But foon, too foon, in fancy's timid eyes,

5

Wild waves shall roll, and conflagrations spread; While bright in arms, and of gigantic fize,

The fear-form'd robber haunts the thorny bed.

Let me, in dreadless poverty retir'd,

The real joys of life, unenvied, share: Favour'd by love, and by the muse infpir'd,

I'll yield to wealth its jealousy and care.

10

On rifing ground, the profpect to command, Unting'd with fmoak, where vernal breezes blow,

In rural neatness let my cottage stand;

Here wave a wood, and there a river flow.

Oft from the neighb'ring hills and pastures round,
Let sheep with tender bleat falute my ear;
Nor fox infidious haunt the guiltless ground,

Nor man pursue the trade of murder near:

Far hence, kind heav'n! expel the favage train,

Inur'd to blood, and eager to destroy;

Who pointed steel with recent flaughter stain, And place in groans and death their cruel joy.

K

15

20

Ye

Ye pow'rs of focial life and tender fong!
Το you devoted shall my fields remain;
Here undisturb'd the peaceful day prolong,
Nor own a smart but love's delightful pain.

25

For you, my trees fhall wave their leafy fhade;
For you, my gardens tinge the lenient air; 30
For you,
be autumn's blushing gifts difplay'd,
And all that nature yields of sweet or fair.

But, O! if plaints, which love and grief inspire,
In heav'nly breasts could e'er compaffion find,
Grant me, ah! grant my heart's fupreme defire, 35
And teach my dear URANIA to be kind.

For her, black fadness clouds my brightest day;
For her, in tears the midnight vigils roll;
For her, cold horrors melt my pow'rs away,

And chill the living vigour of my

foul.

Beneath her scorn each youthful ardor dies,
Its joys, its wishes, and its hopes, expire;

In vain the fields of fcience tempt my eyes;

In vain for me the mufes ftring the lyre.

40

O! let

O! let her oft my humble dwelling grace,

Humble no more, if there fhe deign to shine; For heav'n, unlimited by time or place,

45

Stills waits on god-like worth and charms divine.

Amid the cooling fragrance of the morn,

How sweet with her thro' lonely fields to stray! 50 Her charms the lovelieft landskip shall adorn, And add new glories to the rifing day.

With her, all nature shines in heighten'd bloom;
The filver stream in fweeter mufic flows;
Odours more rich the fanning gales perfume; 55
And deeper tinctures paint the spreading rose.

With her, the shades of night their horrors lofe,
Its deepest filence charms if the be by;

Her voice the mufic of the dawn renews,

Its lambent radiance fparkles in her eye.

How sweet, with her, in wisdom's calm recess,

To brighten foft defire with wit refin'd! Kind nature's laws with facred ASHLEY trace, And view the faireft features of the mind!

бо

Or borne on MILTON's flight, as heav'n fublime, 65

View its full blaze in open profpect glow; Bless the first pair in Eden's happy clime,

Or drop the human tear for endless woe.

And when, in virtue and in peace grown old,
No arts the languid lamp of life restore; 70
Her let me grafp with hands convuls'd and cold,
Till ev'ry nerve relax'd can hold no more :

Long, long on her my dying eyes fuspend,
Till the last beam shall vibrate on my fight;
Then foar where only greater joys attend,

And bear her image to eternal light.

Fond man, ah! whither would thy fancy rove? "Tis thine to languish in unpitied smart ;

Tis thine, alas! eternal fcorn to prove,

75

Nor feel one gleam of comfort warm thy heart. 80

But, if my fair this cruel law impose,

Pleas'd, to her will I all my foul resign; To walk beneath the burden of my woes, Or fink in death, nor at my fate repine.

Yet

Yet when, with woes unmingled and fincere,

To earth's cold womb in filence I defcend; Let her, to grace my obfequies, appear,

85

And with the weeping throng her forrows blend.

Ah! no; be all her hours with pleasure crown'd,

.

And all her foul from ev'ry anguish free:

Should my fad fate that gentle bofom wound,
The joys of heav'n would be no joys to me,

90

***************

On the DEATH of Mr. POPE:

An E LE GY.

Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung ;
Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue :
Ev'n he, whofe foul now melts in mournful lays,
Shall fhortly want the gen'rous tear he pays,
POPE'S Unfortunate Lady.

HILE yet I fcarce awake from dumb
furprize,

WH

And tepid ftreams profufely bathe my eyes;
While foul-diffolving fighs my bosom strain,
And all my being finks opprefs'd with pain;