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Many men of less worth, you partially cry,
To splendour and opulence soar:
Suppose I allow it; yet, pray sir, am I
Less happy because they are more?

But why said I happy? I aim not at that,
Mere ease is my humble request;
I would neither repine at a niggardly fate,
Nor stretch my wings far from my nest.

Nor e'er may my pride or my folly reflect

On the fav'rites whom fortune has made,
Regardless of thousands who pine with neglect
In pensive obscurity's shade;

With whom, when comparing the merit I boast,
Though rais'd by indulgence to fame,

I sink in confusion bewilder'd and lost,
And wonder I am what I am!

And what are these wonders, these blessings refin'd,
Which splendour and opulence shower?
The health of the body, and peace of the mind,
Are things which are out of their power.

To contentment's calm sunshine, the lot of the few,
Can insolent greatness pretend?

Or can it bestow, what I boast of in you,
That blessing of blessings, a friend?

We may pay some regard to the rich and the great,
But how seldom we love them you know;
Or if we do love them, it is not their state,
The tinsel and plume of the show.

But some secret virtues we find in the heart
When the mask is laid kindly aside,
Which birth cannot give them, nor riches impart,
And which never once heard of their pride.

A flow of good spirits I've seen with a smile
To worth make a shallow pretence;

And the chat of good breeding with ease, for a while,
May pass for good nature and sense;

But where is the bosom untainted by art,
The judgment so modest and stay'd,

That union so rare of the head and the heart,
Which fixes the friends it has made?

For those whom the great and the wealthy employ
Their pleasure or vanity's slaves,
Whate'er they can give I without them enjoy,
And am rid of just so many knaves.

For the many whom titles alone can allure,
And the blazon of ermine and gules,

I wrap myself round in my lowness secure,
And am rid of just so many fools.

Then why should I covet what cannot increase
My delights, and may lessen their store;
My present condition is quiet and ease,
And what can my future be more?

Should Fortune capriciously cease to be coy,
And in torrents of plenty descend,

I doubtless, like others, should clasp her with joy,
And my wants and my wishes extend.

But since 't is denied me, and Heaven best knows
Whether kinder to grant it or not,
Say, why should I vainly disturb my repose,
And peevishly carp at my lot?

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
My want of ambition deride,

He who rules his own bosom is lord of himself,
And lord of all nature beside.

ODE TO THE TIBER.

ON ENTERING THE CAMPANIA OF ROME, AT OTRICOLI, 1755.

HAIL sacred stream, whose waters roll
Immortal through the classic page!
To thee the Muse-devoted soul,

Though destin'd to a later age
And less indulgent clime, to thee,

Nor thou disdain, in Runic lays,
Weak mimic of true harmony,

His grateful homage pays.
Far other strains thine elder ear
With pleas'd attention wont to hear,
When he, who strung the Latian lyre,
And he, who led th' Aonian quire

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,
This dreary, wide, uncultivated plain,
Where sick'ning Nature wears a fainter green,
And Desolation spreads her torpid reign?

Is this the scene where Freedom breath'd,
Her copious horn where Plenty wreath'd,
And Health at opening day
Bade all her roseate breezes fly,
To wake the sons of industry,

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.

They did. For this deserted plain
The hero strove, nor strove in vain ;

And here the shepherd saw Unnumber'd towns and temples spread, While Rome majestic rear'd her head, And gave the nations law.

Yes, thou and Latium once were great; And still, ye first of human things, Beyond the grasp of time or fate

Her fame and thine triumphant springs. What though the mould'ring columns fall, And strow the desert earth beneath, Though ivy round each nodding wall

Entwine its fatal wreath,

Yet say, can Rhine or Danube boast
The numerous glories thou hast lost?
Can ev'n Euphrates' palmy shore,
Or Nile, with all his mystic lore,
Produce from old records of genuine fame
Such heroes, poets, kings, or emulate thy name?
Ev'n now the Muse, the conscious Muse is here;
From every ruin's formidable shade
Eternal music breathes on fancy's ear,
And wakes to more than form th' illustrious dead.
Thy Cæsars, Scipios, Catos rise,

The great, the virtuous, and the wise,
In solemn state advance!

They fix the philosophic eye,
Or trail the robe, or lift on high

The lightning of the lance.

But chief that humbler happier train,
Who knew those virtues to reward
Beyond the reach of chance or pain

Secure, th' historian and the bard.
By them the hero's generous rage

Still warm in youth immortal lives;
And in their adamantine page

Thy glory still survives.
Through deep savannahs wild and vast,
Unheard, unknown through ages past,
Beneath the Sun's directer beams,

What copious torrents pour their streams! No fame have they, no fond pretence to mourn, No annals swell their pride, or grace their storied urn. While thou, with Rome's exalted genius join'd,

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.

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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,
Claims the just tribute of his culturing care,
Yet pays to Heaven, in gratitude of soul,
The boon which Heaven accepts, of praise and
prayer.

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,

The swain still talks of those disastrous times When Guise's pride, and Conde's ill-star'd heat, Taught Christian zeal to authorize their crimes:

Oft to his children sportive on the grass

Does dreadful tales of worn tradition tell,
Oft points to Epernay's ill-fated pass,
Where force thrice triumph'd, and where Biron fell.

O dire effects of war!-may ever more
Through this sweet vale the voice of discord cease!
A British bard to Gallia's fertile shore

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
Yon cluster'd vineyard, or yon golden field,
If, niggards to yourselves, and fond of care,
You slight the joys their copious treasures yield?

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,
Her ample volume opens on your view:
The simple-minded swain, who running reads,
Feels the glad truth, and is it hid from you?

Look forth, and be convinc'd. Yon prospects wide To reason's ear how forcibly they speak: Compar'd with those how dull is letter'd pride, And Austin's babbling eloquence how weak!

Temp'rance, not abstinence, in every bliss [mand.
Is man's true joy, and therefore Heaven's com-
The wretch who riots thanks his God amiss:
Who starves, rejects the bounties of his hand.

Mark, while the Marne in yon full channel glides,
How smooth his course, how Nature smiles around!
But should impetuous torrents swell his tides,
The fairy landscape sinks in oceans drown'd.
Nor less disastrous, should his thrifty urn.
Neglected leave the once well-water'd land,
To dreary wastes yon paradise would turn,
Polluted ooze, or heaps of barren sand.

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,
Where slept the heroes of the Julian name,
Say, shall we linger still in thought profound,
And meditate the mournful paths to fame?
What though no cypress shades, in funeral rows,
No sculptur'd urns, the last records of fate,
O'er the shrunk terrace wave their baleful boughs,
Or breathe in storied emblems of the great;

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,
That paints with different hues yon smiling plain,
Some hero's ashes issue from the tomb,
And live a vegetative life again.

For matter dies not, as the Sages say,

But shifts to other forms the pliant mass, When the free spirit quits its cumb'rous clay, And sees, beneath, the rolling planets pass. Perhaps, my Villiers, for I sing to thee,

Perhaps, unknowing of the bloom it gives, In yon fair scion of Apollo's tree

The sacred dust of young Marcellus lives. Pluck not the leaf-'t were sacrilege to wound Th' ideal memory of so sweet a shade; In these sad seats an early grave he found, And the first rites to gloomy Dis convey'd'. Witness thou field of Mars 3, that oft hadst known His youthful triumphs in the mimic war, Thou heard'st the heart-felt universal groan, When o'er thy bosom roll'd the funeral car. Witness thou Tuscan stream 4, where oft he glow'd In sportive strugglings with th' opposing wave, Fast by the recent tomb thy waters flow'd, While wept the wise, the virtuous, and the brave.

It is now a garden belonging to Marchese di Corre.

2 He is said to be the first person buried in this

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O lost too soon!-yet why lament a fate
By thousands envied, and by Heav'n approv'd?
Rare is the boon to those of longer date

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 bastily we form,

And much we pardon to ingenuous youth.

Too oft we satiate on the applause we pay
To rising merit, and resume the crown;
Full many a blooming genius snatch'd away,
Has fall'n lamented, who had liv'd unknown.

For hard the task, O Villiers, to sustain

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!

But O remember, whatsoe'er thou art, The most exalted breath of human praise

To please indeed must echo from the heart.

Though thou be brave, be virtuous, and be wise,
By all, like him, admir'd, esteem'd, belov'd;
"T is from within alone true fame can rise,
The only happy is the self-approv'd.

ELEGY III.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

GEORGE SIMON HARCOURT, VISCOUNT NUNEHAM.

WRITTEN AT ROme, 1756.

YES, noble youth, 't is true; the softer arts,
The sweetly-sounding string, and pencil's power,
Have warm'd to rapture even heroic hearts,

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,
By Heaven's permission, or by Heaven's com-

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
As heedless chance, or wanton choice ordain;
On various stations various tasks attend,
And men are born to trifle or to reign.

As chants the woodman, while the Dryads weep,
And falling forests fear th' uplifted blow;
As chants the shepherd, while he tends his sheep,
Or weaves to pliant forms the osier bough:
To me 't is given, whom Fortune loves to lead
Through humbler toils to life's sequester'd bowers,
To me 't is given to wake th' amusive reed,
And soothe with song the solitary hours.

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, Mark how she rose the world's imperial queen, And tremble at the prospect how she fell! Not that my rigid precepts would require

A painful struggling with each adverse gale, Forbid thee listen to th' enchanting lyre,

Or turn thy steps from fancy's flowery vale.

Whate'er of Greece in sculptur'd brass survives, Whate'er of Rome in mould'ring arcs remains, Whate'er of genius on the canvass lives,

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; Their arts, their magic powers, with honours due Exalt; but be thyself what they record.

ELEGY IV.

TO AN OFFICER.

WRITTEN AT ROME, 1756.

FROM Latian fields, the mansions of renown,
Where fix'd the warrior god his fated seat;
Where infant heroes learn'd the martial frown,
And little hearts for genuine glory beat;

What for my friend, my soldier, shall I frame?
What nobly-glowing verse that breathes of arms,
To point his radiant path to deathless fame,

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, And hence the Fabii, hence the Decii come: War urg'd the slaughter, though she wept the slain, Stern war, the rugged nurse of virtuous Rome.

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, By poets or historians sacred made.

Nor yet to thee the babbling Muse shall tell
What mighty kings with all their legions wrought,
What cities sunk, and storied nations fell,
When Cæsar, Titus, or when Trajan fought.

While o'er yon hill th' exalted trophy' shows
To what vast heights of incorrupted praise
The great, the self-ennobled Marius rose
From private worth, and fortune's private ways.

From steep Arpinum's rock-invested shade,
From hardy virtue's emulative school,
His daring flight th' expanding genius made,
And by obeying nobly learn'd to rule.

Abash'd, confounded, stern Iberia groan'd,

And Afric trembled to her utmost coasts; When the proud land its destin'd conqueror own'd In the new consul, and his veteran hosts.

Yet chiefs are madmen, and ambition weak,

And mean the joys the laurel'd harvests yield, If virtue fail. Let fame, let envy speak Of Capsa's walls, and Sextia's watry field.

But sink for ever, in oblivion cast,

Dishonest triumphs, and ignoble spoils. Minturnæ's Marsh severely paid at last

The guilty glories gain'd in civil broils.

Nor yet his vain contempt the Muse shall praise
For scenes of polish'd life, and letter'd worth;
The steel-rib'd warrior wants not envy's ways
To darken theirs, or call his merits forth:

Witness yon Cimbrian trophies!-Marius, there
Thy ample pinion found a space to fly,
As the plum'd eagle soaring sails in air,
In upper air, and scorns a middle sky.

Thence too thy country claim'd thee for her own,
And bade the sculptor's toil thy acts adorn,
To teach in characters of living stone

Eternal lessons to the youth unborn.

For wisely Rome her warlike sons rewards With the sweet labours of her artists' hands; He wakes her graces, who her empire guards, And both Minervas join in willing bands.

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
Beneath that hero's delegated spear,
Whose lightning smote rebellion's haughty brow,
And scatter'd her vile rout with horrour in the
rear?

O land of freedom, land of arts, assume

That graceful dignity thy merits claim; Exalt thy heroes like imperial Rome, And build their virtues on their love of fame.

The trophies of Marius, now erected before the Capitol.

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ELEGY VI.

TO THE REV. MR. SANDERSON.
WRITTEN AT ROME, 1756.

BEHOLD, my friend, to this small orb 7 confin'd,
The genuine features of Aurelius' face;
The father, friend, and lover of his kind,
Shrunk to a narrow coin's contracted space.

Not so his fame; for erst did Heaven ordain While seas should waft us, and while suns should

warm,

On tongues of nren, 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
Which pities while it blames th' unfeeling vain,
With all that active zeal to serve mankind,
That tender suffering for another's pain,

Why wert not thou to thrones imperial rais'd?
Did heedless Fortune slumber at thy birth,
Or on thy virtues with indulgence gaz'd,
And gave her grandeurs to her sons of Earth?

Happy for thee, whose less distinguish'd sphere
Now cheers in private the delighted eye,
For calm Content, and smiling Ease are there,
And, Heaven's divinest gift, sweet Liberty.
Happy for me, on life's serener flood

Who sail, by talents as by choice restrain❜d,
Else had I only shar'd the general good,
And lost the friend the universe had gain'd.

VERSES TO the people OF ENGLAND, 1758.

Mures animos in martia bella
Versibus exacuit........
BRITONS, rouse to deeds of death!-
Waste no zeal in idle breath,
Nor lose the harvest of your swords
In a civil war of words!

Wherefore teems the shameless press
With labour'd births of emptiness?
Reas'nings, which no facts produce,
Eloquence, that murders use;
Ill-tim'd humour, that beguiles
Weeping idiots of their smiles;
Wit, that knows but to defame,
And satire, that profanes the name.

7 The medal of Marcus Aurelius.

Hor.

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