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There, in her green drefs, Nature never roves,
But many a fathom from the funny breeze,
Their painful way in central night they wear;
Yet while damp vapours chill each reeking brow,
A focial blaze to chear their evening hearth!
There the chafte housewife, with maternal care,
To spread with fuch coarse fare their homely board
In these dark caves, where Heav'n's paternal hand,
For who, the load of weary life to bear,
Wou'd from thefe murky manfions chafe the flave? Who cease to breathe Heav'n's pure and chearful air, To be but living tenants of the grave?
Yet harass'd as they are, their face ftill wears
The reverend comeliness of green old age;
No ftains their mind from worldly science bears:
The few plain rules her fimple leffons give,
They still thro' life with pleas'd attention ply; Their helpless offspring bid them wish to live, Their breathless parents bid them learn to die.
And furely Heaven, whose penetrating fight
Toil in the mine, than triumph on the throne.
See Charles *, more pleas'd, within the convent's gloom,
Than diadem'd with glory's crimson rays.
E'en the proud fage, whofe deep mysterious brain.
O had I thus, within the dark profound,
• By daily labour earn'd my daily food; • Or with yon feedman fow'd the quick'ning ground, Or cleav'd with ponderous axe the groaning wood!
Full many an hour, that now, tho' fped with art,
Full many an anxious wish, or pang of heart,
• That Reafon's boafted anodyne defies,
* Charles V. of Spain, who in the full blaze of his glory refigned the throne
to his fon Philip, and retir'd to a convent in Eftremadura.
Had ne'er been born. Nor had th' uneafy mind, • Pent in the prison of this mortal mould, < Felt it's etherial energy confin'd,
It's brightest funshine in dark clouds enroll'd.
But native fenfe her modeft courfe had run ;
• Her faintly luftre untaught virtue spread;
• Health crown'd my toils; and, ere the day was done, • Sound fleep beneath fome alder's ruftling fhade.
• Then, as I ftole down life's declining hill,
• Here nature's gifts had furnish'd nature's needs; • The brook's cold beverage every latent ill
Had ftarv'd, that cloyfter'd Contemplation feeds.
Till in the peaceful shade of this lone bower, 'Or near yon fhatter'd tower, in filence laid, • The orient orb, that watch'd my natal hour, Had brightly glitter'd o'er my mouldering head.'
EL EGY II.
HOW blythe the flowery graces of the spring
From Nature's wardrobe come: and hark how gay
Each glittering infect, hovering on the wing,
They gaze with greedy eye each beauty o'er;
Sport in the gale, or fip the rainbow shower:
Like their's, dread Power, my chearful morn display'd
Yes; ere I told my two and twentieth year,
Swift from thy quiver flew the deadly dart; Harmless it pafs'd 'mid many a blythe compeer, And found it's fated entrance near my heart,
Pale as I lay beneath thy ebon wand,
I saw them rove thro' Pleasure's flow'ry field : I faw Health paint them with her rofy hand, Eager to burst my bonds, but forc'd to yield.
Yet while this mortal cot of mouldering clay
Shakes at the ftroke of thy tremendous power, Ah, must the tranfient tenant of a day
Bear the rough blaft of each tempestuous hour!
Say, fhall the terrors thy pale flag unfolds,
Too rigid queen! unnerve the foul's bright powers; Till with a joyless fmile the eye beholds
Art's magick charms, and Nature's fairy bowers!
No; let me follow ftill, thofe bowers among,
And fuffer, when thy awful pleasure calls
The foul to fhare her frail companion's fmart;
Yet fuffer me to taste the balm that falls
From Friendship's tongue, fo fweet upon the heart.
Then, tho' each trembling nerve confefs thy frown,
Without one murmur I embrace my doom,
For many a virtue, fhelter'd from mankind,
E'en he *, fole terror of a venal age,
The tuneful bard, whofe philofophick foul,
He too †, who mounts, and keeps his diftant way,'
Have temper'd with a melancholy ray,
And taught to warble 'mid the village tombs.
Yes, goddefs; to thy temple's deep recefs
I come; and lay for ever at it's door
The fyren throng of Follies numberless,
Nor wish their flattering fongs fhould foothe me more.
Thy decent garb fhall o'er my limbs be fpread,
Hither the cherub Charity fhall fly
From her bright orb, and brooding o'er my mind, For mifery raise a fympathizing figh,
Pardon for foes, and love for human kind :
Mr. Pope. + Mr. Gray