He little knew the sly penurious art,

That odious art which Fortune's favourites know; Form'd to bestow, he felt the warmest heart, But envious Fate forbade him to bestow. He little knew to ward the secret wound; He little knew that mortals could ensnare; Virtue he knew; the noblest joy he found, To sing her glories, and to paint her fair! Ill was he skill'd to guide his wandering sheep, And unforeseen disaster thinn'd his fold; Yet at another's loss the swain would weep,

And for his friend his very crook was sold.
Ye sons of wealth! protect the Muses' train;
From winds protect them, and with food supply;
Ah! helpless they, to ward the threaten'd pain,
The meagre famine, and the wintry sky!

He loved a nymph; amidst his slender store
He dared to love; and Cynthia was his theme:
He breathed his plaints along the rocky shore,
They only echo'd o'er the winding stream.
His nymph was fair! the sweetest bud that blows
Revives less lovely from the recent shower;
So Philomel, enamour'd, eyes the rose;

Sweet bird! enamour'd of the sweetest flower.
He loved the Muse; she taught him to complain;
He saw his timorous loves on her depend;
He loved the Muse, although she taught in vain;
He loved the Muse, for she was Virtue's friend.
She guides the foot that treads on Parian floors;
She wins the ear when formal pleas are vain;
She tempts patricians from the fatal doors
Of Vice's brothel forth to Virtue's fane.

He wish'd for wealth, for much he wish'd to give; He grieved that Virtue might not wealth obtain: Piteous of woes, and hopeless to relieve,

The pensive prospect sadden'd all his strain. I saw him faint! I saw him sink to rest,

Like one ordain'd to swell the vulgar throng! As though the Virtues had not warm'd his breast, As though the Muses not inspired his tongue. I saw his bier ignobly cross the plain ;

Saw peasant hands the pious rite supply:
The generous rustics mourn'd the friendly swain,
But Power and Wealth's unvarying cheek was
dry!

Such Alcon fell; in meagre want forlorn!
Where were ye then, ye powerful Patrons!

where?

Would ye the purple should your limbs adorn, Go wash the conscious blemish with a tear.

OPHELIA'S URN.

To Mr. Graves.

THROUGH the dim veil of evening's dusky shade, Near some lone fane, or yew's funereal green, What dreary forms has magic fear survey'd! What shrouded spectres Superstition seen! But you, secure, shall pour your sad complaint, Nor dread the meagre phantom's wan array; What none but Fear's officious hand can paint, What none but Superstition's eye survey.

The glimmering twilight and the doubtful dawn
Shall see your step to these sad scenes return:
Constant, as crystal dews impearl the lawn,
Shall Strephon's tear bedew Ophelia's urn.
Sure nought unhallow'd shall presume to stray
Where sleep the relics of that virtuous maid;
Nor aught unlovely bend its devious way
Where soft Ophelia's dear remains are laid.
Haply thy Muse, as with unceasing sighs
She keeps late vigils on her urn reclined,
May see light groups of pleasing visions rise,
And phantoms glide, but of celestial kind.
Then Fame, her clarion pendent at her side,
Shall seek forgiveness of Ophelia's shade;
Why has such worth, without distinction, died?
Why, like the desert's lily, bloom'd to fade?'
Then young Simplicity, averse to feign,

Shall, unmolested, breathe her softest sigh; And Candour with unwonted warmth complain, - And Innocence indulge a wailful cry. Then Elegance, with coy judicious hand,

Shall cull fresh flowerets for Ophelia's tomb; And Beauty chide the Fates' severe command, That show'd the frailty of so fair a bloom! And Fancy then, with wild ungovern'd woe, Shall her loved pupil's native taste explain; For mournful sable all her hues forego,

And ask sweet solace of the Muse in vain ! Ah! gentle forms! expect no fond relief;

Too much the sacred Nine their loss deplore: Well may ye grieve, nor find an end of grief— Your best, your brightest favourite is no more.

HE COMPARES THE TURBULENCE OF LOVE WITH THE TRANQUILLITY OF FRIENDSHIP.

To Melissa, his friend.

FROM Love, from angry Love's inclement reign I pass a while to Friendship's equal skies; Thou, generous Maid! relievest my partial pain, And cheer'st the victim of another's eyes.

'Tis thou, Melissa, thou deservest my care; How can my will and reason disagree? How can my passion live beneath despair? How can my bosom sigh for aught but thee? Ah, dear Melissa! pleased with thee to rove, My soul has yet survived its dreariest time; Ill can 1 bear the various clime of Love:

Love's is a pleasing but a various clime.

So smiles immortal Maro's favourite shore, Parthenope, with every verdure crown'd; When straight Vesuvio's horrid caldrons roar, And the dry vapour blasts the regions round.

Oh, blissful regions! oh, unrival'd plains!

When Maro to these fragrant haunts retired: Oh, fatal realms! and, oh, accursed domains! When Pliny mid sulphureous clouds expired.

So smiles the surface of the treacherous main, As o'er its waves the peaceful halcyons play, When soon rude winds their wonted rule regain, And sky and ocean mingle in the fray.

But let or air contend or ocean rave;

E'en Hope subside, amid the billows toss'd; Hope, still emergent, still contemns the wave, And not a feature's wonted smile is lost.

TO A LADY,

ON THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS.

COME then, Dione, let us range the grove,
The science of the feather'd choirs explore,
Hear linnets argue, larks descant of love,

And blame the gloom of solitude no more.

My doubt subsides-'tis no Italian song,

Nor senseless ditty cheers the vernal tree: Ah! who that hears Dione's tuneful tongue Shall doubt that music may with sense agree?

And come, my Muse! that lovest the silvan shade,
Evolve the mazes, and the mist dispel ;
Translate the song; convince my doubting maid
No solemn dervise can explain so well.-

Pensive beneath the twilight shades I sat,
The slave of hopeless vows and cold disdain!
When Philomel address'd his mournful mate,
And thus I construed the mellifluent strain:

-

Sing on, my bird!-the liquid notes prolong, At every note a lover sheds his tear; Sing on, my bird!-'tis Damon hears thy song, Nor doubt to gain applause when lovers hear.