A BALLA D. HARK, hark, 'tis a voice from the tomb, Come, Lucy, it cries, come away, The grave of thy COLIN has room To reft thee befide his cold clay. All mournful the midnight bell rung, Her bofom embrac'd the cold ground, And night-ravens croak'd all-around. "How long, my lov'd COLIN," she cry'd, "Alas! "Alas! what avails it how dear 66 Thy Lucy was once to her swain! "Her face like the lily so fair, "And eyes that gave light to the plain. "The fhepherd that lov'd her is gone; "That face and thofe eyes charm no more; "And Lucy forgot, and alone, "To death fhall her COLIN deplore." While thus fhe lay funk in defpair, And thunder fhook dreadful the ground. "I hear the kind call, and obey, “Oh, COLIN receive me," she cried,. Then breathing a groan o'er his clay, She hung on his tomb-stone, and died.. SONGS. EPISTLE TO A FRIEND. D% O, ftudy more difcard that Siren, Eafe, Whose fatal charms are murd'rous while they please. "Wit's fcanty streams will fret their channel dry, "If Learning's fpring withhold the fresh supply. "Turn leaf by leaf gigantick volumes o'er, "Nor blush to know what antients wrote before. "Why not, fometimes, regale admiring friends "With Greek and Latin fprinklings, odds and ends? "Exert your talents; read, and read to write! "As Horace fays, mix profit with delight." 'Tis rare advice: but I am flow to mend, Smit with the Muse, 'tis true, I fought her charms; If then the Mufe no more shall strive to please, Lull'd in the happy lethargy of ease; If, unadvent'rous, the forbear to fing, Nor take one thought to plume her ruffled wing; When defp'rate robbers, ifsuing from the waste, As for Myfelf, I own the prefent charge; Our learned Coke, from whom we fcribblers draw Lays down this truth, from whence my maxim follows,. (See Horace, Ode Dec. Sext.-the cafe Apollo's) "The God of Verse disclaims a plodding wretch,, "Nor keeps his bow for ever on the ftretch." However great my thirst of honeft fame, I bow with rev'rence to each letter'd name; To worth, where'er it be, with joy submit, But own no curft monopolies of wit. Nor Nor think, my friend, if I but rarely quote, Mean while with them, while Græcian founds impart Th' eternal paffions of the human heart, Burfting the bonds of ease and lazy rest, I feel the flame mount active in my breaft; Or when, with joy, I turn the Roman page, I live, in fancy, in th' AUGUSTAN age! Till fome dull Bavius' or a Mævius' name, Damn'd by the MUSE to everlasting fame, Forbids the mind in foreign climes to roam, And brings me back to our own fools at home. EPISTLE |