Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

Nor think of Nature's state I make a jest[8]:
The state of Nature is a state undrest;
The love of Pleasure at our birth began,
Pleasure the aim of all things, and of Man.
Law then was not, the swelling flame to kill,
Man walk'd with beast, and--so he always will;
And Woman too, the same their board and bed,
And would be now, but Folks are better bred;
In some convenient grot, or tufted wood, 180
All human beings Nature's circuit trod;
The shrine was her's, with no gay vesture laid;
Unbrib'd, unmarried stood the willing maid;
Her attribute was universal Love,
And man's prerogative to range and rove.
But how unlike the Pairs of times to come,
Wedded, yet separate, abroad at home,
Who foes to Nature, and to evil prone,
Despising all, but hating most their own.
A wayward craving this Neglect succeeds, 190
As every Monster monst'rous children breeds;
Strange motly passions from this vice began,
And Man unnatural turn'd to worship Man.

For this the Muse now calls the Fair to rise,
To shew our failings, and to make us wise;
Be now to Bacchus, now to Venus prone,
And share each folly Man has thought his own;
Shame him from Vice, by shewing him your shame,
And part with yours, to reinstate his Fame;
Be generously vile, and this your view: 200
That Man may hate his errors seen in you.

Say, when the Coxcomb flatters and adores,
When (taking snuff) your pity he implores;
With many a gentle Dem'me swears to die,
And humbly begs Destruction from your eye;
When your own arts he takes, and speaks in smiles,
With Softness woos, and with a Voice beguiles;
Does it not move your pity and disdain,
Such flow'ry passion, and such mincing pain;
Your various Follies you with anger scan, 210
So shewn by one whom Nature meant for Man.
E'en so do we our faults in you despise,
And Vice has double malice in those Eyes.
When Chloe toasts her Beau, or raves too loud;
When Flavia leaves her home, and joins a croud;
When Silvia fearless rolls the roguish eye,
And Damon's want of confidence supply;
When betts, and duns, and every rougher name,
Sound in the ear of either Sex the same;
How should we tell, when thus you love and hate, 220
Who acts the Man, and who's effeminate?

Drink, then! disclaim your Sex, be Man in all,
Shew us at once, distinction ought to fall;
And from the humble things ye were of old,
Be reeling Cæsars in a cyprian mould.

Better for us, 'tis granted, it might be[9],
Were you all Softness, and all Honour we;
That never rougher Passion mov'd your mind;
That we were all or excellent or blind;
But, as we now subsist by passions strife, 230
Which are (POPE writes) the elements of life,
The general order, since the whole began,
Should be dissolv'd, and Manners make the Man.

Nor fear, if once ye break through general Laws,
To draw in thousands, and gain our applause;
Nor fear but Fame your merits shall make known,
And female Bravos trample Hectors down;
From Man himself you'll learn the art he boasts,
Rule in his room, and govern in his posts.

Thus does the Muse in vein didactic speak----[10] 240
"Go, from proud Man thy full instructions take;
Learn from the Law, what gain its mazes yield;
Learn of the Brave the police of the field;
Thy arts of shuffling from the Courtier get;
Learn of his Grace to stare away a debt;
Learn from the Sot his poison to caress,
Shake the mad room, and revel in excess;
From Man all forms of grand deception find,
And so be tempted to delude Mankind.
Here frantic schemes of wild Ambition see; 250
There all the plots, my Fair! he lays for thee.
Learn each small People's genius, humours, aims,
The Jocky's dealing, and Newmarket games;
How there in common wealth in currents go,
And poverty and riches ebb and flow;
And these for ever, though a Saint deny'd,
To splendour or contempt their Masters guide;
Mark the nice rules of modern honour well,
Rules which the laws of Nature far excel.
In vain thy fancy finer whims shall draw; 260
Good-breeding is as difficult as Law,
And, form'd so complex, makes itself a science,
To bid the Scholar and the Clown defiance.
Go then, and thus thy present Lords survey,
And let the Creatures feel they must obey;
Learn all their Arts, be these thy choicest hoard,
Be fear'd for these, and be for these ador'd."

And where are these? within the Bowl they lie;
Thence spring ambitious thoughts, there doubtings die;
From thence we trace the horrors of a War, 270
Chaotic counsel, ministerial jar;
This makes a gambling Lord, a Patriot vain,
The Soldier's fury, and the Lover's pain;
Fills Bedlam's wards with souls of ærial mould;
This makes the Madman, this supplies the Scold;
Here rules the one grand Passion in extreme,
A love of lucre, or a love of fame;
The Scholar's boast, the Politician's plan;
Here shines the Bubble, and here falls the Man.

Oh! happy fall of insolence and pride, 280
Which makes the humblest with the great allied;
Which levels like the Grave all earthly things,
For drunken Coblers are as proud as Kings;
Which plucks the sons of grandeur from their sphere,
For who is lower than a stagg'ring Peer?
Yet here, ye Fair, tho' ev'ry Soul's the same,
And Prince and Pedlar differ but in name,
Folly with Fashion is discreetly grac'd,
And, if all sin, not all can sin in taste;
For who, ye Gods! would ever go astray, 290
If 'twas not something in a modish way?

Oh! Fashion, caprice, pride--whate'er we call--
Thou something, nothing, dear attractive all;
Thou serious trifle of the gentle Soul,
Worship'd, yet changing, varying to controul;
Sweet Child of wanton fancy, artful whim,
Bred in an instant, born in an Extreme;
Folly's best friend, and luxury's ally,
Who, dying always, prov'st thou canst not die;
Attend us here; let us grow mad in Form, 300
Rage with an Air, and elegantly storm;
Invoke destruction with a Grace divine,
And call for Satan as a child of thine;
Genteely stagger from the common road;
And ape the brute, but ape him in the mode;
With a Court-grace make every action known,
For who'd be d----n'd for sins they blush to own?

Far as the power of human vice extends[11],
Her scale of sensual vanity ascends;
Mark how it rises to the gilded Throne, 310
From the poor wretch who dully topes alone.
What modes of folly, each in one extreme,
The sots dim sense, th' Epicurean's dream;
Of scent, what difference 'twixt the pungent rum
And noxious vapours of fermenting stum;
Of hearing, to Champain's decanted swell
From the dull gurgle of expiring ale?
The touch, how distant in the mean and great,
Who feel all roughness, or who feed from plate;
In the nice Lord, behold what arts produce; 320
From vases carv'd is quaff'd the balmy juice;
How palates vary in the poor Divine,
Compar'd, half-reasoning Nobleman! with thine.

Thus every sense is fill'd in due degree,
And proper barriers bound his Grace and me;
Here every Passion is at length display'd,
Nations are ruin'd, Ministers betray'd;
And what, ye Fair, concerns your pleasures most,
Intrigues are plan'd, and Reputations lost:
By you persuaded, Man was overcome, 330
And conquer'd once, received a general doom;
Requite the deed, partake a general Curse;
We fell with you, and you should fall with us.

FOOTNOTES:

[5] "Awake, my St. John, leave all meaner things
To low ambition, and the pride of Kings;
Let us (since Life can little more supply
Than just to look about us, and to die)
Expatiate free o'er all this scene of Man,
A mighty maze, but not without a plan;
A Wild, where weeds and flowers promiscuous shoot
Or Garden, tempting with forbidden fruit.
Together let us beat this ample field,
Try what the open, what the covert yield;
The latent tracts, the giddy heights explore,
Of all who blindly creep, or sightless soar;
Eye Nature's walks, shoot Folly as it flies,
And catch the Manners, living as they rise;
Laugh where we must, be candid where we can,
But vindicate the ways of God to Man."

Pope's Essay on Man.--

[6] "Know then thyself, presume not God to scan,
The proper study of Mankind is Man.
Plac'd on this isthmus of a middle state,
A Being darkly wise, and rudely great;
With too much knowledge for the Sceptic side,
With too much weakness for the Stoic's pride,
He hangs between: in doubt to act, or rest;
In doubt to deem himself a God, or Beast;
In doubt his Mind or Body to prefer;
Born but to die, and reas'ning but to err;
Alike in Ignorance, his reason such,
Whether he thinks too little or too much;
Chaos of Thought and Passion; all confus'd;
Still by himself abus'd, or disabus'd:
Created half to rise, and half to fall,
Great Lord of all things, yet a prey to all;
Sole judge of Truth, in endless Error hurl'd;
The glory, jest, and riddle of the World!"

Pope's Essay on Man.--

[7] "Go, wondrous creature! mount where Science guides;
Go, measure earth, weigh air, and state the tides;
Instruct the planets in what orbs to run,
Correct old Time, and regulate the Sun;
Go, soar, with Plato, to th' empyreal sphere,
To the first Good, first Perfect, and first Fair;
Or tread the mazy round his foll'wers trod,
And quitting sense call imitating God;
As eastern Priests in giddy circles run,
And turn their heads to imitate the Sun;
Go, teach Eternal Wisdom how to rule;
Then drop into thyself, and be a Fool."

Pope's Essay on Man.--

[8] "Nor think, in Nature's State they blindly trod;
The state of Nature was the reign of God:
Self-love and social at her birth began,
Union the bond of all things, and of Man.
Pride then was not; nor Arts, that Pride to aid;
Man walk'd with beast, joint tenant of the shade;
The same his table, and the same his bed;
No murder cloath'd him, and no murder fed.
In the same temple, the resounding wood,
All vocal beings hymn'd their equal God;
The shrine with gore unstain'd, with gold undrest;
Unbrib'd, unbloody, stood the blameless priest;
Heav'n's attribute was universal care,
And Man's prerogative to rule, but spare.
Ah! how unlike the man of times to come!
Of half that live the butcher and the tomb;
Who, foe to Nature, hears the gen'ral groan,
Murders their species, and betrays his own.
But just Disease to luxury succeeds,
And ev'ry death its own avenger breeds;
The Fury-passions from that blood began,
And turn'd on Man a fiercer savage, Man."

Pope's Essay on Man.--

[9] "Better for us, I grant, it might appear,
Were there all Harmony, all Virtue here;
That never air or ocean felt the wind,
That never passion discompos'd the mind;
But all subsists by elemental strife,
And passions are the elements of life;
The general Order, since the whole began
Is kept in Nature, and is kept in Man."

[10] "Thus then to Man the voice of Nature spake----
'Go, from the creatures thy instructions take:
Learn from the birds what food the thickets yield;
Learn from the beasts the physic of the field;
Thy arts of building from the bee receive;
Learn of the mole to plough, the worm to weave;
Learn of the little nautilus to sail,
Spread the thin oar, and catch the driving gale.
Here too all forms of social union find,
And hence let Reason, late, instruct Mankind;
Here subterranean works and cities see,
There towns aerial on the waving tree.
Learn each small people's genius, policies,
The ant's republic, and the realm of bees;
How those in common all their wealth bestow,
And anarchy without confusion know;
And these for ever, though a monarch reign,
Their sep'rate cells and properties maintain.
Mark what unvary'd laws preserv'd each state,
Laws wise as nature, and as fix'd as Fate.
In vain thy Reason finer webs shall draw,
Intangle Justice in her net of law,
And right, too rigid, harden into wrong,
Still for the strong too weak, the weak too strong.
Yet go! and thus o'er all the creatures sway;
Thus let the wiser make the rest obey;
And, for those arts mere Instinct could afford,
Be crown'd as Monarchs, or as Gods ador'd.'"

Pope's Essay on Man.--

[11] "Far as Creation's ample range extends,
The scale of sensual, mental pow'rs ascends;
Mark how it mounts to Man's imperial race,
From the green myriads in the peopled grass
What modes of sight, betwixt each wide extreme,
The mole's dim curtain, and the lynx's beam:
Of smell the head-long lioness between,
And hound sagacious on the tainted green.
Of hearing, from the life that fills the flood,
To that which warbles thro' the vernal wood,
The spider's touch, how exquisitely fine!
Feels at each thread, and lives along the line;
In the nice bee what art, so subtly true,
From pois'nous herbs extracts the healing dew;
How Instinct varies in the grov'ling swine,
Compar'd, half-reasoning elephant, with thine."

Pope's Essay on Man.--

_FINIS._

JUVENILIA.

[THE LEARNING OF LOVE.]

[About 1776.]

Ah! blest be the days when with Mira I took
The learning of Love....
When we pluck'd the wild blossoms that blush'd in the grass,
And I taught my dear maid of their species and class;
For Conway, the friend of mankind, had decreed
That Hudson should show us the wealth of the mead.

YE GENTLE GALES.

Woodbridge, 1776.

Ye gentle Gales, that softly move,
Go whisper to the Fair I love;
Tell her I languish and adore,
And pity in return implore.

But if she's cold to my request,
Ye louder Winds, proclaim the rest--
My sighs, my tears, my griefs proclaim,
And speak in strongest notes my flame.

Still, if she rests in mute disdain,
And thinks I feel a common pain-- 10
Wing'd with my woes, ye Tempests, fly,
And tell the haughty Fair I die.

MIRA.

Aldborough, 1777.

A wanton chaos in my breast raged high,
A wanton transport darted in mine eye;
False pleasure urged, and ev'ry eager care,
That swell the soul to guilt and to despair.
My Mira came! be ever blest the hour,
That drew my thoughts half way from folly's power;
She first my soul with loftier notions fired;
I saw their truth, and as I saw admired;
With greater force returning reason moved,
And as returning reason urged, I loved; 10
Till pain, reflection, hope, and love allied
My bliss precarious to a surer guide--
To Him who gives pain, reason, hope, and love,
Each for that end that angels must approve.
One beam of light He gave my mind to see,
And gave that light, my heavenly fair, by thee;
That beam shall raise my thoughts, and mend my strain,
Nor shall my vows, nor prayers, nor verse be vain.

HYMN.

Beccles, 1778.

Oh, Thou! who taught my infant eye
To pierce the air, and view the sky,
To see my God in earth and seas,
To hear him in the vernal breeze,
To know him midnight thoughts among,
O guide my soul, and aid my song!
Spirit of Light! do thou impart
Majestic truths, and teach my heart;
Teach me to know how weak I am,
How vain my powers, how poor my frame; 10
Teach me celestial paths untrod--
The ways of glory and of God.

No more let me, in vain surprise,
To heathen art give up my eyes--
To piles laborious science rear'd
For heroes brave, or tyrants fear'd;
But quit Philosophy, and see
The Fountain of her works in Thee.

Fond man! yon glassy mirror eye--
Go, pierce the flood, and there descry 20
The miracles that float between
The rainy leaves of wat'ry green;
Old Ocean's hoary treasures scan;
See nations swimming round a span.

Then wilt thou say--and rear no more
Thy monuments in mystic lore--
My God! I quit my vain design,
And drop my work to gaze on Thine:
Henceforth I'll frame myself to be,
Oh, Lord! a monument of Thee. 30

THE WISH.

Aldborough, 1778.

Give me, ye Powers that rule in gentle hearts,
The full design, complete in all its parts,
Th' enthusiastic glow, that swells the soul--
When swell'd too much the judgment to control--
The happy ear that feels the flowing force
Of the smooth line's uninterrupted course;
Give me, oh give, if not in vain the prayer,
That sacred wealth, poetic worth, to share--
Be it my boast to please and to improve,
To warm the soul to virtue and to love; 10
To paint the passions, and to teach mankind
Our greatest pleasures are the most refined;
The cheerful tale with fancy to rehearse,
And gild the moral with the charm of verse.

THE COMPARISON.

Parham, 1778.

Friendship is like the gold refined,
And all may weigh its worth;
Love like the ore, brought undesign'd
In virgin beauty forth.

Friendship may pass from age to age,
And yet remain the same;
Love must in many a toil engage,
And melt in lambent flame.

GOLDSMITH TO THE AUTHOR.

Aldborough, 1778.

_Felix quem faciunt aliena pericula cautum._

You're in love with the Muses? Well, grant it be true,
When, good Sir, were the Muses enamour'd of you?
_Read_ first--if my lectures your fancy delight--
Your taste is diseased, can your cure be to _write_?

You suppose you're a genius, that ought to engage
The attention of wits and the smiles of the age:
Would the wits of the age their opinion make known,
Why--every man thinks just the same of his own.

You imagine that Pope--but yourself you beguile--
Would have wrote the same things, had he chose the same style. 10
Delude not yourself with so fruitless a hope--
Had he chose the same style, he had never been Pope.

You think of _my_ muse with a friendly regard,
And rejoice in her author's esteem and reward:
But let not his glory your spirits elate,
When pleased with his honours, remember his fate.

FRAGMENT.

Aldborough, 1778.

_Lord, what is man, that thou art mindful of him?_

Proud, little Man, opinion's slave.
Error's fond child, too duteous to be free,
Say, from the cradle to the grave,
Is not the earth thou tread'st too grand for thee?
This globe that turns thee, on her agile wheel
Moves by deep springs, which thou canst never feel;
Her day and night, her centre and her sun,
Untraced by thee, their annual courses run.
A busy fly, thou sharest the march divine,
And flattering fancy calls the motion thine; 10
Untaught how soon some hanging grave may burst,
And join thy flimsy substance to the dust.

THE RESURRECTION.

Aldborough, 1778.

The wintry winds have ceased to blow,
And trembling leaves appear;
And fairest flowers succeed the snow,
And hail the infant year.

So, when the world and all its woes
Are vanish'd far away,
Fair scenes and wonderful repose
Shall bless the new-born day--

When, from the confines of the grave,
The body too shall rise, 10
No more precarious passion's slave,
Nor error's sacrifice.

'Tis but a sleep--and Sion's king
Will call the many dead;
'Tis but a sleep--and then we sing
O'er dreams of sorrow fled.

Yes!--wintry winds have ceased to blow,
And trembling leaves appear,
And Nature has her types to show
Throughout the varying year. 20

MY BIRTH-DAY.

Aldborough, December 24, 1778.

Through a dull tract of woe, of dread,
The toiling year has pass'd and fled:
And, lo! in sad and pensive strain,
I sing my birth-day date again.

Trembling and poor, I saw the light,
New waking from unconscious night;
Trembling and poor I still remain,
To meet unconscious night again.

Time in my pathway strews few flowers,
To cheer or cheat the weary hours; 10
And those few strangers, dear indeed,
Are choked, are check'd, by many a weed.

TO ELIZA.

Beccles, 1779.

The Hebrew king, with spleen possest,
By David's harp was soothed to rest;
Yet, when the magic song was o'er,
The soft delusion charm'd no more;
The former fury fired the brain,
And every care return'd again.

But had he known Eliza's skill
To bless the sense and bind the will,
To bid the gloom of care retire,
And fan the flame of fond desire, 10
Remembrance then had kept the strain,
And not a care return'd again.

LIFE.

Aldborough, 1779.

Think ye, the joys that fill our early day,
Are the poor prelude to some full repast?
Think you, they _promise_?--ah! believe they _pay_;
The purest ever, they are oft the last.
The jovial swain that yokes the morning team,
And all the verdure of the field enjoys,
See him, how languid, when the noon-tide beam
Plays on his brow, and all his force destroys.
So 'tis with us, when, love and pleasure fled,
We at the summit of our hill arrive: 10
Lo! the gay lights of Youth are past--are dead,
But what still deepening clouds of Care survive!

THE SACRAMENT.

Aldborough, 1779.

O sacred gift of God to man,
A faith that looks above,
And sees the deep amazing plan
Of sanctifying love.

Thou dear and yet tremendous God,
Whose glory pride reviles;
How did'st thou change thy awful rod
To pard'ning grace and smiles!

Shut up with sin, with shame below,
I trust, this bondage past, 10
A great, a glorious change to know,
And to be bless'd at last.

I _do_ believe, that, God of light!
Thou didst to earth descend,
With Satan and with Sin to fight--
Our great, our only friend.

I _know_ thou did'st ordain for me,
Thy creature, bread and wine;
The depth of grace I cannot see,
But worship the design. 20

NIGHT.

Aldborough, 1779.

The sober stillness of the night
That fills the silent air,
And all that breathes along the shore,
Invite to solemn prayer.

Vouchsafe to me that spirit, Lord!
Which points the sacred way,
And let thy creatures here below
Instruct me how to pray.

FRAGMENT, WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT.

Aldborough, 1779.

Oh, great Apollo! by whose equal aid
The verse is written and the med'cine made,
Shall thus a boaster, with his fourfold powers,
In triumph scorn this sacred art of ours?
Insulting quack! on thy sad business go,
And land the stranger on this world of woe.
Still I pass on, and now before me find
The restless ocean, emblem of my mind;
There wave on wave, here thought on thought succeeds,
Their produce idle works and idle weeds. 10
Dark is the prospect o'er the rolling sea,
But not more dark than my sad views to me;
Yet from the rising moon the light beams dance
In troubled splendour o'er the wide expanse;
So on my soul, whom cares and troubles fright,
The Muse pours comfort in a flood of light.--
Shine out, fair flood! until the day-star flings
His brighter rays on all sublunar things.
"Why in such haste? by all the powers of wit,
I have against thee neither bond nor writ. 20
If thou'rt a poet, now indulge the flight
Of thy fine fancy in this dubious light;
Cold, gloom, and silence shall assist thy rhyme,
And all things meet to form the true sublime."--
"Shall I, preserver deem'd around the place,
With abject rhymes a doctor's name disgrace?
Nor doctor solely, in the healing art
I'm all in all, and all in every part;
Wise Scotland's boast let that diploma be
Which gave me right to claim the golden fee. 30
Praise, then, I claim, to skilful surgeon due,
For mine th' advice and operation too;
And, fearing all the vile compounding tribe,
I make myself the med'cines I prescribe.
Mine, too, the chemic art; and not a drop
Goes to my patients from a vulgar shop.
But chief my fame and fortune I command
From the rare skill of this obstetric hand:
This our chaste dames and prudent wives allow,
With her who calls me from thy wonder now." 40

MIDNIGHT

A POEM.

[About 1779.]

Life is a Dream;--it steals upon the Man,
He knows not how, but thinks himself awake;
'Tis like a Bubble dancing on the Deep,
That turns its glossy surface to the Sun,
Catches a Rainbow-Vest, and sparkles, proud
Of momentary Being--then it breaks--
To some tremendous Billow drops a prey,
And joins th' eternal Source, from whence it sprang.

But ah! how dismal are the Dreams of Care,
How much of Care do e'en the happiest dream, 10
And some--hard Fortune theirs--of Care alone.

Forgive me then, ye Wise, who seem awake,
A Midnight Song, and let your Censure sleep;
While Sorrow's Theme, and Contemplation sad,
And Soul-dilating Fancy's pensive Flight
Through Star-crown'd Gloom, I sing; inspir'd by her,
Whom Virtue loves, whom Wisdom; from whose Touch
Grief borrows Charm, and Expectation sits
On the cold Bosom of the Tomb serene.
Pale Melancholy she; nor softer shines 20
The sabled Fair, her Votress, o'er the Grave
Of the departed Lover; nor more mild
Sits yonder Moon's chaste ray upon the Rock,
That, rising from the Bosom of the Wave,
Flings Awe on Night. Thou Grave-enamour'd Fair,
Attune my Song, and, languid as thou art,
The Song shall please; and I will paint the Dream
That Midnight gave thee, when with wintry Wing
She swept thy Grot, and shook her grisled Dew
Upon the frozen Garment of the pool; 30
And I will drown mine Eye in Tears like thine,
And give my hollow Cheek a dewy pale,
And dress me in the Livery of the Dead;
And o'er their dreary Mansions walk with thee;
Bidding a brief Farewell to little Cares,
And Visionary Honour's frantic Sons,
Who feed on Adulation--let them feed,
Till the full Soul disdains the nauseous Trash,
And sickens with Repletion.--

I will ask,
No Voice of Fame to spread abroad my Song, 40
Nor Court Applause--Meonides had Fame,
And with her poverty and pain and Care,
Attendants on the Bard-deluding Nymph,
Who mock the Babbling of her loudest Note;
From Heaven he stole Description, Nature's Key,
And loosen'd into Light her Mysteries;
Ambition started when he sang of War,
In Language all her own; and o'er his Lyre
Hung Devastation, glowing at the Sound,
And frantic for the Field; and there Distress, 50
As if enamour'd of the Mighty Man,
With cruel Constancy repaid his Muse;
And chiding Fame, by whispering to the Soul
Domestic Ills, she [triumph'd] over praise,
And, through th' untasted Plaudit of a World,
Led the blind Bard in Sadness to the Tomb.--

I ask no Mantuan Muse with silver Wing
To bear me in some rapid even flight
Thro' distant Ages, tho' so sweet her Bard
That yet the Traveller o'er each Hill he sang, 60
Transported, [wanders], feeling power divine
New-rising on his Soul to chain its Cares.
Imagination turns the Tide of Time,
Unwinds each year, and, thro' reviving Light,
And thro' the vandal Gloom of Centuries drear,
And falling Rome works back, till Nature smiles
And [Tityrus] sings anew; then laughs each Scene,
And cloudless skies appear, and Beachen Boughs
That Shade the [Nereids] listning from their Streams.--

Nor Milton's muse I boast, to whom the Morn 70
And all her rosy Train, and blazing Noon,
Dipping his fiery Tresses in the Stream
Of Pison, bank'd with Gold, and tepid Eve,
Who in her soft recesses cradles Thought,
And Worlds unsung pay Homage, and the Suns,
From which the Light yet wings its rapid Way,
Nor on the gloomy Bosom of the Earth,
Sleeps from the Labour of its long Career.

Nor feels my Bosom that ambiguous Flame,
That now from Skies, and now from central Gloom, 80
Shot devious o'er the fervent Page of Young--
Young, Thought's Oeconomist, who wove reproof
Her [gloomiest] Vest, and yet a Vest that shone;
Whose Invitation was assault: he found
The World asleep and rent its drowsy Ear.

Nor shares my Soul the soft enchanting Stream,
The lambent Blaze, that [Thomson] knew to blend
With his Creation; when he led the Eye
Through the [year's Verdant] Gate, the budding Spring;
And from the Willow o'er the tuneless Stream, 90
And from the [Aspen] Rind, ere yet her Leaf
Unfolding flicker'd, and from limpid rills
Unmantled, cull'd Simplicity and Grace.
Ah! who with mingled Modesty and Love
So paints the bathing Maid; who so describes
The new-mown Meadow, and the new shorn Lamb?
Hard is the Task to strip the Muse's Wing
Of Learning's plume, yet leave enough to charm;
But this was thine! Grace beautify'd thy page,
And led thy weary plowman from the field, 100
And spread thy simple Foliage on the Sod,
And hung thy ponderous Treasures on the Bough,
And rov'd with thy Lavinia where the Winds,
Rustling along the golden [Valley], bear
The Grain just dropping from its withering Glume.
And Winter too was thine! permit me there
To bear a part, for mine are wintry Thoughts.--

Nor dare I hope his Dignity and Fire,
Who led the soul thro' Nature, and display'd
Imagination's pleasures to its Eye; 110
His the blest Task, a [gloomier] task is mine;
His were the Smiles of Fortune, mine her Frowns;
And when her Frowns and Smiles shall charm alike,
At that dread Hour when the officious Friend,
Stammering his Idiot-Comfort, soothes amiss,
May Joys he painted dart upon the Soul,
And, more than Fancy pointing to the Skies,
Whisper a noble [Challenge] to the Tomb.--
Tho' far behind my Song, my Hope the same,
And not behind my Song; with Vulgar souls, 120
Both sentenc'd to Contempt--unletter'd pride--
Grins the pale Bard Disgrace alike to him
Who soars above or labours in the Clouds,
Who travels the sublime, or dives profound
In the Wild Chaos of a School-boy's Dream:
He, tyed to some poor Spot, where e'en the rill
That owns him Lord untasted steals away,
Hallows a Clod, and spurns Immensity.

Ye gentle, nameless Bards, who float a-down
The soft smoothe Stream of silver poesy 130
And dream your pretty Dreams, permit my Song
Cold inspiration from a Winter's Night.
This is no Stanza'd Birth-Day of his Grace,
Your patron; no sad Satire of the Lord,
Your Foe; no Dunciad arm'd with power,
To dive into the Depths of your profound,
And with a vile assemblage gather'd there
Whip the pale Moonshine from your with'ring Bays.--

Is there, who sick of Pleasure's daily Draught,
In repetition mawkish, or who tir'd 140
Thinks Life an Idiot's Tale? or whom the Hand
Of [Disappointment] snatches from the Vice
That waits on power? or who has lost a friend,
And mingles with the dew that wets his Tomb
A frequent Tear? or who by Nature's mild
And melancholy Bias from the Womb
Was fashioned for the View of serious Things,
And with the sober chiding of his eye,
Freezes the [Current] within Laughter's Cheek,
And awes the Voice of loud Garrulity? 150
Let him approach, and I will tell my Soul,
EUGENIO rises from the Grave, and give
The Living Youth the Manners of my Friend.
From the Enshrouded Tenant of the Sod
I'll call the speaking Eye, the open Heart,
The Tongue belov'd of Knowledge, and the Form
That, could Deceit put on, Grey-headed Guile,
That judges from his own embosom'd Guilt,
Would yet be won, and lend a ductile Ear.

Together, while the [Echo's] feeble Sound, 160
Halting in frozen regions of the Air,
Mocks our slow Step, we from the Mountain's Brow,
Will look around and court the Stars of Heav'n
For as much Light as guides the Miser's hand,
To grasp Delusion in her Guise of Gold.--

The Morn is banish'd now, nor down the Hill
Slopes the faint Shadow; now in other Realms
She drinks the Dew that on the Vi'lets Lip
Slept thro' the Night; and, with her golden Dart
Bays the pale Moon, retiring from the View. 170
In other Climates, from the rays of Noon
Embower'd, Content lies sleeping; and the palm
Drinking the fiery Stream, plays o'er the Brow
Of shadied Weariness; and distant now
Draws meek-ey'd Eve, with even hand and slow,
The fringed Curtain of the setting Sun,
Ting'd with the golden Splendour he bequeaths,
The brief, but beauteous Legacy of Light.
'Tis Midnight round us, canopied by Dim
And twinkling Orbs that, gleaming ghastly, gild 180
The restless Bosom of the briny Deep.
The fiery Meteor in the foggy Air
Rides emulous of Fame and apes the Star,
Till, in the Compass of a Maiden's Wish,
It mocks the Eye, and sheds an [igneous] Stream,
Within the bosom of Oblivion.

The Sea-Bird sleeps upon yon hoary Cliff,
Unconscious of the Surge that grates below
The frozen Shore; and Icy Friendship binds,
As Danger Wretches Destitute of Soul, 190
The wave-worn pebbles, which the ebbing Tide,
Left with the Salt-Flood shining; dark is now
The awfull Deep, and o'er the Seaman's Grave
Rolls pouring, and forbids the lucid Stream,
That silvers oft the way, a shining Vest,
Sprung from the scaly people's putrid Dead,
Hanging unhers'd upon the Coral Bough;
Or, as the Sage explains, from Stores of Light
Imprizon'd in the Bowels of the Deep,
And now escaping, when the parent Sun 200
Flings [out] his fiery Noon with Beam direct,
Upon the Glossy Surface of the wave.

Cold Vapour, falling on the putrid Fen,
Condenses grey, and wraps with glassy net
The wintry Fern, and throws along the Heath
A Hoary Garment, nor less fair than Spring
Drops on the Sod, of Texture near as frail.
The icy Atoms thro' the burden'd Air
Shed Languor, and enwrap with double Fleece
The Slumbering Fold; they cloathe the knotted oak, 210
Stretching its naked arms, as if to chide,
With [age's] stern and touching Eloquence
The ruthless Skies for Summer's slow return.
The winds that in converging Furrows plough
The freezing pool, and shake the [rattling] Wood,
Are arm'd with pain, and vitrified their Wings.
In Winter's Livery sleeps this earthly Scene--
And, save where Ocean rolls his restless Flood,
The horizontal Eye grasps all things grey.--

Eugenio, see--for thou shalt bear His Name 220
Who sleeps beneath yon Sod, and was my Friend--
The Grave o'er which I weep; and give not thou
A Glance contemptuous to the grassy Tomb;
For oft the vaulted Chambers of the Dead,
Where Vanity amid the Mouldring Scrolls
Of Genealogy and mingled Bones
Moves in a formal join'd Solemnity,
House wretched Remnants of degenerate Man;
And oft the Green Turf's temporary swell,
Sepulchring all that Virtue leaves the Earth, 230
Stirs busy Memory to con o'er Deeds
Of high Renown in Heaven, the Deeds of Love;
Which in th' eternal Records of the Just,
Are written with an Angels pen, and sung
With [Symphony] of Harp, and there is Joy
And Gratulation with the Sons of God.--

Alas! how chang'd the Verdure of this [Scene],
How lost the Flowers, how winter-struck the Blade!
No more the wild Thyme wings the passing Gale
With Fragrance, nor invites the roving Bee 240
To taste its Sweets--and why this direful waste
Of Verdure? why this Vegetable Death?
Did all with Man commit mysterious Sin?
All in rebellion rise?--and tepid Meads,
And Lawns irriguous, and the blooming field,
And Hills, and Vallies, and intangling Woods,
Spurn GOD'S Command and drink forbidden Dew?--

There was a Time, and Poets paint it fair,
(A wild, uncertain, musing, madning Race)
A Golden Age, when wealth was only Love: 250
Not even Fancy dreamt a Dream of Care,
The Sward was not--and Desolation slept
Till by a Crime awaken'd; not e'en Song
Wore Semblatude of War;--Eternal Spring
From the unfurrow'd Field the heavy Ear
Drew smiling, and the undistinguish'd year
Brought willing plenty forth, nor scorn'd she then
A Common Call, enamour'd of her plough.
The Clinging Vine prest down the branching Elm
E'en to the Earth, and in her verdant Lap 260
The tributary Grape, yet growing, laid.
The simple Shepherd pip'd a silvan Lay;
Or, while the Fair who charm'd him prest beside,
The listning Vale sung hymeneal Strains,
And woo'd with melting Themes a ten years' Bride.

Eugenio, thus they taught; and after this
A silver age arose, and hers the Scenes
Not Gold could purchase now: when Vice, afraid,
Hid his pale Visage in the womb of Night,
And blush'd, if but a Moon-beam met his Eye. 270
The Seasons alter'd, but the Change was slow,
And Man forgot they chang'd; then Care began
To plow his Furrows on the Brow of Age,
And Falshood from the female Eye to steal
The silent Tear; then prudence took her Seat
Within the Soul, and reign'd in Virtue's room.
Then Vanity, a Child, first learn'd to bend
The ready Ear to tales of her own praise;
Nor knew she yet the Gross of Flattery,
But was, as Modesty is now, afraid 280
The Verse she lov'd should tickle her too much.
Then young Ambition wore his Russet Gown
Only in better Form, and Infant pomp
But saw his Garden smile in richer Bloom,
And propt his Cottage with a taller pier.--

Since these, dread Sorrow, consequent of Sin
And foul Deformity, the Breast of Man
And the Sad Surface of the Earth enrobes.--

From the Dark Bosom of the Giant Guilt
Leak'd all Things terrible, and Murder first, 290
Who proul'd about the Earth and groan'd for Blood;
And treachery, breaking up the League of Friends
And rending Nature's Bond, a solemn writ,
With Heaven's own Seal imprest: and Avarice pale,
A Woolfish-Visag'd Fiend [and] fang'd with Care.
Hence War, in all her guilty Majesty
In slow pomp riding o'er a [threat'ned] Land,
With all the murderous Whispers of the Camp
And shout of Ambush, castigates the Night.--

And hence the Spirits from th' Abyss of Hell, 300
That prey upon Mankind.--Eugenio, give
Thy Soul's pure Eye, that sees immortal things,
To the grim Spectres hovering in the Air,
And we will mark the dreary Train that vex
The mortal Man, and ride with ghostly pomp,
Frowning upon the Midnight's murky Wing.--

And who is he, from yonder antient roof,
With Horror in his Eye, who steals around
Each hollow Isle; and with a fierce Embrace
Clasps the encrumbling ruin? 'Tis the Foe 310
Of Men and Virtue, Eldest-born of Night,
And Superstition call'd, a Giant fond
Of Dead-Men's Bones, and vagrant [Rottenness],
Denied a Tomb; around him turns the wheel,
And faggots blaze; and prizons, with a Groan
Resounding loud, affright the Coward Soul
From Reason's Law, and Nature's. Hark! he Mourns
The fretted Abby where he reign'd Secure,
With Indolence and Folly, social pair,
Nurses to shrine-enamour'd Zeal, who built 320
The Cavern deep and dark, in which he chain'd
The drowsy Nine; who yet at Morn or Eve
Hail'd the arising or descending Sun
With gothic Note, harmoniously sad.
But now no more the Votive Maiden clasps
The clay cold Saint, and mingles with her Vow
The Heaven-reproaching Sigh; in these blest realms
No more the power-compelling Bigot plucks
The robe from Kings, and consecrates the Tomb
That hides a Brother-Saint with Zeal-enforc'd 330
And ceremonious Solemnity.--

O'er the Opaque of Nature and of Night
Fair Truth rose smiling, with the Heaven-born Art
That shews the Man his Fellow's Thought imprest
Within the Volumes' varied Character,
Where to the wondering Eye the Soul reveals
Her Store immortal. Hence a Bacon shone
And Newton thro' the World, and Light on Light
Pour'd on the human Breast, as when of old,
From the Eternal Fountains of the God, 340
Etherial Streams assail'd the groaning Mass;
Then Chaos and the Sun's large Eye survey'd
The first [distinguish'd] Forms of mortal Things,
Till then in Congregate Confusion hurl'd
Without a Station, and without a Name.
Then Wit began, the younger-born of Light,
To sport in hallow'd Cloysters, where the arm
Of Superstition, red with slaughter'd Foes,
Held high the Torch of Discord. Stroke on Stroke
The smiling Boy repeated with his Sword, 350
Sharp as the [Whirlwind's] Eye: yet fear'd the fight,
And oft drew back, his silver wing born down
By the foul Breath of Malice; till at length
The Monster, rousing in Collected Might,
Shook with his Roar the Earth, and at the Sound
Red Tyranny, and Torture, with his Limbs
Disjoint, and Ignorance that blows the blast
For every Fire, prepar'd each bloody Form
Of Death, and woo'd Destruction for her Wheel.--

Then on the Father dead the dying Son 360
Implor'd Heavn's Vengence. Execration shrill
Shot from the lurid Flame, and to the Skies
Sail'd with the Speed of Light. The Virgin's Eye
Met the grey Ruffian's, speaking Nature's Fear
Of Death and Pain: the Bigot's stern Reply,
Forbidding Hope, on the affrightned Soul
Flung Terror; till, in pity to the World,
Came Wisdom, whispering to the Ear of power,
And peace arose; and then the Brother wept
A Brother's Death, for distant seem'd his own. 370

And now the Spirit of uneasy Man,
That weds Extreme, and, ever on the Wing
For Wonder, baffles peace, high o'er the Cells
Of monkish Zeal, built with the base remains
The tow'ring Palace of Impiety.
There Jest profane, and Quibbling Mockery
Of all divine grew fast, as from the Earth
Enrich'd Ill-Weeds first spring; and here the Fools,
Of Laughter vain, [despis'd] the Voice of Truth,
And labour'd in the ludicrous obscene. 380

To these succeed, and ah! with sad Success,
A Sceptic herd more cool, and fair of form,
And smoothe of Tongue and apt to gloss a Lye
With Semblance strong of Nature and the Truth;
They shine as Serpents, and as Serpents bite,
With poison'd Tooth. Alas! the State of Man,
Or doom'd the Victim of ungovern'd Zeal,
Or led the Captive of unquiet Doubt!--

And now, Eugenio, turn thine Eye, and view
Yon Sire bare-headed to the ruthless Wind, 390
And heedless of its Force. Upon the Brow
Of yon huge shapeless Ruin, see, he kneels,
And urges the departed Saints who sleep,
To lend a Prayer; Repentance sent him forth,
Her Son, but late th' adopted of her dark
And gloomy Train. Ah! heavy weighs the Crime
Of Murder on his Soul, and haunts his Bed!
And, shrieking by, unseals the Eye of Sleep,
Or scatters on the dark and restless Mind
A thousand sooty Images of Death, 400
All horrible, and making Guilt's repose
Like to the fearfull rest the Vessel feels
In the dread Chasm of the tempestuous Sea,
Arch'd by the Wave that pauses o'er the Gulph,
While Sea-men urge their momentary prayer,
And with Heart-shrinking Horror view their Grave.

But hark, he speaks--attend the Wretches Tale--
Spreading his Soul upon the Wings of Night,
And seeking peace by giving Themes of pain
To the rude Air:

"Come, all ye little Ills, 410
Contempt, and poverty, and pale Disease
With Dewy Front, and Envy-struck applause
That sickens on the World, and all of Care
That shed your daily Drops of bitter Dew
Upon the Brow of mortal Man, here strike,
That I may feel your force, and call it Joy,
So made when weigh'd against the Load that Guilt,
With leaden Hand, deposits on my Heart,
And when a momentary Comfort strives,
Lifted by hope, to spread her downy Wing, 420
Dispair, with Icy palm, arrests the Thought,
And nips the still-born Joy.--

"To me no more
The Good I coveted brings Joy, brings peace,
Or stifles Truth's reproof that will be heard;
And did I think a base and sordid Heap
Had in it the Ability to pluck
The Sting from Guilt, and smother how it came
In the vile Knowledge that it came to me?
It was a Madman's Dream--O ye good Gods!
If Envy knew her Mark, she would beset 430
The poor Man's Table and the Shepherd's Hut,
Unroof'd to the cold Winter's wildest Blast,
Or the Embay'd Explorers of the Deep,
At their still howling North; and leave the Throne,
The Sceptre and the chested Gold to plant
The Thorn of Care upon the Brow of State,
On which Distraction drives his plow-share deep,
And helps the Scythe of Time to wrinkle there.--

"When shall I rest--O! let me, Night, [besiege]
Thy drowsy Ear with wailing, but be thou 440
[Tenacious] of my Guilt; and with her Band
Let everlasting Silence Tye thy Tongue;
The pent-up Woe now struggles to o'er-leap
Murder's Discretion, and with fearfull Speech
To free the Heart by telling Deeds of Death:
[Death, Thought's] repose, whom the abhor'd of Man,
The base assassin, gives, and after longs
With Lover's Ardour to embrace, be mine,
And I will yield all Hope of After-Life,
All Saints have promis'd, and all poets sung-- 450
Elysium water'd with immortal Streams,
And gifted with Eternity of peace,
Balm-breathing Fields, and Bowers of soft repose,
Walks amaranthine, and the pillowy Moss,
On Banks where Harpers, to celestial Strings
Attuning Nature, warble Notes of Love,
The Anodyne to all-rebellious Thought.--

"These, for Oblivion, I forego, with these
Foregoing pain eternal. Why then strive
From off Life's galling Load to elbow Care, 460
When Life and Care may be remov'd together?--
If I were not a very Coward Wretch,
A very Shadow of the Man, a thing
Made to feel Burdens of my Fear, and drag
A hated Being on--'twere but to leap
From this rough [Eminence], and all is done--
All that is done on this Side of the Bier.
But there, surrounded with impervious Fog,
Sits Doubt and Questions of the Scenes to come;
Oh! Death, what moves beyond thee? Fears and Hopes, 470
Dread and Confusion, Envy and Disease,
Sleeping and waking Lusts, War-moving Pride,
Windy Ambition, and slow Avarice,
Slay in thy path; within thy Sepulchre
Mould Dead Men's Bones, feed worms, rust Epitaphs,
Sleep brainless Skulls in blest Vacuity!
But what comes then? O for a Seraph's Eye
That, piercing thro' the Mask of Mortal Things,
Might scale the cloudless Battlements of Light,
And in its Immaterial Robe detect 480
The Spirit, stript of the encumbring Clay."--

Alas, Eugenio! Life, Deception's Child,
Gives us her fairer Side, and gives no more;
The rest we seek in our reflecting View
Of Self, and Guilt's o'erheard Soliloquy.
How smiles the World in pain, and smiles believ'd!
Yon Wretch who, muffled in the Garb of Night,
Gave her the Tortures of a weary Soul,
Meets--may he not?--the jovial Eye of Day,
With a depictur'd Laughter in his Cheek, 490
Or the smoothe Visage of habitual Ease?

How have I mourn'd my Lot, as if the Fates
Cull'd me, the vilest from their pitchy Stores
That ere in Mortal Bosom planted Woe,
And pain'd the Care-fraught Soul! I'll grieve no more,
But, take it patient with a sober hope,
That soon Distress may vary his assault,
Or soon the Welcome Tomb exclude Distress.--

But see another Son of Night and Care,
A Shepherd watching o'er his frozen Fold, 500
Himself benumb'd and murmuring at his Fate.
Sigh not, fond Man; thy bosom only feels
The gentler Blows of Nature, and receives
The Common Visit of Calamity.

JUVENILIA

[A FAREWELL.]

[1779?]

The hour arrived! I sigh'd and said,
How soon the happiest hours are fled!
On wings of down they lately flew,
But then their moments pass'd with you;
And still with you could I but be,
On downy wings they'd always flee.

Say, did you not, the way you went,
Feel the soft balm of gay content?
Say, did you not all pleasures find,
Of which you left so few behind? 10
I think you did: for well I know
My parting prayer would make it so.

"May she," I said, "life's choicest goods partake;
Those, late in life, for nobler still forsake--
The bliss of one, th' esteem'd of many live,
With all that Friendship would, and all that Love can give!"

TIME.

London, February, 1780.

"The clock struck one! we take no thought of Time,"
Wrapt up in Night, and meditating rhyme.
All big with vision, we despise the powers
That vulgar beings link to days and hours--
Those vile, mechanic things that rule our hearts,
And cut our lives in momentary parts.
That speech of Time was Wisdom's gift, said Young.
Ah, Doctor! better, Time would hold his tongue:
What serves the clock? "To warn the careless crew,
How much in little space they have to do; 10
To bid the busy world resign their breath,
And beat each moment a soft call for death--
To give it, then, a tongue, was wise in man."
Support the assertion, Doctor, if you can.
It tells the ruffian when his comrades wait;
It calls the duns to crowd my hapless gate;
It tells my heart the paralysing tale
Of hours to come, when Misery must prevail.

THE CHOICE.

London, February, 1780.

What vulgar title thus salutes the eye,
The schoolboy's first attempt at poesy?
The long-worn theme of every humbler Muse,
For wits to scorn and nurses to peruse;
The dull description of a scribbler's brain,
And sigh'd-for wealth, for which he sighs in vain;
A glowing chart of fairy-land estate,
Romantic scenes, and visions out of date,
Clear skies, clear streams, soft banks, and sober bowers,
Deer, whimpering brooks, and wind-perfuming flowers? 10

Not thus! too long have I in fancy wove
My slender webs of wealth, and peace, and love;
Have dream'd of plenty, in the midst of want,
And sought, by Hope, what Hope can never grant;
Been fool'd by wishes, and still wish'd again,
And loved the flattery, while I knew it vain!
"Gain by the Muse!"--alas! thou might'st as soon
Pluck gain (as Percy honour) from the moon;
As soon grow rich by ministerial nods,
As soon divine by dreaming of the gods, 20
As soon succeed by telling ladies truth,
Or preaching moral documents to youth;
To as much purpose, mortal! thy desires,
As Tully's flourishes to country squires;
As simple truth within St. James's state,
Or the soft lute in shrill-tongued Billingsgate.
"Gain by the Muse!" alas, preposterous hope!
Who ever gain'd by poetry--but Pope?
And what art thou? No St. John takes thy part;
No potent Dean commends thy head or heart! 30
What gain'st thou but the praises of the poor?
They bribe no milkman to thy lofty door,
They wipe no scrawl from thy increasing score.
What did the Muse, or Fame, for Dryden, say?
What for poor Butler? what for honest Gay?
For Thomson, what? or what to Savage give?
Or how did Johnson--how did Otway live?
Like thee, dependent on to-morrow's good,
Their thin revénue never understood;
Like thee, elate at what thou canst not know; 40
Like thee, repining at each puny blow;
Like thee they lived, each dream of Hope to mock,
Upon their wits--but with a larger stock.
No, if for food thy unambitious pray'r,
With supple acts to supple minds repair;
Learn of the base in soft grimace to deal,
And deck thee with the livery genteel;
Or trim the wherry, or the flail invite,
Draw teeth, or any viler thing but write.
Writers, whom once th' astonish'd vulgar saw 50
Give nations language, and great cities law;
Whom gods, they said--and surely gods--inspired,
Whom emp'rors honour'd, and the world admired,
Now common grown, they awe mankind no more,
But vassals are, who judges were before.
Blockheads on wits their little talents waste,
As files gnaw metal that they cannot taste;
Though still some good the trial may produce,
To shape the useful to a nobler use.
Some few of these a statue and a stone 60
Has Fame decreed--but deals out bread to none.
Unhappy art! decreed thine owner's curse,
Vile diagnostic of consumptive purse;
Members by bribes, and ministers by lies,
Gamesters by luck, by courage soldiers rise:
Beaux by the outside of their heads may win,
And wily sergeants by the craft within:
Who but the race, by Fancy's demon led,
Starve by the means they use to gain their bread?
Oft have I read, and, reading, mourn'd the fate 70
Of garret-bard, and his unpitied mate;
Of children stinted in their daily meal,--
The joke of wealthier wits who could not feel.
Portentous spoke that pity in my breast,
And pleaded self--who ever pleads the best.
No! thank my stars, my misery's all my own--
To friends, to family, to foes unknown;
Who hates my verse, and damns the mean design,
Shall wound no peace--shall grieve no heart but mine.
One trial past, let sober Reason speak: 80
Here shall we rest, or shall we further seek?
Rest here, if our relenting stars ordain
A placid harbour from the stormy main;
Or, that denied, the fond remembrance weep,
And sink, forgotten, in the mighty deep.

[A HUMBLE INVOCATION.]

[1780.]

When summer's tribe, her rosy tribe, are fled,
And drooping beauty mourns her blossoms shed,
Some humbler sweet may cheer the pensive swain,
And simpler beauties deck the withering plain.
And thus, when Verse her wintry prospect weeps,
When Pope is gone, and mighty Milton sleeps,
When Gray in lofty lines has ceased to soar,
And gentle Goldsmith charms the town no more,
An humbler Bard the widow'd Muse invites,
Who led by hope and inclination writes; 10
With half their art, he tries the soul to move,
And swell the softer strain with themes of love.

[FROM AN EPISTLE TO MIRA.]

[April, 1780.]