And paint that sweetly vacant scene, When, all beneath the poplar bough, My spirits light, my soul serene, I breath'd in verse one cordial vow; That nothing should my soul inspire, But friendship warm, and love entire. Dull to the sense of new delight, On thee the drooping muse attends, As some fond lover, robb'd of sight, On thy expressive pow'r depends; Nor would exchange thy glowing lines, To live the lord of all that shines. But let me chase those vows away Which at Ambition's shrine I made, Nor ever let thy skill display Those anxious moments ill repaid: Oh! from my breast that season raze, And bring my childhood in its place. Bring me the bells, the rattle bring, Ev'n let me bid my lyre adieu, And bring the whistle that I blew. Then will I muse and pensive say, But, ah! for pleasure yield us pain. Shenstone. VERSES WRITTEN BY THE LATE EARL OF CHESTERFIELD, Over a sideboard at Sir William Stanhope's. LET social mirth with gentle manners join, In vain-they're ten times greater fools when drunk. We'll neither wish, nor fear our final day. Pleasing Reflections. A HYMN ON GRATITUDE. WHEN all thy mercies, O my God, That glows within my ravish'd heart! Thy providence my life sustain'd, And hung upon the breast. To all my weak complaints and cries, Thy mercy lent an ear, Ere yet my feeble thoughts had learnt To form themselves in pray'r. Unnumber'd comforts to my soul From whom those comforts flow'd; When in the slipp'ry paths of youth, With heedless steps I ran, Thy arm unseen convey'd me safe, And led me up to man. Thro' hidden dangers, toils, and death, And thro' the pleasing snares of vice, When worn with sickness oft hast Thou Thy bounteous hand with worldly bliss My daily thanks employ; Nor is the least a cheerful heart Thro' ev'ry period of my life Thy goodness I'll pursue, And, after death, in distant worlds The glorious theme renew. Divide thy works no more, My ever grateful heart, O Lord, Thy mercies shall adore. Thro' all eternity to Thee Addison, 1 TO LAURA, AT PARTING. LAURA! thy sighs must now no more Nor dare I hang thy sorrows o'er, Yet, while thy bosom heaves that sigh, Ah! think, tho' doom'd from thee to fly, Thee would I bid to check those sighs, But tears are in my own. One last, long kiss, and then we part— Another, and adieu! I cannot aid thy breaking heart, For mine is breaking too. Smyth. |