Who now hast left me hopeless here to mourn, And say that I was gentle, and deserv'd A better lover, and I shall forgive All, all thy wrongs;-and then do thou forget As wish can make thee-Laugh, and play, and sing, Yet hist, I hear a step.-In this dark wood I'VE read, my friend, of Diocletian, For all the petty tricks of trades, I never, either now, or long since, A truly pious methodist preacher, I stand aghast! thy virtues sum to, Yet whence this strain? shall I repine, Of men of parts, hast prudence known? LINES, ON READING THE POEMS OF WARTON. Age fourteen. OH, Warton! to thy soothing shell, What pleasing themes thy page adorn, Thy muse deserves the lasting meed; Softly sings of mental pain, But, ah! the soothing scene is o'er! On middle flight we cease to soar, For now the muse assumes a bolder sweep, Now, now the rising fire thrills high, Now, now to heav'n's high realms we fly, The soul entranced, on mighty wings, Till all alarmed at the giddy height, The muse descends on gentler flight, And lulls the wearied soul to soft repose. TO THE MUSE. Written at the age of fourteen. I. ILL-FATED maid, in whose unhappy train Chill poverty and misery are seen, Anguish and discontent, the unhappy bane Of life, and blackener of each brighter scene. Why to thy votaries dost thou give to feel So keenly all the scorns-the jeers of life? Why not endow them to endure the strife With apathy's invulnerable steel, Or self-content and ease, each torturing wound to heal? II. Ah! who would taste your self-deluding joys, That lure the unwary to a wretched doon? That bid fair views and flattering hopes arise, Then hurl them headlong to a lasting tomb. What is the charm which leads thy victims on To persevere in paths that lead to woe? What can induce them in that rout to go, In which in-numerous before have gone, And died in misery, poor and woe-begone. III. Yet can I ask what charms in thee are found? I who have drank from thine etherial rill, And tasted all the pleasures that abound Upon Parnassus', lov'd Aonian hill? aye thrill! I, thro' whose soul the muses' strains |