Elysian dreams shall hover round his bed,

His soul shall wing, on pleasing fancies borne, To shining vales where flowerets lift their head, Wak'd by the breathing zephyrs of the morn.

But wretched he, whose foul reproachful deeds Can through an angry conscience wound his rest; His eye too oft the balmy comfort needs,

Though slumber seldom knows him as her guest.

To calm the raging tumults of his soul,
If wearied nature should an hour demand,
Around his bed the sheeted spectres howl;
Red with revenge the grinning furies stand.

Nor state nor grandeur can his pain allay;
Where shall he find a requiem to his woes?
Power cannot chase the frightful gloom away,
Nor music lull him to a kind repose.

Where is the king that conscience fears to chide?—
Conscience, that candid judge of right and wrong,
Will o'er the secrets of each heart preside,
Nor aw'd by pomp, nor tam'd by soothing song.

DAMON TO HIS FRIENDS.

THE billows of life are supprest;
Its tumults, its toils, disappear;
To relinquish the storms that are past,
I think on the sunshine that's near.

Dame Fortune and I are agreed;

Her frowns I no longer endure;

For the goddess has kindly decreed,
That Damon no more shall be poor.

Now riches will ope the dim eyes

To view the increase of my store; And many my friendship will prize, Who never knew Damon before.

But those I renounce and abjure
Who carried contempt in their eye;
May poverty still be their dower,

That could look on misfortune awry!

Ye powers that weak mortals govern,
Keep pride at his bay from my mind;
O let me not haughtily learn

To despise the few friends that were kind!

For theirs was a feeling sincere ;
'Twas free from delusion and art:
O may I that friendship revere,
And hold it yet dear to my heart!

By which was I ever forgot?

It was both my physician and cure,
That still found the way to my cot,
Although I was wretched and poor.

'Twas balm to my canker-tooth'd care;
The wound of affliction it heal'd;
In distress it was pity's soft tear,
And naked, cold poverty's shield.

Attend, ye kind youth of the plain !
Who oft with my sorrows condol'd;

You cannot be deaf to the strain,

Since Damon is master of gold.

I have chose a sweet sylvan retreat, Bedeck'd with the beauties of Spring; Around, my flocks nibble and bleat, While the musical choristers sing.

I force not the waters to stand
In an artful canal at my door;
But a river, at nature's command,
Meanders both limpid and pure.

She's the goddess that darkens my bowers
With tendrils of ivy and vine;

She tutors my shrubs and my flowers;
Her taste is the standard of mine.

What a pleasing diversified group

Of trees has she spread o'er my ground! She has taught the grave larix to droop, And the birch to shed odours around.

For whom has she perfum'd my groves? For whom has she cluster'd my vine? If friendship despise my alcoves,

They'll ne'er be recesses of mine.

He who tastes his grape juices by stealth,
Without chosen companions to share,
Is the basest of slaves to his wealth,
And the pitiful minion of care.

O come, and with Damon retire

Amidst the green umbrage embower'd! Your mirth and your songs to inspire, Shall the juice of the vintage be pour'd.

O come, ye dear friends of his youth!
Of all his good fortune partake;

Nor think 'tis departing from truth,

To say 'twas preserv'd for your sake.

RETIREMENT.

COME, Inspiration! from thy vernal bower,
To thy celestial voice attune the lyre;
Smooth gliding strains in sweet profusion pour,
And aid my numbers with seraphic fire.

Under a lonely spreading oak I lay,

My head upon the daisied green reclin'd; The evening sun beam'd forth his parting ray; The foliage bended to the hollow wind.

There gentle sleep my acting powers supprest;
The city's distant hum was heard no more;
Yet fancy suffer'd not the mind to rest,
Ever obedient to her wakeful power.

She led me near a crystal fountain's noise,
Where undulating waters sportive play;
Where a young comely swain, with pleasing voice,
In tender accents sung his sylvan lay.

"Adieu, ye baneful pleasures of the town! Farewell, ye giddy and unthinking throng! Without regret your foibles I disown;

Themes more exalted claim the Muse's song.

Your stony hearts no social feelings share;
Your souls of distant sorrows ne'er partake;
Ne'er do you listen to the needy prayer,
Nor drop a tear for tender pity's sake.

Welcome, ye fields, ye fountains, and ye groves! Ye flowery meadows, and extensive plains!. Where soaring warblers pour their plaintive loves, Each landscape cheering with their vocal strains.

Here rural beauty rears her pleasing shrine;
She on the margin of each streamlet glows;
Where, with the blooming hawthorn, roses twine,
And the fair lily of the valley grows.

Here chastity may wander unassail'd

Through fields where gay seducers cease to rove; Where open vice o'er virtue ne'er prevail'd; Where all is innocence, and all is love.

Peace with her olive wand triumphant reigns,
Guarding secure the peasant's humble bed;
Envy is banish'd from the happy plains,
And defamation's busy tongue is laid.

Health and contentment usher in the morn;
With jocund smiles they cheer the rural swain ;
For which the peer, to pompous titles born,
Forsaken sighs, but all his sighs are vain.

A

For the calm comforts of an easy mind
In yonder lonely cot delight to dwell,
And leave the statesman for the labouring hind,
The regal palace for the lowly cell.

Ye, who to wisdom would devote your hours,
And far from riot, far from discord stray!
Look back disdainful on the city's towers,
Where pride, where folly, point the slippery way.

Pure flows the limpid stream in crystal tides Thro' rocks, thro' dens, and ever verdant vales,