Beneath that home I fcorn the wintry wind;
The spring, to fhade me, robes her fairest tree;
And if a friend my grafs-grown threshold find,
O how my lonely cot refounds with glee!

Yet, though averfe to gold in heaps amass'd,

I wish to blefs, I languish to bestow ; And though no friend to fame's obftreperous blast, Still, to her dulcet murmurs not a foe.

Too proud with fervile tone to deign addrefs;
Too mean to think that honours are my due,
Yet fhould fome patron yield my stores to bless,
I fure should deem my boundless thanks were few.

But tell me, thou! that, like a meteor's fire, Shot'ft blazing forth; disdaining dull degrees; Should I to wealth, to fame, to power afpire, Muft I not pass more rugged paths than these?

Muft I not groan beneath a guilty load,

Praife him I fcorn, and him I love betray? Does not felonious envy bar the road?

Or falfehood's treacherous foot beset the way?

Say fhould I pafs through favour's crowded gate, Must not fair truth inglorious wait behind? Whilft I approach the glittering scenes of state, My best companion no admittance find?

Nurs'd in the fhades by freedom's lenient care, Shall I the rigid fway of fortune own? Taught by the voice of pious truth, prepare To spurn an altar, and adore a throne?

And when proud fortune's ebbing tide recedes, And when it leaves me no unfhaken friend, Shall I not weep that e'er I left the meads, Which oaks ernbofom, and which hills defend?

Ill-fated bard! that feeks his fkill to show, Then courts the judgment of a friendly ear! Not the poor veteran that permits his foe

To guide his doubtful ftep, has more to fear.

Nor could my Graves mistake the critic's laws,

Till pious friendship mark'd the pleasing way: Welcome fuch error! ever bleft the caufe!

Ev'n though it led me boundless leagues aftray!

Couldst thou reprove me, when I nurs'd the flame
On liftening 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 though in Alma's guardian arms I play'd?
How fhall the Mufe thofe 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 opening reign; How nature fhines in livelier colours dreft,

To blefs 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 flowers enrich'd the painted green;

And swift fpontaneous roses blush'd around.
Now fadly lorn, from Twitnam's widow'd bower,
The drooping Mufes take their cafual 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 cowflips golden cup no more I fee:
Dark and difcolour'd every flower that blows,
To form the garland, Elegy! for thee !-
Enough of tears has wept the virtuous dead';

Ah might we now the pious rage controul: Hufh'd be my grief ere every smile be fled, Ere the deep fwelling figh fubvert the foul!

Down yonder book my crystal beverage flows; My grateful fheep their annual fleeces bring; Fair in my garden buds the damask rose,

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

My fellow fwains! avert your dazzled eyes;

In vain allur'd by glittering spoils they rove, The fates ne'er meant them for the fhepherd'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! polish'd fair, the beech's friendly rind!
To fing foft carrols to your lovely dames,

See vocal grots, and echoing vales affign'd!

Would't thou, my Strephon, love's delighted flave! Though 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 every idle toy,

If to my mind my Delia's form it brings, Has truer worth, imparts fincerer joy,

Than all that bears the radiant stamp of kings.

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

I rife fuperior, and the rich difdain.

A

SK not the caufe, why this rebellious tongue Loads with fresh curfes thy detefted sway! Ask not, thus branded in my fofteft song,

Why ftands the flatter'd name, which all obey?

Tis not, that in my fhed I lurk forlorn,
Nor fee my roof on Parian columns rife ;
That, on this breaft, no mimic star is borne,
Rever'd, ah! more than those that light the fkies.
'Tis not, that on the turf fupinely laid,

I fing or pipe, but to the flocks that graze:
And, all inglorious, in the lonesome shade,
My finger stiffens, and my voice decays.
Not, that my fancy mourns thy ftern command,
When many an embryo dome is lost in air;
While guardian prudence checks my eager hand,
And, ere the turf is broken, cries, Forbear.

"Forbear, vain youth! be cautious, weigh thy gold,

"Nor let yon rifing column more aspire; "Ah! better dwell in ruins, than behold "Thy fortunes mouldering and thy domes entire. "Honorio built, but dar'd my laws defy;

"He planted, scornful of my sage commands; "The peach's vernal bud regal'd his eye!

"The fruitage ripen'd for more frugal hands."

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,

Though now exalted to yon ambient sky,
So fhunn'd a foul distain'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 felf, refigns;
Perverts the facred instinct of his foul,

And to a ducate's dirty sphere confines.

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

Reftore thy dear idea to my breast,
The rich depofit fhall the fhrine fecure.

Let others toil to gain the fordid ore,

The charms of independence let us sing;
Bleft with thy friendship, can I wish for more?
I'll fpurn the boafted wealth of Lydia's king.

O'er fome rough rock that would its wealth display,

Difplays it aught but penury and pride?

Ah! conftrue wifely what fuch murmurs say.

"How would fome flood, with ampler treasures bleft,

Difdainful view the fcantling drops diftil! How muft* Velino shake his reedy crest!

How every cygnet mock the boaftive rill!

Fortune, I yield! and see, I give the fign;

At noon the poor mechanic wanders home; Collects the fquare, the level, and the line,

And, with retorted eye, forfakes the dome.

Yes, I can patient view the fhadeless plains;
Can unrepining leave the rifing wall:
Check the fond love of art that fir'd my veins,
"And my warm hopes, in full pursuit recall.

Defcend, ye ftorms! deftroy my rifing pile;
Loos'd be the whirlwind's unremitting sway;
Contented I, although the gazer smile

To fee it fcarce furvive a winter's day.
A river in Italy.

Then glows the breast, as opening roses fair; More free, more vivid, than the linnet's wing; Honeft as light, transparent ev'n as air,

Tender as buds, and lavish as the spring.

Not all the force of manhood's active might,
Not all the craft to subtle age affign'd,
Not science shall extort that dear delight,
Which gay delufion gave the tender mind.

is over.

Scarce has the fun feven annual courfes roll'd, Scarce fhewn the whole that fortune can supply;

Since, not the miser so carefs'd his gold,

As I, for what it gave, was heard to figh.

On the world's ftage I wish'd fome sprightly part;
To deck my native fleece with tawdry lace!
'Twas life, 'twas taste, and-oh my foolish heart,
Subftantial joy was fix'd in power and place.

And you, ye works of art! allur'd mine eye,

The breathing picture, and the living stone: "Though gold, though fplendour, heaven and fate

deny,

"Yet might I call one Titian stroke my own!

Parent of raptures, dear deceit adieu!
And you, her daughters, pining with despair,
Why, why fo foon her fleeting steps pursue!

Tedious again to curfe the drizling day!
Again to trace the wintry tracks of snow!
Or, footh'd by vernal airs, again furvey,
The felf-fame hawthorns bud, and cowflips
blow!

The ftar of Venus ufhers in the day,

The first, the lovelieft of the train that shine! The ftar of Venus lends her brightest ray, When other stars their friendly beams refign. Still in my breaft one foft defire remains,

Pure as that ftar, from guilt, from interest free,

Has gentle Delia tripp'd across the plains,

And need I, Florio, name that wish to thee? While, cloy'd to find the fcenes of life the fame, I tune with carelefs hand my languid lays; Seme fecret impulfe wakes my former flame, And fires my ftrain with hopes of brighter days. Islept not long beneath rural bowers; yon And lo! my crook with flowers adorn'd I fee:

Has gentle Delia bound my crook with flowers, And need I, Florio, name my hopes to thee ?

And, till they crown our union, gently glide." Ah me! too swiftly fleets our vernal bloom! Loft to our wonted friendship, loft to joy ! Soon may thy breast the cordial with resume,

Ere wintry doubt its tender warmth destroy. Say, were it ours, by fortune's wild command,

By chance to meet beneath the torrid zone; Would't thou reject thy Damon's plighted hand? Would't thou with fcorn thy once-lov'd friend difown?

Life is that stranger land, that alien clime :
Shall kindred fouls forego their focial claim ?
Launch'd in the vaft abyfs of fpace and time,
Shall dark fufpicion quench the generous flame?
Myriads of fouls that knew one parent mold,
See fadly fever'd by the laws of chance!
Myriads, in time's perennial lift enroll'd,

Forbid by fate to change one tranfient glance ! But we have met-where ills of every form, Where paffions rage, and hurricanes defcend: Say, fhall we nurse the rage, affift the ftorm? And guide them to the bofom-of a friend? Yes, we have met-through rapine, fraud, and

Waste their beft minutes on a foreign ftrand, Be mine, with British nymph or wain to rove, And court the genius of my native land. Deluded youth! that quits thefe verdant plains, To catch the follies of an alien foil! To win the vice his genuine foul difdains, Return exultant, and import the spoil! In vain he boafls of his detefted prize; No more it blooms to British climes convey'd, Cramp'd by the impulfe of ungenial skies,

See its fresh vigour in a moment fade! Th' exotic folly knows its native clime;

An aukward franger, if we waft it o'er: Why then thefe toils, this cofily wafte of time, To fpread foft poifon on our happy thore? I covet not the pride of foreign looms;

In fearch of foreign modes I fcorn to rove; Nor, for the worthlefs bird of brighter plumes, Would change the meaneft warbler of my

grove.

No diftant clime fhall fervile airs impart,

Or form these limbs with pliant cafe to play; Trembling I view the Gaul's illutive art, That fteals my lov'd rufticity away.

'Tis long fince freedom fled th' Hefperian clime;
Her citron groves,
her flower-embroider'd
fhore;

She faw the British oak afpire fublime,
And foft Campania's olive charms no more.
Let partial funs mature the weflern mine,

To fhed its luftre o'er th' Iberian maid;
Mien, beauty, fhape, O native foil, are thine;
Thy peer efs daughters afk no foreign aid.
Let Ceylon's envy'd plant perfume the feas,
Till torn to feafon the Batavian bowl;
Ours is the breaft whofe genuine ardours pl.afe,
Nor need a drug to meliorate the foul.

Let the proud Soldan wound th' Arcadian groves,
Or with rude lips th' Aonian fount profane;
The Mufe no more by flowery Ladon roves,
She feeks her Thomson on the British plain.
Tell not of realms by ruthlefs war difmay'd;

Ah! helpless realms that war's oppreffion feel! In vain may Auftria boast her Noric blade,

If Auftria bleed beneath her boafted feel. Beneath her palm Idume vents her moan;

Raptur'd the once beheld its friendly shade! And hoary Memphis boafts her tombs alone, The mournful types of mighty power decay'd! No crefcent here displays its baneful horns;

No turban'd hoft the voice of truth reproves; Learning's free fource the fage's breast adorns, And posts, not inglorious, chaunt their loves. Boaft, favour'd Media, boaft thy flowery fteres ; Thy thoufand hues by chemic funs refin'd 'Tis not the drefs or mien thy foul adores,

'Tis the rich beauties of Britannia's mind. While Grenville's breast could virtue's ftores afford,

What envy'd flota borc fo fair a freight? The mine compar'd in vain its latent hoard,

The gem its luftre, and the gold its weight. Thee, Grenville, thee with calmeft courage fraught,

Thee the lov'd image of thy native fore! Thee by the virtues arm'd, the graces taught, When shall we ceafe to boaft, or to deplore? Prefumptuous war, which could thy life destroy, What fhall it now in recompenfe decree? While friends that merit every earthly joy, Feel every anguish; feel the lofs of thee! Bid me no more a fervile realm compare,

No more the Mufe of partial praise arraign; Britannia fees no foreign breaft fo fair, And, if the glory, glories not in vain.

ELEGY XV.

In memory of a private family † in Worcestershire.

ROM a lone tower with reverend ivy crown'd,

FR

The pealing bell awak'd a tender figh; Still, as the village caught the waving found,

A fwelling tear distream'd from every eye. So droop'd, I ween, each Briton's breast of old, When the dull curfew spoke their freedom fled; For, fighing as the mournful accent roll'd, Our hope, they cry'd, our kind support is dead!

* Written a few years after the time of Capt.

Grenville's death, which happened in 1747. The sarldom of Temple, was not created till 1749.

✦ The Penns of Harborough.

'Twas good Palemon-near a fhaded pool,

A group of aged elms umbrageous rofe; The flocking rooks, by instinct's native rule, This peaceful scene, for their afylum, chofe. A few small spires to Gothic fancy fair,

Amid the fhades emerging, ftruck the view; 'Twas here his youth refpir'd its earliest air;

'T'was here his age breath'd out its last adieu. One favour'd fon engag'd his tenderest care;

One pious youth his whole affection crown'd: In his young breaft the virtues sprung fo fair, Such charms display'd, such sweets diffus'd around.

But whilft gay transport in his face appears,

A noxious vapour clogs the poifon'd sky ; Blafts the fair crop-the fire is drown'd in tears, And, fcarce furviving, fees his Cynthio die! O'er the pale corfe we faw him gently bend; Heart-chill'd with grief-" My thread, he cry'd, is fpun!

If heaven had meant I fhould my life extend, Heaven had preferv'd my life's fupport, my

fon.