ELEGY VIII.

He describes his early love of poetry, and its confequences. To Mr. G. * 1745.

A

H me! what envious magic thins my fold? What mutter'd spell retards their late increase? Such lefs'ning fleeces must the swain behold,

That e'er with Doric pipe effays to please.

I faw my friends in ev'ning circles meet;
I took my vocal reed, and tun'd my lay;
I heard them fay my vocal reed was sweet:

Ah fool! to credit what I heard them say!

Ill-fated bard! that feeks his skill to fhow,

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 cou'd my G

mistake the critic's laws, 'Till pious friendship mark'd the pleafing way: Welcome fuch error! ever bleft the cause! Ev'n tho' it led me boundless leagues aftray!

* N. B. Written after the death of Mr. PoP E.

Coulda

Couldst thou reprove me, when I nurs'd the flame
On lift'ning CHERWELL'S ofier banks reclin'd?
While foe to fortune, unfeduc'd by fame,

I footh'd the bias of a careless mind.

Youth's gentle kindred, health and love were met;
What tho' in ALMA's guardian arms I play'd?
How shall the muse those vacant hours forget?
Or deem that blifs by folid cares repaid?

Thou know'ft how transport thrills the tender breast,
Where love and fancy fix their op'ning reign;
How nature shines in livelier colours drest,

To bless their union, and to grace their train.

So first when PHOEBUS met the Cyprian queen,
And favour'd RHODES beheld their paffion crown'd,
Unusual flow'rs enrich'd the painted green;

And swift spontaneous roses blush'd around.

Now fadly lorn, from TWITNAM'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 rofe?
The cowflip's golden cup no more I see :
Dark and difcolour'd ev'ry flow'r that blows,
To form the garland, Elegy! for thee!-

Enough

Enough of tears has wept the virtuous dead;
Ah might we now the pious rage controul;
Hush'd be my grief ere ev'ry fmile be fled,

Ere the deep fwelling figh fubvert the foul!

If near fome trophy fpring a ftrippling bay,
Pleas'd we behold the graceful umbrage rife ;
But foon too deep it works its baneful way,
And, low on earth, the proftrate* ruin lies.

ELEGY IX.

He defcribes his difintereftedness to a friend.

I

NE'ER muft tinge my lip with Celtic wines S

The pomp of INDIA muft I ne'er display;

Nor boast the produce of Peruvian mines,
Nor, with Italian founds, deceive the day.

Down yonder brook my crystal bev'rage flows;
My grateful sheep their annual fleeces bring;
Fair in my garden buds the damask rose,

And, from my grove, I hear the throftle fing.

My

* 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,

My fellow fwains! avert your dazled eyes;
In vain allur'd by glitt'ring spoils they rove;
The fates ne'er meant them for the shepherd's prize,
Yet gave them ample recompence, in love.

They gave you vigour from your parent's veins;
They gave you toils; but toils your finews 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! polifh'd fair, the beech's friendly rind !
To fing foft carrols to your lovely dames,
See vocal grotts, and echoing vales affign'd!

Would't thou, my STREPHON, love's delighted flave!
Tho' fure the wreaths of chivalry to share,
Forego the ribbon thy MATILDA gave?

And giving, bade thee in remembrance wear.

Ill fare my peace, but ev'ry idle toy,

Ifto my mind my DELIA's form it brings, Has truer worth, imparts fincerer joy,

Than all that bears the radiant ftamp of kings.

O my foul weeps, my breast with anguish bleeds,
When love deplores the tyrant pow'r of gain!
Difdaining riches as the futile weeds,

I rife fuperior, and the rich difdain.

Oft from the stream, flow-wandering down the glade, Penfive I hear the nuptial peal rebound; "Some mifer weds, I cry, the captive maid, "And fome fond lover fickens at the found."

Not SOMERVILLE, the mufe's friend of old,
Tho' now exalted to yon ambient sky,
So fhun'd a foul diftain'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, refigns;
Perverts the facred instinct of his foul,

And to a ducate's dirty sphere confines.

But come, my friend, with tafte, with science bleft,
Ere age impair me, and ere gold allure;

Reftore thy dear idea to my breast,

The rich depofit shall the shrine fecure.

Let others toil to gain the fordid ore,

The charms of independence let us fing;

Bleft with thy friendship, can I wish for more?
I'll spurn the boafted wealth of * LYDIA's king.

ELEGY

* Crœfus,

VOL. I.

D