No healing slumbers 'tend my humble bed, No friends condole the sorrows of the poor.

And what avail the thoughts of former joy?
What comfort bring they in the adverse hour?
Can they the canker-worm of care destroy,
Or brighten fortune's discontented hour?

He who hath long travers'd the fertile plain, Where Nature in its fairest vesture smil'd, Will he not cheerless view the fairy scene, When lonely wand'ring o'er the barren wild?

For now pale Poverty, with haggard eye

And rueful aspect, darts her gloomy ray; My wonted guests their proffer'd aid deny, And from the paths of DAMON steal away.

Thus when fair Summer's lustre gilds the lawn, When rip'ning blossoms deck the spreading

trée,

The birds with melody salute the dawn,
And o'er the daisy hangs the humming-bee.

But when the beauties of the circling year
In chilling frosts and furious storms decay;
No more the bees upon the plains appear,

No more the warblers hail the infant day.

To the lone corner of some distant shore,
In dreary devious pilgrimage I'll fly,
And wander pensive where Deceit no more
Shall trace my footsteps with a mortal eye.

There solitary saunter o'er the beach,

And to the murm'ring surge my griefs disclose;

There shall my voice in plaintive wailings teach

The hollow caverns to resound my woes.

Sweet are the waters to the parched tongue; Sweet are the blossoms to the wanton bee; Sweet to the shepherd sounds the lark's shrill song;

Bat sweeter far is SOLITUDE to me.

Adieu, ye fields, where I have fondly stray'd! Ye swains, who once the fav'rite DAMON

knew!

Farewell, ye sharers of my bounty's aid!

Ye sons of base Ingratitude, adieu !

AGAINST REPINING AT FORTUNE.

THO' in my narrow bounds of rural toil,
No obelisk or splendid column rise;
Tho' partial Fortune still averts her smile,
And views my labours with condemning eyes;

Yet all the gorgeous vanity of state

I can contemplate with a cool disdain ; Nor shall the honours of the gay and great E'er wound my bosom with an envious pain.

Avails it aught the grandeur of their halls,

With all the glories of the pencil hung, If Truth, fair Truth! within th' unhallow'd walls,

Hath never whisper'd with her seraph tongue?

Avails it aught, if music's gentle lay

Hath oft been echo'd by the sounding dome; If music cannot soothe their griefs away, Or change a wretched to a happy home?

Tho' Fortune should invest them with her

spoils,

And banish poverty with look severe,

Enlarge their confines, and decrease their toils, Ah! what avails if she increase their care?

Tho' fickle she disclaim my moss-grown cot, Nature! thou look'st with more impartial

eyes:

Smile thou, fair goddess! on my sober lot; 1'11 neither fear her fall, nor court her rise..

When early larks shall cease the matin song; When Philomel at night resigns her lay; When melting numbers to the owl belong, Then shall the reed be silent in thy praise.

Can he, who with the tide of Fortune sails, More pleasure from the sweets of Nature share?

Do zephyrs waft him more ambrosial gales,
Or do his groves a gayer liv'ry wear?

To me the heav'ns unveil as pure a sky;
To me the flow'rs as rich a bloom disclose;
The morning beams as radiant to my eye,

And darkness guides me to as sweet repose.

If Luxury their lavish dainties piles,

And still attends upon their fated hours, Doth Health reward them with her open smiles, Or Exercise enlarge their feeble pow'rs?

'Tis not in richest mines of Indian gold, That man this jewel happiness can find, If his unfeeling breast, to virtue cold,

Denies her entrance to his ruthless mind.

Wealth, pomp, and honour are but gaudy toys; Alas, how poor the pleasures they impart! Virtue's the sacred source of all the joys, That claim a lasting mansion in the heart.