By force almighty, streams were taught to flow In narrower channels, and once more relieve
Avonia, hear'st thou, from the neighb'ring stream So call'd; or Bristoduna; or the sound Well known, Vincentia? Sithence from thy rock The thirsty hind, and wash the fruitful vale. The hermit pour'd his orisons of old,
And, dying, to thy fount bequeath'd his name. Whate'er thy title, thee the azure god Of ocean erst beheld, and to the shore Fast flew his pearly car; th' obsequious winds Drop'd their light pinions, and no sounds were heard In earth, air, sea, but murmuring sighs of love. He left thee then; yet not, penurious, left Without a boon the violated maid;
But, grateful to thy worth, with bounteous hand Gave thee to pour the salutary rill, And pay this precious tribute to the main. And still he visits 2, faithful to his flame, Thy moist abode, and each returning tide Mingles his wave with thine; hence brackish oft And foul, we fly th' adulterated draught
And scorn the proffer'd bev'rage; thoughtless we, That then thy Naiads hymeneals chant, And rocks re-echo to the Triton's shell.
What shrieks, what groans, torment the lab'ring And pierce the astonish'd hearer? ah, behold [air, Yon agonizing wretch, that pants and writhes, Rack'd with the stone, and calls on thee for ease! Nor calls he long in vain; the balmy draught Has done its office, and resign'd and calm The poor pale sufferer sinks to sweet repose. O could thy lenient wave thus charm to peace That fiercer fiend, Ill-nature; Argus-like, Whose eyes still open watch th' unwary steps Which tread thy margin, and whose subtle brain To real mischief turns ideal ills!
But not thy stream nectareous, nor the smiles Of rosy-dimpled innocence, can charm [damps, That monster's rage: dark, dark as midnight And ten times deadlier, steal along unseen Her blasting venom, and devours at once Fair virtue's growth, and beauty's blooming spring. But turn we from the sight, and dive beneath
Love warm'd thy breast; to love thy waters pay Thy darksome caverns; or unwearied climb
A kind regard: and thence the pallid maid, Who pines in fancy for some fav'rite youth, Drinks in new lustre, and with surer aim Darts more enliven'd glances. Thence the boy, Who mourns in secret the polluted charms Of Lais or Corinna, grateful feels
Health's warm return, and pants for purer joys.
Nor youth alone thy power indulgent owns ; Age shares thy blessings, and the tott'ring frame By thee supported: not, Tithonus-like, To linger in decay, and daily feel
A death in every pain; such cruel aids, Unknown to Nature, art alone can lend : But, taught by thee, life's latter fruits enjoy A warmer winter, and at last fall off, Shook by no boist'rous, or untimely blasts.
But why on single objects dwell my song? Wide as the neighb'ring sons of commerce waft Their unexhausted stores, to every clime On every wind up-born thy triumphs spread! Thee the glad merchant hails, whom choice or fate Leads to some distant home, where Sirius reigns, And the blood boils with many a fell disease Which Albion knows not. Thee the sable wretch, To ease whose burning entrails swells in vain The citron's dewy moisture, thee he hails; And oft from some steep cliff at early dawn In seas, in winds, or the vast void of Heaven Thy power unknown adores; or ranks, perhaps, Amid his fabled gods Avonia's name.
Scar'd at thy presence start the train of Death, And hide their whips and scorpions. Thee confus'd Slow Febris creeps from; thee the meagre fiend Consumption flies, and checks his rattling coughs. But chief the dread disease, whose wat'ry power, Curb'd by thy wave restringent, knows its bounds, And feels a firmer barrier. Ocean thus Once flow'd, they say, impetuous; 'till, restrain'd
The spring at Bristol is usually called St. Vincent's Well, and the rocks near it St. Vincent's Rocks, on a fabulous tradition that that saint resided there.
2 The high tides in the Avon generally foul the spring in such a manner as to make the waters improper to be drank till some hours afterward.
Thy tow'ring mountains, studious to explore The latent seeds and magazines of health. "Ye rocks that round me rise, ye pendant woods High waving to the breeze, ye gliding streams That steal in silence thro' the mossy clefts Unnumber'd, tell me in what secret vale Hygenia shuns the day ?-O, often seen In dreams poetic, pour thy radiant form Full on my sight, and bless my waking sense!- But not to me such visions, not to me; No son of Pæon I, like that sweet bard [Muse 4 Who sung her charms profest 3; or him, whose Now builds the lofty rhyme, and nobly wild Crops each unfading flower from Pindar's brow, To form fresh garlands from the Naiad train. Yet will I view her still, however coy, In dreams poetic; see her to the sound Of dulcet symphonies harmonious lead Her sportive sister-graces, Mirth serene, And Peace, sweet inmate of the sylvan shade.
These are thy handmaids, goddess of the fount, And these thy offspring. Oft have I beheld Their airy revels on the verdant steep Of Avon, clear as fancy's eye could paint. What time the dewy star of eve invites To lonely musing, by the wave-worn beach, Along the extended mead. Nor less intent Their fairy forms I view, when from the height Of Clifton, tow'ring mount, th' enraptur'd eye Beholds the cultivated prospect rise
Hill above hill, with many a verdant bound Of hedge-row chequer'd. Now on painted clouds Sportive they roll, or down yon winding stream Give their light mantles to the wafting wind, And join the sea-green sisters of the flood.
Happy the man whom these amusive walks, These waking dreams delight! no cares molest His vacant bosom: Solitude itself But opens to his keener view new worlds,
3 Dr. Armstrong, author of that elegant didactic poem, called The Art of preserving Health.
4 Alluding to a manuscript poem of Dr. Akenside's (since published) written in the spirit and manner of the ancients, called, An Hymn to the Water Nymphs.
Worlds of his own: from every genuine scene Of Nature's varying hand his active mind Takes fire at once, and his full soul o'erflows With Heaven's own bounteous joy; he too creates, And with new beings peoples earth and air, And ocean's deep domain. The bards of old, The godlike Grecian bards, from such fair founts Drank inspiration. Hence on airy clifts Light satyrs danc'd, along the woodland shade Pan's mystic pipe resounded, and each rill Confess'd its tutelary power, like thine.
But not like thine, bright deity, their urns Pour'd health's rare treasures; on their grassy sides The panting swain reclin'd with his tir'd flock At sultry noon-tide, or at evening led His unyok'd heifers to the common stream.
See in what myriads to her watry shrine. The various votaries press! they drink, they live! Not more exulting crowds in the full height Of Roman luxury proud Baiæ knew; Ere Musa's fatal skill 9, fatal to Rome, Defam'd the tepid wave. Nor round thy shades, Clitumnus 10, more recording trophies hang.
O for a Shakspeare's pencil, while I trace In Nature's breathing paint, the dreary waste Of Buxton, dropping with incessant rains Cold and ungenial; or its sweet reverse Romantic foliage hangs, and rills descend, Enchanting Matlock, from whose rocks like thine And echoes murmur. Derwent, as he pours His oft obstructed stream down rough cascades And broken precipices, views with awe,
Yet some there have been, and there are, like With rapture, the fair scene his waters form.
Profuse of liquid balm; from the fair train Of eldest Tadmor 5, where the sapient king
For the faint traveller, and diseas'd, confin'd To salutary baths the fugitive stream.
Nor yet has Nature to one spot confin'd Her frugal blessings. Many a different site And different air, to suit man's varying frame The same relief extends. Thus Cheltenham sinks Rural and calm amid the flowery vale,
And still, though now perhaps their power unknown, Pleas'd with its pastoral scenes; while Scarbrough Unsought, the solitary waters creep
Amid Palmyra's ruin, and bewail
To rocks, and desert caves, the mighty loss Of two imperial cities! so may sink Yon cloud-envelop'd tow'rs; and times to come Inquire where Avon flow'd, and the proud mart Of Bristol rose. Nay, Severn's self may fail, With all that waste of waters: and the swain From the tall summit (whence we now survey The anchoring bark, and see with every tide Pass and repass the wealth of either world) May hail the softer scene where groves aspire, And bosom'd villages, and golden fields Unite the Cambrian to the English shore. Why should I mention many a fabled fount By bards recorded, or historians old; Whether they water'd Asia's fertile plains With soft Callirrhoë 7; or to letter'd Greece Or warlike Latium lent their kindly aid? Nor ye of modern fame, whose rills descend From Alps to Appennines, or grateful lave Germania's harass'd realms, expect my verse Shall chant your praise, and dwell on foreign
When chief o'er Albion have the healing powers Shed wide their influence: from a thousand rocks Health gushes, through a thousand vales it flows Spontaneous. Scarce can luxury produce More pale diseases than her streams relieve.
Witness, Avonia, the unnumber'd tongues Which hail thy sister's name! on the same banks Your fountains rise, to the same stream they flow.
✔ Tadmor in the wilderness, built by king Solomon, celebrated for its baths.
6 Palmyra is generally allowed to have stood on the same spot of ground as Tadmor. See the Universal History, vol. ii. 8vo. edit. where is a print representing the ruins of that city.
7 A fountain in Judea beyond Jordan, which empties itself in the lake Asphaltes. Its waters were not only medicinal, but remarkably soft and agreeable to the taste. Herod the Great made use of them in his last dreadful distemper. Josephus, 1, xvii. c. 8.
Its towering summits to th' aspiring clouds, And sees th' unbounded ocean roll beneath.
Avonia frowns! and justly may'st thou frown, O goddess, on the bard, th' injurious bard, Who leaves thy pictur'd scenes, and idly roves For foreign beauty to adorn his song. Thine is all beauty; every site is thine. Thine the sweet vale, and verdure-crowned mead Slow rising from the plain, which Cheltenham boasts.
Thine Scarbrough's cliffs; and thine the russet heaths
Of sandy Tunbridge; o'er thy spacious downs Stray wide the nibbling flocks; the hunter train May range thy forests; and the muse-led youth, Who loves the devious walk, and simple scene, May in thy Kingswood view the scatter'd cots And the green wilds of Dulwich. Does the Sun, Does the free air delight? lo! Clifton stands Courted by every breeze; and every Sun In southern skies sublime, or mildly pours There sheds a kinder ray; whether he rides O'er Bristol's red'ning towers his orient beam,
Musa supervacuas Antonius, et tamen illis Mihi Baias Per medium frigus. Sanè myrteta relinqui Me facit invisum gelidâ dum perluor undâ Dictaque cessantein nervis elidere morbum Sulfura contemni, Vicus gemit; invidus agris Qui caput aut stomachum supponere fontibus au- dent, &c.
river in Pliny's Epistles, Ep. 8. Book viii. where he 10 See a beautiful description of the source of this mentions it as a custom for persons to leave inscrip- tions, &c. as testimonies of their being cured there; something in the manner of the crutches at Bath.
Or gilds at eve the shrub-clad rocks of Ley. Beneath thy mountains open to the south Pale Sickness sits, and drinks th' enlivening day; Nor fears th' innumerable pangs which pierce In keener anguish from the north, or load The dusky pinions of the peevish east. Secure she sits, and from thy sacred urn Implores, and finds relief. The slacken'd nerves Resume their wonted tone, of every wind And every season patient. Jocund health Blooms on the cheek; and careless youth returns (As fortune wills) to pleasure or to toil.
Yet think not, goddess, that the Muse ascribes To thee unfailing strength, of force to wrest Th' uplifted bolts of fate; to Jove alone Belongs that high pre-eminence. Full oft, This feeling heart can witness, have I heard Along thy shore the piercing cries resound Of widows and of orphans. Oft beheld The solemn funeral pomp, and decent rites, Which human vanity receives and pays When dust returns to dust. Where Nature fails, There too thy power must fail; or only lend A momentary aid to soften pain, And from the king of terrours steal his frown. Nor yet for waters only art thou fam'd, Avonia; deep within thy cavern'd rocks Do diamonds lurk, which mimic those of Ind. Some to the curious searcher's eye betray Their varying hues amid the mossy clefts Faint glimmering; others in the solid stone Lie quite obscur'd, and wait the patient hand Of art, or quick explosion's fiercer breath, To wake their latent glories into day. With these the British fair, ere traffic's power Had made the wealth of other worlds our own, Would deck their auburn tresses, or confine The snowy roundness of their polish'd arm. With these the little tyrants of the isle, Monarchs of counties, or of clay-built towns Sole potentates, would bind their haughty brows, And awe the gazing crowd. Say, goddess, say, Shall, studious of thy praise, the Muse declare When first their lustre rose, and what kind power Unveil'd their hidden charms? The Muse alone Can call back time, and from oblivion save The once-known tale, of which tradition's self Has lost the faintest memory. 'Twas ere The titles proud of Knight and Baron bold Were known in Albion; long ere Cæsar's arms Had tried its prowess, and been taught to yield. Westward a mile from yon aspiring shrubs Which front thy hallow'd fount, and shagg with thorns
The adverse side of Avon, dwelt a swain. One only daughter bless'd his nuptial bed. Fair was the maid; but wherefore said I fair? For many a maid is fair, but Leya's form Was beauty's self, where each united charm Ennobled each, and added grace to all. Yet cold as mountain snows her tim'rous heart Rejects the voice of love. In vain the sire With prayers, with mingled tears, demanded oft The name of grandsire, and a prattling race To cheer his drooping age. In vain the youths To Leya's fav'rite name in every dale Attun'd their rustic pipes, to Leya's ear Music was discord when he talk'd of love. And shall such beauty, and such power to bless, Sink useless to the grave! forbid it, Love!
Forbid it, Vanity! ye mighty two
Who share the female breast! the last prevails. "Whatever youth shall bring the noblest prize May claim her conquer'd heart." The day was fix'd, And forth from villages, and turf-built cots, In crowds the suitors came: from Ashton's vale, From Pil, from Porshut, and the town whose tower Now stands a sea-mark to the pilots ken. Nor were there wanting Clifton's love-sick sons To swell th' enamour'd train. But most in thought Yielded to Cadwal's heir, proud lord of Stoke ; Whose wide dominions spread o'er velvet lawns And gently-swelling hills, and tufted groves, Full many a mile. For there, ev'n then, the scene We now behold to such perfection wrought, Charm'd with untutor'd wildness, and but ask'd A master's hand to tame it into grace.
Against such rivals, prodigal of wealth, To venal beauty off'ring all their stores, What arts shall Thenot use, who long has lov'd, And long, too long despair'd? Amid thy rocks Nightly he wanders, to the silent Moon And starry host of Heaven he tells his pain. But chief to thee, to thee his fond complaints At morn, at eve, and in the midnight hour Frequent he pours. No wealth paternal bless'd His humbler birth; no fields of waving gold Or flowering orchards, no wide-wandering herds Or bleating firstlings of the flock were his, To tempt the wary maid. Yet could his pipe Make echoes listen, and his flowing tongue Could chant soft ditties in so sweet a strain, They charm'd with native music all but her,
Oft had'st thou heard him, goddess; oft resolv'd To succour his distress. When now the day The fatal day drew near, and love's last hope Hung on a few short moments. Ocean's god Was with thee, and observ'd thy anxious thought. "And what," he cry'd, "can make Avonia's face Wear aught but smiles? what jealous doubts per- plex
My fair, my best belov'd?" "No jealous doubts," Thou answered'st mild, and on his breast reclin'd Thy blushing cheek, "perplex Avonia's breast: A cruel fair one flies the voice of love, And gifts alone can win her. Mighty Power, O bid thy Tritous ransack Ocean's wealth, The coral's living branch, the lucid pearl, And every shell where mingling lights and shades Play happiest. O, if ever to thy breast My artful coyness gave a moment's pain, Learn from that pain to pity those that love." The god return'd: “Can his Avonia ask What Neptune would refuse? beauty like thine Might task his utmost labours. But behold How needless now his treasures! what thou seek'st Is near thee; in the bosom of thy rocks Myriads of glittering gems, of power to charm More wary eyes than Leya's, lurk unseen: From these select thy store." He spake, and rais'd The massy trident; at whose stroke the womb Of Earth gave up its treasures. Ready nymphs Receiv'd the bursting gems, and Tritons lent A happier polish to th' encrusted stone. Scarce had they finish'd, when the plaintive strains [proach," Of Thenot reach'd thy ears. "Approach, ap- The trident-bearer cried; and at his voice The rocks divided, and the awe-struck youth (Like Aristæus through the parting wave)
Descended trembling. But what words can paint His joy, his rapture, when, surprise at length Yielding to love, he grasp'd the fated gems, And knew their wond'rous import. "O!" he cried, • "Dismiss me, gracious Powers; ere this, perhaps, Young Cadwal clasps her charms, ere this the wealth Of Madoc has prevail'd !"—" Go, youth, and know Success attends thy enterprise; and time Shall make thee wealthier than the proudest swain Whose rivalship thou fear'st; go, and be blest. Yet let not gratitude be lost in joy;
But when thy wide possessions shall extend Farm beyond farm, remember whence they rose, And grace thy village with Avonia's name."
How shall the blushing Muse pursue the tale Impartial, and record th' ungrateful crime Of Thenot love-deluded? When success Had crown'd his fierce desires, awhile he paid Due honours at thy shrine, and strew'd with flowers, Jasmin and rose, and iris many-hued, The rocky, margin. Till at length, intent On Leya's charms alone, of aught beside Careless he grew; and scarcely now his hymns Of praise were heard; if heard, they fondly mix'd His Leya's praise with thine; or only seem'd The dying echoes of his former strains. Nor did he (how wilt thou excuse, O Love, Thy traitor?) when his wide possessions spread, Farm beyond farm, remember whence they rose, Or grace his village with Avonia's name, But on a festal day, amid the shouts Of echoing shepherds, to the rising town "Be Leya nam'd," he cried: and still unchang'd (Indelible disgrace!) the name remains ".
'Twas then, Avonia, negligent of all His former injuries, thy heav'nly breast Felt real rage; and thrice thy arm was rais'd For speedy vengeance; thrice the azure god Restrain'd its force, or ere th' uplifted rocks Descending had o'erwhelm'd the fated town. And thus he sooth'd thee, “Let not rage transport My injur'd fair-one; love was all his crime, Resistless love. Yet sure revenge awaits Thy utmost wishes; never shall his town, Which, had thy title grac'd it, had aspir'd To the first naval honours, and look'd down On Carthage and the ports which grace my own Phoenicia, never shall it rise beyond That humble,village thou behold'st it now, And soon transported to the British coast From farthest India vessels shall arrive
Full fraught with gems, myself will speed the sails, And all th' imaginary wealth he boasts Shall sink neglected: rustics shall deride His diamond's mimic blaze. Nor thou regret Their perish'd splendour; on a firmer base Thy glory rests; reject a spurious praise, And to thy waters only trust for fame."
And what of fame, O goddess, canst thou ask Beyond thy waters, ever-streaming source Of health to thousands? Myriads yet unborn Shall hail thy fost'ring wave: perchance to thee Shall owe their first existence. For, if fame Relate not fabling, the warm genial breath Of nature, which calls forth the bursting forms Through wide creation, and with various life
"Ley, or Leigh, a small village on the opposite side of the Avon, mentioned in the first line of the preceding page.
Fills every teeming element, amid Thy stream delighted revels, with increase Blessing the nuptial bed. Suppliant to thee The pensive matron bends; without thy aid Expiring families had ask'd in vain The long-expected heir; and states perhaps, Which now stand foremost in the lists of fame, Had sunk unnerv'd, inglorious, the vile slaves Of sloth, and crouch'd beneath a master's frown, Had not thy breath awak'd some chosen soul, Some finer ether, scarce ally'd to clay, Hero to act, or poet to record.
O, if to Albion, to my native land, Of all that glorious, that immortal train Which swells her annals, thy prolific stream Has given one bard, one hero; may nor storms Nor earthquakes shake thy mansion; may the
The silent sweep, of slow-devouring time Steal o'er thy rocks unfelt, and only bear To future worlds thy virtues, and thy praise. Still, still, Avonia, o'er thy Albion shed Benignest influence; nor to her alone Confine thy partial boon. The lamp of day, God of the lower world, was meant to all A common parent. Still to every realm Send forth thy blessings; for to every realm, Such its peculiar excellence, thy wave May pass untainted; seasons, climates, spare Its virtues, and the power which conquers all, Innate corruption, never mixes there.
And might I ask a boon, in whispers ask One partial favour; goddess, from the power Of verse, and arts Pæonian, gracious thou Entreat this one. Let other poets share His noisy honours, rapid let them roll As neighb'ring Severn, while the voice of fame Re-echoes to their numbers: but let mine My humbler weaker verse, from scantier rills Diffusing wholesome draughts, unheard, unseen, Glide gently on, and imitate thy spring.
L'Amitié, qui dans le monde est à peine un sentiment, est une passion dans les cloitres.
Contes Moraux, de Marmontel. MUCH have we heard the peevish world complain Of friends neglected, and of friends forgot: Another's frailties blindly we arraign,
And blame, as partial ills, the common lot: For what is friendship?-Tis the sacred tie Of souls unbodied, and of love refin'd; Beyond, Benevolence, thy social sigh,
Beyond the duties graven on our kind. And ah how seldom, in this vale of tears, This frail existence, by ourselves debas'd, In hopes bewilder'd, or subdu'd by fears,
The joys unmix'd of mutual good we taste! Proclaim, ye reverend sires, whom fate has spar'd As life's example, and as virtue's test, How few, how very few, your hearts have shar'd,
How much those hearts have pardon'd in the best. Vain is their claim whom heedless pleasure joins In bands of riot, or in leagues of vice; They meet, they revel, as the day declines, But, spectre like, they shudder at its rise.
For 'tis not-friendship, though the raptures run,
Led by the mad'ning god, through every vein; Like the warm flower, which drinks the noon-tide Sun,
Their bosoms open but to close again. Yet there are hours of mirth, which friendship loves, When prudence sleeps, and wisdom grows more kind,
Sallies of sense, which reason scarce approves, When all unguarded glows the naked mind. But far from those be each profaner eye
With glance malignant withering fancy's bloom; Far the vile ear, where whispers never die;
Far the rank heart, which teems with ills to come. Full oft, by fortune near each other plac'd,
Ill-suited souls, nor studious much to please, Whole fruitless years in awkward union waste, Till chance divides, whom chance had join'd with ease.
And yet, should either oddly soar on high,
And shine distinguish'd in some sphere remov'd, The friend observes him with a jealous eye,
And calls ungrateful whom he never lov'd. But leave we such for those of happier clay On who e emerging stars the Graces smile, And search for truth, where virtue's sacred ray Wakes the glad seed in friendship's genuine
In youth's soft season, when the vacant mind To each kind impulse of affection yields, When Nature charms, and love of humankind With its own brightness every object gilds, Should two congenial bosoms haply meet,
Or on the banks of Camus, hoary stream, Or where smooth Isis glides on silver feet,
Nurse of the Muses each, and each their theme, How blithe the mutual morning task they ply!
How sweet the saunt'ring walk at close of day! How steal, secluded from the world's broad eye, The midnight hours insensibly away! While glows the social bosom to impart
Each young idea dawning science lends, Or big with sorrow beats th' unpractis'd heart For suff'ring virtue, and disastrous friends. Deep in the volumes of the mighty dead
They feast on joys to vulgar minds unknown; The hero's, sage's, patriot's path they tread,
Adore each worth, and make it half their own. Sublime and pure as Thebes or Sparta taught Eternal union from their souls they swear, Each added converse swells the generous thought, And each short absence makes it more sincere- —“ And can”—-(I hear some eager voice exclaim, Whose bliss now blossoms, and whose hopes beat high)
"Can Virtue's basis fail th' incumbent frame? And may such friendships ever ever die?" Ah, gentle youth, they may. Nor thou complain If chance the sad experience should be thine. What cannot change where all is light and vain?
-Ask of the Fates who twist life's varying line. Ambition, vanity, suspense, surmise,
On the wide world's tempestuous ocean roll; New loves, new friendships, new desires arise,
New joys elate, new griefs depress the soul. Some, in the bustling mart of business, lose The still small voice retirement loves to hear; Some at the noisy bar enlarge their views,
And some in senates court a people's ear,
While others, led by glory's meteors, run
To distant wars for laurels stain'd with blood. Meanwhile the stream of time glides calmly on, And ends its silent course in Lethe's flood. Unhappy only he of friendship's train
Who never knew what change or fortune meant, With whom th' ideas of his youth remain
Too firmly fix'd, and rob him of content. Condemn'd perhaps to some obscure retreat, Where pale reflection wears a sickly bloom, Still to the past he turns with pilgrim feet, And ghosts of pleasure haunt him to his tomb. O-but I will not name you-ye kind few,
With whom the morning of my life I pass'd, May every bliss, your generous bosoms knew In earlier days, attend you to the last.
I too, alas, am chang'd.-And yet there are Who still with partial love my friendship own, Forgive the frailties which they could not share, Or find my heart unchang'd to them alone. To them this votive tablet of the Muse
Pleas'd I suspend.-Nor let th' unfeeling mind From these loose hints its own vile ways excuse, Or start a thought to injure human-kind. Who knows not friendship, knows not bliss sincere.. Court it, ye young; ye aged, bind it fast; Earn it, ye proud; nor think the purchase dear, Whate'er the labour, if 'tis gain'd at last. Compar'd with all th' admiring world calls great, Fame's loudest blast, ambition's noblest ends, Ev'n the last pang of social life is sweet: The pang which parts us from our weeping friends.
A SQUIRE of parts, and some conceit, Though not a glaring first-rate wit, Had lately taken to his arms A damsel of uncommon charms. A mutual bliss their bosoms knew, The hours on downy pinions flew, And scatter'd roses as they pass'd: Emblem of joy too sweet to last! For lo! th' unequal Fates divide Th' enamour'd swain and beauteous bride. The honeymoon had scarcely wan'd, And love its empire still maintain'd, When forth he must, for business calls. -Adieu, ye fields, ye groves, ye walls, That in your hallow'd bounds contain My source of joy-my source of pain! It must be so; adieu, my dear. They kiss, he sighs, she drops a tear, For lovers of a certain cast
Think every parting is the last, And still whine out, whene'er they sever, "Farewell for ever!" In tragic strain, Awhile, in melancholy mood, He slowly pac'd the tiresome road; For" every road must tiresome prove That bears us far from her we love." But Sun, and exercise, and air, At length dispel the glooms of care; They vanish like a morning dream, And happiness is now the theme. How blest his lot, to gain at last, So many vain researches past,
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