Who talks of the Pierian spring or stream?
But stop dear Muse, left on th' enchanting theme
My warm imagination fhould proceed
To what you must not write, she must not read.
Kings-gate, 1764.
ON RETURNING FROM ITALY, IN 1767.
Mufis amicus triftitiam & metus
Tradam proterves in mare breticum
THUS Holland fpoke, as from the fummit vast
Of Cenis, eastward his fond eyes I he caft:
Regions of health adieu! to you I owe
Doctors difmifs'd, with their whole train of woe.
Regions of health adieu! you knew t' affuage
The ills of fickness, and encreafing age.
When fhatter'd nerves that worst of evils brought,
Spleen, that to mis'ry fwells each anxious thought,
Your cloudless sky dispersed it, and I find
With health restored, ferenity of mind.
White-liver'd Grenville, and felf-loving Gower
Shall never cause one peevish moment more ;
Not that their spite required I fhould repair
To fouthern climates and a warmer air,
Slight was the pain they gave, and fhort it's date;
I found I could not both defpife and hate.
But, Rigby, what did I for thee endure?
Thy ferpent's tooth admitted of no cure;
Loft converse never thought of without tears!
Loft promised hope of my declining years!
O! what a heavy task 'tis to remove
Th' accuftomed ties of confidence and love?
Friendship, in anguish, turn'd away her face,
While cunning Int'rest sneer'd at her disgrace.
And what has he, mistaken Man! obtain'd
For broken faith? for truth and honour stain'd ?
Shelburne, and Calcraft-O! the holy band
See, fee, with Gower caballing where they ftand;
O! may nor time, nor accident divide
This knot, by mutual love of virtue tied.
It will not be-for lo! the words fcarce fpoke
The league confirming, but the league was broke.
Soon Shelburne's falfehood taught thee to repent,
Then Rigby, why didst thou not then relent?
But I was doomed to long and bitter grief,
Till time, and Italy have brought relief,
Drawn ev'ry fting of mem'ry from my breaff,
And foothed each paffion of my foul to reft.
Nor do I go in dread of a return,
Again to trust false friends, again to mourn
But fear and forrow to the western breeze
To be transported to yon' Cretan feas
I give; refolved my clofe of life to spend
In idle Chearfulness, the Mufe's friend.
FROM THE SORROWS OF WERTER.
BY THE RIGHT HON. LORD VISCOUNT BELGRAVE.
WHERE rugged cliffs uprear their stormy brows,
A fullen stream winds thro' Cimmerian glades ;
Near which full many a willow fpreads its boughs,
And bending o'er, the urn of Werter fhades.
To this fad fpot, at midnight's folemn hour,
Would Charlotte oft with trembling step repair,
Nor e'er forget to twine each fairest flower,
Or weep, or offer up to heaven her prayer.
The glimmering moon fhone faintly from on high,
And half difclos'd, 'half veil'd the awful scene:
No voice prophane disturb'd Night's majesty,
But all was hush'd, all tranquil, all ferene.
When the lorn maid, true to the task of woe,
Befide her Werter's reliques took her stand;
And while th' unbidden tears began to flow,
And the flowers dropt from her unconscious hand;
Receive, she cried, this tributary wreath,
Happy! to-morrow's dawn fhall fee thee fade,
Noon mark thee fhrinking from its burning breath,
And the grey eve behold thee quite decay'd.
But when decay'd, thou wak'ft to life no more-
My woe, alas! wakes with the day's return;
Oh! could it fleep life's lingering remnant o'er,
And like thee never know a fecond morn.
How vain my prayers! now gentle Sleep defcends,
To fhed his poppies o'er a nation's eyes:
But not my couch the partial power attends,
Nor ftays my tears, nor calins my bursting sighs.
Reftlefs I ftart, and by the moon's pale gleam,
To thefe lone defarts bend my dreary way.
Ah! never, wiser, by thy hallow'd stream,
May wretch fo loft to hope, to comfort ftray!
There was a time, when flufh'd with young defire,
I rang'd with gladsome foot thy meads along;
At vacant eve led up the village choir,
And made thy banks re-echo to
But now Love's golden hour is pass'd for aye,
Golden it was to my unwary fight:
Fond wretch I dreamt not that beneath it lay
Such hidden fcenes of anguifh bearing night.
Why was I born to taste of endless grief,.
'I he sport of fortune, and of fate to prove,.
Yet know no lenient power can bring relief?
Ah, what of happiness I've loft by love!
Rash hapless youth! But the storm raves no more ; Peaceful in duft, the long long night you sleep : Remorse, despair, e'en love with you is o'er,
While Charlotte ftill endures-to wake and weep.
Say, from yon hoary steep that braves the storm, (Whofe rough fides groan amidst the angry main,) Is it a crime to caft this wretched form,
And end a life of mifery and pain?
It is, it is. Each frantic ftart forgot,
Refign'd to woe I wait its progress here; Here, while I feed the melancholy thought,, Breathe the deep figh, and drop the impaffion'd tear.
And you, ye willows, mourning o'er his urn,
With close embraces guard your sacred trust; Ah! ne'er afide your mingling branches turn, For never shall ye fhade more generous dust.
Mourn on, nor stay your sympathizing tears ;
Oh! were I one of you, a willow green,
With care I'd watch o'er his lov'd urn for years,
And spread fresh foliage round the folemn fcene.
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