Many men of less worth, you partially ery, But why said I happy? I aim not at that, Nor e'er may my pride or my folly reflect On the fav'rites whom fortune has made, With whom, when comparing the merit I boast, I sink in confusion bewilder'd and lost, And what are these wonders, these blessings refin'd, To contentment's calm sunshine, the lot of the few, Or can it bestow, what I boast of in you, We may pay some regard to the rich and the great, But some secret virtues we find in the heart A flow of good spirits I 've seen with a smile And the chat of good breeding with ease, for a while, But where is the bosom untainted by art, That union so rare of the head and the heart, For those whom the great and the wealthy employ For the many whom titles alone can allure, I wrap myself round in my lowness secure, Then why should I covet what cannot increase Should Fortune capriciously cease to be coy, I doubtless, like others, should clasp her with joy, But since 't is denied me, and Heaven best knows No; still let me follow sage Horace's rule, Who tried all things, and held fast the best; Learn daily to put all my passions to school, And keep the due poise of my breast. Thus, firm at the helm, I glide calmly away Like the merchant long us'd to the deep, Nor trust for my safety on life's stormy sea To the gilding and paint of my ship. Nor yet can the giants of honour and pelf He who rules his own bosom is lord of himself, ODE TO THE TIBER. ON ENTERING THE CAMPANIA OF ROME, AT OTRICOLI, 1755. HAIL sacred stream, whose waters roll Though destin'd to a later age Nor thon disdain, in Runic lays, His grateful homage pays. From Mantua's reedy lakes with osiers crown'd, Taught Echo from thy banks with transport to re sound. Thy banks?-alas! is this the boasted scene, Is this the scene where Freedom breath'd, And make their fields more gay? Where is the villa's rural pride, The swelling dome's imperial gleam, Which lov'd to grace thy verdant side, And tremble in thy golden stream? Where are the bold, the busy throngs, That rush'd impatient to the war, Or tun'd to peace triumphal songs, And hail'd the passing car? Along the solitary road', Th' eternal flint by consuls trod, We muse, and mark the sad decays Of mighty works, and mighty days! For these vile wastes, we cry, had Fate decreed That Veii's sons should strive, for these Camillus bleed? Did here, in after-times of Roman pride, The musing shepherd from Soracte's height See towns extend where'er thy waters glide, And temples rise, and peopled farms unite? The Flaminian way. Yet say, can Rhine or Danube boast And wakes to more than form th' illustrious dead. The great, the virtuous, and the wise, But chief that humbler happier train, Secure, th' historian and the bard. Still warm in youth immortal lives; Thy glory still survives. What copious torrents pour their streams! Her spear yet lifted, and her corslet brac'd, Canst tell the waves, canst tell the passing wind, Thy wondrous tale, and cheer the list'ning waste. Though from his caves th' unfeeling North Pour'd all his legion'd tempests forth, Yet still thy laurels bloom: One deathless glory still remains, Thy stream has roll'd through Latian plains, Has wash'd the walls of Rome. ELEGIES. ELEGY I. WRITTEN AT THE CONVENT OF HAUT VILLERS IN CHAM PAGNE, 1754. SILENT and clear, through yonder peaceful vale, While Marne's slow waters weave their mazy way, See, to th' exulting Sun, and fost❜ring gale, What boundless treasures his rich banks display! Fast by the stream, and at the mountain's base, The lowing herds through living pastures rove; Wide waving harvests crown the rising space; And still superior nods the viny grove. High on the top, as guardian of the scene, Imperial Sylvan spreads his umbrage wide; Nor wants there many a cot, and spire between, Or in the vale, or on the mountain's side, To mark that man, as tenant of the whole, O dire effects of war! the time has been When desolation vaunted here her reign; One ravag'd desert was yon beauteous scene, And Marne ran purple to the frighted Seine. Oft at his work, the toilsome day to cheat, Oft to his children sportive on the grass Does dreadful tales of worn tradition tell, O dire effects of war!-may ever more Can wish the blessings of eternal peace. Yet say, ye monks, (beneath whose moss-grown seat, Within whose cloister'd cells th' indebted Muse Awhile sojourns, for meditation meet, And these loose thoughts in pensive strain pursues,) Avails it aught, that war's rude tumults spare Avails it aught, that Nature's liberal hand With every blessing grateful man can know, Clothes the rich bosom of yon smiling land, The mountain's sloping side, or pendent brow, If meagre famine paint your pallid cheek, If breaks the midnight bell your hours of rest, If, midst heart-chilling damps, and winter bleak, You shun the cheerful bowl, and moderate feast? Look forth, and be convinc'd! 'tis Nature pleads, Look forth, and be convinc'd. Yon prospects wide Temp'rance, not abstinence, in every bliss [mand. Mark, while the Marne in yon full channel glides, Neglected leave the once well-water'd land, ELEGY II. ON THE MAUSOLEUM OF AUGUSTUS '. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE george bussy VILLIERS, VISCOUNT VILLIERS. WRITTEN AT ROME, 1756. AMID these mould'ring walls, this marble round, And meditate the mournful paths to fame? Yet not with heedless eye will we survey The scene though chang'd, nor negligently tread; These variegated walks, however gay, Were once the silent mansions of the dead. In every shrub, in every flow'ret's bloom, For matter dies not, as the Sages say, But shifts to other forms the pliant mass, The sacred dust of young Marcellus lives. Witness thou field of Mars 3, that oft hadst known It is now a garden belonging to Marchese di Corre. He is said to be the first person buried in this O lost too soon!-yet why lament a fate To live, to die, admir'd, esteem'd, belov'd. Weak are our judgments, and our passions warm, And slowly dawns the radiant morn of truth, Our expectations hastily we form, And much we pardon to ingenuous youth. Too oft we satiate on the applause we pay Th' important burthen of an early fame; Each added day some added worth to gain, Prevent each wish, and answer every claim. Be thou Marcellus, with a length of days! To please indeed must echo from the heart. Though thou be brave, be virtuous, and be wise, ELEGY III. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE GEORGE SIMON HARCOURT, VISCOUNT NUNEHAM. WRITTEN AT ROme, 1756. YES, noble youth, 't is true; the softer arts, And taught the rude to wonder, and adore. For Beauty charms us, whether she appears In blended colours; or to soothing sound Attunes her voice; or fair proportion wears In yonder swelling dome's harmonious round. All, all she charms; but not alike to all 'T is given to revel in her blissful bower; Coercive ties, and reason's powerful call, Bid some but taste the sweets, which some devour. When Nature govern'd, and when man was young, Perhaps at will th' untutor'd savage rov❜d, Where waters murmur'd, and where clusters hung, He fed, and slept beneath the shade he lov'd. But since the Sage's more sagacious mind, mand, To polish'd states has social laws assign'd, And general good on partial duties plann'd, Not for ourselves our vagrant steps we bend ELEGIES. As chants the woodman, while the Dryads weep, But thee superior, soberer toils demand, Severer paths are thine of patriot fame; Thy birth, thy friends, thy king, thy native land, Have given thee honours, and have each their claim. Then nerve with fortitude thy feeling breast, Each wish to combat, and each pain to bear; Spurn with disdain th' inglorious love of rest, Nor let the syren Ease approach thine ear. Beneath yon cypress shade's eternal green See prostrate Rome her wondrous story tell, A painful struggling with each adverse gale, Or turn thy steps from fancy's flowery vale. Whate'er of Greece in sculptur'd brass survives, Or flows in polish'd verse, or airy strains. Be these thy leisure; to the chosen few, Who dare excel, thy fost'ring aid afford; ELEGY IV. TO AN OFFICER. WRITTEN AT Rome, 1756. FROM Latian fields, the mansions of renown, By great examples, and terrific charms? Quirinus first, with bold, collected bands, The sinewy sons of strength, for empire strove; Beneath his prowess bow'd th' astonish'd lands, And temples rose to Mars, and to Feretrian Jove. War taught contempt of death, contempt of pain, But not from antique fables will I draw, To fire thy active soul, a dubious aid, Though now, ev'n now, they strike with rev'rent awe, Nor yet to thee the babbling Muse shall tell When Cæsar, Titus, or when Trajan fought. While o'er yon hill th' exalted trophy' shows From steep Arpinum's rock-invested shade, Abash'd, confounded, stern Iberia groan'd, And Afric trembled to her utmost coasts; Yet chiefs are madmen, and ambition weak, And mean the joys the laurel'd harvests yield, But sink for ever, in oblivion cast, Dishonest triumphs, and ignoble spoils. Nor yet his vain contempt the Muse shall praise Witness yon Cimbrian trophies!-Marius, there Thence too thy country claim'd thee for her own, For wisely Rome her warlike sons rewards O why, Britannia, why untrophied pass The patriot deeds thy godlike sons display, Why breathes on high no monumental brass, Why swells no arc to grace Culloden's day? Wait we till faithless France submissive bow O land of freedom, land of arts, assume The trophies of Marius, now erected before the Capitol. H ELEGY VI. TO THE REV. MR. SANDERSON. BEHOLD, my friend, to this small orb confin'd, Not so his fame; for erst did Heaven ordain While seas should waft us, and while suns should warm, On tongues of men, the friend of man should reign, And in the arts he lov'd the patron charm. Oft as amidst the mould'ring spoils of age, His moss-grown monuments my steps pursue; Oft as my eye revolves th' historic page, Where pass his generous acts in fair review, Imagination grasps at mighty things, Which men, which angels, might with rapture see; Then turns to humbler scenes its safer wings, And, blush not while I speak it, thinks on thee. With all that firm benevolence of mind Why wert not thou to thrones imperial rais'd? Happy for thee, whose less distinguish'd sphere Who sail, by talents as by choice restrain'd, |