Displeases this?-The modern way,
Perhaps, may please-a public day.
"A public day! detested name!
The farce of friendship and the shame.
Did ever social freedom come
Within the pale of drawing-room?
See pictur'd round the formal crowd!
How nice, how just each attitude :
My lord approaches-what surprise!
The pictures speak, the pictures rise!
Thrice ten times told the same salute,
Once more the mimic forms are mute.
Meanwhile the envious rows between,
Distrust and Scandal walk unseen;
Their poisons silently infuse,
'Till these suspect, and those abuse.

"Far, far from these, in some lone shade,
Let me, in easy silence laid,
Where never fools, or slaves intrude,
Enjoy the sweets of solitude !"

What quit the commerce of mankind! Leave virtue, fame, and worth behind! Who fly to solitary rest,

Are reason's savages at best.

Though human life's extensive field
Wild weeds and vexing brambles yield;
Behold her smiling vallies bear
Mellifluous fruits, and flowrets fair!
The crowds of folly you despise-
Associate with the good and wise;
For virtue, rightly understood,
Is to be wise, and to be good.

MONODY. 1759.

AH SCENES belov'd! ah conscious shades,
That wave these parent-vales along!

Ye bowers, where Fancy met the tuneful maids,
Ye mountains, vocal with my Doric song,
Teach your wild echoes to complain

In sighs of solemn woe, in broken sounds of pain.

For her I mourn,

Now the cold tenant of the thoughtless urn-
For her bewail these strains of woe,
For her these filial sorrows flow,
Source of my life, that led my tender years,
With all a parent's pious fears,
That nurs'd my infant thought, and taught my
mind to grow.

Careful, she mark'd each dangerous way,
Where youth's unwary footsteps stray.
She taught the struggling passions to subside,
Where sacred truth, and reason guide,

In virtue's glorious path to seek the realms of day. Lamented goodness! yet I see

The fond affections melting in her eye:

She bends its tearful orb on me,

And heaves the tender sigh:

As thoughtful, she the toils surveys,
That crowd in life's perplexing maze,
And for her children feels again

All, all that love can fear, and all that fear can feign.

O best of parents! let me pour My sorrows o'er thy silent bed;

There early strew the vernal flower, The parting tear at evening shed

WITH sense enough for half your sex beside,
With just no more than necessary pride;
With knowledge caught from Nature's living page,
Politely learn'd, and elegantly sage-
Alas! how piteous, that in such a mind
So many foibles free reception find!
Can such a mind, ye gods! admit disdain?
Be partial, envious, covetous, and vain ?
Unwelcome truth! to love, to blindness clear!
Yet, Gillman, hear it;-while you blush to hear:

That in your gentle breast disdain can dwell,
Let knavery, meanness, pride that feel it, tell!
With partial eye a friend's defects you see,
And look with kindness on my faults and me.
And does no envy that fair mind o'ershade ?
Does no short sigh for greater wealth invade;
When silent merit wants the fostering meed,
And the warm wish suggests the virtuous deed?
Fairly the charge of vanity you prove,
Vain of each virtue of the friends you love,

What charms, what art of magic have conspir'd Of power to make so many faults admir'd?

SWEET Peace, that lov'st the silent hour,

The still retreat of leisure free; Associate of each gentle power, And eldest born of Harmony!

O, if thou own'st this mossy cell,

If thine this mansion of repose; Permit me, nymph, with thee to dwell, With thee my wakeful eye to close. And tho' those glittering scenes should fade, That Pleasure's rosy train prepares; What vot'ry have they not betray'd' What are they more than splendid cares? But smiling days, exempt from care,

But nights, when sleep, and silence reign; Serenity, with aspect fair,

And love and joy are in thy train.

ANOTHER INSCRIPTION IN THE SAME GROTTO. 1756.

O FAIREST of the village-born,

Content, inspire my careless lay! Let no vain wish, no thought forlorn

Throw darkness o'er the smiling day.
Forget'st thou, when we wander'd o'er
The sylvan Beleau's' sedgy shore,

Or rang'd the woodland wilds along;
How oft on Herclay's mountains high
We've met the Morning's purple eye,
Delay'd by many a song?
From thee, from those by fortune led;
To all the faree of life confin'd;
At once each native pleasure fled,

For thou, sweet nymph, wast left behind.
Yet could I once, once more survey
Thy comely form in mantle grey,

Thy polish'd brow, thy peaceful eye;
Where e'er, forsaken fair, you dwell,
Though in this dim sequester'd cell,
With thee I'd live and die.

To rest in fearless ease! Save weeping rills, to see no tear, Save dying gales, no sigh to hear, No murmur, but the breeze. Say, would you change that peaceful cell, Where Sanctity and Silence dwell,

For Splendor's dazzling blaze?
For all those gilded toys that glare
Round high-born Power's imperial chair,
Inviting fools to gaze?

Ah friend! Ambition's prospects close,
And, studious of your own repose,

Be thankful here to live:
For, trust me, one protecting shed,
And nightly peace, and daily bread
Is all that life can give.

WRITTEN AMONG THE RUINS OF PONTEFRACT CASTLE.

1756.

RIGHT Sung the bard, that all-involving age With hand impartial deals the ruthless blow; That war, wide-wasting with impetuous rage, Lays the tall spire and sky-crown'd turret low. A pile stupendous, once of fair renown,

This mould'ring mass of shapeless ruin rose, Where nodding heights of fractur'd columus frown,

And birds obscene in ivy-bow'rs repose:
Oft the pale matron from the threat'ning wall,
Suspicious, bids her heedless children fly;
Oft, as he views the meditated fall,

Full swiftly steps the frighted peasant by.
But more respectful views th' historic sage,
Musing, these awful relics of decay,
That once a refuge form'd from hostile rage,
In Henry's and in Edward's dubious day.
He pensive oft reviews the mighty dead,

That erst have trod this desolated ground; Reflects how here unhappy Sal'sbury bled, When Faction aim'd the death-dispensing wound.

Rest, gentle Rivers! and ill-fated Gray!

A flow'r or tear oft strews your bumble grave, Whom Envy slew, to pave Ambition's way,

And whom a monarch wept in vain to save. Ah! what avail'd th' alliance of a throne? The pomp of titles what, or pow'r rever'd? Happier to these the humble life unknown, With virtue honour'd, and by peace endear'd. Had thus the sons of bleeding Britain thought, When hapless here inglorious Richard lay, Yet many a prince, whose blood full dearly bought

The shameful triumph of the long-fought day; Yet many a hero, whose defeated hand

In death resign'd the well-contested field, Had in his offspring sav'd a sinking land, The tyrant's terrour, and the nation's shield. Ill could the Muse indignant grief forbear, Should Mem'ry trace her bleeding country's Ill could she count, without a bursting tear,[woes, Th' inglorious triumphs of the vary'd Rose!

And elegantly simple. In thy train,
Glory, and fair Renown, and deathless Fame
Attendant ever, each immortal name,
By thee deem'd sacred, to yon starry vault
Shall bear, and stamp in characters of gold.
Be thine the care, alone where truth directs
The firm heart, where the love of human kind
Inflames the patriot spirit, there to soothe
The toils of Virtue with melodious praise :
For those, that smiling seraph bids thee wake
His golden lyre; for those, the young-ey'd Sun
Gilds this fair-form'd world; and genial Spring
Throws many a green wreath liberal from his
bosom."

So spake the voice divine, whose last sweet sound
Gave birth to Echo, tuneful nymph, that loves
The Muse's haunt, dim grove, or lonely dale,
Or high wood old; and, listening while she sings,
Dwells in long rapture on each falling strain.

O Halifax! an humble Muse, that dwells In scenes like these, a stranger to the world, To thee a stranger, late has learnt thy fame, Even in this vale of silence; from the voice Of Echo learnt it, and, like her, delights, With thy lov'd name, to make these wild woods vocal.

Spirits of ancient time, to high renown
By martial glory rais'd, and deeds august,
Achiev'd for Britain's freedom! patriot hearts,
That, fearless of a tyrant's threatening arm,
Embrac'd your bleeding country! o'er the page,
Where History triumphs in your holy names,
O'er the dim monuments that mark your graves,
Why streams my eye with pleasure? 'Tis the joy
The soft delight that through the full breast flows,
From sweet rememb'rance of departed virtue !
O Britain, parent of illustrious names,
While o'er thy annals Memory shoots her eye,
How the heart glows, rapt with high-wondering
love,

And emulous esteem!-Hail, Sydney, hail!
Whether Arcadian blythe, by fountain clear,
Piping thy love-lays wild, or Spartan bold,
In Freedom's van distinguish'd, Sydney hail!
Oft o'er thy laurell'd tomb from hands unseen
Fall flowers; oft in the vales of Penshurst fair,
Menalca, stepping from his evening fold,
Listeneth strange music, from the tiny breath
Of fairy minstrels warbled, which of old,
Dancing to thy sweet lays, they learned well.
On Raleigh's grave, O strew the sweetest
flowers

maids!

That on the bosom of the green vale blow!
There hang your vernal wreaths, ye village-
[bring
Ye mountain nymphs, your crowns of wild thyme
To Raleigh's honour'd grave! There bloom the
The virgin rose, that, blushing to be seen, [bay,
Folds its fair leaves; for modest worth was his;
A mind where Truth, Philosophy's first born,
Held her harmonious reign: a Britain's breast,
That, careful still of Freedom's holy pledge,
Disdain'd the mean arts of a tyrant's court,
Disdain'd and died! Where was thy spirit then,
Queen of sea-crowning isles, when Raleigh bled?
How well he serv'd thee, let Iberia tell!
Ask prostrate Cales, yet trembling at his name,
How well he serv'd thee: when her vanquish'd

hand

Held forth the base bribe, how he spurn'd it from
And cried, I fight for Britain! History rise, [him
And blast the reigns that redden with the blood
Of those that gave them glory! Happier days,
Gilt with a Brunswick's parent smile, await
The honour'd Viceroy. More auspicious hours
Shall Halifax behold, nor grieve to find
A favour'd land ungrateful to his care.

O for the Muse of Milton, to record
The honours of that day, wheu full conven'd
Hibernia's senate with one voice proclaim'd
A nation's high applause; when, long opprest
With wealth-consuming war, their eager love
Advanc'd the princely dignity's support,
While Halifax presided! O, belov'd
By every Muse, grace of the polish'd court,
The peasant's guardian, then what pleasure felt
Thy liberal bosom ! not the low delight
Of Fortune's added gifts, greatly declin'd;
No, 'twas the supreme bliss that fills the breast
Of conscious Virtue, happy to behold
Her cares successful in a nation's joy.

But O, ye sisters of the sacred spring,
To sweetest accents tune the polish'd lay,
The music of persuasion ! You alone
Can paint that easy eloquence that flow'd
In Attic streams, from Halifax that flow'd,
When all Ierne listen'd. Albion heard,

And felt a parent's joy: "No more," she cried, "No more shall Greece the man of Athens boast, Whose magic periods smooth'd the listening

wave

Of rapt Ilyssus. Rome shall claim no more
The flowery path of eloquence alone
To grace her consul's brow; for never spoke
Himeria's Viceroy words of fairer phrase,
Forgetful of Alpheus' hastening stream,
When Arethusa stop'd her golden tide, [swains,
Aud call'd her nymphs, and call'd her shepherd
To leave their sweet pipes silent. Silent lay
Your pipes, Hibernian Shepherds." Liffey smil'd
And on his soft hand lean'd his dimply cheek,
Attentive: "Once so Wharton spoke," he
cried,

"Unhappy Wharton, whose young eloquence
Yet vibrates on mine ear." Whatever powers,
Whatever genii old, of vale or grove
The high inhabitants, all throng'd to hear.
Sylvanus came, and from his temples grey
His oaken chapled flung, lest haply leaf
Or interposing bough should meet the sound,
And bar its soft approaches to his ear,
Pan ceas'd to pipe-a moment ceas'd-for then
Suspicion grew, that Phoebus in disguise
His ancient reign invaded : down he cast,
In petulance, his reed; but seiz'd it soon
And fill'd the woods with clangour. Measures wild
The wanton Satyrs danc'd, then listening stood,
And gaz'd with uncouth joy.

But hark! wild riots shake the peaceful plain,
The gathering tumult roars, and Faction opes
Her blood-requesting eye. The frighted swain
Mourns o'er his wasted labours, and implores
His country's guardian. Previous to his wish
That guardian's care he found. The tumult
ceas'd,

And Faction clos'd her blood-requesting eye.

The liberal Muse, that never stain'd her page

Be these thy honours, Halifax! and these