And pensive eye the stars, whose baneful ray
With feelings curst this animated clay.
Yet thus, tho' Fancy pours the plaintive strain, I would not lose the feeling of my pain.
Blest be the fields, where first the chains were ty'd,
That bind me captive of her power or pride;
Dear throbs, that first confest her soft controul !
Sweet speechless agony that wrung my soul!
And blest be still the year, and blest the day,
When first I shrunk from Beauty's magic ray ;
And doubly blest the hour, if such there be,
When her eye dropt one pitying tear for me;
Whate'er could win her in my breast to raise
Th' extatic joy that springs from Laura's praise.
Yet curst the song-but spare me, Laura, spare,
Another frown may end-thy Lover's care.
EPIGRAM
FROM THE FRENCH.
Buro must sure be doubly blest!'
What thousands swell his iron chest!
A handsome wife he has at home;
A mistress, should he chuse to roam;
His well-stor❜d cellar wine contains,
Would almost turn celestial brains;
And cooks has he, whose talents might
The variest epicure delight:
While beaux-esprits and idlers gay
Throng round to charm ennui away!
One want supplied would crown the whole:
What wants he then? He wants a soul.
A LITERAL TRANSLATION, ATTEMPTED WITHOUT
WHAT at Apollo's altar asks the bard
As the new liquor from the bowl he pours,
What prays he? Not the rich
Sardinia's fields of corn,
Nor warm Calabria's grateful flocks; nor gold,
Nor Indian ivory, nor fields, thro' which
The silent Liris eats
With quiet waves her way.
Let those, whom Fortune gives it, prune the vine
From Calen; and from massy cups of gold
Let the rich Merchant pour
His costly Syrian wine,
Dear to the Gods, who often in a year
Safe o'er the broad Atlantic sea can pass.
Me olives, me light herbs
Of my own meadows feed.
O give me, Phœbus, with an healthy frame
And perfect mind my present gifts t'enjoy,
Nor pass a base old age
Unhonour'd by the lyre.
WHAT for the Poet's vow
Shall Phoebus on his prayers bestow?
Not meadows clad with numerous sheep;
Not fields, that, for the labours of the plough,
With yellow stores are deep.
For gold he never prays,
Nor for the Indian diamond's blaze,
Nor fields, thro' which the streams that pass,
Deepening the verdure, wear their quiet ways
In silence thro' the grass.
Let those, upon whose head
Fortune has shower'd her gifts, be fed
With foreign fruits their costly pains
Have rear'd, and let the Merchant's board be spread
With all his Indian gains!
And let the precious wine
That he, no doubt by aid divine,
Safe o'er the waves so often roll'd,
Bore as his charge, be pour'd from cups that shine
Superb in massy gold!
Let me the simple field,
The stores my little farm can yield
Support, if but my mind be sound,
If, to my age the Muse's rites reveal'd,
My head with bays be crown'd!
OF STOURBRIDGE, WORCESTERSHIRE.
WHERE the slant pent-house drops with heavy dew, Breath'd from the fogs of dim November's reign; When no kind beam can pierce the thick cloud thro', Gild the dank path-way, or the marshy plain;
When every gayer Chorister had sung
A requiem soft to Summer's bloom withdrawn,
One gentle Robin to the eavings clung,
And cheer'd the silent, solitary morn.
His notes were of the softest, sweetest kind,
His lively eye bespoke a soul sincere ;
And all the treasures of his little mind
Were pour'd by Gratitude on Friendship's ear.
Still hymn thy lay, and glad this wintry scene,
For steady winter friends are seldom found,
Where cold Adversity's sharp frosts have been,
The Summer florets wither on the ground.
To Friends, or Foes of Virtue, thou shalt find
Thy name, alike, will ever sacred be,
E'en Superstition, foe to human kind,
Fell Superstition! is a friend to thee.
Shou'd the rude school-boy, with unhallow'd hand,
Unconscious seize thee as his destin'd prize,
While all his play-mates mute with horror stand,
He turns thee fluttering to thy native skies.
O! shou'd'st thou hop beneath my friendly roof,
Safe would I keep thee from thy only foes,
Drive all the furry murderers far aloof,
And near thee bid the thundering gun repose.
Nor in imprisoning wires thy form confin'd,
Still shalt thou fleet, and still shalt warble free;
That liberty I wish to all mankind,
Trust me, sweet bird, I ne'er will wrest from thee.
Then still, at morn's repast, at noon, at eve,
Preside the halcyon of my peaceful board!
And should my heart with pining absence grieve,
Prophetic sing its safe-returning lord!
So shall the wintry months, with rapid wing,
In blissful course restore the vernal hours,
When safely thou may'st range the skies of spring,
And pour thy carols in her bloomy bowers.
FROM THE FRENCH OF LEMAZURIER.
THAT Paul's a good doctor, in spite of your gibes, My friends, I shall ever maintain;
For we know all the patients for whom he prescribes He quickly puts out of their pain.
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