"Yet, though averse to gold in heaps amass'd,

I wish to bless, I languish to bestow; And though no friend to Fame's obstreperous blast, Still to her dulcet murmurs not a foe.

'Too proud with servile tone to deign address; Too mean to think that honours are my due; Yet should some patron yield my stores to bless, I sure should deem my boundless thanks were few. 'But tell me, thou! that, like a meteor's fire

Shot'st blazing forth, disdaining dull degrees; Should I to wealth, to fame, to power aspire, Must I not pass more rugged paths than these? * Must I not groan beneath a guilty load, Praise him I scorn, and him I love betray? Does not felonious Envy bar the road?

Or Falsehood's treacherous foot beset the way? "Say, should I pass through Favour's crowded gate, Must not fair Truth inglorious wait behind? Whilst I approach the glittering scenes of state, My best companion no admittance find?

'Nurs❜d in the shades by Freedom's lenient care,
Shall I the rigid sway of Fortune own?
Taught by the voice of pious Truth, prepare
To spurn an altar, and adore a throne?

‘And when proud Fortune's ebbing tide recedes, And when it leaves me no unshaken friend; Shall I not weep that e'er I left the meads,

Which oaks embosom, and which hills defend? "Oh! if these ills the price of power advance, Check not my speed where social joys invite!'The troubled vision cast a mournful glance,

And, sighing, vanish'd in the shades of night.

HE DESCRIBES HIS EARLY LOVE OF POETRY, AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.

АH me! what envious magic thins my fold?
What mutter'd spell retards their late increase?
Such lessening fleeces must the swain behold,
That e'er with doric pipe essays to please.

I saw my friends in evening circles meet;
I took my vocal reed, and tun'd my lay;
I heard them say my vocal reed was sweet:---
Ah, fool! to credit what I heard them say.

Ill-fated bard! that seeks his skill to show,
Then courts the judgment of a friendly ear;
Not the poor veteran, that permits his foe

To guide his doubtful step, has more to fear.
Nor could my G mistake the critic's laws,
Till pious Friendship mark'd the pleasing way:
Welcome such error! ever bless'd the cause!

Ev'n though it led me boundless leagues astray.
Couldst thou reprove me, when I nurs'd the flame,
On listening Cherwell's osier banks reclin'd?
While foe to Fortune, unseduc'd by Fame,
I sooth'd the bias of a careless mind.

Youth's gentle kindred, Health and Love, were met;
What though in Alma's guardian arms I play'd?
How shall the Muse those vacant hours forget?
Or deem that bliss by solid cares repaid?

* Written after the death of Mr. Pope.

Thou know'st how transport thrills the tender breast
Where Love and Fancy fix their opening reign;
How Nature shines, in livelier colours dress'd,
To bless their union, and to grace their train.

So first when Phoebus met the Cyprian queen,
And favour'd Rhodes beheld their passion crown'd,
Unusual flowers enrich'd the painted green,
And swift spontaneous roses blush'd around.

Now sadly lorn, from Twit'nam's widow'd bow'r
The drooping Muses take their casual way,
And where they stop a flood of tears they pour,
And where they weep no more the fields are gay.

Where is the dappled pink, the sprightly rose?
The cowslip's golden cup no more I see:
Dark and discolour'd every flower that blows
To form the garland, Elegy! for thee-

Enough of tears has wept the virtuous dead;

Ah! might we now the pious rage control!
Hush'd be my grief ere every smile be fled,
Ere the deep-swelling sigh subvert the soul!

If near some trophy spring a stripling bay,
Pleas'd we behold the graceful umbrage rise;
But soon, too deep it works its baneful way,
And low on earth the prostrate ruin lies.*

* Alludes to what is reported of the bay-tree, that if it is planted too near the walls of an edifice, its roots will work their way un derneath, till they destroy the foundation,

HE DESCRIBES HIS DISINTERESTEDNESS.

TO A FRIEND.

I NE'ER must tinge my lip with Celtic wines;
The pomp of India must I ne'er display;
Nor boast the produce of Peruvian mines,
Nor with Italian sounds deceive the day.
Down yonder brook my crystal beverage flows;
My grateful sheep their annual fleeces bring;
Fair in my garden buds the damask rose,

And from my grove I hear the throstle sing.
My fellow swains! avert your dazzled eyes;
In vain allur'd by glittering spoils they rove;
The Fates ne'er meant them for the shepherd's prize
Yet gave them ample recompense in love.
They gave you vigour from your parents' veins;
They gave you toils; but toils your sinews brace;
They gave you nymphs that own their amorous pains,
And shades, the refuge of the gentle race.

To carve your loves, to paint your mutual flames, See! polish'd fair, the beech's friendly rind! To sing soft carols to your lovely dames,

See vocal grots, and echoing vales assign'd! Wouldst thou, my Strephon, Love's delighted slave! Though sure the wreaths of chivalry to share, Forego the ribbon thy Matilda gave,

And giving, bade thee in remembrance wear?

Ill fare my peace, but every idle toy,

If to my mind my Delia's form it brings,

Has truer worth, imparts sincerer joy,

Than all that bears the radiant stamp of kings.
VOL. XXIV.
F

O my soul weeps, my breast with anguish bleeds, When Love deplores the tyrant power of Gain! Disdaining riches as the futile weeds,

I rise superior, and the rich disdain.

Oft from the stream slow-wandering down the glade,
Pensive I hear the nuptial peal rebound ;
Some miser weds (I cry) the captive maid,
And some fond lover sickens at the sound.'
Not Somervile, the Muse's friend of old!

Though now exalted to yon ambient sky,
So shun'd a soul distain'd with earth and gold,
So lov'd the pure, the generous breast, as I.
Scorn'd be the wretch that quits his genial bowl,
His loves, his friendships, ev'n his self resigns;
Perverts the sacred instinct of his soul,

And to a ducat's dirty sphere confines.

But come, my Friend! with taste, with science blest, Ere age impair me, and ere gold allure;

Restore thy dear idea to my breast,

The rich deposit shall the shrine secure.

Let others toil to gain the sordid ore,

The charms of independence let us sing; Bless'd with thy friendship, can I wish for more? I'll spurn the boasted wealth of Lydia's king.*

TO FORTUNE,

SUGGESTING HIS MOTIVE FOR REPINING AT HER DIS-
PENSATIONS.

Ask not the cause why this rebellious tongue
Loads with fresh curses thy detested sway;
Ask not, thus branded in my softest song,
Why stands the flatter'd name which all obey?

* Crœsus.