To wear the remnant of uncertain life

In the fond bosom of a faithful wife;

In safe repose my last few hours to spend,
Nor fearful nor impatient of their end.
Thus a safe port the wave-worn vessels gain,
Nor tempt again the dangers of the main;
Thus the proud steed, when youthful glory fades,
And creeping age his stiffening limbs invades,
Lies stretch'd at ease on the luxuriant plain,
And dreams his morning triumphs o'er again.
The hardy veteran from the camp retires,
His joints unstrung, and feeds his household fires;
Satiate with fame enjoys well earn'd repose,
And sees his stormy day serenely close.

Not such my lot! Severer fates decree My shatter'd bark must plough an unknown sea. Forc'd from my native seats and sacred home, Friendless, alone, thro' Scythian wilds to roam ; With trembling knees o'er unknown hills I go, Stiff with blue ice and heap'd with drifted snow. Pale suns there strike their feeble rays in vain, Which faintly glance against the marble plain : Red Ister there, which madly lash'd the shore, His idle urn seal'd up, forgets to roar :

.

What strange and sudden turns of adverse fate Tear the sad virgin from her plighted love.

DELIA shall read, and drop a gentle tear;
Then cast her eyes around the low-roof'd cot,
And own the fates have dealt more kindly here,
That bless'd with only love our little lot.

For love has sworn (I heard the awful vow)
The wav'ring heart shall never be his care
That stoops at any baser shrine to bow;
And what he cannot rule, he scorns to share.

My heart in DELIA is so fully blest,

It has no room to lodge another joy ;

My peace all leans upon that gentle breast,
And only there misfortune can annoy.

Our silent hours shall steal unmark'd away
In one long tender calm of rural peace;
And measure many a fair unblemish'd day
Of cheerful leisure and poetic ease.

The proud unfeeling world their lot shall scorn Who 'midst inglorious shades can poorly dwell:

Yet if some youth, for gentler passions born,
Shall chance to wander near our lowly cell.

His feeling breast with purer flames shall glow ; And leaving pomp, and state, and cares behind, Shall own the world has little to bestow

Where two fond hearts in equal love are join'd.

OVID TO HIS WIFE:

IMITATED FROM DIFFERENT PARTS OF HIS TRISTIA.

Jam mea cygneas imitantur tempora plumas,

Inficit et nigras alba senecta comas.

TRIST. Lib. iv. Eleg. 8.

My aged head now stoops its honours low,
Bow'd with the load of fifty winters' snow;
And for the raven's glossy black assumes
The downy whiteness of the cygnet's plumes.
Loose scatter'd hairs around my temples stray,
And spread the mournful shade of sickly grey:
I bend beneath the weight of broken years,
Averse to change, and chill'd with causeless fears.
The season now invites me to retire

To the dear lares of my household fire;
To homely scenes of calm domestic peace,
A poet's leisure, and an old man's ease;

To wear the remnant of uncertain life

In the fond bosom of a faithful wife;

In safe repose my last few hours to spend,
Nor fearful nor impatient of their end.
Thus a safe port the wave-worn vessels gain,
Nor tempt again the dangers of the main;
Thus the proud steed, when youthful glory fades,
And creeping age his stiffening limbs invades,
Lies stretch'd at ease on the luxuriant plain,
And dreams his morning triumphs o'er again.
The hardy veteran from the camp retires,
His joints unstrung, and feeds his household fires;
Satiate with fame enjoys well earn'd repose,
And sees his stormy day serenely close.

Not such my lot! Severer fates decree My shatter'd bark must plough an unknown sea. Forc'd from my native seats and sacred home, Friendless, alone, thro' Scythian wilds to roam; With trembling knees o'er unknown hills I go, Stiff with blue ice and heap'd with drifted snow. Pale suns there strike their feeble rays in vain, Which faintly glance against the marble plain : Red Ister there, which madly lash'd the shore, His idle urn seal'd up, forgets to roar :