But, ah! how quick the change! the morning gleam,
That chear'd my fancy with her magick ray,
Fled like the gairish pageant of a dream,
And forrow clos'd the evening of my day.
Such is the lot of human blifs below!
Fond Hope a while the trembling flow'ret rears;
Till, unforeseen, defcends the blight of woe,
And withers in an hour the pride of years.
In evil hour, to fpecious wiles a prey,
I trufted; (who from fault is always free!) And the fhort progress of one fatal day
Was all the space 'twixt wealth and poverty.
Where could I feek for comfort, or for aid?
To whom the ruins of my ftate commend?
Left to myself, abandon'd, and betray'd,
Too late I found, the wretched have no friend!
E'en he, amid the reft, the favour'd youth,
Whofe vows had met the tendereft warm return,
Forgot his oaths of conftancy and truth,
And left my child in folitude to mourn.
Pity in vain stretch'd forth her feeble hand
To guard the facred wreaths that Hymen wove; While pale-ey'd Avarice, from his fordid stand, Scowl'd o'er the ruins of neglected Love.
Though deeply hurt, yet fway'd by decent Pride,
She hush'd her forrows with becoming art;
And faintly ftrove, with fickly fmiles to hide
The canker-worm that prey'd upon her heart.
Nor blam'd his cruelty-nor wish'd to hate
Whom once she lov'd-but pitied, and forgave;
Then, unrepining, yielded to her fate,
And funk in filent anguifh to the grave.
Children of affluence, hear a poor man's pray'r!
O haste, and free me from this dungeon's gloom!
Let not the hand of comfortless Despair
Sink my grey hairs with forrow to the tomb!
WRITTEN IN A COTTAGE, AT PARK PLACE, THE SEAT OF GENERAL CONWAY.
HE works of Art let others praise,
Where Pride her wafte of wealth betrays,
And Fashion, independent grown,
Ufurps her parent Nature's throne,
Lays all her fair dominions waste,
And calls the devaftation Taste:
But I, who ne'er with fervile awe,
Give Fashion's whims the force of law,
Scorn all the glitter of expence,
When deftitute of ufe and fenfe.
More pleas'd to fee the wanton rill,
Which trickles from fome craggy hill,
Free thro' the valley wind it's way;
Than when, immur'd in walls of clay,
It strives in vain it's bonds to break,
And stagnates in a crooked lake.
With fighs I fee the native oak
Bow to th' inexorable stroke,
Whilft an exotick, puny race,
Of upftart fhrubs, ufurp it's place;
Which, born beneath a milder sky,
Shrink at a wint'ry blast, and die.
I ne'er behold, without a fmile,
The venerable Gothick pile,
Which in our fathers wiser age
Was fhelter'd from the tempeft's rage,
Stand to the dreary north expos'd,
Within a Chinese fence inclos'd.
For me, each leaden god may reign
In quiet o'er his old domain:
Their claim is good by poet's laws,
And poets muft fupport their caufe.
But when old Neptune's fish-tail'd train
Of Tritons haunt an upland plain;
When Dian seems to urge the chace
In a fnug garden's narrow space;
When Mars, with infult rude, invades
The virgin Mufes peaceful fhades;
With lightning arm'd, when angry Jove
Scares the poor tenants of the grove;
I cannot blindly league with those
Who thus the poet's creed oppose.
To Nature, in my earliest youth,
I vow'd my conftancy and truth,
When in her Hardwicke's much-lov'd shade,
Enamour'd of her charms, I ftray'd*;
And, as I rov'd the woods among,
Her praise in lifping numbers fung;
Nor will I now refign my heart,
A captive to her rival Art.
*The feat of P. Powys, Efq. in Oxfordshire.
Far from the pageant fcenes of pride,
She still my careless steps fhall guide;
Whether by Contemplation led,
The rich romantick wilds I tread,
Where Nature, for her pupil man,
Has sketch'd out many a noble plan ;
Or whether, from yon wood-crown'd brow,
I view the lovely vale below.
For when, with more than common care,
Nature had sketch'd her landscape there,
Her Conway caught the fair defign,
And foften'd ev'ry harsher line;
In pleasing lights each object plac'd,
And heighten'd all the piece with taste.
O Conway! whilft the publick voice
Applauds our fov'reign's well-weigh'd choice'
Fain would my patriot Mufe proclaim
The statesman's and the foldier's fame;
And bind immortal on thy brow,
The civick crown and laurel bough!
But tho' unskill'd to join the choir,
Who aptly tune the courtly lyre;
Tho' with the vaffals of thy ftate,
I never at thy levee wait;
Yet be it oft my happier lot
To meet thee in this rural cot,
To see thee here thy mind unbend,
And quit the ftatefman for the friend;
Whilft fmiles unbought, and void of art,
Spring genuine from the focial heart.
Happy the Muse, which here retir'd,
By gratitude like mine infpir'd,
* General Conway was at this time fecretary of fate.
Dupe to no party, loves to pay
To worth like thine her grateful lay;
And in no venal verfe commend
The man of tafte, and Nature's friend!
OOK round the wide world, each profeffion you'll find Hath fomething difhoneft, which myft'ry they call; Each knave points another, at home is stark blind,
Except but his own, there's a cheat in them all: When tax'd with impofture, the charge he'll evade; And, like Falstaff, pretend he but lives by his trade.
The hero, ambitious, (like Philip's great fon,
Who wept when he found no more mischief to do)
Ne'er fcruples a neighbouring realm to o'er-run,
While flaughters and carnage his fabre imbrue:
Of rapine and murder the charge he'll evade;
For conqueft is glorious, and fighting his trade.
The statesman, who steers by wife Machiavel's rules,
Is ne'er to be known by his tongue or his face;
They're traps by him us'd to catch credulous fools,
And breach of his promife he counts no difgrace:
But policy calls it, reproach to evade;
For flatt'ry's his province, cajoling his trade.
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