She gazed as I slowly withdrew;
My path I could hardly discern ;
So sweetly she bade me adieu,

I thought that she bade me return.
The pilgrim that journeys all day
To visit some far distant shrine,
If he bear but a relique away,

Is happy, nor heard to repine.
Thus widely removed from the fair,
Where my vows, my devotion, I owe,
Soft hope is the relique I bear,
And my solace wherever I go.

2. THE FAIRIES' GROTTO.

Here, in cool grot and mossy cell,
We rural fays and fairies dwell;
Though rarely seen by mortal eye,
When the pale moon, ascending high,
Darts through yon limes her quivering beans,
We frisk it near these crystal streams.
Her beams reflected from the wave,
Afford the light our revels crave;
This turf, with daisies broidered o’er,
Exceeds, we think, the marble floor;
Nor yet for artful strains we call,
But listen to the waterfall.

Would you then taste our tranquil scene,
Be sure your bosoms are serene;
Devoid of hate, devoid of strife,
Devoid of all that poisons life;

And much it 'vails you, in their place,
To graft the love of human care.

And tread with awe these favour'd bowers,

Nor wound the shrubs, nor bruise the flowers;
So may your path with sweets abound,
So may your couch with rest be crown'd,
But harm betide the wayward swain,
Who dares our sacred haunts profane.

CLXXIX. WILLIAM WHITEHEAD, 1715-1785.

THE GRECIAN YOUTH.

A Grecian youth of talents rare,
Whom Plato's philosophic care
Had formed for virtue's nobler view,
By precept and example too,

Would often boast his matchless skill,
To curb the steed, and guide the wheel,
And, as he pass'd the gazing throng
With graceful ease and smacked the thong,
The idiot wonder they express'd,

Was praise and transport to his breast.

At length, quite vain, he needs would show His master what his art could do;

And bade his slaves the chariot lead

To Academus' sacred shade.

The trembling grove confess'd its fright,
The wood-nymphs startled at the sight,
The muses drop the learned lyre,
And to their inmost shades retire!
Howe'er, the youth with forward air
Bows to the sage and mounts the car.
The lash resounds, the coursers spring,
The chariot marks the rolling ring,
And gathering crowds, with eager eyes
And shouts, pursue him as he flies.

Triumphant to the gaol return'd,
With nobler thirst his bosom burn'd;
And now along th' indented plain,
The self-same track he marks again;
Pursues with care the nice design,
Nor ever deviates from the line.
Amazement seized the circling crowd;
The youths with emulation glow'd;
E'en bearded sages hail'd the boy,
And all, but Plato, gazed with joy.
For he, deep-judging sage, beheld
With pain the triumphs of the field;
And when the charioteer drew nigh,
And flushed with hope, had caught his eye:

"Alas! unhappy youth," he cried,
"Expect no praise from me," and sighed;
"With indignation I survey

Such skill and judgment thrown away.
The time profusely squandered there
On vulgar arts beneath thy care,
If well employ'd, at less expense,
Had taught thee honour, virtue, sense,
And raised thee from a coachman's fate
govern men, and guide the state."

To

CLXXX. RICHARD GRAVES, 1715-17**.

TEMPERANCE.

Ye fair, whose roses feel the approaching frost,
And drops supply the place of spirits lost:
Ye squires, who, racked with gouts, at heaven repine,
Condemn'd to water for excess in wine:

Ye portly cits, so corpulent and full,

Who eat and drink 'till appetite grows dull;
For whets and bitters then unstring the purse,
Whilst nature, more opprest, gets worse and worse:
Dupes to the craft of pill-prescribing leeches,
You nod or laugh at what the parson preaches :
Hear then a rhyming quack, who spurns your wealth,
And gratis gives a sure receipt for health.
No more thus vainly roam o'er sea and land,
When, lo! a sovereign remedy at hand:
'Tis Temperance-stale cant!-'Tis fasting then,
Heaven's antidote against the sins of men.
Foul luxury's the cause of all your pain:
To scour the obstructed glands, abstain, abstain!
Fast, and take rest, ye candidates for sleep,
Who from high food tormenting vigils keep:
Fast and be fat, thou starveling in a gown:
Ye bloated, fast-'twill surely bring you down,
Ye nymphs that pine o'er chocolate and rolls,
Hence take fresh bloom, fresh vigour to your souls.
Fast and fear not-you'll need no drop nor pill:
Hunger may starve, excess is sure to kill.

CLXXXI. JOHN GILBERT COOPER, 17**-1769.

LIFE.

Offspring of folly and of noise,
Fantastic train of airy joys,

Cease, cease your vain delusive lore,
And tempt my serious thoughts no more,
Ye horrid forms, ye gloomy throng,
Who hear the bird of midnight's song;
Thou too, Despair, pale spectre, come
From the self-murderer's haunted tomb,
While sad Melpomene relates,
How we're afflicted by the fates.

What's all this wished-for empire, life?
A scene of misery, care, and strife;
And, make the most, that's all we have
Betwixt the cradle and the grave.
The being is not worth the charge;
Behold the estimate at large.
Our youth is silly, idle, vain,
Our age is full of care and pain:
From wealth accrues anxiety;
Contempt and want from poverty:
What trouble business has in store!
How idleness fatigues us more!
To reason the ignorant are blind;
The learned's eyes are too refined;
Each wit deems every wit his foe;
Each fool is naturally so;

And every rank and every station
Meet justly with disapprobation.
Say, man, is this the boasted state,
Where all is pleasant, all is great ?
Alas! another face you'll see,
Take off the veil of vanity;

To aught in pleasure, aught in power,
Has wisdom any gift in store,
To make thee stay a single hour?

CLXXXII. JOHN HAWKESWORTH, 1715-1773.

HYMN.

In sleep's serene oblivion laid,
I safely pass'd the silent night;
At once I see the breaking shade,
And drink again the morning light.

New-born-I bless the waking hour,
Once more, with awe, rejoice to be;
My conscious soul resumes her power,
And springs, my gracious God, to thee.

Oh! guide me through the various maze
My doubtful feet are doom'd to tread;
And spread thy shield's protecting blaze,
When dangers press around my head.

A deeper shade will soon impend,
A deeper sleep my eyes oppress;
Yet still thy strength shall me defend,
Thy goodness still shall deign to bless.

That deeper shade shall fade away,
That deeper sleep shall leave my eyes;
Thy light shall give eternal day;

Thy love the rapture of the skies!

CLXXXIII. Dr JOHN BROWNE, 1715-1766.

MERCY.

Amid the tumult's rage remember mercy!

Stain not a righteous cause with guiltless blood!
Warn our brave friends, that we unsheathe the sword,
Not to destroy, but save! nor let blind zeal,
Or wanton cruelty e'er turn its edge
On age or innocence! or bid us strike
Where the most pitying angel in the skies,
That now looks on us from his blest abode,
Would wish that we should spare.

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