What forrow was, thou bad'ft her know,

And from her own fhe learn'd to melt at other's woe.

Scar'd at thy frown terrific, fly
Self-pleafing folly's idle brood,

Wild laughter, noife, and thoughtless joy,
And leave us leifure to be good.

Light they difperfe, and with them go

The fummer friend, the flatt'ring foe;

By vain profperity receiv'd,

To her they vow their truth, and are again believ'd,

Wisdom in fable garb array'd,

Immers'd in rapt'rous thought profound,

And melancholy, filent maid

With leaden eye, that loves the ground;
Still on thy folemn steps attend:

Warm charity, the general friend,

With juftice, to herself fevere,

And pity, dropping foft the fadly-pleafing tear.

Oh, gently on thy fuppliant's head,
Dread goddefs, lay thy chaft'ning hand!

Not in thy gorgon terrors clad,

Nor circled with the vengeful band

(As by the impious thou art feen)

With thund'ring voice, and threat'ning mien,
With fcreaming horror's funeral cry,

Defpair, and fell difeafe, and ghaftly poverty.

Thy form benign, oh goddefs, wear,
Thy milder influence impart,
Thy philofophic train be there
To foften, not to wound my heart.
The generous fpark extinct revive,
Teach me to love and to forgive,
Exact my own defects to fcan,

What others are, to feel, and know myself a man.

VERSES to SOLITUDE. From MISCELLANIES in Proft and Verfe, by Mrs. CHAPON 2, Author of Letters on the Improvement of the Mind.

HOU gentle nurfe of pleafing woe!

TH

To thee, from crowds, and noife, and show,

With

With eager hafte I fly.
Thrice welcome, friendly Solitude!
O let no bufy foot intrude,

Nor lift'ning ear be nigh.

Soft, filent, melancholy maid!
With thee to yon fequefter'd fhade
My penfive fteps I bend ;
Still, at the mild approach of night,
When Cynthia lends her sober light,
Do thou my walk attend!

To thee alone my conscious heart
Its tender forrow dares impart,

And ease my lab'ring breaft;
To thee I trust the rifing figh,
And bid the tear that fwells mine eye
No longer be fuppreft.

With thee among the haunted groves
The lovely forc'refs fancy roves,
O let me find her here!

For the can time and space controul,
And fwift tranfport my fleeting foul
To all it holds most dear!

Ah no!-ye vain delufions hence!
No more the hallowed influence
Of folitude pervert!

Shall fancy cheat the precious hour,
Sacred to wifdom's awful pow'r
And calm reflection's part?

O Wisdom! from the fea-beat shore
Where, lift'ning to the folemn roar,
Thy lov'd Eliza ftrays,
Vouchsafe to vifit my retreat,
And teach my erring, trembling feet
Thy heav'n-protected ways!

Oh guide me to the humble cell
Where refignation loves to dwell,
Contentment's bow'r in view,

Nor pining grief with absence drear,
Nor fick fufpenfe, nor anxious fear,

Shall there my steps purfue.

Mrs. Elizabeth Carter, a lady well known to the literary world, author of

a beautiful Ode to Wisdom.

There

There let my foul to Him afpire,

Whom 'none e'er fought with vain defire,
Nor lov'd in fad defpair!

There, to his gracious will divine
My deareft, fondest hope refign,
And all my tenderest care!

Then peace fhall heal this wounded breast,
That pants to fee another bleft,

From felfish paffion pure;

Peace, which when human wishes rife
Intenfe, for aught beneath the skies,
Can never be fecure.

ODE on the PLEASURE arifing from VICISSITUDE, left unfinifoed by the late Mr. GRAY; with Additions to compleat it, by Mr. MASON. From Mr. MASON's Edition of Mr. GRAY's Works. The Additions are in Italicks.

NOW the golden morn aloft

Waves her dew-befpangled wing,

With vermil cheek, and whilper soft
She woos the tardy spring:

Till April ftarts, and calls around

The fleeping fragrance from the ground;
And lightly o'er the living fcene
Scatters his fresheft, tenderest greep.

New-born flocks, in ruftic dance,
Friking ply their feeble feet;
Forgetful of their wintry trance.
The birds his prefence greet:
But chief, the ky-lark warbles high
His trembling thrilling extacy;
And, leffening from the dazzled fight,
Melts into air and liquid light.

Rife, my foul! on wings of fire,
Rife the rapt'rous choir among;
Hark! 'tis nature ftrikes the lyre,
And leads the general fong:
Warm let the lyric transport flow,
Warm, as the ray that bids it glow ;
And animates the vernal grove
With health, with harmony, and love.

Yesterday

Yesterday the fullen year
Saw the fnowy whirlwind fly;
Mute was the mufic of the air,
The herd flood drooping by:
Their raptures now that wildly flow,
No yesterday, nor morrow know;
'Tis man alone that joy defcries
With forward, and reverted eyes.
Smiles on paft misfortune's brow
Soft reflection's hand can trace;
And o'er the cheek of forrow throw
A melancholy grace;

While hope prolongs our happier hour,
Or deepest fhades, that dimly lower
And blacken round our weary way,
Gilds with a gleam of distant day.
Still, where rofy pleasure leads
See a kindred grief purfue;
Behind the steps that mifery treads
Approaching comfort view;

The hues of blifs more brightly glow,
Chaftis'd by fabler tints of woe;
And blended form, with artful strife,
The ftrength and harmony of life.

See the wretch, that long has toft
On the thorny bed of pain,
At length repair his vigour loft,
And breathe, and walk again:
The meanest floweret of the vale,
The fimpleft note that fwells the gale,
The common fun, the air, the skies,
To him are opening paradise.

Humble quiet builds her cell,

Near the fource whence pleasure flows;

She eyes the clear * crystalline well,

And tastes it as it goes.

While far below the madding croud
Rufh beadlong to the dangerous flood,
Where broad and turbulent it fweeps,
And perish in the boundless deeps.
Mark where indolence, and pride,
Sooth'd by flattery's tinkling sound,

So Milton accents the word :

On the crystalline sky, in fapphire thron'd. P. L. Book vi. v. 772.

Go,

Go, foftly rolling, fide by fide,
Their dull, but daily round:
To thefe, if Hebe's felf fhould bring
The purest cup from pleajure's Spring,
Say, can they taste the flavour high
Of fober, fimple, genuine joy?

Mark ambition's march fublime
Up to power's meridian height;
While pale-ey'd envy fees him climb,
And fickens at the fight.

Phantoms of danger, death, and dread,
Float hourly round ambition's bead;
While Spleen, within his rival's breaft,
Sits brooding on her fcorpion neft.

Happier he, the peasant, far,
From the pangs of paffion free,
That breathes the keen yet wholefome air
Of rugged penury.

He, when his morning task is done,
Can flumber in the noon-tide fun;
And hie him home, at evening's clofe,
To fweet repaft, and calm repofe.

He, unconfcious whence the blifs,
Feels, and orens in carols rude,
That all the circling joys are his,
Of dear viciffitude.

From toil be wins his fpirits light,
From bufy day, the peaceful night;
Rich, from the very want of wealth;

In heav'n's best treasures, peace and health.

An ODE for the REGATTA, or WATER-JUBILEE. Performed on Friday, the 23d of July, 1775, at RANELAGH.

RITANNIA! bleft with foft repose,
(Whose fields in richest robes are drest,
Whofe vallies fpread their verdant veft)
Thus from her peaceful palace rose,

And to the Deities her pray'r addrest !
"O'er my fair ifle (the glory of the main)
This day may love triumphant reign!"

The goddess never prays in vain ;

At Jove's fupreme, propitious nod,
Forth from the chambers of the main
Quick darts the coral-crowned god!

Glad