Who now hast left me hopeless here to mourn,
Do thou but shed one tear upon my corse,
say that I was gentle, and deserv'd
A better lover, and I shall forgive
All, all thy wrongs;-and then do thou forget
The hapless Margaret, and be as blest
As wish can make thee-Laugh, and play, and sing,
With thy dear choice, and never think of me.
Yet hist, I hear a step.-In this dark wood
I'VE read, my friend, of Diocletian,
And many an other noble Grecian,
Who wealth and palaces resign'd,
In cots the joys of peace to find;
Maximian's meal of turnip tops,
(Disgusting food to dainty chops)
I've also read of, without wonder;
But such a curst egregious blunder,
As that a man, of wit and sense,
Should leave his books to hoard up pence,—
Forsake the lov'd Aonian Maids,
For all the petty tricks of trades,
I never, either now, or long since,
Have heard of such a piece of nonsense.
That one who learning's joys hath felt,
And at the Muses' altar knelt,
Should leave a life of sacred leisure,
To taste the accumulating pleasure;
And metamorphos'd to an alley duck,
Grovel in loads of kindred muck.
Oh! 'tis beyond my comprehension!
A courtier throwing up his pension,-
A lawyer working without a fee,-
A parson giving charity,
A truly pious methodist preacher,
Are not, egad, so out of nature.
Had nature made thee half a fool,
But given thee wit to keep a school.
I had not stared at thy backsliding;
But when thy wit I can confide in.
When will I know thy just pretence,
To solid and exalted sense,
When well I know that on thy head
Philosophy her lights hath shed,
I stand aghast! thy virtues sum to,
And wonder what this world will come to!
Yet whence this strain? shall I repine,
That thou alone dost singly shine?
Shall I lament tht thou alone
Of men of parts, hast prudence known?
ON READING THE POEMS OF WARTON.
OH, Warton! to thy soothing shell,
Stretched remote in hermit cell,
Where the brook runs babbling by,
For ever I could listening lie;
And catching all the muses' fire,
Hold converse with the tuneful quire.
What pleasing themes thy page adorn,
The ruddy streaks of cheerful morn!
The pastoral pipe, the ode sublime,
And melancholy's mournful chime,
Each with unwonted graces shines
In thy ever lovely lines.
Thy muse deserves the lasting meed;
Attuning sweet the Dorian reed,
Now the love-lorn swain complains,
And sings his sorrows to the plains;
Now the sylvan scenes appear,
Through all the changes of the year;
Or the elegiac strain
Softly sings of mental pain,
And mournful diapasons sail
On the faintly-dying gale.
But, ah! the soothing scene is o'er!
On middle flight we cease to soar,
For now the muse assumes a bolder sweep,
Strikes on the lyric string her sorrows deep,
In strains unheard before.
Now, now the rising fire thrills high,
Now, now to heav'n's high realms we fly,
And every throne explore.
The soul entranced, on mighty wings,
With all the poet's heat, up springs,
And loses earthly woes;
Till all alarmed at the giddy height,
The muse descends on gentler flight,
And lulls the wearied soul to soft repose.
Written at the age of fourteen.
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?
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.
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?
I, thro' whose soul the muses' strains
Oh! I do feel the spell with which I'm tied;
And tho' our annals fearful stories tell,
How Savage languish'd, and how Otway died,
Yet must I persevere let whate'er will betide.
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