Imágenes de páginas

Luxuriously fad, I'll see

With choicest garlands weekly dress'd.
Come, then, the wicker-basket bring ;

Come, Memory, and with me go!
Each lovely flower that breathes the spring

Affection's gentle hand thall strew:
A mellow tear of soothing woe,

Shall o'er the graves spontaneous fall;
While Heav’n the heart's still with shall hear,

And to each other grant us all.



ERE yet, ingenuous youth, thy steps retire

From Cam's smooth margin, and the peaceful vale, Where Science call'd thee to her studious quire,

And met thee musing in her cloisters pale;
O let thy friend (and may he boast the name!)

Breathe from his artlefs reed one parting lay:
A lay like this thy early virtues claim,

And this let voluntary friendship pay.
Yet know, the time arrives, the dang’rou's time;

When all those virtues, op'ning now fo fair, Transplanted to the world's tempestuous clime, Must learn each paßion's boist'rous breath to bear;

There, if Ambition, peftilent and pale,

Or Luxury should taint their vernal glow; , If cold self-intereft, with her chilling gale, , ,

Should blast th’unfolding bloffoms e'er they blow; If mimic hues, by Art or Fashion spread,

Their genuine fimple colouring fhould supply; O may with them these laureate bonours faile,

And with them (if it can) my friendthip die ! Then do not blame, if, though thyself inspire,

Cautious I strike the panegyric ftring The Mufe full oft pursues a meteor fire,

And vainly ventrons, foars on waxen wing: Too actively awake at Friendship's voice, siis

The Poet's bosom pours the fervent strain, , five Till fad Reflection blames the basty choice,

And oft invokes Oblivion's aid in vain.
Call we the shade of Pope from that blest bow'r,

Where thron'd he fits with many a tuneful sage;
Alk, if he ne'er beinoans that hapleis hour

When St. John's name illumin'd Glory's page. Aik, if the wretch who dar'd his mem'ry fiain;

A tk, if bis country's, his religion's foe, Deserv'd the meed that Malbro' fail'd to gain;

The deathless meed he only could beflow : The Bard will tell thee, the misguided praise

Clouds the celeliial sunshine of his breast;
E'en now, repentant of his erring lays,

He hcaves a sigh ainid the realms of rest.
If Pope throigh Frieudnip fail'd, mdignant riew,

Yet pity Dryden---hark, whene'er he fings,

[ocr errors]

How Adulation drops her courtly dew

On titled rhimers and inglorious kings! See from the depths of his exhaustless mine,

His glittring stores the tuneful spendthrift throws: Where fear or int'reft bids, beholds they shine ;

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 strongest diction idly eloquent.
The simplest lyre, if Truth directs its lays,

Warbles a melody ne'er heard froin thine :
Not to disgust with faile and venal praise, ' n

Was Paruells modeft tame, and inay be mine. Go then, iny friend, por let tħy candid breast

Condemn me, if I check the plausive (tring: Go to the wayward world; complete the rest;

Be what the purest Muse would with to finy. Be itill thyself: that open path of truth,

Which led thee here, let manhood firm pursuc;
Retain the fiveet fimplicity of youth ;

And all thy virtue dictates, dare to do.
Still scorn, with conscious pride, the mask of art;

On Vice's front let fearful caution low'r ;
And teach the diffident, discreeter part

Of knaves that plot, and tools that fawn for pow's. So, round thy brow when Age's honours spread,

When Death's cold hand undrings thy Mafon's lyre,. When the green turf lies lightly on his head,

Thy worti finali fome superior bard inspire ;

He to the ampleft bounds of Time's domain

On Rapture's plume (hall give thy name to fly ;' For trust, with rev'rence trust, this Sabine strain,

“ The Muse 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 mue upon my woe.
Why lure me from these pale retreats ?
Why rob me of these pensive tweets ?
Can Music's voice, can beauty's eye,
Can Painting's glowing hand supply
A charın fu fuited to my mind,
As blows this hollow gust of wind,
As drops this little weeping rill,

Soft tinkling down the mofs-grown hill,
While thro' the west, where links the crimfon day,
Meek Twilight Nowly fails, and waves her banners gray!

[ocr errors]

Say, from Amiation's various source
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,
Inspir'd by anguish end despair ?
Ah, no! fair Fancy rules the song:
She swells her throat; the guides her tongue ;
She bids the waring aspio spray
Quiver in cadence to her lay;
She bids the fringed ofiers bow,

And rufle round the lake below,
To suit the tenor of her gurgling lighs,
And soothe her throbbing breast with folemn fympatities.

To thee, whose young and polish'd brow
The wrinkling hand of Sorrow spares ;
Whole cheeks, bestrew'd with roses, know
No channel for the tide of tears ;
To thee yon abbey, dank and lone,
Where ivy chains each mouldering stone
That nods o'er many a martyr's tomb,
May cast a formidable gloom.
Yet some there are, who, free from fear,
Could wander through the cloifiers drear,
Could rove each desolated aile,
Though midnight thunders shook the pile;
And dauntless view, or seem to view,

(As faintly Nath the light'ninys blue,) Thin Thiv'ring ghosts from yawning charnels throng, And glance with filent sweep the shaggy vaults along

But such terrific charms as these,
I ask pot yet; my sober urind ,

« AnteriorContinuar »