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And Fancy then, with wild ungovern'd woe, Shall her lov'd pupil's native taste explain; For mournful sable all her hues forego,

And ask sweet solace of the Muse in vain! Ah, gentle forms, expect no fond relief:

Too much the sacred Nine their loss deplore: Well may ye grieve, nor find an end of griefYour best, your brightest favourite is no more.

ELEGY V.

He compares the turbulence of love with the tranquillity of friendship.

TO MELISSA, HIS FRIEND.

FROM Love, from angry Love's inclement reign,
I pass a while to Friendship's equal skies;
Thou, generous maid, reliev'st my partial pain,
And cheer'st the victim of another's eyes.
"T is thou, Melissa, thou deserv'st my care:
How can my will and reason disagree?
How can my passion live beneath Despair!
How can my bosom sigh for aught but thee?
Ah dear Melissa! pleas'd with thee to rove,

My soul has yet surviv'd its dreariest time;
Ill can I bear the various clime of Love;

Love is a pleasing, but a various clime! So smiles immortal Maro's favourite shore, Parthenope, with every verdure crown'd! When straight Vesuvio's horrid cauldrons roar, And the dry vapour blasts the regions round. Oh blissful regions! oh unrivall'd plains!

When Maro to these fragrant haunts retir'd! Oh fatal realms! and oh accurst domains!

When Pliny, 'mid sulphureous clouds, expir'd!

So smiles the surface of the treacherous main,

As o'er its waves the peaceful halcyons play; When soon rude winds their wonted rule regain, And sky and ocean mingle in the fray. But let or air contend, or ocean rave;

E'en Hope subside amid the billows tost; Hope, still emergent, still contemns the wave, And not a feature's wonted smile is lost.

ELEGY VI.

TO A LADY,

ON THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS.

COME then, Dione, let us range the grove,
The science of the feather'd choirs explore:
Hear linnets argue, larks descant of love,

And blame the gloom of solitude no more.
My doubt subsides 't is no Italian song,

Nor senseless ditty, cheers the vernal tree : Ah! who, that hears Dione's tuneful tongue,

Shall doubt that music may with sense agree? And come, my Muse! that lov'st the sylvan shade; Evolve the mazes, and the mist dispel : Translate the song; convince my doubting maid, No solemn dervise can explain so well.Pensive beneath the twilight shades I sate,

The slave of hopeless vows, and cold disdain! When Philomel address'd his mournful mate, And thus I construed the mellifluent strain.

“Sing on, my bird-the liquid notes prolong, At every note a lover sheds his tear; Sing on, my bird-'t is Damon hears thy song; Nor doubt to gain applause when lovers hear. "He the sad source of our complaining knows; A foe to Tereus, and to lawless love! He mourns the story of our ancient woes;

Ah could our music his complaints remove! "Yon' plains are govern'd by a peerless maid; And see pale Cynthia mounts the vaulted sky, A train of lovers court the checquer'd shade; Sing on, my bird, and hear thy mate's reply. "Erewhile no shepherd to these woods retir'd; No lover blest the glow-worm's pallid ray; But ill-starr'd birds, that listening not admir'd, Or listening envy'd our superior lay. "Cheer'd by the Sun, the vassals of his power,

Let such by day unite their jarring strains! But let us choose the calm, the silent hour, Nor want fit audience while Dione reigns."

ELEGY VII.

VIRG.

He describes his vision to an acquaintance.
Cætera per terras omnes animalia, &c.
ON distant heaths, beneath autumnal skies,
Pensive I saw the circling shades descend;
Weary and faint I heard the storm arise,
While the Sun vanish'd like a faithless friend.
No kind companion led my steps aright;

No friendly planet lent its glimmering ray;
E'en the lone cot refus'd its wonted light,
Where Toil in peaceful slumber clos'd the day.
Then the dull bell had given a pleasing sound;

The village cur 't were transport then to hear; In dreadful silence all was hush'd around, While the rude storm alone distress'd mine ear. As led by Orwell's winding banks I stray'd, Where towering Wolsey breath'd his native air; A sudden lustre chas'd the flitting shade,

The sounding winds were hush'd, and all was fair. Instant a grateful form appear'd confest;

White were his locks with awful scarlet crown'd, And livelier far than Tyrian seem'd his vest,

That with the glowing purple ting'd the ground. "Stranger," he said, " amid this pealing rain, Benighted, lonesome, whither wouldst thou'stray? Does wealth or power thy weary step constrain? Reveal thy wish, and let me point the way. "For know, I trod the trophy'd paths of power; Felt every joy that fair ambition brings; And left the lonely roof of yonder bower,

To stand beneath the canopies of kings.
"I bade low hinds the towering ardour share;
Nor meanly rose to bless myself alone:

I snatch'd the shepherd from his fleecy care,
And bade his wholesome dictates guard the throne.
"Low at my feet the suppliant peer I saw;
I saw proud empires my decision wait;
My will was duty, and my word was law,
My smile was transport, and my frown was fate."
"Ah me!" said I, "nor power I seek, nor gain;
Nor urg'd by hope of fame these toils endure;
A simple youth, that feels a lover's pain,
And, from his friend's condolence, hopes a cure.

1

"He, the dear youth, to whose abodes I roam, Nor can mine honours, nor my fields extend; Yet for his sake I leave my distant home,

Which oaks embosom, and which hills defend. "Beneath that home I scorn the wintry wind; The Spring, to shade me, robes her fairest tree; And if a friend my grass-grown threshold find,

O how my lonely cot resounds with glee! "Yet, though averse to gold in heaps amass'd, I wish to bless, I languish to bestow; And though no friend to Fame's obstreperous blast, Still, to her dulcet murmurs not a foe. "Too proud with servile tone to deign address;

Too mean to think that honours are my due, Yet should some patron yield my stores to bless, I sure should deem my boundless thanks were few. "But tell me, thou! that, like a meteor's fire, Shot'st blazing forth; disdaining dull degrees; Should I to wealth, to fame, to power aspire, Must I not pass more rugged paths than these? "Must I not groan beneath a guilty load,

Praise him I scorn, and him I love betray? Does not felonious Envy bar the road?

Or Falsehood's treacherous foot beset the way? "Say, should I pass through Favour's crowded gate, Must not fair Truth inglorious wait behind? Whilst I approach the glittering scenes of state, My best companion no admittance find? "Nurs'd in the shades by Freedom's lenient care, Shall I the rigid sway of Fortune own? Taught by the voice of pious Truth, prepare To spurn an altar, and adorn a throne? "And when proud Fortune's ebbing tide recedes, And when it leaves me no unshaken friend, Shall I not weep that e'er I left the meads,

Which oaks embosom, and which hills defend? "Oh! if these ills the price of power advance, Check not my speed where social joys invite!" The troubled vision cast a mournful glance, And, sighing, vanish'd in the shades of night.

ELEGY VIIL

He describes his early love of poetry, and its consequences.

TO MR. GRAVES, 1745.
[Written after the death of Mr Pope.]

AH me! what envious magic thins my fold?
What mutter'd spell retards their late increase?
Such lessening fleeces must the swain behold,
That e'er with Doric pipe essays to please.
I saw my friends in evening circles meet;
I took my vocal reed, and tun'd my lay;
I heard them say my vocal reed was sweet:
Ah, fool! to credit what I heard them say!
Ill-fated bard! that seeks his skill to show,
Then courts the judgment of a friendly ear!
Not the poor veteran, that permits his foe

To guide his doubtful step, has more to fear, Nor could my Graves mistake the critic's laws, Till pious friendship mark'd the pleasing way: Welcome such errour! ever blest the cause!

E'en though it led me boundless leagues astray:

Couldst thou reprove me, when I nurs'd the flame On listening Cherwell's osier banks reclin'd? While, foe to Fortune, unseduc'd by Fame,

I sooth'd the bias of a careless mind.

Youth's gentle kindred, Health and Love were met!
What though in Alma's guardian arms I play'd?
How shall the Muse those vacant hours forget?
Or deem that bliss by solid cares repaid?
Thou know'st how transport thrills the tender breast,
Where Love and Fancy fix their opening reign;
How Nature shines, in livelier colours drest,
To bless their union, and to grace their train.
So first when Phoebus met the Cyprian queen,
And favour'd Rhodes beheld their passion crown'd,
Unusual flowers enrich'd the painted green;

And swift spontaneous roses blush'd around.
Now sadly lorn, from Twitnam's widow'd bower,
The drooping Muses take their casual way;
And where they stop, a flood of tears they pour;
And where they weep, no more the fields are gay.
Where is the dappled pink, the sprightly rose?
The cowslip's golden cup no more I see:
Dark and discolour'd every flower that blows,
To form the garland, Elegy! for thee!--
Enough of tears has wept the virtuous dead;
Ah might we now the pious rage control;
Hush'd be my grief ere every smile be fled,
Ere the deep swelling sigh subvert the soul!
If near some trophy spring a stripling bay,
Pleas'd we behold the graceful umbrage rise
But soon too deep it works its baneful way,
And, low on earth, the prostrate ruin lies.

ELEGY IX.

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He describes his disinterestedness to a friend.
I NE'ER must tinge my lip with Celtic wines;
The pomp of India must I ne'er display;
Nor boast the produce of Peruvian mines,
Nor with Italian sounds deceive the day.
Down yonder brook my crystal beverage flows;
My grateful sheep their annual fleeces bring;
Fair in my garden buds the damask rose,

And, from my grove, I hear the throstle sing.
My fellow swains! avert your dazzled eyes;

In vain allur'd by glittering spoils they rove, The Fates ne'er meant them for the shepherd's prize, Yet gave them ample recompense in love. They gave you vigour from your parent's veins;

They gave you toils; but toils your sinews brace; They gave you nymphs, that own their amorous And shades, the refuge of the gentle race. [pains, To carve your loves, to paint your mutual flames, See! polish'd fair, the beech's friendly rind! To sing soft carols to your lovely dames,

See vocal grots, and echoing vales assign'd! Wouldst thou, my Strephon, Love's delighted slave! Though sure the wreaths of chivalry to share, Forego the ribbon thy Matilda gave,

And, giving, bade thee in remembrance wear? Ill fare my peace, but every idle toy,

If to my mind my Delia's form it brings, Has truer worth, imparts sincerer joy, Than all that bears the radiant stamp of kings.

O my soul weeps, my breast with anguish bleeds, When Love deplores the tyrant power of Gain! Disdaining riches as the futile weeds,

I rise superior, and the rich disdain. Oft from the stream, slow wandering down the glade, Pensive I hear the nuptial peal rebound; "Some miser weds," I cry, "the captive maid, And some fond lover sickens at the sound." Not Somerville, the Muse's friend of old,

Though now exalted to yon ambient sky, So shunn'd a soul distain'd with earth and gold, So lov'd the pure, the generous breast, as L

Scorn'd be the wretch that quits his genial bowl, His loves, his friendships, e'en his self, resigns; Perverts the sacred instinct of his soul,

And to a ducate's dirty sphere confines.

But come, my friend, with taste, with science blest, Ere age impair me, and ere gold allure;

Restore thy dear idea to my breast,

The rich deposit shall the shrine secure.

Let others toil to gain the sordid ore,

The charms of independence let us sing; Blest with thy friendship, can I wish for more? I'll spurn the boasted wealth of Lydia's king.

ELEGY X.

TO FORTUNE;

SUGGESTING HIS MOTIVE FOR REPINING AT HER DISPENSATIONS.

SK

Ask not the cause why this rebellious tongue
Loads with fresh curses thy detested sway!
Ask not, thus branded in my softest song,
Why stands the flatter'd name which all obey?
'T is not, that in my shed I lurk forlorn,
Nor see my roof on Parian columns rise;
That, on this breast, no mimic star is borne,
Rever'd, ah! more than those that light the skies.
'Tis not that, on the turf supinely laid,

I sing or pipe but to the flocks that graze;
And, all inglorious, in the lonesome shade,
My finger stiffens, and my voice decays.
Not, that my fancy mourns thy stern command,
When many an embryo dome is lost in air;
While guardian Prudence checks my eager hand,
And, ere the turf is broken, cries," Forbear!
"Forbear, vain youth! be cautious, weigh thy gold,
Nor let yon rising column more aspire;
Ah! better dwell in ruins, than behold

Thy fortunes mouldering and thy domes entire. "Honorio built, but dar'd my laws defy;

He planted, scornful of my sage commands; The peach's vernal bud regal'd his eye;

The fruitage ripen'd for more frugal hands." See the small stream that pours its murmuring tide O'er some rough rock that wou its wealth disDisplays it aught but penury and pride? [play,

Ah! construe wisely what such murmurs say. How would some flood, with ampler treasures blest, Disdainful view the scantling drops distil! How must Velino shake his reedy crest! How every cygnet mock the boastive rill!

A river in Italy.

Fortune, I yield! and see, I give the sign;

At noon the poor mechanic wanders home; Collects the square, the level, and the line,

And, with retorted eye, forsakes the dome. Yes, I can patient view the shadeless plains; Can unrepining leave the rising wall: Check the fond love of art that fir'd my veins, And my warm hopes in full pursuit, recal. Descend, ye storms! destroy my rising pile; Loos'd be the whirlwind's unremitting sway; Contented I, although the gazer smile,

To see it scarce survive a winter's day. Let some dull dotard bask in thy gay shrine, As in the Sun regales his wanton herd; Guiltless of envy, why should I repine,

That his rude voice, his grating reed's preferr'd?

Let him exult, with boundless wealth supply'd, Mine and the swain's reluctant homage share; But ab his tawdry shepherdess's pride,

Gods! must my Delia, must my Delia bear? Must. Delia's softness, elegance, and ease, Submit to Marian's dress? to Marian's gold? Must Marian's robe from distant India please? The simple fleece my Delia's limbs enfold: "Yet sure on Delia seems the russet fair;

Ye glittering daughters of disguise, adieu!" So talk the wise, who judge of shape and air, But will the rural thane decide so true? Ah! what is native worth esteem'd of clowns? "T is thy false glare, O Fortune! thine they see: 'T is for my Delia's sake I dread thy frowns, And my last gasp shall curses breathe on thee.

ELEGY XI.

He complains how soon the pleasing novelty of life is over.

Ан

TO MR. JAGO.

me, my friend! it will not, will not last! This fairy-scene, that cheats our youthful eyes! The charm dissolves; th' aerial music 's past; The banquet ceases and the vision flies. Where are the splendid forms, the rich perfumes, Where the gay tapers, where the spacious dome Vanish'd the costly pearls, the crimson plumes,

And we, delightless, left to wander home! Vain now are books, the sage's wisdom vain; What has the world to bribe our steps astray, Ere Reason learns by study'd laws to reign,

The weaken'd passions, self-subdued, obey. Scarce has the Sun seven annual courses roll'd, Scarce shown the whole that Fortune can supply; Since, not the miser so caress'd his gold,

As I, for what it gave, was heard to sigh. On the world's stage I wish'd some sprightly parts To deck my native fleece with tawdry lace! 'T was life, 't was taste, and-oh my foolish heart! Substantial joy was fix'd in power and place. And you, ye works of art! allur'd mine eye, The breathing picture, and the living stone [deny, "Though gold, though splendour, Heaven and Fate Yet might I call one Titian stroke my own!"

Smit with the charms of Fame, whose lovely spoil,
The wreath, the garland, fire the poet's pride,
I trimm'd my lamp, consum'd the midnight oil-
But soon the paths of Health and Fame divide !
Oft too I pray'd, 't was Nature form'd the prayer,
To grace my native scenes, my rural home;
To see my trees express their planter's care,
And gay, on Attic models, raise my dome.
But now 't is o'er, the dear delusion 's o'er!
A stagnant breezeless air becalms my soul:
A fond aspiring candidate no more,

I scorn the palm, before I reach the goal.
O youth! enchanting state! profusely blest!
Bliss e'en obtrusive courts the frolic mind;
Of health neglectful, yet by health carest;

Careless of favour yet secure to find. Then glows the breast, as opening roses fair; More free, more vivid, than the linnet's wing; Honest as light, transparent e'en as air,

Tender as buds, and lavish as the Spring.,
Not all the force of manhood's active might,
Not all the craft of subtle age assign'd,
Not science shall extort that dear delight,

Which gay delusion gave the tender mind.
Adieu soft raptures, transports void of care!
Parent of raptures, dear deceit, adieu!
And you, her daughters, pining with despair,
Why, why so soon her fleeting steps pursue!
Tedious again to curse the drizzling day!

Again to trace the wintery tracks of snow!
Or, sooth'd by vernal airs, again survey,
The self-same hawthorns bud; and cowslips blow!

O life! how soon of every bliss forlorn!

We start false joys, and urge the devious race: A tender prey; that cheers our youthful morn, Then sinks untimely, and defrauds the chase.

ELEGY XII. ·

HIS RECANTATION.

No more the Muse obtrudes her thin disguise! No more with aukward fallacy complains, How every fervour from my bosom flies,

And Reason in her lonesome palace reigns.

Ere the chill winter of our days arrive,

No more she paints the breast from passion free;

I feel, I feel one loitering wish survive

Ah, need I, Florio, name that wish to thee?

The star of Venus ushers in the day,

The first, the loveliest of the train that shine! The star of Venus lends her brightest ray,

When other stars their friendly beams resign. Still in my breast one soft desire remains,

Pure as that star, from guilt, from interest free, Has gentle Delia tripp'd across the plains,

And need I, Florio, name that wish to thee? While, cloy'd to find the scenes of life the same, I tune with careless hand my languid lays; Some secret impulse wakes my former flame, And fires my strain with hope of brighter days. I slept not long beneath yon rural bowers;

And lo! my crook with flowers adorn'd I see: Has gentle Delia bound my crook with flowers, And need I, Florio, name my hopes to thee?

ELEGY XIII.

TO A FRIEND,

ON SOME SLIGHT OCCASION ESTRANGED FROM HIM.

HEALTH to my friend, and many a cheerful day
Around his seat may peaceful shades abide !
Smooth flow the minutes, fraught with smiles, away,
And, till they crown our union, gently glide.
Ah me! too swiftly fleets our vernal bloom!
Lost to our wonted friendship, lost to joy!
Soon may thy breast the cordial wish resume,
Ere wintry doubt its tender warmth destroy.
Say, were it ours, by Fortune's wild command,
By chance to meet beneath the torrid zone;
Wouldst thou reject thy Damon's plighted hand?,
Wouldst thou with scorn thy once-lov'd friend
disown?

Life is that stranger land, that alien clime:

Shall kindred souls forego their social claim? Lanch'd in the vast abyss of space and time,

Shall dark suspicion quench the generous flame? Myriads of souls, that knew one parent mould, See sadly sever'd by the laws of chance! Myriads, in Time's perennial list enroll'd,

Forbid by Fate to change one transient glance! But we have met-where ills of every form, Where passions rage, and hurricanes descend: Say, shall we nurse the rage, assist the storm?

And guide them to the bosom of a friend!
Yes, we have met-through rapine, fraud, and wrong:
Might our joint aid the paths of peace explore!
Why leave thy friend amid the boisterous throng,
Ere Death divide us, and we part no more?
For oh! pale sickness warns thy friend away;
For me no more the vernal roses bloom!

I see stern Fate his ebon wand display;
And point the wither'd regions of the tomb.
Then the keen anguish from thine eye shall start,
Sad as thou follow'st my untimely bier;
"Fool that I was-if friends so soon must part,
To let suspicion intermix a fear!"

ELEGY XIV.

Declining an invitation to visit foreign countries, he takes occasion to intimate the advantages of his own.

TO LORD TEMPLE. WHILE others, lost to friendship, lost to love, Waste their best minutes on a foreign strand, Be mine, with British nymph or swain to rove, And court the genius of my native land. Deluded youth! that quits these verdant plains, To catch the follies of an alien soil! To win the vice his genuine soul disdains, Return exultat, and import the spoil! In vain he boasts of his detested prize;

No more it blooms, to British climes convey'd,
Cramp'd by the impulse of ungenial skies,
See its fresh vigour in a moment fade !
Th' exotic folly knows its native clime;

An aukward stranger, if we waft it o'er;
Why then these toils, this costly waste of time,
To spread soft poison on our happy shore ?

I covet not the pride of foreign looms;

In search of foreign modes I scorn to rove; Nor, for the worthless bird of brighter plumes, Would change the meanest warbler of my grove, No distant clime shall servile airs impart,

Or form these limbs with pliant ease to play; Trembling I view the Gaul's illusive art, That steals my lov'd rusticity away.

'Tis long since Freedom fled th' Hesperian clime; Her citron groves, her flower-embroider'd shore; She saw the British oak aspire sublime,

And soft Campania's olive charms no more.

Let partial suns mature the western mine
To shed its lustre o'er th' Iberian maid;
Mien, beauty, shape, O native soil, are thine;
Thy peerless daughters ask no foreign aid.
Let Ceylon's envy'd plant' perfume the seas,
Till torn to season the Batavian bowl;
Ours is the breast whose genuine ardours please,
Nor need a drug to meliorate the soul.

Let the proud Soldan wound th' Arcadian groves,
Or with rude lips th' Aonian fount profane;
The Muse no more by flowery Ladon roves,

She seeks her Thomson on the British plain. Tell not of realms by ruthless War dismay'd; Ah! hapless realms that War's oppression feel! In vain may Austria boast her Noric blade,

If Austria bleed beneath her boasted steel.

Beneath her palm Idume vents her moan;

Raptur'd she once beheld its friendly shade! And hoary Memphis boasts her tombs alone, The mournful types of mighty power decay'd! No crescent here displays its baneful horns;

No turban'd host the voice of Truth reproves; Learning's free source the sage's breast adorns, And poets, not inglorious, chant their loves. Boast, favour'd Media, boast thy flowery stores; Thy thousand hues by chymic suns refin'd; 'T is not the dress or mien thy soul adores,

'T is the rich beauties of Britannia's mind.

While Grenville's breast 2 could Virtue's stores af

ford,

What envy'd flota bore so fair a freight? The mine compar'd in vain its latent hoard, The gem its lustre, and the gold its weight. Thee, Grenville, thee with calmest courage fraught, Thee the lov'd image of thy native shore! Thee by the Virtues arm'd, the Graces taught, When shall we cease to boast, or to deplore? Presumptuous war, which could thy life destroy, What shall it now in recompense decree? While friends that merit every earthly joy, Feel every anguish; feel the loss of thee! Bid me no more a servile realm compare, No more the Muse of partial praise arraign; Britannia sees no foreign breast so fair, And, if she glory, glories not in vain.

1 The cinnamon.

⚫ Written a few years after the time of captain Grenville's death, which happened in 1747. The earldom of Temple was not created till 1749.

VOL. XIII.

ELEGY XV.

IN MEMORY OF A PRIVATE FAMILY IN
WORCESTERSHIRE.

FROM a lone tower with reverend ivy crown d,
The pealing bell awak'd a tender sigh;
Still as the village caught the waving sound,
A swelling tear distream'd from every eye.
So droop'd, I ween, each Briton's breast of old,
When the dull curfew spoke their freedom fled;
For, sighing as the mournful accent roll❜d,
Our hope, they cry'd, our kind support is dead!
'T was good Palemon-near a shaded pool,
A group of ancient elms umbrageous rose;
The flocking rooks, by instinct's native rule,
This peaceful scene, for their asylum, chose.
A few small spires to Gothic fancy fair,
Amid the shades emerging, struck the view;
'Twas here his youth respir'd its earliest air;
'Twas here his age breath'd out its last adieu.
One favour'd son engag'd his tenderest care;

One pious youth his whole affection crown'd:
In his young breast the Virtues sprung so fair,
Such charms display'd, such sweets diffus'd
around.

But whilst gay transport in his face appears,
A noxious vapour clogs the poison'd sky;
Blasts the fair crop-the sire is drown'd in tears,
And, scarce surviving, sees his Cynthio die!
O'er the pale corse we saw him gently bend;
Heart-chill'd with grief-"My thread," he cry'd,
"is spun;

If Heaven had meant I should my life extend,

;

Heaven had preserv'd my life's support, my son. "Snatch'd in thy prime! alas, the stroke were mild, Had my frail form obey'd the Fate's decree! Blest were my lot, O Cynthio! O my child! Had Heaven so pleas'd, and I had died for thee." 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 blest,
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, preferr'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.

The Penns of Harborough.

T

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