• Her chearful front, who finds in thee alone
The fource of ev'ry transport; but disgrace
• My penfive breast, which, doom'd to lafting woe, In thee the fource of ev'ry blifs refign.
And now, farewel, thou darling youth! the gem
Of English merit! Peace, content, and joy,
And tender hopes, and young defires, farewel!
• Attend, ye fmiling train! this gallant mind
• Back to his native fhores; there fweetly fmooth
His ev'ning pillow, dance around his groves,
And where he treads with vi'lets paint his
But leave Elvira! leave her, now no more
Your frail companion! in the facred cells
• Of fome lone cloister let me fhroud my fhame;
There, to the matin bell obfequious, pour
My conftant orifons. The wanton loves
And gay defires fhall fpy the glimm'ring tow'rs,
And wing their flight aloof: but reft confirm'd,
• That never shall Elvira's tongue conclude
Her shortest pray'r, ere Henry's dear fuccefs
The warmest accent of her zeal employ.'
Thus fpoke the weeping fair, whofe artless mind,
Impartial, fcorn'd to model her esteem
By native cuftoms, drefs, and face, and air,
And manners lefs; nor yet refolv'd in vain.
He, bound by prior love, the folemn vow
Giv'n and receiv'd, to foft compaffion gave
A tender tear; then with that kind adieu
Efteem could warrant, wearied Heav'n with pray'rs
To fhield that tender breaft he left forlorn.
He ceas'd; and to the cloifter's penfive fcene
Elvira fhap'd her folitary way.
T the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, And mortals the fweets of forgetfulness prove; When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill, And nought but the nightingale's fong in the grove.'Twas then, by the cave of the mountain reclin❜d, A hermit his nightly complaint thus began:
Tho' mournful his numbers, his foul was refign'd;
He thought as a fage, tho' he felt as a man.
Ah! why, thus abandon'd to darkness and woe,
Why thus, lonely Philomel, flows thy fad ftrain?
For fpring fhall return, and a lover beftow;
And thy bofom no trace of misfortune retain.
Yet if Pity infpire thee, O cease not thy lay!
'Mourn, sweetest companion; man calls thee to mourn:
O foothe him whofe pleafures, like thine, pafs away!
Full quickly they pafs-but they never return!
Now, gliding remote on the verge of the sky,
The moon, half extinct, a dim crefcent difplays;
But lately I mark'd, when majestick on high
She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze.
Roll on then, fair orb, and with gladnefs pursue
The path that conducts thee to fplendor again:
• But man's faded glory no change shall renew;
Ah, fool! to exult in a glory fo vain!
'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more:
I mourn; but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you;
For morn is approaching, your charms to restore,
• Perfum'd with fresh fragrance, and glitt'ring with dew.
Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn; • Kind Nature the embrio-bloffom fhall fave:
But when shall spring vifit the mould'ring urn! O when shall it dawn on the night of the grave!'
NHERITANCE of weak, but proud mortality,
Hence, Difeafe and pining Pain ;
With all your pale and ghaftly train,
Toffings dire, heart-piercing moans,
Sighs and tears, and hollow groans,
The harbingers of Death:
Whether ye be
The spawn of bloated Luxury,
Or of the peftilential breath
Of Eurus bred, or from the eastern clime;
Hence! to your ancient feat,
Where ebbing Nilus leaves his putrid flime,
To Volga's banks retreat,
Or to the Caspian or Bengala's bay;
From Britain's happy lands
Hafte to Arabian fands,
While winds fulphureous burn, and urge your way!
But, Goddess of the dimpled cheek,
Whom the wanton Cupids feek;
Come, fair Health, to grace the fong,
Bring the chearful Mufe along;
Bring laughing Youth, who looks behind;
Love, on Fancy's breast reclin'd;
Where my oak extends it's pride
Of twisted arms; and fit to ride
Sublime on Neptune's fwelling wave,
Now the roaring winds doth brave.
Where the vine's foft tendrils run,
And fwell to meet the fouthern fun.
Where Contemplation, wont to stray,
Winds thro' the wood her eafy way;
Or marks the lake, the field, or sky;
The filent angler's stedfast eye;
The gunner's aim; or Industry,
Who, with his loud refounding blow,
Lays the nodding forefts low,
Or teaches where to wind the stream,
Or whiftles to his labouring team:
The meads which fuck the dews of morn,
Or uplands crown'd with golden corn,
Richer than Iberia's mine;
The bleating flocks, the lowing kine;
The fmoaking cots, and pointed spires,
The setting fun's reflecting fires;
Woods dark waving in the dale,
Rays which gleam, and clouds which fail;
Shades and lights by turns contending,
Gradual colours foftly blending;
All as Nature's pencil clear
Marks the variegated year.
Thefe, O Goddess! these are thine;
Offspring of immortal line!
Who with mortals deign'ft to dwell,
In fome low and rural cell:
To haunt the brink of tinkling rills,
The flow'ry vales, or floping hills;
And when the ploughman turns the foil,
To chear his fong, and guide his toil.
With veft fuccinct, in Dian's train,
Oft art thou seen to brush the plain;
While thy fhrifl horns sweet Echo rouze,
Slumbering on the mountain's brows:
Oft when Winter clouds the air,
To the blazing hearth repair
Thy focial feet, where-e'er the bow!
Of mod'rate mirth unlocks the foul,
When tales of time, and ancient fear,
Sufpend the young aftonish'd ear;
Or carrols quaint, in long-drawn note,
Swell the ruftick's ample throat;
Or where high-lifted steps refound,
When the peafant thumps the ground
With aukward heel, and gives a fall
To miftrefs of the rural ball;
Or preffes with his iron hand,
And whirls her thro' the fhouting band. Nor art thou wont with these to sport but where the Loves refort,
With all the young and fhining train
Of Cytherea's golden reign,
More elegant, to lead is thine
The dance, which waves it's eafy line;
Marks the graceful, and the strong;
Where fpeech, to which no words belong,
Makes love by actions never pain'd,
All oppos'd, but nought conftrain'd:
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