ELEGY. TIRED with the busy crowds that all the day Hail, kind reviver! that canst lull the cares Touch'd by thy rod, from Power's majestic brow Drops the gay plume; he pines a lowly clown; And on the cold earth stretch'd the son of Woe Quaffs Pleasure's draught, and wears a fancied crown. When roused by thee, on boundless pinions borné, Fancy to fairy scenes exults to rove, Now scales the cliff gay-gleaming on the morn, Now sad and silent treads the deepening grove; Or skims the main and listens to the storms, Marks the long waves roll far remote away; Or, mingling with ten thousand glittering forms, Floats on the gale and basks in purest day. Haply, ere long, pierced by the howling blast, Through dark and pathless deserts I shall roam, Plunge down the' unfathom'd deep, or shrink aghast [tomb: Where bursts the shrieking spectre from the VOL. IV. Y Perhaps loose Luxury's enchanting smile Shall lure my steps to some romantic dale, Where Mirth's light freaks the' unheeded hours beguile, And airs of rapture warble in the gale. Instructive emblem of this mortal state! Where scenes as various every hour arise In swift succession, which the hand of Fate Presents, then snatches from our wondering eyes. Be taught, vain man, how fleeting all thy joys, Thy boasted grandeur, and thy glittering store; Death comes and all thy fancied bliss destroys, Quick as a dream it fades, and is no more. And, sons of sorrow! though the threatening storm Of angry Fortune overhang awhile, Let not her frowns your inward peace deform; Soon happier days in happier climes shall smile. Through earth's throng'd visions while we toss forlorn, 'Tis tumult all and rage and restless strife; But these shall vanish like the dreams of morn, When Death awakes us to immortal life. BEATTIE. WINTER. FAREWELL those genial seasons of the year, Young Spring, who filled with flowers the wil ling soil; Summer, whose sunbeams nursed the foodful ear; With Autumn grateful to the reaper's toil. For lo! sad change! from yonder gathering cloud Stern Winter wildly drives his dark array: From the keen north the winds are piping loud, As through the yielding woods they sweep their way. High on a storm, with visage fierce and pale, The barren Eurus rides; the rain descends: Far, far resounding through the floated vale, Its hoarse rough howls the dashing torrent sends. Where are those rural charms that fed my eyes, The cowsliped meadow and the hedgerow green? In one wide waste the snow-clad landscape lies, And frost with withering hand deforms the scene. I sought the copse, the joyous thrush's haunt; In social troops the silent larks are found, Sweet bird! are these the sports of reasoning man? Thus doth his savage hands thy songs repay, Which bade his joys awake when spring began, Which cheer'd in summer's heat the toilsome day? The redbreast, wisely confident, presumes To screen his weakness in the peopled cot; And, sweetly thankful for the scatter'd crumbs, Pays the cheap bounty with his warbled note. Now dull and dreary wakes the tardy morn; The sickly sun resigns his noontide power; Night comes; and Fear, of Melancholy born, Adds a new horror to the darkling hour. At every bush, at every sudden breeze, Starts the lone traveller on his wilder'd way; In his own shade a thousand deaths he sees, And stops and pants and listens in dismay. The night bird's thrice-flapp'd wing and shriekings fell Denounce the pining sick man's hopeless doom; In the hush air imperfect whispers dwell Of demons prowling through the midnight gloom. Stonehearted Murder bathes his sword in blood, Rapine, foul fiend, leads forth his lawless band; Insatiate Hunger calls amain for food; While pale-eyed Famine howls along the land. Where are thy haunts, O Cheerfulness? the bower Of spring no more invites thee; nor the walk At summer's eve, beneath thy guardian power Where late I listen'd to my Laura's talk. Nor art thou seen within the courts of pride; Ambition drives thy peaceful image thence: Though feast, and sport, and laughter there abide, Excess and riot pall thy nicer sense. At length thy coy retirement have I found, And from his threshold banish homebred strife; Fresh health and honest gain his toils reward; And one continued summer rules his life. Learn hence, ye vain, ye idle, and ye proud, When the dark storms of bleak misfortune lour, "Tis virtue only can dispel the cloud, And bless with cheerfulness the wintry hour. MUNDAY. ON RURAL SPORTS. THE sun wakes jocund-all of life, who breathe A general groan the general anguish speaks, The stately stag falls butcher'd on the plains, The dew of death hangs clammy on his cheeks. |