LVI.

Nor love of novelty alone inspires,

Their laws and nice dependencies to scan ;

For, mindful of the aids that life requires,

And of the services man owes to man,

He meditates new arts on Nature's plan;

The cold desponding breast of Sloth to warm,

The flame of Industry and Genius fan,

And Emulation's noble rage alarm,

And the long hours of Toil and Solitude to charm.

LVII.

But She, who set on fire his infant heart,

And all his dreams, and all his wanderings shared
And blessed, the Muse, and her celestial art,
Still claim the Enthusiast's fond and first regard.
From Nature's beauties variously compared,

And variously combined, he learns to frame
Those forms of bright perfection, which the Bard,
While boundless hopes and boundless views inflame,
Enamoured consecrates to never-dying fame.

E

LVIII.

Of late, with cumbersome, though pompous show,
Edwin would oft his flowery rhyme deface,

Through ardour to adorn; but Nature now
To his experienced eye a modest grace

Presents, where Ornament the second place
Holds, to intrinsic worth and just design
Subservient still. Simplicity apace

Tempers his rage: he owns her charm divine,

And clears the ambiguous phrase, and lops the un

wieldy line.

LIX.

Fain would I sing (much yet unsung remains)

What sweet delirium o'er his bosom stole,

When the great Shepherd of the Mantuan plains

His deep majestic melody 'gan roll:

Fain would I sing, what transport stormed his soul, How the red current throbbed his veins along, When, like Pelides, bold beyond controul,

Gracefully terrible, sublimely strong,

Homer raised high to heaven the loud, the impetuous

song.

LX.

And how his lyre, though rude her first essays,

Now skilled to sooth, to triumph, to complain, Warbling at will through each harmonious maze, Was taught to modulate the artful strain,

I fain would sing: but ah! I strive in vain. Sighs from a breaking heart my voice confound. With trembling step, to join yon weeping train, I haste, where gleams funereal glare around, And, mixed with shrieks of woe, the knells of death

resound.

LXI.

Adieu, ye lays, that fancy's flowers adorn,
The soft amusement of the vacant mind!
He sleeps in dust, and all the Muses mourn,
He, whom each virtue fired, each grace refined,
Friend, teacher, pattern, darling of mankind!
He sleeps in dust. Ah! how should I pursue
My theme! To heart-consuming grief resigned,
Here, on his recent grave I fix my view,

And pour my bitter tears.-Ye flowery lays, adieu !

LXII.

Art thou, my GREGORY, for ever fled !

And am I left to unavailing woe!

When fortune's storms assail this weary head,

Where cares long since have shed untimely snow,
Ah, now for comfort whither shall I go !

No more thy soothing voice my anguish chears:
Thy placid eyes with smiles no longer glow,
My hopes to cherish, and allay my fears.

"Tis meet that I should mourn :-flow forth afresh my

tears.

POEMS

ON

SEVERAL OCCASIONS.