What tho' no cypress shades, in funeral rows,

No fculptur'd urns, the laft records of Fate, O'er the shrunk terrace wave their baleful boughs, Or breathe in storied emblems of the great;

Yet not with heedless eye will we survey

The scene tho' chang'd, nor negligently tread; These variegated walks, however gáy,

Were once the filent manfions of the dead.

In every fhrub, in every flow'ret's bloom

That paints with different hues yon smiling plain,
Some Hero's ashes issue from the tomb,
And live a vegetative life again.

For matter dies not, as the Sages fay,
But shifts to other forms the pliant mass,
When the free spirit quits its cumb'rous clay,
And fees, beneath, the rolling Planets pass.

Perhaps, my Villiers, for I fing to Thee,
Perhaps, unknowing of the bloom it gives,
In yon fair scyon of Apollo's tree

The facred duft of young Marcellus lives.

Pluck not the leaf-'twere facrilege to wound
Th' ideal memory of so sweet a fhade;
In these fad feats, an early grave he found,

And the first rites to gloomy Dis convey'd.

* He is faid to be the firft person buried in this monument.

Witnefs

Witness † thou Field of Mars, that oft hadft known
His youthful triumphs in the mimic war,
Thou heardst the heart-felt univerfal groan
When o'er thy bofom roll'd the funeral car.

Witness thou Tufcan stream, where oft he glow'd
‡

In fportive strugglings with th' oppofing wave, Faft by the recent tomb thy waters flow'd

While wept the wife, the virtuous, and the brave.

O loft too soon!—yet why lament a fate

By thoufands envied, and by Heaven approv❜d. Rare is the boon to thofe of longer date

To live, to die, admir'd, efteem'd, belov'd.

Weak are our judgments, and our paffions warm,
And flowly dawns the radiant morn of truth,
Our expectations haftily we form,

And much we pardon to ingenuous youth.

Too oft we fatiate on th' applause we pay
To rifing Merit, and refume the Crown;
Full many a blooming genius, fnatch'd away,
Has fallen lamented who had liv'd unknown.

For hard the task, O Villiers, to fustain

Th' important burthen of an early fame; Each added day fome added worth to gain, Prevent each wish, and answer every claim.

+ Quantus ille virum magnum Mavortis ad urbem Campus aget gemitus !

Vel qua, Tyberine, videbis
Funera, cum tumulum præterlabere recentem.

VIRG.

Be thou Marcellus, with a length of days!
But O remember, whatfoe'er thou art,
The most exalted breath of human praise
To please indeed must echo from the heart.

Tho' thou be brave, be virtuous, and be wife,
By all, like him, admir'd, efteem'd, belov'd,
'Tis from within alone true Fame can rife,
The only happy, is the Self-approv'd.

ELE GY

EGY III.

To the Right Honourable

George Simon Harcourt, Vifc. Newnham.

Written at ROME, 1756.

E S, noble Youth, 'tis true; the fofter arts,

YES

The sweetly-founding string, and pencil's pow'r,

Have warm'd to rapture even heroic hearts,

And taught the rude to wonder, and adore.

For Beauty charms us, whether she appears
In blended colours; or to foothing found
Attunes her voice; or fair proportion wears
In yonder fwelling dome's harmonious round.

All, all she charms; but not alike to all

'Tis given to revel in her blissful bower; Coercive ties, and Reason's powerful call

Bid fome but tafte the fweets, which some devour.

When Nature govern'd, and when Man was young,
Perhaps at will th' untutor'd Savage rov'd,
Where waters murmur'd, and where clusters hung
He fed, and flept beneath the shade he lov'd.

But fince the Sage's more fagacious mind,

By Heaven's permiffion, or by Heaven's command,
To polish'd states has focial laws affign'd,
And general good on partial duties plann'd,

Not for ourselves our vagrant steps we bend

As heedlefs Chance, or wanton Choice ordain;
On various stations various tasks attend,
And Men are born to trifle or to reign.

As chaunts the woodman whilft the Dryads weep,
And falling forefts fear th' uplifted blow,
As chaunts the shepherd, while he tends his fheep,
Or weaves to pliant forms the ofier bough,

To me 'tis given, whom Fortune loves to lead
Thro' humbler toils to life's fequester'd bowers,

To me 'tis given to wake th' amufive reed,
And footh with fong the folitary hours.

But

But Thee fuperior foberer toils demand,

Severer paths are thine of patriót fame;

Thy birth, thy friends, thy king, thy native land,
Have given thee honors, and have each their claim.

Then nerve with fortitude thy feeling breast

Each wish to combat, and each pain to bear; Spurn with difdain th' inglorious love of reft, Nor let the fyren Eafe approach thine ear.

Beneath yon cyprefs fhade's eternal green

See proftrate Rome her wond'rous story tell,
Mark how she rofe the world's imperial queen,
And tremble at the prospect how she fell !
Not that my rigid precepts would require
A painful ftrugling with each adverse gale,
Forbid thee liften to th' enchanting Lyre,

Or turn thy fteps from Fancy's flowery vale,

Whate'er of Greece in sculptur'd brass furvives,
Whate'er of Rome in mould'ring arcs remains,
Whate'er of Genius on the canvass lives,

Or flows in polish'd verfe, or airy strains,

Be these thy leisure; to the chosen few,
Who dare excel, thy foft'ring aid afford;

Their arts, their magic powers with honors due

Exalt; but be thyfelf what they record.

VOL. VI.

D

ELEGY