Where is the dappled pink, the sprightly rose?
The cowslip's golden cup no more I see:
Dark and discolour'd every flower that blows,
To form the garland, Elegy! for thee!-
Enough of tears has wept the virtuous dead;
Ah! might we now the pious rage control!
Hush'd be my grief ere every smile be fled,
Ere the deep-swelling sigh subvert the soul!
If near some trophy spring a stripling bay,
Pleased we behold the gracefu! umbrage rise
But soon too deep it works its baneful way,
And low on earth the prostrate ruin lies 2.

;

HE DESCRIBES HIS DISINTERESTEDNESS.
To a friend.

I NE'ER must tinge my lip with Celtic wines;
The pomp of India must I ne'er display;
Nor boast the produce of Peruvian mines,

Nor with Italian sounds deceive the day.

Down yonder brook my crystal beverage flows; My grateful sheep their annual fleeces bring; Fair in my garden buds the damask rose,

And from my grove I hear the throstle sing. My fellow swains! avert your dazzled eyes; In vain allured by glittering spoils they rove; The Fates ne'er meant them for the shepherd's prize, Yet gave them ample recompense in love.

2 Alludes to what is reported of the bay-tree, that if it is planted too near the walls of an edifice, its roots will work their way underneath, till they destroy the foundation.

They gave you vigour from your parents' veins; They gave you toils; but toils your sinews brace; They gave you nymphs that own their amorous pains,

And shades, the refuge of the gentle race.

To carve your loves, to paint your mutual flames, See! polish'd fair, the beech's friendly rind! To sing soft carols to your lovely dames,

See vocal grots, and echoing vales assign'd!

Wouldst thou, my Strephon, Love's delighted slave!

Though sure the wreaths of chivalry to share, Forego the ribbon thy Matilda gave,

And giving, bade thee in remembrance wear? Ill fare my peace, but every idle toy,

If to my mind my Delia's form it brings, Has truer worth, imparts sincerer joy,

Than all that bears the radiant stamp of kings. O my soul weeps, my breast with anguish bleeds, When Love deplores the tyrant power of Gain! Disdaining riches as the futile weeds,

I rise superior, and the rich disdain.

Oft from the stream, slow-wandering down the glade,

Pensive I hear the nuptial peal rebound; Some miser weds (I cry) the captive maid, And some fond lover sickens at the sound.'

Not Somervile, the Muse's friend of old!

Though now exalted to yon ambient sky, So shunn'd a soul distain'd with earth and gold, So loved the pure, the generous breast, as I.

Scorn'd be the wretch that quits his genial bowl,
His loves, his friendships, e'en his self resigns;
Perverts the sacred instinct of his soul,
And to a ducat's dirty sphere confines.

But come, my bless'd,

friend! with taste, with science

Ere age impair me, and ere gold allure; Restore thy dear idea to my breast,

The rich deposit shall the shrine secure.

Let others toil to gain the sordid ore,

The charms of independence let us sing; Bless'd with thy friendship, can I wish for more? I'll spurn the boasted wealth of Lydia's king'.

TO FORTUNE,

SUGGESTING HIS MOTIVE FOR REPINING AT HER

DISPENSATIONS.

ASK not the cause why this rebellious tongue
Loads with fresh curses thy detested sway;
Ask not, thus branded in my softest song,
Why stands the flatter'd name which all obey?
'Tis not, that in my shed I lurk forlorn,
Nor see my roof on Parian columns rise;
That on this breast no mimic star is borne
Revered, ah! more than those that light the skies.
'Tis not, that on the turf supinely laid,
I sing or pipe, but to the flocks that graze;
And, all inglorious, in the lonesome shade
My finger stiffens, and my voice decays.

1 Crœsus.

Not, that my fancy mourns thy stern command, When many an embryo dome is lost in air; While guardian Prudence checks my eager hand, And, ere the turf is broken, cries, Forbear!

Forbear, vain youth! be cautious, weigh thy gold, Nor let yon rising column more aspire; Ah! better dwell in ruins than behold

Thy fortunes mouldering, and thy domes entire. Honorio built, but dared my laws defy;

He planted, scornful of my sage commands, The peach's vernal bud regaled his eye,

The fruitage ripen'd for more frugal hands.

'See the small stream, that pours its murmuring tide O'er some rough rock that would its wealth display,

Displays it aught but penury and pride?

Ah! construe wisely what such murmurs say.

'How would some flood, with ampler treasures bless'd,

Disdainful view the scantling drops distil! How must Velino shake his reedy crest! How every cygnet mock the boastive rill!' Fortune! I yield: and see, I give the sign;

At noon the poor mechanic wanders home, Collects the square, the level, and the line,

And with retorted eye forsakes the dome. Yes, I can patient view the shadeless plains; Can unrepining leave the rising wall;

Check the fond love of art that fired my veins, And my warm hopes in full pursuit recall.

A river in Italy, that falls 100 yards perpendicular.

Descend, ye storms! destroy my rising pile; Loosed be the whirlwind's unremitting sway; Contented I, although the gazer smile,

To see it scarce survive a winter's day.

Let some dull dotard bask in thy gay shrine,
As in the sun regales his wanton herd;
Guiltless of envy, why should I repine

That his rude voice, his grating reed's preferr❜d? Let him exult, with boundless wealth supplied, Mine and the swain's reluctant homage share; But, ah! his tawdry shepherdess's pride,

Gods! must my Delia, must my Delia bear? Must Delia's softness, elegance, and ease,

Submit to Marian's dress? to Marian's gold? Must Marian's robe from distant India please? The simple fleece my Delia's limbs enfold: Yet sure on Delia seems the russet fair;

Ye glittering daughters of Disguise, adieu!' So talk the wise, who judge of shape and air, But will the rural thane decide so true?

Ah! what is native worth esteem'd of clowns? 'Tis thy false glare, O Fortune! thine they see; 'Tis for my Delia's sake I dread thy frowns,

And my last gasp shall curses breathe on thee.