And bedew the green sod with a tear, 'Tis all the remembrance I crave.'

To the sward then his visage he turn'd;
'Twas wan as the lilies in May:
Fair Stella may see him inurn'd-
He hath sigh'd all his sorrows away.

THE DECAY OF FRIENDSHIP.

A PASTORAL ELEGY.

WHEN Gold, man's sacred deity, did smile,
My friends were plenty, and my sorrows few;
Mirth, love, and bumpers, did my hours beguile,
And arrow'd Cupids round my slumbers flew.

What shepherd then could boast more happy days? My lot was envied by each humbler swain; Each bard in smooth eulogium sung my praise, And Damon listen'd to the guileful strain.

Flattery! alluring as the Syren's lay,

And as deceitful thy enchanting tongue, How have you taught my wavering mind to stray, Charm'd and attracted by the baneful song?

My pleasant cottage, shelter'd from the gale,
Arose, with moss and rural ivy bound;
And scarce a floweret in my lowly vale

But was with bees of various colours crown'd.

Free o'er my lands the neighbouring flocks could

roam;

How welcome were the swains and flocks to me!

The shepherds kindly were invited home,
To chase the hours in merriment and glee.

To wake emotions in the youthful mind,

Strephon, with voice melodious, tun'd the song; Each sylvan youth the sounding chorus join'd, Fraught with contentment 'midst the festive throng.

My clustering grape compens'd their magic skill;
The bowl capacious swell'd in purple tide,
To shepherds, liberal as the crystal rill

Spontaneous gurgling from the mountain's side.

But, ah! these youthful sportive hours are fled; These scenes of jocund mirth are now no more: 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 lour?

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 wandering 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 ripening blossoms deck the spreading tree,

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 murmuring 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; But sweeter far is solitude to me.

Adieu, ye fields, where I have fondly stray'd!

Ye swains, who once the favourite Damon knew! Farewell, ye sharers of my bounty's aid! Ye sons of base ingratitude, adieu !

AGAINST REPINING AT FORTUNE.

THOUGH in my narrow bounds of rural toil
No obelisk or splendid column rise;
Though 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 echoed by the sounding dome; If music cannot sooth their griefs away, Or change a wretched to a happy home?

Though 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?

Though, fickle, she disclaim my moss-grown cot,
Nature! thou look'st with more impartial eyes:
Smile thou, fair goddess! on my sober lot;
I'll neither fear her fall, nor court her rise.

When early larks shall cease the matin song;
When Philomel at night resigns her lays;
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 livery wear?

To me the heavens unveil as pure a sky;

To me the flowers 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 powers?

'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.

CONSCIENCE.

AN ELEGY.

Leave her to Heaven,

And to the thorns that in her bosom lodge,

To prick and sting her.

Shakespeare.

No choiring warblers flutter in the sky;
Phœbus no longer holds his radiant sway;
While nature, with a melancholy eye,
Bemoans the loss of his departed ray.

O happy he, whose conscience knows no guile!
He to the sable night can bid farewell;
From cheerless objects close his eyes a while,
Within the silken folds of sleep to dwell.