But wretched he, whose foul reproachful deeds Can thro' an angry conscience wound his

rest;

His eye too oft the balmy comfort needs, Tho' 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 awed by pomp, nor tamed by soothing

song.

AGAINST REPINING AT FORTUNE.

THỎ' 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 the unhallowed walls,

Hath never whispered with her seraphtongue?

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?

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 lookest 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 mine eye; And darkness guides me to as sweet repose.

If luxury their lavish dainties piles,
And still attends upon their sated 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.

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 be-
guile,

And arrowed Cupids round my slumbers flew.

t

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 listened 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, Charmed and attracted by the baneful song?

My pleasant cottage, sheltered 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 crowned.

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, tuned the song;

Each sylvan youth the sounding chorus joined, Fraught with contentment 'midst the festive throng.

R