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When, prone beneath an osier shade,
At large my vacant limbs were laid;
To thee and Fancy all resign'd,
What visions wander'd o'er my mind!
Illusions dear, adieu! no more
Shall I your fairy haunts explore;
For Hope withholds her golden ray,
And Fancy's colours faint away.
To Eden's shores, to Enon's groves,
Resounding ouce with Delia's loves,
Adieu! that name shall sound no more
O'er Enon's groves or Eden's shore:
For Hope withholds her golden ray,
And Fancy's colours faint away.

Life's ocean slept,—the liquid gale,
Gently mov'd the waving sail.
Fallacious Hope! with flattering eye
You smil'd to see the streamers fly.
The thunder bursts, the mad wind raves,
From slumber wake the 'frighted waves:
You saw me, fled me thus distrest,
And tore your anchor from my breast.

Yet come, fair fugitive, again;
I love thee still, though false and vain.
Forgive me, gentle Hope, and tell
Where, far from me, you deign to dwell.
To sooth Ambition's wild desires;
To feed the lover's eager fires;
To swell the miser's mouldy store;
To gild the dreaming chymist's ore;
Are these thy cares?-Or more humane,
To loose the war-worn captive's chain,
And bring before his languid sight
The charms of liberty and light:
The tears of drooping Grief to dry;
And hold thy glass to Sorrow's eye?

Or do'st thou more delight to dwell
With Silence in the hermit's cell?
To teach Devotion's flame to rise,
And wing her vespers to the skies;
To urge, with still returning care,
The holy violence of prayer;
In rapt'rous visions to display
The realms of everlasting day,
And snatch from Time the golden key,
That opens all eternity?

Perchance, on some unpeopled strand,
Whose rocks the raging tide withstand,
Thy soothing smile, in deserts drear,
A lonely mariner may cheer,
Who bravely holds his feeble breath,
Attack'd by Famine, Pain, and Death.
With thee, he bears each tedious day
Along the dreary beach to stray:
Whence their wide way his toil'd eyes strain
O'er the blue bosom of the main ;
And meet, where distant surges rave,
A white sail in each foaming wave.

Doom'd from each native joy to part,
Each dear connection of the heart,
You the poor exile's steps attend,
The only undeserting friend.
You wing the slow-declining year;
You dry the solitary tear;

And oft, with pious guile, restore
Those scenes he must behold no more.

O most ador'd of Earth or skies!
To thee ten thousand temples rise;
By age retain'd, by youth carest,
The same dear idol of the breast.
Depriv'd of thee, the wretch were poor
That rolls in heaps of Lydian ore:
With thee the simple hind is gay,
Whose toil supports the passing day.

The rose-lip'd Loves that, round their queen,
Dance o'er Cythera's smiling green,
Thy aid implore, thy power display
In many a sweetly-warbled lay,
For ever in thy sacred shrine,
Their unextinguish'd torches shine;
Idalian flowers their sweets diffuse,
And myrtles shed their balmy dews.
Ah! still propitious, may'st thou deigu
To sooth an anxious lover's pain!
By thee deserted, well I know,
His heart would feel no common woe.
His gentle prayer propitious hear,
And stop the frequent-falling tear.

For me, fair Hope, if once again
Perchance, to smile on me you deign,
Be such your sweetly-rural air,
And such a graceful visage wear,
As when, with Truth and young Desire,
You wak'd the lord of Hagley's lyre;
And painted to her poet's mind,
The charms of Lucy, fair and kind.

But ah! too early lost!-then go,
Vain Hope, thou harbinger of woe.
Ah! no;-that thought distracts my heart;
Indulge me, Hope, we must not part.
Direct the future as you please;
But give me, give me present ease.

Sun of the soul! whose cheerful ray
Darts o'er this gloom of life a smile;
Sweet Hope, yet further gild my way,
Yet light my weary steps awhile,
Till thy fair lamp dissolve in endless day.



GREAT god of wealth, before whose sacred [prone! Truth, Honour, Genius, Fame, and Worth lie To thy throng'd temples take one vot'ry more: To thee a poet never kneel'd before.

Adieu the gods that caught my early prayer! Wisdom that frown'd, and Knowledge fraught with care,

Friendship that every veering gale could move!
And tantalizing Hope, and faithless Love!
These, these are slaves that in thy liv'ry shine:
For Wisdom, Friendship, Love himself is thine!
For thee I'll labour down the mine's dark way,
And leave the confines of enliv'ning day;
For thee Asturia's shining sands explore,
And bear the splendours of Potosi's ore;
Scale the high rock, and tempt the raging sea,
And think, and toil, and wish, and wake for thee.
Farewell the scenes that thoughtless youth could

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Where you the way with magic power beguile,
Bassora's deep, or Lybia's deserts smile.

Foes of thy worth, that, insolent and vain,
Deride thy maxims, and reject thy reign,
The frantic tribe of virtue shall depart,
And make no more their ravage in my heart.
Away "The tears that pity taught to flow!"
Away that anguish for a brother's woe!
Adieu to these, and ev'ry tiresome guest,
That drain'd my fortunes, or destroy'd my rest!
Ah, good Avaro! could I thee despise?
Thee, good Avaro: provident and wise?
Plutus, forgive the bitter things I've said!
I love Avaro; poor Avaro's dead.

Yet, yet I'm thine; for Fame's unerring tongue
In thy sooth'd ear thus pours her silver song,
"Immortal Plutus! god of golden ease!
Form'd ev'ry heart, and ev'ry eye to please!
For thee Content her downy carpet spreads,
And rosy Pleasure swells her genial beds.
'Tis thine to gild the mansions of Despair,
And beam a glory round the brows of Care;
To cheat the lazy pace of sleepless hours
With marble fountains, and ambrosial bowers."

O grant me, Plutus, scenes like those 1 sung,
My youthful lyre when vernal fancy strung.
For me their shades let other Studleys rear,
Tho' each tree's water'd with a widow's tear.
Detested god!-forgive me! I adore.
Great Plutus, grant me one petition more,
Should Delia, tender, gen'rous, fair and free,
Leave love and truth, and sacrifice to thee,
I charge thee, Plutus, be to Delia kind,
And make her fortunes richer than her mind.
Be her's the wealth all Heaven's broad eye can

Grant her, good god, Don Philip and Peru.


PARENT of Virtue, if thine ear
Attend not now to Sorrow's cry;
If now the pity-streaming tear
Should haply on thy cheek be dry;

Indulge my votive strain, Osweet Humanity.

Come, ever welcome to my breast,

A tender, but a cheerful guest;

Nor always in the gloomy cell
Of life-consuming sorrow dwell;
For sorrow, long-indulg'd and slow,
Is to humanity a foe;

And grief, that makes the heart its prey,
Wears sensibility away.

Then comes, sweet nymph, instead of thee,
The gloomy fiend Stupidity.

O may that fiend be banish'd far,
Though passions hold eternal war!
Nor ever let me cease to know
The pulse that throbs at joy or woe.
Nor let my vacant cheek be dry,
When sorrow fills a brother's eye;
Nor may the tear that frequent flows
From private or from social woes,
E'er make this pleasing sense depart;
Ye cares, O barden not my heart.

If the fair star of fortune smile,
Let not its flatt'ring power beguile :

Nor borne along the fav'ring tide,
My full sails swell with bloating pride.
Let me from wealth but hope content,
Rememb'ring still it was but lent;
To modest Merit spread my store;
Unbar my hospitable door!
Nor feed, for pomp, an idle train,
While Want unpity'd pines in vain.

If Heav'n, in ev'ry purpose wise,
The envy'd lot of wealth denies;
If doom'd to drag life's painful load
Thro' poverty's uneven road,
And, for the due bread of the day,
Destin'd to toil as well as pray;
To thee, Humanity, still true,
I'll wish the good I cannot do ;
And give the wretch that passes by,
A soothing word—a tear-a sigh.

Howe'er exalted, or deprest,
Be ever mine the feeling breast.
From me remove the stagnant mind
Of languid indolence, reclin'd;
The soul that one long Sabbath keeps,
And thro' the Sun's whole circle sleeps;
Dull Peace, that dwells in Folly's eye,
And self-attending Vanity.

Alike, the foolish, and the vain,
Are strangers to the sense humane.

O, for that sympathetic glow
Which taught the holy tear to flow,
When the prophetic eye survey'd
Sion in future ashes laid;

Or, rais'd to Heav'n, implor'd the bread
That thousands in the desert fed!
Or when the heart o'er Friendship's grave
Sigh'd, and forgot its power to save-
O, for that sympathetic glow,
Which taught the holy tear to flow!

It comes: it fills my labouring breast!
I feel my beating heart opprest.
Oh! hear that lonely widow's wail!
See her dim eye! her aspect pale!
To Heav'n she turns in deep despair,
Her infants wonder at her prayer,
And, mingling tears they know not why,
Lift up their little hands and cry.
O God! their moving sorrows see!
Support them, sweet Humanity.

Life, fill'd with grief's distressful train,
For ever asks the tear humane.
Behold in yon unconscious grove
The victims of ill-fated love!
Heard you that agonizing throe?
Sure this is not romantic woe!
The golden day of joy is o'er;
And now they part-to meet no more.
Assist them, hearts from anguish free!
Assist them, sweet Humanity.

Parent of Virtue, if thine ear
Attend not now to Sorrow's cry;
If now the pity-streaming tear
Should haply on thy cheek be dry,
Indulge my votive strain, O sweet Humanity.

HYMN TO THE RISING SUN. FROM the red wave rising bright,

Lift on high thy golden head;
O'er the misty mountains spread
Thy smiling rays of orient light!
See the golden god appear;
Flies the fiend of darkness drear;
Flies, and in her gloomy train,
Sable Grief, and Care, and Pain!
See the golden god advance!

On Taurus' heights his coursers prance:
With him haste the vernal Hours,
Breathing sweets, and drooping flowers.
Laughing Summer at his side,
Waves her locks in rasy pride;
And Autumn bland with aspect kind,
Bears his golden sheaf behind.
O haste, and spread the purple day
O'er all the wide ethereal way!
Nature mourns at thy delay:
God of glory haste away!
From the red wave rising bright,

Lift on high thy golden head;
O'er the misty mountains, spread
Thy smiling rays of orient light!



FAREWELL the fields of Irwan's vale,

My infant years where Fancy led; And sooth'd me with the western gale,

Her wild dreams waving round my head, While the blythe blackbird told his tale, Farewell the fields of Irwan's vale!

The primrose on the valley's side,

The green thyme on the mountain's head, The wanton rose, the daisy pied,

The wilding's blossom blushing red; No longer I their sweets inhale Farewell the fields of Irwan's vale! How oft, within yon vacant shade,


Has ev'ning clos'd my careless eye How oft, along those banks I've stray'd, And watch'd the wave that wander'd by ; Full long their loss shall I bewail. Farewell the fields of Irwan's vale!

Yet still, within yon vacant grove,

To mark the close of parting day; Along yon flow'ry banks to rove,

And watch the wave that winds away;

Fair Fancy sure shall never fail,
Tho' far from these, and Irwan's vale!


LIFE of the world, Immortal Mind,
Father of all the human kind!
Whose boundless eye that knows no rest,
Intent on Nature's ample breast;
Explores the space of Earth and skies,
And sees eternal incense rise!

To thee my humble voice I raise;
Forgive, while I presume to praise.

Tho' thou this transient being gave,
That shortly sinks into the grave;
Yet 'twas thy goodness, still to give
A being that can think and live;
In all thy works thy wisdom see,
And stretch its tow'ring mind to thee.
To thee my humble voice I raise;
Forgive, while I presume to praise.

And still this poor contracted span,
This life, that bears the name of man;
From thee derives its vital ray,
Eternal Source of life and day!
Thy bounty still the sunshine pours,
That gilds its morn and ev'ning hours,
To thee my humble voice I raise;
Forgive, while I presume to praise.

Thro' Errour's maze, thro' Folly's night,
The lamp of Reason lends me light.
When stern Affliction waves her rod,
My heart confides in thee, my God!
When Nature shrinks, oppress'd with woes,
E'en then she finds in thee repose.
To thee my humble voice I raise;
Forgive, while I presume to praise.

Affliction flies, and Hope returns;
Her lamp with brighter splendour burns;
Gay Love with all his smiling train,
And Peace and Joy are here again.
These, these, I know, 'twas thine to give;
I trusted; and, behold, I live!
To thee my humble voice I raise;
Forgive, while I presume to praise.

O may I still thy favour prove!
Still grant me gratitude and love.
Let truth and virtue guide my heart;
Nor peace, nor hope, nor joy depart;
But yet, whate'er my life may be,
My heart shall still repose on thee!
To thee my humble voice I raise;
Forgive, while I presume to praise,



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It is evident, however, that he spent much of his time in Sicily, Moschus, as he tells us, was his scholar; and by him we are informed, that his master was not a poor poet. "Thou hast left to others thy riches," says he, "but to me thy poetry." It appears from the same author, that he died by poison. The best edition of his works, is that of Paris, by M. de Louge-Pierre, with a French translation.

Adonis dead, &c.] Adonis, the favourite of Venus, was the son of Cynaras, king of Cyprus. His chief employment was hunting, though he is represented by Virgil as a Shepherd,

Oves ad flumina pavit Adonis.

He was killed by a wild boar, if we may believe Propertius, in Cyprus:

Percussit Adonim

Stretch'd on this mountain thy torn lover lies:
Weep, queen of beauty! for he bleeds-he

Ah! yet behold life's last drops faintly flow,
In streams of purple, o'er those limbs of snow!
From the pale cheek the perish'd roses fly;
And death dims slow the ghastly gazing eye.
Kiss, kiss those fading lips, ere chill'd in death;
With soothing fondness stay the fleeting breath.
'Tis vain-ah! give the soothing fondness o'er!
Adonis feels the warm salute no more.
Adonis dead the Muse of woe shall mourn!
Adonis dead the weeping Loves return.
His faithful dogs bewail their master slain,
And mourning dryads pour the plaintive strain.

Not the fair youth alone the wound opprest,
The queen of beauty bears it in her breast.
Her feet unsandal'd, floating wild her hair,
Her aspect woeful, and her bosom bare,
Distrest she wanders the wild wastes forlorn,
Her sacred limbs by ruthless brambles torn.
Loud as she grieves, surrounding rocks com-

And Echo thro' the long vales calls her absent

Adonis hears not: life's last drops fall slow,
In streams of purple, down his limbs of snow.
The weeping Cupids round their queen deplore,
And mourn her beauty, and her love no more.
Each rival grace that glow'd with conscious


Each charm of Venus, with Adonis dy'd.

Adonis dead, the vocal hills bemoan,
And hollow groves return the sadd'ning groan.
The swelling floods with sea-born Venus weep,
And roll in mournful murmurs to the deep:

His faithful dogs, &c.-The queen of beauty, &c.] The lines in the original run thus:

Αγριον αγριον ἔλκα ἔχει κατὰ μήρον Αδονις.
Μείζον δ' &' Κυθέρεια φερει ποτε καρδιον ἔλκΘ.
Κεῖνον μεν περι παιδα φιλοι κυνες ὠρυσαντο,
Και Νύμφαι κλαιωσιν όρειαδες.

The two first of these lines contain a kind of witticism, which it was better to avoid. The author had, however, too much true genius to be fond of these little affected turns of expression, which Museus and others have been industrious to strike out.

Venantem Idalio vertice durus Aper. The anniversary of his death was celebrated through the whole l'agan world. Aristophanes, in his Comedy of Peace, reckons the feast of Adonis among the chief festivals of the Athenians. The Syrians observed it with all the violence of grief, and the greatest cruelty of self-castigation. It was celebrated at Alexandria in St. Cyril's These four verses are transposed in the transtime; and when Julian the apostate made hislation for the sake of the connection. entry at Antioch, in the year 362, they were celebrating the feast of Adonis,

The ancients differ greatly in their accounts of this divinity. Athenæus says, that he was the favourite of Bacchus. Plutarch maintains, that he and Bacchus are the same, and that the Jews abstain'd from swine's flesh because Adonis was killed by a boar. Ausonius, Epig. 30, affirms that Bacchus, Osiris, and Adonis, are one and

the same.

·Distrest, she wanders, &c.] This image of the sorrow of Venus is very affecting, and is introduced in this place with great o:auty and propriety. Indeed, most modern poets seem to have observed it, and have profited by it in their scenes of elegiac woe.

The swelling floods, &c ] When the poet makes the rivers mourn for Venus, he very properly calls her Appodira; hat this propriety perhaps

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"When thou art gone

When, far from me, thy gentle ghost explores Infernal Pluto's grimly-glooming shores.

"Wretch that I am! immortal and divine, In life imprison'd whom the Fates confine. He comes! receive him to thine iron-arms; Blest queen of death! receive the prince of charms.

Far happier thou, to whose wide realms repair
Whatever lovely, and whatever fair.
The smiles of joy, the golden hours are filed:
Grief, only grief, survives Adonis dead."

The Loves around in idle sorrow stand,
And the dim torch falls from the vacant hand.
Hence the vain zone! the myrtle's flow'ry

Delight and beauty with Adonis died.

"Why didst thou, vent'rous, the wild chase explore,

From his dark lair to rouse the tusky boar?

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Far other sport might those fair limbs essay, Than the rude combat, or the savage fray." Thus Venus griev'd-the Cupids round deplore ;

And mourn her beauty, and her love no more. Now flowing tears in silent grief complain, Mix with the purple streams, and flood the plain.

Yet not in vain those sacred drops shall flow, The purple streams in blushing roses glow: And catching life from ev'ry falling tear, Their azure heads anemonies shall rear.

But cease in vain to cherish dire despair, Nor mourn unpitied to the mountain-air ; The last sad office let thy hand supply, Stretch the stiff limbs, and close the glaring eye.

That form repos'd beneath the bridal vest May cheat thy sorrows with the feint of rest. For lovely smile those lips, tho' void of breath, And fair those features in the shade of death. Haste, fill with flowers, with rosy wreaths bis

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The Graces mourn the prince of beauty slain,
Loud as Dione on her native main :
The Fates relenting join the general woe,
And call the lover from the realms below.
Vain, hopeless grief! can living sounds pervade
The dark, dead regions of eternal shade?
Spare, Venus, spare that 100 luxuriant tear
For the long sorrows of the mournful year.

For the long, &c.] Numa seems to have borrowed the custom he instituted of mourning a year for the deceased, from the Greeks. For though it is said only ten months were set apart, yet ten months were the year of Romulus, till regulated by his successor.

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