At length, my friend, the far-sent letters come,
 Charged with thy kindness, to their destined home;
 They come, at length, from Deva's Western side,
 Where prone she seeks the salt Vergivian tide.
 Trust me, my joy is great that thou shouldst be,
 Though born of foreign race, yet born for me,
 And that my sprightly friend, now free to roam,
 Must seek again so soon his wonted home,
 I well content, where Thames with influent tide
 My native city laves, meantime reside,
 Nor zeal nor duty now my steps impel
 To reedy Cam, and my forbidden cell.
 Nor aught of pleasure in those fields have I,
 That to the musing bard all shade deny.
 'Tis time that I a pedant's threats disdain,
 And fly from wrongs my soul will ne'er sustain.
 If peaceful days, in letter'd leisure spent
 Beneath my father's roof, be banishment,
 Then call me banish'd, I will ne'er refuse
 A name expressive of the lot I choose.
 I would that, exiled to the Pontic shore,
 Rome's hapless bard had suffer'd nothing more.
 He then had equall'd even Homer's lays,
 And, Virgil! thou hadst won but second praise:
 For here I woo the muse, with no control,
 And here my books—my life—absorb me whole.
 Here too I visit, or to smile or weep,
 The winding theatre's majestic sweep;
 The grave or gay colloquial scene recruits
 My spirits, spent in learning's long pursuits;
 Whether some senior shrewd, or spendthrift heir,
 Suitor, or soldier, now unarm'd, be there,
 Or some coif'd brooder o'er a ten years' cause,
 Thunder the Norman gibberish of the laws.
 The lacquey, there, oft dupes the wary sire,
 And, artful, speeds the enamour'd son's desire.
 There, virgins oft, unconscious what they prove,
 What love is know not, yet, unknowing, love.
 Or, if impassion'd tragedy wield high
 The bloody sceptre, give her locks to fly,
 Wild as the winds, and roll her haggard eye,
 I gaze, and grieve, still cherishing my grief.
 At times, e'en bitter tears yield sweet relief,
 As, when from bliss untasted torn away,
 Some youth dies, hapless, on his bridal day;
 Or when the ghost, sent back from shades below,
 Fills the assassin's heart with vengeful woe;
 When Troy, or Argos, the dire scene affords,
 Or Creon's hall laments its guilty lords.
 Nor always city-pent, or pent at home,
 I dwell; but, when spring calls me forth to roam,
 Expatiate in our proud suburban shades
 Of branching elm that never sun pervades.
 Here many a virgin troop I may descry,
 Like stars of mildest influence, gliding by.
 Oh forms divine! oh looks that might inspire
 E'en Jove himself, grown old, with young desire,
 Oft have I gazed on gem-surpassing eyes,
 Out-sparkling every star that gilds the skies;
 Necks whiter than the ivory arm bestow'd
 By Jove on Pelops, or the milky road!
 Bright locks, love's golden snare! these falling low,
 Those playing wanton o'er the graceful brow!
 Cheeks, too, more winning sweet than after shower
 Adonis turn'd to Flora's favourite flower!
 Yield, heroines, yield, and ye who shared the embrace
 Of Jupiter in ancient times, give place!
 Give place, ye turban'd fair of Persia's coast!
 And ye, not less renown'd, Assyria's boast!
 Submit, ye nymphs of Greece! ye, once the bloom
 Of Ilion! and all ye, of haughty Rome,
 Who swept, of old, her theatres with trains
 Redundant, and still live in classic strains!
 To British damsels beauty's palm is due;
 Aliens! to follow them is fame for you.
 Oh city, founded by Dardanian hands,
 Whose towering front the circling realm commands,
 Too blest abode! no loveliness we see
 In all the earth, but it abounds in thee.
 The virgin multitude that daily meets,
 Radiant with gold and beauty, in thy streets,
 Outnumbers all her train of starry fires
 With which Diana gilds thy lofty spires.
 Fame says that, wafted hither by her doves,
 With all her host of quiver-bearing loves,
 Venus, preferring Paphian scenes no more,
 Has fix'd her empire on thy nobler shore.
 But, lest the sightless boy enforce my stay,
 I leave these happy walls while yet I may.
 Immortal Moly shall secure my heart
 From all the sorcery of Circæan art,
 And I will e'en repass Cam's reedy pools,
 To face once more the warfare of the schools.
 Meantime accept this trifle! rhymes though few,
 Yet such as prove thy friend's remembrance true!

ELEGY II.
ON THE DEATH OF THE UNIVERSITY BEADLE AT CAMBRIDGE.

Thee, whose refulgent staff and summons clear
 Minerva's flock long time was wont to obey,
 Although thyself a herald, famous here,
 The last of heralds, death, has snatch'd away.
 He calls on all alike, nor even deigns
 To spare the office that himself sustains.
Thy locks were whiter than the plumes display'd
 By Leda's paramour in ancient time;
 But thou wast worthy ne'er to have decay'd,
 Or, Æson-like, to know a second prime,
 Worthy, for whom some goddess should have won
 New life, oft kneeling to Apollo's son.
Commission'd to convene with hasty call
 The gowned tribes, how graceful wouldst thou stand!
 So stood Cyllenius erst in Priam's hall,
 Wing-footed messenger of Jove's command!
 And so Eurybates, when he address'd
 To Peleus' son Atrides' proud behest.
Dread queen of sepulchres! whose rigorous laws
 And watchful eyes run through the realms below,
 Oh, oft too adverse to Minerva's cause!
 Too often to the muse not less a foe!
 Choose meaner marks, and with more equal aim
 Pierce useless drones, earth's burden and its shame!
Flow, therefore, tears for him from every eye,
 All ye disciples of the muses, weep!
 Assembling all in robes of sable dye,
 Around his bier lament his endless sleep!
 And let complaining Elegy rehearse
 In every school her sweetest, saddest verse.

ELEGY III.
ON THE DEATH OF THE BISHOP OF WINCHESTER.

Silent I sat, dejected and alone,
 Making, in thought, the public woes my own,
 When first arose the image in my breast
 Of England's suffering by that scourge, the pest!
 How Death, his funeral torch and scythe in hand,
 Entering the lordliest mansions of the land,
 Has laid the gem-illumined palace low,
 And levell'd tribes of nobles at a blow.
 I next deplored the famed paternal pair,
 Too soon to ashes turn'd and empty air!
 The heroes next, whom snatch'd into the skies,
 All Belgia saw, and follow'd with her sighs;
 But thee far most I mourn'd, regretted most,
 Winton's chief shepherd, and her worthiest boast!
 Pour'd out in tears I thus complaining said:
 "Death, next in power to Him who rules the dead!
 Is it not enough that all the woodlands yield
 To thy fell force, and every verdant field;
 That lilies, at one noisome blast of thine,
 And e'en the Cyprian queen's own roses pine;
 That oaks themselves, although the running rill
 Suckle their roots, must wither at thy will;
 That all the winged nations, even those
 Whose heaven-directed flight the future shows,
 And all the beasts that in dark forests stray,
 And all the herds of Proteus are thy prey.
 Ah envious! arm'd with powers so unconfined!
 Why stain thy hands with blood of human kind?
 Why take delight, with darts that never roam,
 To chase a heaven-born spirit from her home?"
 While thus I mourn'd, the star of evening stood,
 Now newly risen above the western flood,
 And Phœbus from his morning goal again
 Had reach'd the gulfs of the Iberian main.
 I wish'd repose, and, on my couch reclined,
 Took early rest, to night and sleep resign'd:
 When—oh for words to paint what I beheld!
 I seem'd to wander in a spacious field,
 Where all the champaign glow'd with purple light,
 Like that of sunrise on the mountain height;
 Flowers over all the field, of every hue
 That ever Iris wore, luxuriant grew.
 Nor Chloris, with whom amorous Zephyrs play,
 E'er dress'd Alcinous' garden half so gay.
 A silver current, like the Tagus, roll'd
 O'er golden sands, but sands of purer gold;
 With dewy airs Favonius fann'd the flowers,
 With airs awaken'd under rosy bowers.
 Such, poets feign, irradiated all o'er
 The sun's abode on India's utmost shore.
 While I that splendour, and the mingled shade
 Of fruitful vines, with wonder fix'd, survey'd,
 At once, with looks that beam'd celestial grace,
 The seer of Winton stood before my face.
 His snowy vesture's hem descending low,
 His golden sandals swept, and, pure as snow
 New fallen, shone the mitre on his brow.
 Where'er he trod, a tremulous sweet sound
 Of gladness shook the flowery scene around:
 Attendant angels clap their starry wings,
 The trumpet shakes the sky, all ether rings;
 Each chants his welcome, folds him to his breast,
 And thus a sweeter voice than all the rest:
 "Ascend, my son! thy Father's kingdom share!
 My son! henceforth be freed from every care!"
 So spake the voice, and at its tender close
 With psaltery's sound the angelic band arose;
 Then night retired, and, chased by dawning day,
 The visionary bliss pass'd all away.
 I mourn'd my banish'd sleep with fond concern;
 Frequent to me may dreams like this return!

ELEGY IV.
TO HIS TUTOR, THOMAS YOUNG,
CHAPLAIN TO THE ENGLISH FACTORY AT HAMBURGH.

Hence, my epistle—skim the deep—fly o'er
 Yon smooth expanse to the Teutonic shore!
 Haste—lest a friend should grieve for thy delay—
 And the gods grant that nothing thwart thy way!
 I will myself invoke the king who binds
 In his Sicanian echoing vault the winds,
 With Doris and her nymphs, and all the throng
 Of azure gods, to speed thee safe along.
 But rather, to ensure thy happier haste,
 Ascend Medea's chariot, if thou mayst;
 Or that whence young Triptolemus of yore
 Descended, welcome on the Scythian shore.
 The sands that line the German coast descried,
 To opulent Hamburga turn aside!
 So call'd, if legendary fame be true,
 From Hama, whom a club-arm'd Cimbrian slew!
 There lives, deep learn'd and primitively just,
 A faithful steward of his Christian trust,
 My friend, and favourite inmate of my heart,
 That now is forced to want its better part!
 What mountains now, and seas, alas! how wide!
 From me this other, dearer self divide,
 Dear as the sage renown'd for moral truth
 To the prime spirit of the Attic youth!
 Dear as the Stagyrite to Ammon's son,
 His pupil, who disdain'd the world he won!
 Nor so did Chiron, or so Phœnix shine
 In young Achilles' eyes, as he in mine.
 First led by him through sweet Aonian shade,
 Each sacred haunt of Pindus I survey'd;
 And, favoured by the muse, whom I implored,
 Thrice on my lip the hallow'd stream I pour'd.
 But thrice the sun's resplendent chariot roll'd
 To Aries, has new tinged his fleece with gold,
 And Chloris twice has dress'd the meadows gay,
 And twice has summer parch'd their bloom away,
 Since last delighted on his looks I hung
 Or my ear drank the music of his tongue:
 Fly, therefore, and surpass the tempest's speed;
 Aware thyself that there is urgent need!
 Him, entering, thou shalt haply seated see
 Beside his spouse, his infants on his knee;
 Or turning, page by page, with studious look,
 Some bulky father, or God's holy book;
 Or ministering (which is his weightiest care)
 To Christ's assembled flock their heavenly fare.
 Give him, whatever his employment be,
 Such gratulation as he claims from me!
 And, with a downcast eye, and carriage meek,
 Addressing him, forget not thus to speak:
 "If compass'd round with arms thou canst attend
 To verse, verse greets thee from a distant friend.
 Long due, and late, I left the English shore;
 But make me welcome for that cause the more!
 Such from Ulysses, his chaste wife to cheer,
 The slow epistle came, though late, sincere.
 But wherefore this? why palliate I the deed
 For which the culprit's self could hardly plead?
 Self-charged, and self-condemned, his proper part
 He feels neglected, with an aching heart;
 But thou forgive—delinquents, who confess,
 And pray forgiveness, merit anger less;
 From timid foes the lion turns away,
 Nor yawns upon or rends a crouching prey.
 E'en pike-wielding Thracians learn to spare,
 Won by soft influence of a suppliant prayer;
 And heaven's dread thunderbolt arrested stands
 By a cheap victim and uplifted hands.
 Long had he wish'd to write, but was withheld,
 And writes at last, by love alone compell'd,
 For fame, too often true, when she alarms,
 Reports thy neighbouring fields a scene of arms;
 Thy city against fierce besiegers barr'd,
 And all the Saxon chiefs for fight prepared.
 Enyo wastes thy country wide around,
 And saturates with blood the tainted ground;
 Mars rests contented in his Thrace no more,
 But goads his steeds to fields of German gore,
 The ever verdant olive fades and dies,
 And Peace, the trumpet-hating goddess, flies,
 Flies from that earth which justice long had left,
 And leaves the world of its last guard bereft."
 Thus horror girds thee round. Meantime alone
 Thou dwell'st, and helpless, in a soil unknown;
 Poor, and receiving from a foreign hand
 The aid denied thee in thy native land.
 Oh, ruthless country, and unfeeling more
 Than thy own billow-beaten chalky shore!
 Leavest thou to foreign care the worthies given
 By Providence to guide thy steps to heaven?
 His ministers, commissioned to proclaim
 Eternal blessings in a Saviour's name!
 Ah then most worthy, with a soul unfed,
 In Stygian night to lie for ever dead!
 So once the venerable Tishbite stray'd
 An exiled fugitive from shade to shade,
 When, flying Ahab and his fury wife,
 In lone Arabian wilds he shelter'd life;
 So from Philippa wander'd forth forlorn,
 Cilician Paul, with sounding scourges torn;
 And Christ himself, so left, and trod no more
 The thankless Gergesene's forbidden shore.
 But thou take courage! strive against despair!
 Quake not with dread, nor nourish anxious care!
 Grim war indeed on every side appears,
 And thou art menaced by a thousand spears;
 Yet none shall drink thy blood, or shall offend
 E'en the defenceless bosom of my friend.
 For thee the Ægis of thy God shall hide,
 Jehovah's self shall combat on thy side.
 The same who vanquish'd under Sion's towers
 At silent midnight all Assyria's powers,
 The same who overthrew in ages past
 Damascus' sons that laid Samaria waste!
 Their king he fill'd and them with fatal fears,
 By mimic sounds of clarions in their ears,
 Of hoofs, and wheels, and neighings from afar,
 Of clashing armour, and the din of war.
 Thou, therefore, (as the most afflicted may,)
 Still hope, and triumph o'er thy evil day!
 Look forth, expecting happier times to come,
 And to enjoy, once more, thy native home!

ELEGY V.
ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING.

Time, never wandering from his annual round,
 Bids zephyr breathe the spring, and thaw the ground;
 Bleak winter flies, new verdure clothes the plain,
 And earth assumes her transient youth again.
 Dream I, or also to the spring belong
 Increase of genius, and new powers of song?
 Spring gives them, and, how strange soe'er it seems,
 Impels me now to some harmonious themes.
 Castalia's fountain, and the forked hill
 By day, by night, my raptured fancy fill;
 My bosom burns and heaves, I hear within
 A sacred sound that prompts me to begin.
 Lo! Phœbus comes, with his bright hair he blends
 The radiant laurel wreath; Phœbus descends!
 I mount, and undepress'd by cumbrous clay,
 Through cloudy regions win my easy way;
 Rapt through poetic shadowy haunts I fly:
 The shrines all open to my dauntless eye,
 My spirit searches all the realms of light,
 And no Tartarean gulfs elude my sight.
 But this ecstatic trance—this glorious storm
 Of inspiration—what will it perform?
 Spring claims the verse that with his influence glows,
 And shall be paid with what himself bestows.
 Thou, veil'd with opening foliage, lead'st the throng
 Of feather'd minstrels, Philomel! in song;
 Let us, in concert, to the season sing,
 Civic and sylvan heralds of the spring!
 With notes triumphant spring's approach declare!
 To spring, ye muses, annual tribute bear!
 The Orient left, and Ethiopia's plains,
 The sun now northward turns his golden reins;
 Night creeps not now; yet rules with gentle sway,
 And drives her dusky horrors swift away;
 Now less fatigued, on this ethereal plain
 Boötes follows his celestial wain;
 And now the radiant sentinels above,
 Less numerous, watch around the courts of Jove,
 For, with the night, force, ambush, slaughter fly,
 And no gigantic guilt alarms the sky.
 Now, haply says some shepherd, while he views,
 Recumbent on a rock, the reddening dews,
 This night, this, surely, Phœbus miss'd the fair,
 Who stops his chariot by her amorous care.
 Cynthia, delighted by the morning's glow,
 Speeds to the woodland, and resumes her bow;
 Resigns her beams, and, glad to disappear,
 Blesses his aid, who shortens her career.
 Come—Phœbus cries—Aurora, come—too late
 Thou lingerest, slumbering, with thy wither'd mate;
 Leave him, and to Hymettus' top repair!
 Thy darling Cephalus expects thee there.
 The goddess with a blush her love betrays,
 But mounts, and, driving rapidly, obeys.
 Earth now desires thee, Phœbus! and, to engage
 Thy warm embrace, casts off the guise of age;
 Desires thee, and deserves; for who so sweet
 When her rich bosom courts thy genial heat?
 Her breath imparts to every breeze that blows
 Arabia's harvest and the Paphian rose.
 Her lofty front she diadems around
 With sacred pines, like Ops on Ida crown'd;
 Her dewy locks with various flowers new blown
 She interweaves, various, and all her own;
 For Proserpine, in such a wreath attired,
 Tænarian Dis himself with love inspired.
 Fear not, lest, cold and coy, the nymph refuse!
 Herself, with all her sighing zephyrs, sues;
 Each courts thee, fanning soft his scented wing,
 And all her groves with warbled wishes ring.
 Nor, unendow'd and indigent, aspires
 The amorous Earth to engage thy warm desires,
 But, rich in balmy drugs, assists thy claim,
 Divine Physician! to that glorious name.
 If splendid recompence, if gifts, can move
 Desire in thee, (gifts often purchase love,)
 She offers all the wealth her mountains hide,
 And all that rests beneath the boundless tide.
 How oft, when headlong from the heavenly steep
 She sees thee playing in the western deep,
 How oft she cries—"Ah Phœbus, why repair
 Thy wasted force, why seek refreshment there?
 Can Tethys win thee? wherefore shouldst thou lave
 A face so fair in her unpleasant wave?
 Come, seek my green retreats, and rather choose
 To cool thy tresses in my crystal dews.
 The grassy turf shall yield thee sweeter rest;
 Come, lay thy evening glories on my breast,
 And breathing fresh, through many a humid rose,
 Soft whispering airs shall lull thee to repose!
 No fears I feel like Semele to die,
 Nor lest thy burning wheels approach too nigh,
 For thou canst govern them, here therefore rest,
 And lay thy evening glories on my breast!"
 Thus breathes the wanton Earth her amorous flame,
 And all her countless offspring feel the same;
 For Cupid now through every region strays,
 Brightening his faded fires with solar rays;
 His new-strung bow sends forth a deadlier sound,
 And his new-pointed shafts more deeply wound;
 Nor Dian's self escapes him now untried,
 Nor even Vesta at her altar-side;
 His mother too repairs her beauty's wane,
 And seems sprung newly from the deep again.
 Exulting youths the hymeneal sing,
 With Hymen's name roofs, rocks, and valleys ring;
 He, new-attired, and by the season drest,
 Proceeds, all fragrant, in his saffron vest.
 Now many a golden-cinctured virgin roves
 To taste the pleasures of the fields and groves,
 All wish, and each alike, some favourite youth
 Hers, in the bonds of hymeneal truth.
 Now pipes the shepherd through his reeds again,
 Nor Phillis wants a song that suits the strain;
 With songs the seaman hails the starry sphere,
 And dolphins rise from the abyss to hear:
 Jove feels himself the season, sports again
 With his fair spouse, and banquets all his train.
 Now too the satyrs, in the dusk of eve,
 Their mazy dance through flowery meadows weave,
 And, neither god nor goat, but both in kind,
 Silvanus, wreathed with cypress, skips behind.
 The dryads leave their hollow sylvan cells
 To roam the banks and solitary dells;
 Pan riots now; and from his amorous chafe
 Ceres and Cybele seem hardly safe,
 And Faunus, all on fire to reach the prize,
 In chase of some enticing oread flies;
 She bounds before, but fears too swift a bound,
 And hidden lies, but wishes to be found.
 Our shades entice the immortals from above,
 And some kind power presides o'er every grove;
 And long, ye powers, o'er every grove preside,
 For all is safe, and blest, where ye abide!
 Return, O Jove! the age of gold restore—
 Why choose to dwell where storms and thunder roar?
 At least thou, Phœbus! moderate thy speed!
 Let not the vernal hours too swift proceed,
 Command rough winter back, nor yield the pole
 Too soon to night's encroaching, long control!

ELEGY VI.
TO CHARLES DEODATI,

Who, while he spent his Christmas in the country, sent the Author a poetical epistle, in which he requested that his verses, if not so good as usual, might be excused on account of the many feasts to which his friends invited him, and which would not allow him leisure to finish them as he wished.

With no rich viands overcharged, I send
 Health, which perchance you want, my pamper'd friend.
 But wherefore should thy muse tempt mine away
 From what she loves, from darkness into day?
 Art thou desirous to be told how well
 I love thee, and in verse? verse cannot tell.
 For verse has bounds, and must in measure move;
 But neither bounds nor measure knows my love.
 How pleasant, in thy lines described, appear
 December's harmless sports and rural cheer!
 French spirits kindling with cærulean fires,
 And all such gambols as the time inspires!
 Think not that wine against good verse offends,
 The Muse and Bacchus have been always friends;
 Nor Phœbus blushes sometimes to be found
 With ivy, rather than with laurel, crown'd.
 The Nine themselves ofttimes have join'd the song
 And revels of the Bacchanalian throng;
 Not even Ovid could in Scythian air
 Sing sweetly—why?—no vine would flourish there.
 What in brief numbers sung Anacreon's muse?
 Wine, and the rose that sparkling wine bedews.
 Pindar with Bacchus glows—his every line
 Breathes the rich fragrance of inspiring wine,
 While, with loud crash o'erturned, the chariot lies,
 And brown with dust the fiery courser flies.
 The Roman lyrist steep'd in wine his lays
 So sweet in Glycera's and Chloe's praise.
 Now too the plenteous feast and mantling bowl
 Nourish the vigour of thy sprightly soul;
 The flowing goblet makes thy numbers flow,
 And casks not wine alone but verse bestow.
 Thus Phœbus favours, and the arts attend,
 Whom Bacchus and whom Ceres both befriend.
 What wonder, then, thy verses are so sweet,
 In which these triple powers so kindly meet!
 The lute now also sounds, with gold inwrought,
 And, touch'd with flying fingers nicely taught,
 In tapestried halls, high-roof'd, the sprightly lyre
 Directs the dancers of the virgin choir.
 If dull repletion fright the muse away,
 Sights gay as these may more invite her stay;
 And, trust me, while the ivory keys resound,
 Fair damsels sport, and perfumes steam around,
 Apollo's influence, like ethereal flame,
 Shall animate, at once, thy glowing frame,
 And all the muse shall rush into thy breast,
 By love and music's blended powers possest.
 For numerous powers light Elegy befriend,
 Hear her sweet voice, and at her call attend;
 Her, Bacchus, Ceres, Venus, all approve,
 And, with his blushing mother, gentle Love.
 Hence to such bards we grant the copious use
 Of banquets and the vine's delicious juice.
 But they who demigods and heroes praise,
 And feats perform'd in Jove's more youthful days,
 Who now the counsels of high heaven explore,
 Now shades that echo the Cerberean roar,
 Simply let these, like him of Samos, live,
 Let herbs to them a bloodless banquet give;
 In beechen goblets let their beverage shine,
 Cool from the crystal spring, their sober wine!
 Their youth should pass in innocence secure
 From stain licentious, and in manners pure,
 Pure as the priest, when robed in white he stands,
 The fresh lustration ready in his hands.
 Thus Linus lived, and thus, as poets write,
 Tiresias, wiser for his loss of sight;
 Thus exiled Chalcas, thus the Bard of Thrace,
 Melodious tamer of the savage race;
 Thus train'd by temperance, Homer led, of yore,
 His chief of Ithaca from shore to shore,
 Through magic Circe's monster-peopled reign,
 And shoals insidious with the syren train;
 And through the realms where grizzly spectres dwell,
 Whose tribes he fetter'd in a gory spell;
 For these are sacred bands, and from above
 Drink large infusions from the mind of Jove.
 Wouldst thou, (perhaps 'tis hardly worth thine ear,)
 Wouldst thou be told my occupation here?
 The promised King of Peace employs my pen,
 The eternal covenant made for guilty men,
 The new-born Deity, with infant cries
 Filling the sordid hovel where he lies;
 The hymning angels, and the herald star,
 That led the wise, who sought him from afar,
 And idols on their own unhallow'd shore
 Dash'd, at his birth, to be revered no more.
 This theme on reeds of Albion I rehearse:
 The dawn of that blest day inspired the verse;
 Verse that, reserved in secret, shall attend
 Thy candid voice, my critic and my friend!

ELEGY VII.

As yet a stranger to the gentle fires
 That Amathusia's smiling queen inspires,
 Not seldom I derided Cupid's darts,
 And scorn'd his claim to rule all human hearts.
 "Go, child," I said, "transfix the timorous dove!
 An easy conquest suits an infant love;
 Enslave the sparrow, for such prize shall be
 Sufficient triumph to a chief like thee!
 Why aim thy idle arms at human kind?
 Thy shafts prevail not 'gainst the noble mind."
 The Cyprian heard, and, kindling into ire,
 (None kindles sooner) burn'd with double fire.
 It was the spring, and newly risen day
 Peep'd o'er the hamlets on the first of May;
 My eyes, too tender for the blaze of light,
 Still sought the shelter of retiring night,
 When Love approach'd, in painted plumes array'd,
 The insidious god his rattling darts betray'd,
 Nor less his infant features, and the sly,
 Sweet intimations of his threatening eye.
 Such the Sigeian boy is seen above,
 Filling the goblet for imperial Jove;
 Such he, on whom the nymphs bestow'd their charms,
 Hylas, who perish'd in a naiad's arms.
 Angry he seem'd, yet graceful in his ire,
 And added threats not destitute of fire.
 "My power," he said, "by others' pain alone,
 'Twere best to learn; now learn it by thy own!
 With those that feel my power, that power attest!
 And in thy anguish be my sway confest!
 I vanquish'd Phœbus, though returning vain
 From his new triumph o'er the Python slain,
 And, when he thinks on Daphne, even he
 Will yield the prize of archery to me.
 A dart less true the Parthian horseman sped,
 Behind him kill'd, and conquer'd as he fled:
 Less true the expert Cydonian, and less true
 The youth whose shaft his latent Procris slew.
 Vanquish'd by me see huge Orion bend,
 By me Alcides, and Alcides' friend.
 At me should Jove himself a bolt design,
 His bosom first should bleed, transfix'd by mine.
 But all thy doubts this shaft will best explain,
 Nor shall it reach thee with a trivial pain.
 Thy muse, vain youth! shall not thy peace ensure,
 Nor Phœbus' serpent yield thy wound a cure."
 He spoke, and, waving a bright shaft in air,
 Sought the warm bosom of the Cyprian fair.
 That thus a child should bluster in my ear.
 Provoked my laughter more than moved my fear.
 I shunn'd not, therefore, public haunts, but stray'd
 Careless in city or suburban shade,
 And, passing and repassing nymphs, that moved
 With grace divine, beheld where'er I roved.
 Bright shone the vernal day with double blaze
 As beauty gave new force to Phœbus' rays.
 By no grave scruples check'd, I freely eyed
 The dangerous show, rash youth my only guide,
 And many a look of many a fair unknown
 Met full, unable to control my own.
 But one I mark'd, (then peace forsook my breast,)
 One—Oh how far superior to the rest!
 What lovely features! such the Cyprian queen
 Herself might wish, and Juno wish her mien.
 The very nymph was she, whom, when I dared
 His arrows, Love had even then prepared!
 Nor was himself remote, nor unsupplied
 With torch well trimm'd and quiver at his side;
 Now to her lips he clung, her eyelids now,
 Then settled on her cheeks, or on her brow;
 And with a thousand wounds from every part
 Pierced and transpierced my undefended heart.
 A fever, new to me, of fierce desire
 Now seized my soul, and I was all on fire;
 But she, the while, whom only I adore,
 Was gone, and vanish'd, to appear no more.
 In silent sadness I pursue my way;
 I pause, I turn, proceed, yet wish to stay,
 And, while I follow her in thought, bemoan
 With tears my soul's delight so quickly flown.
 When Jove had hurl'd him to the Lemnian coast,
 So Vulcan sorrow'd for Olympus lost,
 And so Œclides, sinking into night,
 From the deep gulf look'd up to distant light.
 Wretch that I am, what hopes for me remain,
 Who cannot cease to love, yet love in vain?
 Oh could I once, once more, behold the fair,
 Speak to her, tell her of the pangs I bear;
 Perhaps she is not adamant; would show,
 Perhaps, some pity at my tale of woe.
 Oh inauspicious flame—'tis mine to prove
 A matchless instance of disastrous love.
 Ah, spare me, gentle power!—If such thou be,
 Let not thy deeds and nature disagree.
 Spare me, and I will worship at no shrine
 With vow and sacrifice save only thine.
 Now I revere thy fires, thy bow, thy darts:
 Now own thee sovereign of all human hearts.
 Remove! no—grant me still this raging woe!
 Sweet is the wretchedness that lovers know:
 But pierce hereafter (should I chance to see
 One destined mine) at once both her and me.
 Such were the trophies that, in earlier days,
 By vanity seduced, I toil'd to raise;
 Studious, yet indolent, and urged by youth,
 That worst of teachers, from the ways of truth;
 Till Learning taught me in his shady bower
 To quit love's servile yoke, and spurn his power.
 Then, on a sudden the fierce flame supprest,
 A frost continual settled on my breast,
 Whence Cupid fears his flame extinct to see,
 And Venus dreads a Diomede in me.

EPIGRAMS.
ON THE INVENTOR OF GUNS.