I sooth, as humour prompts, my idle vein,
In frolick verse, that cannot hope to gain

NOTES.

"And who, with pious hand, shall bring
"The flowers she cherish'd, snow-drops cold,
"And violets that unheeded spring,

"To scatter o'er her hallow'd mold?

"And who, while memory loves to dwell
Upon her name for ever dear,

"Shall feel his heart with passion swell,
“And pour the bitter, bitter, tear ?

"I DID IT : and, would fate allow,

"Should visit still, should still deplore-
“But health and strength have left me now,
"And I, alas! can weep no more.

"Take then, sweet maid! this simple strain,
"The last I offer at thy shrine;

"Thy grave must then undeck'd remain,
"And all thy memory fade with mine.

"And can thy soft persuasive look,

Thy voice, that might with music vie, "Thy air, that every gazer took,

Thy gay good-humour-Can they fade!'

210

Admission to the Album, or be seen,

215

In L's Review, or Urban's Magazine.
O, for thy spirit, Pope! Yet why? My lays,
Which wake no envy, and invite no praise,
Half-creeping, and half-flying, yet suffice
To stagger impudence, and ruffle vice.
An hour may come, so I delight to dream
When slowly wandering by thy sacred stream
Majestic Thames! I leave the world behind,
And give to fancy all th' enraptured mind d;
An hour may come, when I shall strike the lyre
To nobler themes: then, then, the chords inspire

220

NOTES.

"Perhaps but sorrow dims my eye :

"Cold turf, which I no more must view,
"Dear name, which I no more must sigh
"A long, a last, a sad adieu!"

* Thrill'd, &c.

"Bid the streamy lightnings fly,
"In liquid peril from thy eye."

"Ne'er shalt thou know to sigh,

"Or on a soft idea die,

"Ne'er on a recollection grasp,
"Thy arms."-

-Ohe! jam satis est

DELL. CRUS

ANNA MAT.

With thy own harmony, most sweet, most strong,
And guide my hand thro' all the maze of song!
Till then, enough for me, in such rude strains 225
As mother-wit can give, and those small pains
A vacant hour allows, to range the town,
And hunt the clamorous brood of Folly down;
Force every head, in Este's despite, to wear
The cap and bells, by nature planted there,
Muffle the rattle, seize the slavering sholes,
And drive them, scourg'd and whimpering, to their
holes.

230

Burgoyne, perhaps, (n) unchill'd by creeping age,

May yet arise, and vindicate the stage;

The reign of nature and of sense restore,

235

And be-whatever Terence was before.

And you, too, whole Menander!t who combine, With his pure language, and his flowing line,

IMITATIONS.

(n) Arguta meretrice potes, Davoque Chremeta Eludente senem, comis garrire libellos

Unus vivorum, Fundani.

NOTES.

* Burgoyne.-See the note on v. 21.

+ And you, too, whole Menander, &c. O spem fallacem ! Our Menander has since "stolen an hour," (it would

The SOUL of Comedy; may steal an hour
From the fond chace of still-escaping power, 240
The poet and the sage again unite,

And sweetly blend instruction with delight.

(0) And yet Elfrida's bard, tho' time has shed The snow of age too deeply round his head, Feels the kind warmth, the fervour, which inspired His youthful breast, still glow uncheck'd, untired: And yet, tho' like the bird of eve, his song "Fit audience finds not" in the giddy throng, The notes, tho' artful wild, tho' numerous chaste, Fill with delight the sober ear of taste.

250

But these, and more I could with honour name, Too proud to stoop, like me, to vulgar game, Subjects, more worthy of their daring, chuse, And leave at large the abortions of the Muse.

be injustice to suppose it more,) from public pursuits, and prostituted it to the re-production of a German sooterkin.

Proud of their privilege, the innumerous spawn, 255
From bogs and fens, the mire of Pindus, drawn,
New vigour feel, new confidence assume,

And swarm like Pharoah's frogs, in every room.
Sick of th' eternal croak, which, ever near,
Beat like the death-watch on my tortured ear; 260
And sure, too sure, that many a genuine child
Of truth and nature, check'd his wood-notes wild,*
(Dear to the feeling heart,) in doubt to win
The vacant wanderer, mid the unceasing din

NOTES.

* Checked his wood-notes wild.- Ewanσavwv xoxolwr, ασονται κύκνοι. But this is better illustrated in a most elegant fable of Lessing, to which I despair of doing justice in a translation.

"Du zürnest, Liebling der Musen," &c. &c.

Thou art troubled, darling of the Muses, thou art troubled at the clamorous swarms of insects which infest ParO hear from me what once the nightingale heard

nassus.

from the shepherd.

Sing then, said he to the silent songstress, one lovely evening in the spring, sing then, sweet nightingale! Alas! said the nightingale, the frogs croak so loud, that I have lost all desire to sing: dost thou not hear them? I do, indeed, replied the shepherd-but thy silence alone is the cause of it.

"There's comfort yet!"