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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:
Dryden in vain to thee those stores were lent
Thy ftrongest diction idly eloquent.
The fimpleft lyre, if Truth directs its lays,
Was Parnell's modest fame, and may be mine.
Condemn me, if I check the plaufive ftring: Go to the wayward world; complete the reft; Be what the purest 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;
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 fpread,
Thy worth fhali fome fuperior bard infpire:
He to the ampleft bounds of Time's domain
On Rapture's plume (hall give thy name to fly; For truft, with rev'rence truft, this Sabine ftrain, "The Mufe forbids the virtuous man to die."
TO A FRIEND.
AH! ceafe this kind persuasive strain,
O'erpow'rs beyond the Siren's fong:
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,
Ah, no fair Fancy rules the fong:
She fwells her throat; fhe guides her tongue;
She bids the waving aspin spray
To fuit the tenor of her gurgling fighs,
And foothe her throbbing breast with folemn fympathies.
To thee, whofe young and polish'd brow
Yet fome there are, who, free from fear,
Though midnight thunders fhook the pile;
Thin fhiv'ring ghosts from yawning charnels throng,
The fainter forms of fadnefs please;
He too, perchance, when thefe poor limbs are laid,
WHEN in the crimson cloud of even,
The ling'ring light decays,
His glittering gem difplays;
Leide a lulling stream,
Ye cliffs, in hoary grandeur pil'd,
High o'er the glimmering dale;
Ye woods, along whofe winding wild
What time the wan moon's yellow horn
To you, ye waftes, whofe artless charms
Deep in your most sequester'd bow'r
Let me at last recline,
Where Solitude, mild, modeft pow'r!
How fhall I woo thee, matchless fair!
Thy smile, that smooths the brow of Care,
And ftills the ftorm within?
O wilt thou to thy fav'rite grove
Thine ardent votary bring,
And blefs his hours, and bid them move
Serene, on filent wing!
Oft let remembrance foothe his mind
With dreams of former days,
He fram'd his infant lays;
Nor cold Diftruft alarm'd,
Nor Envy, with malignant glare,
'Twas then, O Solitude, to thee