See * * **** from civic garlands fly, And in these groves indulge his tuneful vein! Or from yon' fummit, with a guardian's eye, Obferve how freedom's hand attires the plain! Here Pope! ah never must that towering mind To his lov'd haunts, or dearer friend, return? What art! what friendships! oh! what fame resign'd! -In yonder glade I trace his mournful urn. Where is the breast can rage or hate retain, And these glad streams and fmiling lawns behold? Where is the breaft can hear the woodland strain, And think fair freedom well exchang'd for gold? Through these soft shades delighted let me stray, While o'er my head forgotten funs defcend! Through these dear valleys bend my cafual way, Till fetting life a total shade extend! Here far from courts, and void of pompous cares, I'll mufe how much I owe mine humbler fate: Canft thou, O fun! that spotless throne disclose, Where her bold arm has left no fanguine stain ? Where, fhew me where, the lineal fceptre glows, Pure, as the fimple crook that rules the plain ? Tremendous pomp! where hate, diftruft, and fear, In kindred bofoms folve the focial tie; There not the parent fmile is half fincere; There with the friendly with, the kindly flame, No face is brighten'd, and no bosoms beat;" There coward rumours walk their murderous round; There all men smile, and prudence warns the wise, Day, night, nor hour, their anxious guard resign; More warm to merit, more elate to wear The cap of freedom, than the crown of bay. No No midnight pangs, the fhepherd's peace purfue; His love at once, and his ambition's crown'd. He takes occafion, from the fate of ELEANOR of BRETAGNE, to fuggeft the imperfect pleasures of a folitary life. WHEN beauty mourns, by fate's injurious doom, Hid from the chearful glance of human eye; When nature's pride inglorious waits the tomb, Hard is that heart which checks the rifing figh. Fair Eleonora! would no gallant mind, The caufe of love, the caufe of justice own? Matchlefs thy charms, and was no life refign'd To fee them sparkle from their native throne? O fhame of Britons! in one fullen tower She found keen anguish every rofe devour; They sprung, they fhone, they faded, and they fell. Through one dim lattice fring'd with ivy round, This, age might bear; then fated fancy palls, Believe me, ****, the pretence is vain! Th' alternate pant for pleasure and for praise. Some genius whispers, And hard his lot that languishes obfcure. Can virtue, carelefs of her pupil's meed, Nor join the founding pean of applause? For For public haunts, impell'd by Britain's weal, And courts and cells in vain our hopes renew : But ah! where Grenvile charms the listening ear, 'Tis hard to think the chearless maxim true. The groves may smile; the rivers gently glide; But can they pleafe, when Lyttelton's away? Pure as the fwain's the breast of *** glows, Ah! were the shepherd's phrase, like his, refin'd! But, how improv'd the generous dictate flows Through the clear medium of a polish'd mind! Happy the youths who, warm with Britain's love,. Her inmost wish in ***'s periods hear! Happy that in the radiant circle move, Attendant orbs, where Lonsdale gilds the sphere! While rural faith, and every polish'd art, Each friendly charm, in *** confpire, Go, plaintive youth! no more by fount or stream, |