O lov'd Simplicity! be thine the prize!
Assiduous Art, correct her page in vain!
His be the palm, who, guiltless of disguise,
Contemns the power, the dull resource, to feign!
Still may the mourner, lavish of his tears,
For lucre's venal meed invite my scorn!
Still may the bard, dissembling doubts and fears,
For praise, for flattery sighing, sigh forlorn!
Soft as the line of love-sick Hammond flows,
"Twas his fond heart effus'd the melting theme;
Ah! never could Aonia's hill disclose

So fair a fountain, or so lov'd a stream.
Ye loveless bards! intent with artful pains
To form a sigh, or to contrive a tear!
Forego your Pindus, and on- - plains
Survey Camilla's charms, and grow sincere.
But thou, my friend! while in thy youthful soul
Love's gentle tyrant seats his awful throne,
Write from thy bosom-let not Art control
The ready pen that makes his edicts known.
Pleasing when youth is long expir'd, to trace
The forms our pencil or our pen design'd!
'Such was our youthful air, and shape, and face!
Such the soft image of our youthful mind!'
Soft whilst we sleep beneath the rural bow'rs,
The Loves and Graces steal unseen away!
And where the turf diffus'd its pomp of flow'rs,
We wake to wintry scenes of chill decay!

Curse the sad fortune that detains thy fair;

Praise the soft hours that gave thee to her arms; Paint thy proud scorn of every vulgar care,

When hope exalts thee, or when doubt alarms.

Where with none thou hast worn the day,
Near fount or stream, in meditation, rove;
If in the grove Enone lov'd to stray,
The faithful Muse shall meet thee in the grove.

ON POSTHUMOUS REPUTATION.

TO A FRIEND.

O GRIEF of griefs! that Envy's frantic ire
Should rob the living virtue of its praise:
O foolish Muses! that with zeal aspire

To deck the cold insensate shrine with bays:
When the free spirit quits her humble frame,
To tread the skies with radiant garlands crown'd;
Say, will she hear the distant voice of Fame ?
Or, hearing, fancy sweetness in the sound?
Perhaps ev'n Genius pours a slighted lay;
Perhaps ev'n Friendship sheds a fruitless tear;
Ev'n Lyttelton but vainly trims the bay,

And fondly graces Hammond's mournful bier. Though weeping virgins haunt his favour'd urn, Renew their chaplets and repeat their sighs; Though near his tomb Sabæan odours burn, The loitering fragrance will it reach the skies? should his Delia votive wreaths prepare, Delia might place the votive wreaths in vain; Yet the dear hope of Delia's future care

No;

Once crown'd his pleasures and dispell'd his pain. Yes-the fair prospect of surviving praise, Can every sense of present joys excel; For this great Hadrian chose laborious days, Through this, expiring, bade a gay farewell. VOL. XXIV.

E

Shall then our youths, who Fame's bright fabric raise,
To life's precarious date confine their care?
O teach them you, to spread the sacred base,
To plan a work through latest ages fair?
Is it small transport, as with curious eye
You trace the story of each Attic sage,
To think your blooming praise shall time defy?
Shall waft, like odours, through the pleasing page?
To mark the day when, through the bulky tome,
Around your name the varying style refines?
And readers call their lost attention home,

Led by that index where true genius shines?
Ah! let not Britons doubt their social aim,
Whose ardent bosoms catch this ancient fire;
Cold interest melts before the vivid flame,
And patriot ardors but with life expire.

ON THE UNTIMELY DEATH

OF A CERTAIN LEARNED ACQUAINTANCE.

Ir proud Pygmalion quit this cumbrous frame,
Funereal pomp the scanty tear supplies,
Whilst heralds loud, with venal voice, proclaim,
'Lo! here the brave and the puissant lies.'
When humbler Alcon leaves his drooping friends,
Pageant nor plume distinguish Alcon's bier;
The faithful Muse with votive song attends,
And blots the mournful numbers with a tear.

He little knew the sly penurious art,

That odious art which Fortune's favourites know, Form'd to bestow, he felt the warmest heart, But envious Fate forbade him to bestow.

He little knew to ward the secret wound;
He little knew that mortals could ensnare ;
Virtue he knew; the noblest joy he found,

To sing her glories, and to paint her fair! Ill was he skill'd to guide his wandering sheep, And unforeseen disaster thinn'd his fold; Yet at another's loss the swain would weep, And for his friend his very crook was sold. Ye sons of wealth! protect the Muses' train; From winds protect them, and with food supply; Ah! helpless they, to ward the threaten'd pain, The meagre famine, and the wintry sky!

He lov❜d a nymph; amidst his slender store

He dar'd to love; and Cynthia was his theme: He breath'd his plaints along the rocky shore, They only echo'd o'er the winding stream. His nymph was fair! the sweetest bud that blows Revives less lovely from the recent show'r; So Philomel, enamour'd, eyes the rose :

Sweet bird! enamour'd of the sweetest flow'r. He lov'd the Muse; she taught him to complain; He saw his timorous loves on her depend: He lov'd the Muse, although she taught in vain;

He lov'd the Muse, for she was Virtue's friend. She guides the foot that treads on Parian floors; She wins the ear when formal pleas are vain; She temps patricians from the fatal doors

Of Vice's brothel forth to Virtue's fane.

He wish'd for wealth, for much he wish'd to give; He griev'd that virtue might not wealth obtain : Piteous of woes, and hopeless to relieve,

The pensive prospect sadden'd all his train.

I saw him faint! I saw him sink to rest!

Like one ordain'd to swell the vulgar throng; As though the Virtues had not warm'd his breast, As though the Muses not inspir'd his tongue. I saw his bier ignobly cross the plain;

Saw peasant hands the pious rites supply: The generous rustics mourn'd the friendly swain, But Power and Wealth's unvarying cheek was dry!

Such Alcon fell; in meagre want forlorn ;

Where were ye then, ye powerful Patrons! where? Would ye the purple should your limbs adorn, Go wash the conscious blemish with a tear.

OPHELIA'S URN.

TO MR. G.

THROUGH the dim vale of evening's dusky shade,
Near some lone fane, or yew's funereal green,
What dreary forms has magic fear survey'd!
What shrouded spectres Superstition seen!
But you, secure, shall pour your sad complaint,
Nor dread the meagre phantom's wan array;
What none but Fear's officious hand can paint,
What none but Superstition's eye survey.
The glimmering twilight and the doubtful dawn
Shall see your step to these sad scenes return:
Constant, as crystal dews impearl the lawn,

Shall Strephon's tear bedew Ophelia's urn.
Sure nought unhallow'd shall presume to stray
Where sleeps the relics of that virtuous maid
Nor aught unlovely bend its devious way

Where soft Ophelia's dear remains are laid.