Oh think, o'er all this mortal stage,
What mournful scenes arife:
What ruin waits on kingly rage:
How often virtue dwells with woe:
WHOE'ER thou art whofe path in fummer lies Through yonder village, turn thee where the grove Of branching oaks a rural palace old
Imbofoms. there dwells Albert, generous lord
Of all the harvest round. and onward thence s A low plain chapel fronts the morning light Faft by a filent riv'let. Humbly walk, O, ftranger, o'er the confecrated ground; And on that verdant hilloc, which thou fee'ft Befet with ofiers, let thy pious hand Sprinkle fresh water from the brook and ftrew Sweet-fmelling flowers. for there doth Edmund reft, The learned fhepherd; for each rural art Fam'd, and for fongs harmonious, and the woes Of ill-requited love. The faithlefs pride Of fair Matilda fank him to the
In manhood's prime. But foon did righteous heaven With tears, with fharp remorfe, and pining care, Avenge her falfhood. nor could all the gold And nuptial pomp, which lur'd her plighted faith 20 From Edmund to a loftier husband's home, Relieve her breaking heart, or turn aside The ftrokes of death. Go, traveller; relate The mournful ftory. haply fome fair maid May hold it in remembrance, and be taught 25 That riches cannot pay for truth or love.
Me tho' in life's fequefter'd vale The Almighty fire ordain'd to dwell,
Remote from glory's toilfome ways, And the great fcenes of public praise; Yet let me ftill with grateful pride Remember how my infant frame He temper'd with prophetic flame, And early mufic to my tongue fupply'd.
"Twas then my future fate he weigh'd, And, This be thy concern, he faid, At once with Passion's keen alarms, And Beauty's pleasurable charms, And facred Truth's eternal light, To move the various mind of Man; Till under one unblemish'd plan, His Reafon, Fancy, and his Heart unite.
ON THE FIFTH OF DECEMBER, BEING THE BIRTH-DAY OF A BEAUTIFUL YOUNG
HAIL, eldeft of the monthly train,
Sire of the winter drear,
December, in whofe iron reign.
Expires the chequer'd Year.
Hush all the bluft'ring blafts that blow, And proudly plum'd in filver fnow,
Smile gladly on this bleft of Days. The livery'd clouds fhall on thee wait, And Phoebus fhine in all his ftate
With more than fummer rays.
Tho' jocund June may justly boast Long days and happy hours,
Tho' Auguft be Pomona's hoft,
And May be crown'd with flow'rs;
Tell June, his fire and crimson dies, By Harriot's blush, and Harriot's eyes, Eclips'd and vanquish'd, fade away: Tell Auguft, thou canst let him fee A richer, riper fruit than he,
A fweeter flow'r than May.
« VorigeDoorgaan » |