Many men of less worth, you partially cry, 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 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 thou 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, 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 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 great, the virtuous, and the wise, They fix the philosophic eye, The lightning of the lance. 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! 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 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, 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, 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 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. Mark, while the Marne in yon full channel glides, 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, 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, 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 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 bastily we form, And much we pardon to ingenuous youth. Too oft we satiate on the applause we pay 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, 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 "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, Not for ourselves our vagrant steps we bend 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, 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, What for my friend, my soldier, shall I frame? 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 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; 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 Witness yon Cimbrian trophies!-Marius, there Thence too thy country claim'd thee for her own, 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 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. ELEGY VI. TO THE REV. MR. SANDERSON. BEHOLD, my friend, to this small orb 7 confin'd, 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 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, VERSES TO the people OF ENGLAND, 1758. Mures animos in martia bella Wherefore teems the shameless press 7 The medal of Marcus Aurelius. Hor. |