Where Melancholý strays forlorn,

And Wo retires to weep,

What time the wan moon's yellow horn,

Gleams on the western deep:

To you, ye wastes, whose artless charms Ne'er drew Ambition's eye,

Scaped a tumultuous world's alarms,

To your retreats I fly.

Deep in your most sequester'd bower

Let me at last recline,

Where Solitude, mild, modest Power,

Leans on her ivy'd shrine.

How shall I woo thee, matchless Fair!

Thy heavenly smile how win!

Thy smile that smooths the brow of Care,

And stills the storm within.

O wilt thou to thy favourite grove

Thine ardent votary bring,

And bless his hours, and bid them move

Serene, on silent wing!

Oft let remembrance sooth his mind

With dreams of former days,

When in the lap of Peace reclined

He framed his infant lays;

When Fancy roved at large, nor Care

Nor cold Distrust alarm'd,

Nor envy with malignant glare

His simple youth had harm'd.

'T was then, O Solitude, to thee

His early vows were paid,

From heart sincere, and warm, and free,

Devoted to the shade.

Ah why did Fate his steps decoy

In stormy paths to roam,

Remote from all congenial joy !....

O take the Wanderer home.

Thy shades, thy silence, now be mine,

Thy charms my only theme;

My haunt the hollow cliff, whose pine

Waves o'er the gloomy stream,

Whence the scared owl on pinions grey

Breaks from the rustling boughs,

And down the lone vale sails away

To more profound repose.

O, while to thee the woodland pours
Its wildly warbling song,

And balmy from the bank of flowers

The zephyr breathes along;

Let no rude sound invade from far,

No vagrant foot be nigh,

No ray from Grandeur's gilded car,

Flash on the startled eye.

But if some pilgrim through the glade

Thy hallow'd bowers explore,

O guard from harm his hoary head,

And listen to his lore;

For he of joys divine shall tell,

That wean from earthly wo,

And triumph o'er the mighty spell

That chains his heart below.

For me, no more the path invites
Ambition loves to tread ;

No more I climb those toilsome heights
By guileful Hope misled;

Leaps my fond fluttering heart no more

To Mirth's enlivening strain;

For present pleasure soon is o'er,

ELEGY.

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1758.

STILL shall unthinking man substantial deem
The forms that fleet through life's deceitful dream?
Till at some stroke of Fate the vision flies,

And sad realities in prospect rise;

And, from Elysian slumbers rudely torn,
The startled soul awakes, to think, and mourn.

O ye, whose hours in jocund train advance,
Whose spirits to the song of gladness dance,
Who flowery plains in endless pomp survey,
Glittering in beams of visionary day ;

O, yet while Fate delays th' impending wo,
Be roused to thought, anticipate the blow;
Lest, like the lightning's glance, the sudden ill
Flash to confound, and penetrate to kill;
Lest, thus encompass'd with funereal gloom,

Like me, ye bend o'er some untimely tomb,