Yet views with pity Folly's bustling scene,
Th' ambitious sick with hope, the rich with spleen,
The great exulting in a joyless prize,

Yea pities even the fop he must despise ;

For him what then remains ?-The humble shed,
Th' ennobling converse of the awful Dead,
Beauty's pure ray diffus'd from Nature's face,
Fancy's sweet charm, and Truth's majestic grace.
Truth, not of hard access, or threatening mien,
As by the vain unfeeling wrangler seen;
But bland and gentle as the early ray,
That gilds the wilderness, and lights the way;
The messenger of joy to man below,
Friend of our frailty, solace of our woe.

Thus by Heaven's bounty rich shall he repine,
If others in the toys of Fortune shine?
Needs he a title to exalt his race,

Who from th' Eternal his descent can trace?
Or fame's loud trump to stun him to repose,
Whose soul resign'd no guilty tumult knows?
To roam with toil, in restless uproar hurl'd,
One little corner of a little world;

Can this enlarge or dignify the soul,

Whose wing unwearied darts from pole to pole?
Can glowworms glitter on the car of morn,
Or gold the progeny of heaven adorn?

How long, enamour'd of fictitious joy,

Shall false desire the lavish'd hour employ !

How long with random steps shall mortals roam,
Unknown their path, and more unknown their

home!

no

203

Ah! still delusive the vain pleasure flies,
Or, grasp'd, insults our baffled hope, and dies.
Meanwhile behind, with renovated force,
Care and disgust pursue our slackening course,
And shall o'ertake; even in the noon of age,
Long ere the sting of Anguish cease to rage,
And long ere Death, sole friend of the distrest,
Dismiss the pilgrim to eternal rest.

Thus, wayward hope still wandering from within,
Lur'd by the phantoms of th' external scene;
We scorn, what heaven our only bliss design'd
The humble triumph of a tranquil mind;
And that alone pursue which Fortune brings,
Th' applause of multitudes, or smile of kings.
But ah! can these, or those afford delight?
Can man be happy in his Maker's spite?
Vain thankless man, averse to Nature's sway,
Feels every moment that he must obey.

Close and more closely clasp the stubborn chains,
And each new struggle rouses keener pains.
Thus stung with appetite, with anguish torn,
Urged by despair still more and more forlorn,
Till each fantastic hope expire in woe,

And the cold cheerless heart forget to glow,
We perish, muttering this unrighteous strain,

Joy was not made for man, and life is vain."
Sweet peace of heart, from false desire refin'd,
That pour'st elysian sunshine on the mind,
O come, bid each tumultuous wish be still,
And bend to nature's law each froward will.

Let Hope's wild wing ne'er stoop to Fortune's sphere;
For terror, anguish, discontent are there;
But soar with strong and steady flight sublime,
Where disappointment never dar'd to climb.
O come, serenely gay, and with thee bring
The vital breath of heaven's eternal spring;
Th' amusive dream of blameless fancy born,
The calm oblivious night, and sprightly morn.
Bring Resignation, undebas'd with fear;
And Melancholy, serious, not severe ;
And Fortitude, by chance nor time control'd,
Meek with the gentle, with the haughty bold;
Devotion deck'd in smiles of filial love;
And Thought, conversing with the worlds above.
So shall my days nor vain nor joyless roll,
Nor with regret survey th' approaching goal;
Too happy, if I gain that noblest prize,

The well-earn'd favour of the Good and Wise.

230

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LADY

CHARLOTTE GORDON,

DRESSED IN A TARTAN SCOTCH BONNET, WITH PLUMES.

WHY, lady, wilt thou bind thy lovely brow

With the dread semblance of that warlike helm, That nodding plume, and wreath of various glow, That grac'd the chiefs of Scotia's ancient realm?

Thou know'st that Virtue is of power the source,
And all her magic to thy eyes is given;
We own their empire, while we feel their force,
Beaming with the benignity of heaven.

The plumy helmet, and the martial mien,
Might dignify Minerva's awful charms;
But more resistless far th' Idalian queen—

Smiles, graces, gentleness, her only arms.

TRANSLATIONS.

ANACREON. ODE XXII.

Παρὰ τὴν σκίην, βάθυλλε,
Κάθισον

BATHYLLUS, in yonder lone grove
All carelessly let us recline:

To shade us the branches above
Their leaf-waving tendrils combine;
While a streamlet inviting repose
Soft-murmuring wanders away,

And gales warble wild through the boughs:
Who there would not pass the sweet day?

THE BEGINNING OF THE FIRST BOOK OF

LUCRETIUS.

Eneadum Genetrix

v. 1-45.

MOTHER of mighty Rome's imperial line,
Delight of man, and of the powers divine,
Venus, all-bounteous queen! whose genial power
Diffuses beauty in unbounded store