief-the family of Pain!

Full well I know, in life's uncertain road,
The thorns of mis'ry are profufely fown;

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,
While still new mis'ries mark their deftin'd way;
Whether to their unhappy lot be giv'n

Death's long fad night, or life's fhort bufy day!

Me

Me not fuch themes delight!—I more rejoice,
When chance fome happier, better change I fee;
Tho' no fuch change await my luckless choice,
And mountains rife between my hopes and me.

For why should he who roves the dreary waste,
Still joy on ev'ry fide to view the gloom?
Or, when upon the couch of fickness plac'd,
Well pleas'd furvey a hapless neighbour's tomb ?

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,
Some tranfient bleffings will that thought beftow;
To Melancholy's felf yield fome relief,

And ease the breaft furcharg'd with mortal woe.

Long has my bark in rudeft tempeft tofs'd,
Buffetted feas, and ftemm'd life's hoftile wave;
Suffice it now, in all my wishes cross'd,
To feek a peaceful harbour in the grave.

And when that hour fhall come, (as come it must,
Ere many moons their waning horns increase!)
When this frail frame fhall mix with kindred duft,
And all it's fond pursuits and troubles ceafe;

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,
And the dull jeft, repeated, charms no more:

Then

Then may my friend weep o'er the fun'ral hearse;
Then may his prefence gild the awful gloom ;
And his laft tribute be fome mournful verse,

To mark the spot that holds my filent tomb!

This, and no more-the reft let Heav'n provide:
To which, refign'd, I truft my weal or woe;
Affur'd, howe'er it's justice shall decide,

To find nought worse than I have left below.

H

ODE TO MELANCHOLY,

BY DR. OGILVIE.

AIL, queen of thought fublime! propitious Pow'r,
Who o'er th' unbounded waste art joy'd to roam
Led by the Moon, when at the midnight hour
Her pale rays tremble thro' the dufky gloom.

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?
Or feek some distant folitary shore ?
Or on the Andes' topmoft mountain plac'd,
Do'ft fit and hear the folemn thunder roar?

Fix'd on fome hanging rock's projected brow,
Hear'st thou low murmurs from the diftant dome?

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,
Where Tadmor ftands all defart and alone!
While from her time-fhook tow'rs, the bird of prey
Sounds thro' the night her long-refounding moan:

Or bear me far to yon bleak dismal plain,
Where fell-ey'd tygers, all athirst for blood,
Howl to the defart-while the horrid train

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;
Full in the draught be keen-ey'd Hope pourtray'd:
Let flutt'ring Cupids croud the growing plan;

Then give one touch, and dash it deep with shade.

Beneath