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How Adulation drops her courtly dew

On titled rhimers and inglorious kings!

See from the depths of his exhaustless mine,

His glitt'ring ftores the tuneful spendthrift throws:
Where fear or int'reft bids, beholds they thine;
Now grace a Cromwell's now a Charles's brows.
Born with too gen'rous or too mean a heart,
Dryden! in vain to thee those stores were lent;
Thy sweetest numbers but a trifling art;
Thy ftrongest diction idly eloquent.
The fimpleft lyre, if Truth directs its lays,
Warbles a melody ne'er heard from thine:
Not to difguft with falfe and venal praise,

Was Parnell's modest fame, and may be mine.
Go then, my friend, nor let thy candid breast
Condemn me, if I check the plaufive ftring:
Go to the wayward world; complete the reft;
Be what the pureft Mufe would wish to fing.
Be till thyfelf: that open path of truth,

Which led thee here, let manhood firm pursue; Retain the fweet fimplicity of youth;

And all thy virtue dictates, dare to do.

Still fcorn, with confcious pride, the mask of art;
On Vice's front let fearful caution low'r;

And teach the diffident, difcreeter part

Of knaves that plot, and fools that fawn for pow'r.

So, round thy brow when Age's honours spread,
When Death's cold hand unftrings thy Mafon's lyre,.

When the green turf lies lightly on his head,

Thy worth fhali fome fuperior bard infpire:

He to the ampleft bounds of Time's domain

On Rapture's plume thall give thy name to fly; For truft, with rev'rence truft, this Sabine ftrain, "The Mufe forbids the virtuous man to die."




AH! ceafe this kind perfuafive strain,

Which, when it flows from Friendship's tongue,
However weak, however vain,

O'erpow'rs beyond the Siren's fong:
Leave me, my friend, indulgent go,
And let me mufe upon my woe.
Why lure me from these pale retreats?
Why rob me of these penfive fweets?
Can Mufic's voice, can beauty's eye,
Can Painting's glowing hand fupply
A charm fo fuited to my mind,
As blows this hollow guft of wind,
As drops this little weeping rill,

Soft tinkling down the mofs-grown hill,

While thro' the weft, where finks the crimson day,

Meek Twilight flowly fails, and waves her banners gray!


Say, from Affliction's various fource
Do none but turbid waters flow?

And cannot Fancy clear their course?
For Fancy is the friend of Woe.

Say, mid that grove, in love-lorn state,
While yon poor Ringdove mourns her mate,
Is all that meets the shepherd's ear,
Infpir'd by anguish and despair?

Ah, no! fair Fancy rules the fong:

She fwells her throat; fhe guides her tongue;
She bids the waving afpin fpray

Quiver in cadence to her lay;
She bids the fringed ofiers bow,
And ruffle round the lake below,

To fuit the tenor of her gurgling fighs,

And foothe her throbbing breast with folemn fympathies.


To thee, whofe young and polish'd brow
The wrinkling hand of Sorrow spares;
Whole cheeks, beftrew'd with rofes, know
No channel for the tide of tears;
To thee yon abbey, dank and lone,
Where ivy chains each mouldering ftone
That nods o'er many a martyr's tomb,
May caft a formidable gloom.

Yet fome there are, who, free from fear,
Could wander through the cloisters drear,
Could rove each defolated aile,

Though midnight thunders fhook the pile;
And dauntless view, or feem to view,

(As faintly flash the light'nings blue,)

Thin fhiv'ring ghofts from yawning charnels throng, And glance with filent sweep the shaggy vaults along


But fuch terrific charms as thefe,

I afk not yet; my fober mind

The fainter forms of fadnefs please;
My forrows are of softer kind.
Through this ftill valley let me ftray,
Rapt in fome ftrain of penfive GRAY:
Whofe lofty genius bears along
The confcious dignity of fong;
And fcorning from the facred ftore
To waste a note on Pride or lower,
Roves through the glimmering twilight gloom,
And warbles round each ruftic tomb:
He too, perchance (for well I know,

His heart can melt with friendly woe),

He too, perchance, when these poor limbs are laid, Will heave one tuneful figh, and foothe my hovering





WHEN in the crimson cloud of even,

The ling'ring light decays,
And Hefper on the front of heaven

His glittering gem displays;
Deep in the filent vale, unfeen,

I.efide a lulling ftream,
A penfive youth of placid mien,
Indulged his tender theme.

Ye cliffs, in hoary grandeur pil'd,

High o'er the glimmering dale;

Ye woods, along whofe winding wild

Murmurs the folemn gale; Where Melancholy ftrays forlorn,

And Woe retires to weep,

What time the wan moon's yellow horn
Gleams on the western deep.

Το you, ye waftes, whofe artless charms
Ne'er drew Ambition's eye,
'Scap'd a tumultuous world's alarms,
To your retreats I fly.

Deep in your most fequefter'd bow'r

Let me at laft recline,

Where Solitude, mild, modest pow'r!
Leans on her ivy'd shrine.

How fhall I woo thee, matchless fair!
Thy heavenly fiile how win;

Thy fmile, that smooths the brow of Care,
And ftills the ftorm within?

O wilt thou to thy fav'rite grove

Thine ardent votary bring,

And bless his hours, and bid them move

Serene, on filent wing!

Oft let remembrance foothe his mind

With dreams of former days,
When in the lap of Peace reclin'd

He fram'd his infant days;
When Fancy rov'd at large, nor Care,

Nor cold Diftruft alarm'd,

Nor Envy, with malignant glare,
His fimple youth had harin'd.

"Twas then, O Solitude, to thee
His early vows were paid,

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