AN EVENING ODE TO DELIA.
Evening now, from purple wings,
Sheds the grateful gifts she brings;
Brilliant drops bedeck the mead,
Cooling breezes shake the reed,
Shake the reed, and curl the stream,
Silver'd o'er with Cynthia's beam:
Near the chequer'd, lonely grove,
Hears and keeps thy fecrets, love.
Thither, Delia, let us stray
Lightly o'er the dewy way;
Phoebus drives his burning car,
Hence, my lovely Delia, far:
In his ftead, the queen of night
Sheds around a lambent light;
Light that ferves but just to show
Breafts that beat, and cheeks that glow.
Let us there, in whisper'd joy,
All the filent hours employ;
Silence beft, and dusky shades,
Please the heart that love invades.
Other paffions then at reft,
Love poffeffes all the breaft.
ET vain Philofophy hence learn to bind
The lawless operations of the mind,
And teach us to obey that Power unseen,
That fram'd, and first inform'd, our wife machine;
Then shall we know what schools have idly taught,
To guide each act, and regulate each thought:
Like this mechanic wonder fhall we move,
Unvaried by ambition, anger, love;
Conftant in each viciffitude of care,
Not urg'd by hope, nor yet repress'd by fear;
Alike in health, difeafe, in age or youth,
Our equal judgment ftill will point at truth;
No longer fhall we live whole years in vain,
Nor one fad hour be mark'd with grief or pain;
Freedom and joy our measur'd time will fill,
Guiltless, unerring, and affur'd our will,
'Till the last pulse shall beat, and life stand still.
At my window fit, and fee
Autumn his ruffet fingers lay
On every leaf of every tree,
I call, but Summer will not stay.
She flies, the boafting Goddess flies,
And, pointing where th' efpaliers shoot, "Deserve my parting gift, fhe cries,
"I take the leaves, but not the fruit."
Let me the parting gift improve,
And emulate the just reply,
As life's fhort seasons swift remove,
Ere fix'd in winter's froft I lie.
Health, beauty, vigour, now decline,
The pride of fummer's splendid day,
Leaves, which the ftem must now refign,
The mournful prelude of decay.
But let fair virtue's fruit remain,
Tho' fummer with my leaves be fled; Then, not defpis'd, I'll not complain, But cherish autumn in her stead.
A PARODY ON THE SECOND EPODE OF HORACE.
BY ISAAC HAWKINS BROWNE, ESQ.
Hrice happy, who free from ambition and
In a rural retreat, has a quiet fire-fide; [pride,
I love my fire-fide, thither let me repair,
And drink a delightful oblivion of care:
Oh! when fhall I 'scape to be truly my own,
From the noife, and the fmoke, and the buftle of
Then I live, then I triumph, whene'er I retire [town.
From the pomp and parade that the many admire:
Hail ye woods, and ye lawns, fhady vales, funny hills,
And the warble of birds, and the murmur of rills,
Ye flowers of all hues that embroider the ground,
Flocks feeding, or frisking in gambols around;
Scene of joy to behold! joy that who would forego,
For the wealth and the power that a court can beftow:
I have faid it at home, I have faid it abroad, [God;
That the town is man's world, but that this is of
Here my trees cannot flatter; plants, nurs'd by my
Pay with fruit, or with fragrance, and incenfe the air; Here contemplative folitude raises the mind, (Leaft alone when alone) to ideas refin'd.
Methinks hid in groves, which no found can invade,
Save when Philomel ftrikes up her sweet serenade,
I revolve on the changes and chances of things,
And pity the wretch, that attends upon kings.
Now I pass with old authors an indolent bour,
And, reclining at eafe, turn Demofthenes o'er;
Now facetious and vacant, I urge the gay flask
With a fett of old friends-who have nothing to afk;
Thus happy, I reck not of France nor of Spain,
Nor the balance of power what hand shall sustain.
The balance of power! ha! till that is restor❜d,
What folid delight can retirement afford?
Some must be content to be drudges of state,
That the Sage may securely enjoy his retreat.
In weather ferene, when the ocean is calm,
It matters not much who prefides at the helm;
But foon as clouds gather, and tempests arise,
Then a pilot there needs; a man dauntless and wife.
If fuch can be found, fure he ought to come forth,
And lend to the public his talents and worth.
Whate'er inclination or ease may suggest,
If the state wants his aid, he has no claim to reft.
But who is the man, a bad game to redeem ?
He whom Savoy admires, who has Pruffia's esteem ;
Whom the Spaniards have felt; and whose iron, with
Haughty Lewis faw forging to fall on his head.
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