Amid my well-known grove,
Where mineral fountains vainly bear
Thy boasted name, and titles fair,
Why scorns thy foot to rove P
Thou hear'st the sportsman's claim,
Enabling him, with idle noise,
To drown the muse's melting voice,
And fright the timorous game.
Is thought thy foe? Adieu,
Ye midnight lamps! ye curious tomes!
Mine eye o'er hills and valleys roams!
And deals no more with you.
Is it the clime you flee ?
Yet midst his unremitting snows
The poor Laponian's bosom glows,
And shares bright rays from thee.
There was, there was a time, When, though I scorn'd thy guardian care, Nor made a vow, nor said a prayer,
I did not rue the crime.
Who then more bless'd than IP
When the glad schoolboy's task was done,
And forth, with jocund sprite, I run
To freedom and to joy?
How jovial then the day!
What since have all my labours found,
Thus climbing life to gaze around,
That can thy loss repay?
Wert thou, alas! but kind,
Methinks no frown that fortune wears,
Nor lessen'd hopes, nor growing cares,
Could sink my cheerful mind.
Whate'er my stars include,
What other breasts convert to pain,
My towering mind should soon disdain,
Should scorn-ingratitude!
Repair this mouldering cell,
And bless'd with objects found at home,
And envying none their fairer dome,
How pleased my soul should dwell!
Temperance should guard the doors;
From room to room should mem'ry stray,
And ranging all in neat array,
Enjoy her pleasing stores-
There let them rest unknown,
The types of many a pleasing scene;
But to preserve them bright or clean,
Is thine, fair queen! alone.
TO A LADY FITTING UP HER LIBRARY.
AH! what is science, what is art,
Or what the pleasure these impart ?
Ye trophies, which the learn'd pursue
Through endless, fruitless toils, adieu!
What can the tedious tomes bestow,
To soothe the miseries they show ?
What like the bliss for him decreed
Who tends his flock and tunes his reed!
Say, wretched Fancy! thus refined
From all that glads the simplest hind,
How rare that object which supplies
A charm for too discerning eyes!
The polish'd bard, of genius vain,
Endures a deeper sense of pain;
As each invading blast devours
The richest fruits, the fairest flowers.
Sages, with irksome waste of time,
The steep ascent of knowledge climb,
Then from the towering heights they scale,
Behold contentment range-the vale.
Yet why, Asteria, tell us why
We scorn the crowd when you are nigh?
Why then does reason seem so fair,
Why learning then deserve our care?
Who can unpleased your shelves behold
While you so fair a proof unfold?
What force the brightest genius draws
From polish'd wisdom's written laws!
Where are our humbler tenets flown?
What strange perfection bids us own
That bliss with toilsome science dwells,
And happiest he who most excels ?
"Twas in a cool Aonian glade
The wanton Cupid, spent with toil,
Had sought refreshment from the shade,
And stretch'd him on the mossy soil.
A vagrant muse drew nigh, and found
The subtle traitor fast asleep;
And is it thine to snore profound,
She said, yet leave the world to weep?
But hush-from this auspicious hour
The world, I ween, may rest in peace,
And, robbed of darts, and stripped of power,
Thy peevish petulance decrease.
Sleep on, poor child! whilst I withdraw,
And this thy vile artillery hide-
When the Castalian fount she saw,
And plunged his arrows in the tide.
That magic fount-ill-judging maid!
Shall cause you soon to curse the day
You dared the shafts of love invade,
And gave his arms redoubled sway.
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