STREPHON.

Ye clouds, descend! ye meadows, fade away! Mute be the birds, and wither'd ev'ry spray,

When Sylvia ceases on our hills to bloom,

And Strephon sorrows in affliction's gloom.

DAMON.

Ye nymphs, be gay! still flow, ye murm'ring floods!

Ye meadows, flourish! and be green ye woods!

Be gay! let nature in her best appear,

And all things brighten when my Sylvia's here.

EGON.

The lark that warbles to the dawning day,
The silv'ry dew that quivers on the spray,
Have often charm'd me from my lowly cot;
No cares to tease, and ev'ry pain forgot:
Nor lark, nor dew-drop on the sparkling thorn,
Nor meadows gilded by the glowing morn,
Are half so charming as the strains that flow
From friendship warbling to the maids we know:
For each a flow'ry chaplet let me weave,
Each from her swain the present to receive;
And as the contest for their charms is ev'n,
In grateful record be the chaplets giv❜n.

ON

ON A CELEBRATED BEAU, AT SPA,

IN 1783.

I.

How blest is dulness! vanity's first born!
Nurs'd in the lap of grandeur and of pow'r,
Adorn'd with titles that are wisdom's scorn,

The thing's receiv'd where merit's shewn the door.

II.

To tie the cambrick nicely round his throat,
Produce the frill, and give the ruffle room,
Display the fav'rite dear deluding coat,
The boast of Paris, or the pride of Rome :

III.

To trim the marshall'd features of his face,
Compose his eye-brows, or his teeth renew,

Give ev'ry limb its elegance and grace,
Adorn his knees, and richly load his shoe:

IV.

To twist the string that dangles from his cane,
Or plant his hat triumphant on his eye;
To guard the scented outside of a brain,
Whose inward knowledge fashion must supply:

Το

V.

To twirl the rattling cluster of his seals,

-Those dear supplies for emptiness of scull !—
To smooth his fingers and observe his nails,
And, studying wit, be sovereignly dull:

VI.

To bow, to smile, to chatter and decide
On ev'ry subject, whether right or wrong;
With all the matchless impudence of pride,
Commence a critic, and dissect a song!

VII.

To shake the rattling box, the card to turn,
And waste the produce of his native lands;
Whilst, heav'n-directed, half the spoils return
To injur'd Poverty's industrious hands:

VIII.

To boast of conquests which he never won,
And trust his falsehoods to the babbling gale;
To leave dishonour'd, slighted and undone,
The real victim of his flatt'ring tale:

IX.

These are the glorious functions of the man

Whom fashion owns, and half the world admires ; His ruling passion and his only plan,

To move through life as pride, or lust, inspires.

While

X.

While slighted merit, humbly seeking truth,
Through many a fold of wisdom's sacred page,
Unnotic'd wastes a solitary youth,

To gather learned miseries for

age.

Lines, originally intended as a Dedication to Him by whom
I have been most obliged through Life.

WHEN from unblushing gratitude the strain
Spontaneous flows, and feeling wakes the lyre,
The beaten track of dedication's vain,

The glare of fiction, and its tints expire.

The blight that Envy would on Friendship throw,
The wound that Malice meditates to give,
Make Truth and Sympathy more closely grow,
And in the consciousness of honour live.

Take then, my friend, the wreath thy kindness made,
Take what has long been foster'd by thy care;

Time may secure it from oblivion's shade,
Mature the root, and bid the scion bear.

Rais'd by thy mild indulgence into life,

The tender buds few chilling blasts have known;

Still in the storms of literary strife

May candour shield them from ill-nature's frown.

Whate'er

Whate'er their fate, if doom'd to fall or rise,
Be this at least my comfort and my fame;
From school-day habits to the nobler ties
Of reas'ning manhood thou art still the same.

THE

UNCERTAINTY of LIFE.

TO THE

HONOURABLE CHARLES CLIFFORD,

NOW

LORD CLIFFORD.-1785.

Carpe Diem. HoR.

AH! why, since life's the trifle of a day,

The painted rainbow of an April sky! A trace that's trusted to the sandy way,

A gaudy sketch whose colours quickly fly!

Why should we waste, in fruitless hopes of rest,
Revolving time that wisdom cannot save?
Each joy desiring, and each wish unblest,

We

at peace grasp

that blooms beyond the grave.

To-day, believe me, can alone bestow
The beam of comfort thro' recurring strife;
To-morrow, pregnant with the seeds of woe,
Breaks on the certain wretchedness of life.

If