Five sleepless nights he stemm'd this tide of woes! Five irksome suns he saw, through tears, forlorn ; On his pale corse the sixth sad morning rose ; From yonder dome the mournful bier was borne.

"Twas on those downs*, by Roman hosts annoy'd, Fought our bold fathers, rustic, unrefin'd! Freedom's plain sons, in martial cares employ'd! They ting'd their bodies, but unmask'd their mind.

"Twas there, in happier times, this virtuous race,
Of milder merit, fix'd their calm retreat;
War's deadly crimson had forsook the place,
And Freedom fondly lov'd the chosen seat.

No wild ambition fir'd their tranquil breast,

To swell with empty sounds a spotless name: If fostering skies, the sun, the shower, were bless'd, Their bounty spread; their fields' extent the

same.

Those fields, profuse of raiment, food, and fire,
They scorn'd to lessen, careless to extend;
Bade Luxury to lavish courts aspire,
And Avarice to city-breasts descend.

None to a virgin's mind prefer'd her dower,
To fire with vicious hopes a modest heir:
The sire, in place of titles, wealth, or power,
Assign'd him virtue; and his lot was fair.

They spoke of Fortune as some doubtful dame,
That sway'd the natives of a distant sphere;
From Lucre's vagrant sons had learn'd her fame,
But never wish'd to place her banners here.

*Harborough Downs.

Here youth's free spirit innocently gay,

Enjoy'd the most that Innocence can give; Those wholesome sweets that border Virtue's way; Those cooling fruits, that we may taste and live.

Their board no strange ambiguous viand bore ; From their own streams their choicer fare they To lure the scaly glutton to the shore, [drew;

The sole deceit their artless bosom knew!

Sincere themselves, ah! too secure to find
The common bosom, like their own, sincere !
"Tis its own guilt alarms the jealous mind;
"Tis her own poison bids the viper fear.

Sketch'd on the lattice of the adjacent fane,
- Their suppliant busts implore the reader's prayer:
Ah! gentle souls! enjoy your blissful reign,

And let frail mortals claim your guardian care.

For sure to blissful realms the souls are flown That never flatter'd, injur'd, censur'd, strove ; The friends of Science! music all their own; Music, the voice of Virtue and of Love!

The journeying peasant, through the secret shade Heard their soft lyres engage his listening ear, And haply deem'd some courteous angel play'd; No angel play'd—but might with transport hear.

For these the sounds that chase unholy Strife!
Sole Envy's charm, Ambition's wretch release!
Raise him to spurn the radiant ills of life,
To pity pomp, to be content with peace.
14*

VOL. III.

Farewell, pure spirits! vain the praise we give, The praise you sought from lips angelic flows; Farewell! the virtues which deserve to live Deserve an ampler bliss than life bestows.

Last of his race, Palemon, now no more
The modest merit of his line display'd;
Then pious Hough Vigornia's mitre wore-
Soft sleep the dust of each deserving shade.
Shenstone.

ELEGY, DESCRIBING THE SORROW OF AN INGENUOUS MIND ON THE MELANCHOLY EVENT OF A LICENTIOUS AMOUR.

Why mourns my friend? why weeps his downcast eye?

That eye where mirth, where fancy, us'd to shine; Thy cheerful meads reprove that swelling sigh; Spring ne'er enamell'd fairer meads than thine.

Art thou not lodg'd in Fortune's warm embrace? Wert thou not form'd by Nature's partial care? Bless'd in thy song, and bless'd in every grace

That wins the friend, or that enchants the fair!

Damon,' said he, 'thy partial praise restrain; Not Damon's friendship can my peace restore : Alas! his very praise awakes my pain,

And my poor wounded bosom bleeds the more. For, oh! that Nature on my birth had frown'd, Or Fortune fix'd me to some lowly cell! Then had my bosom 'scap'd this fatal wound, Nor had I bid these vernal sweets farewell.

• But led by Fortune's hand, her darling child,
My youth her vain licentious bliss admir'd;
In Fortune's train the siren Flattery smil'd,
And rashly hallow'd all her queen inspir'd.

Of folly studious, ev'n of vices vain,

Ah, vices gilded by the rich and gay!
I chas'd the guileless daughters of the plain,
Nor dropp'd the chase, till Jessy was my prey.
• Poor artless maid! to stain thy spotless name
Expense, and art, and toil, united strove ;
To lure a breast that felt the purest flame,

Sustain'd by virtue, but betray'd by love.
• School'd in the science of Love's mazy wiles,
I cloth'd each feature with affected scorn;
I spoke of jealous doubts and fickle smiles,
And, feigning, left her anxious and forlorn.

'Then while the fancied rage alarm'd her care,
Warm to deny, and zealous to disprove,
I bade my words the wonted softness wear,
And seiz'd the minute of returning love.

To thee, my Damon, dare I paint the rest?
Will yet thy love a candid ear incline?
Assur'd that virtue, by misfortune press'd,
Feels not the sharpness of a pang like mine.

'Nine envious moons matur'd her growing shame,
Ere while to flaunt it in the face of day,
When scorn'd of Virtue, stigmatiz'd by Fame,
Low at my feet desponding Jessy lay.'

"Henry," she said, " by thy dear form subdued, See the sad relics of a nymph undone! I find, I find this rising sob renew'd ;

I sigh in shades, and sicken at the sun.

"Amid the dreary gloom of night I cry,

When will the morn's once pleasing scenes return? Yet what can morn's returning ray supply,

But foes that triumph, or but friends that mourn?

"Alas! no more that joyous morn appears
That led the tranquil hours of spotless fame,
For I have steep'd a father's couch in tears,
And ting'd a mother's glowing cheek with shame.
"The vocal birds that raise their matin strain,
The sportive lambs, increase my pensive moan;
All seem to chase me from the cheerful plain,
And talk of truth and innocence alone.

"If through the garden's flowery tribes I stray,
Where bloom the jasmines that could once allure,
Hope not to find delight in us,' they say:
For we are spotless, Jessy; we are pure.'

"Ye flowers! that well reproach a nymph so frail!
Say, could ye with my virgin fame compare?
The brightest bud that scents the vernal gale
Was not so fragrant, and was not so fair.

"Now the grave old alarm the gentler young,
And all my fame's abhorr'd contagion flee;
Trembles each lip, and falters every tongue,
That bids the morn propitious smile on me.