Was praife and tranfport to his breast.

The ideot wonder they exprefs'd

At length quite vain, he needs would fhew His mafter what his art cou'd do;

And bade his flaves the chariot lead

To Academus' facred fhade.

The trembling grove confefs'd its fright,
The wood-nymphs ftartled at the fight,
The Mufes dropt the learned lyre,
And to their inmoft fhades retire!

Howe'er the youth, with forward air,
Bows to the fage, and mounts the car.
The lath refounds, the courfers fpring,
The chariot marks the rolling ring,
And gath'ring crouds with eager eyes,
And houts purfue him as he flies.

Triumphant to the goal return'd, With nobler thirft his bofom burn'd; And now along th' indented plain The felf-fame track he marks again, Purfues with care the nice defign, Nor ever deviates from the line.

Amazement feiz'd the circling croud, The youths with emulation glow'd, Ev'n bearded fages hail'd the boy, And all but Plato gaz'd with joy. For he, deep-judging fage, beheld With pain the triumphs of the field; And when the charioteer drew nigh, And, flush'd with hope, had caught his eye, Alas! unhappy youth, he cry'd, Expect no praife from me (and figh'd)

With indignation I furvey

Such skill and judgment thrown away.
The time profufely fquander'd there
On vulgar arts beneath thy care,
If well employ'd, at lefs expence,
Had taught thee honour, virtue, fenfe,
And rais'd thee from a coachman's fate.
To govern men, and guide the state.

An ELEGY written in a CouUNTRY CHURCH [Grey.]

YARD.

HE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind flowly o'er the lea,
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the fight,
And all the air a folemn ftillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his drony flight,
And drowfy tinklings lull the diftant folds;
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r
The mopeing owl does to the moon complain
Of fuch, as wand'ring near her fecret bow'r,
Molelt her ancient, folitary reign.

Beneath thofe rugged elms, that yew-tree's fhade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet fleep.
The breezy call of incenfe breathing Morn,
The fwallow twitt'ring from the ftraw-built fhed,
The cock's fhrill clarion, or the ecchoing horn,
No more fhall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or bufy housewife ply her ev'ning care:
No children run to lifp their fire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kifs to fhare,
Oft did the harvest to their fickle yield,
Their furrow oft the ftubborn glebe has broke;
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys and destiny obfcure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a difdainful smile,
The short and fimple annals of the poor.
The boaft of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await alike th' inevitable hour.

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor

Nor you, ye Proud, impute to These the fault,
If Mem'ry o'er the Tomb no Trophies raife,
Where thro' the long-drawn ifle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem fwells the note of praise.
Can ftoried úrn or animated buft

Back to its manfion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour's voice provoke the filent duft,
Or Flatt'ry footh the dull cold ear of Death?
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celeftial fire;
Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd,.
Or wak'd to extafy the living lyre.

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page
Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll;
Chill penury reprefs'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the foul.
Full many a gem of pureft ray ferene,
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flower is born to blufh unfeen,
And waste its sweetness on the defert air.
Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast
The little Tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may reft,
Some Cromwell guiltlefs of his country's blood.
Th' applaufe of lift'ning fenates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To fcatter plenty o'er a fmiling land,
And read their hift'ry in a nation's eyes
Their lot forbad: nor circumfcrib'd alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd ;
Forbad to wade thro' flaughter to a throne,
And fhut the gates of mercy on mankind.
The ftruggling pangs of confcious truth to hide,
To quench the blufhes of ingenuous fhame,
Or heap the fhrine of Luxury and Pride
With incenfe kindled at the Mufe's flame.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble ftrife,
Their fober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool fequefter'd vale of life
They kept the noifelefs tenor of their way.

Yet

Yet ev'n thefe bones from infult to protect
Some frail memorial ftill erected nigh,

With uncouth rhimes and fhapelefs fculpture deck'd,
Implores the paffing tribute of a figh.

Their name, their years, fpelt by th' unletter'd Muse,
The place of fame and elegy fupply:
And many a holy text around the ftrews,
That teach the ruftic moralift to die.
For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,
This pleafing anxious being e'er refign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the chearful day,
Nor caft one longing ling'ring look behind?
On fome fond breaft the parting foul relies,
Some pious drops the clofing eye requires ;
Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
Ev'n in our Ashes live their wonted Fires.
For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead
Deft in these lines their artless tale relate;
If Chance, by lonely Contemplation led,
Some kindred Spirit fhall inquire thy fate,
Haply fome hoary-headed Swain may fay,
Oft have we feen him at the peep of dawn
Brushing with hafty fteps the dews away
• To meet the fun upon the upland lawn.
There at the foot of yonder nodding beech
That wreathes its old fantaftic roots fo high,
His liftlefs length at noon-tide would he ftretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
Hard by yon wood, now fmiling as in fcorn,
Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he wou'd rove;
Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
'Or craz'd with care, or crofs'd in hopeless love.
• One morn I mifs'd him on the cuftom'd hill;
Along the heath and near his fav'rite tree,

6

• Another came; nor yet befide the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he. The next with dirges due in fad array

Slow through the church-way path we faw him born, Approach and read (for thou canft read) the lay, Graved on the ftone beneath yon aged thorn..

HE

The EPITAPH.

ERE refts his head upon the lap of Earth,,
A Youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown,
Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth,.
And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.
Large was his bounty, and his foul fincere,
Heav'n did a recompence as largely fend :.
He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear,

He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend:
No farther feek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose). The bofom of his Father and his God.

The Story of PALEMON and LAVINIA.

T

[Thomson's Autumn.}

HE lovely young Lavinia once had friends;
And fortune fmil'd, deceitful, on her birth..
For in her helplefs years depriv'd of all,
Of every ftay, fave Innocence and HEAVEN,
She with her widow'd mother, feeble, old,.
And poor, liv'd in a cottage, far retir'd
Among the windings of a woody vale;,
By folitude and deep furrounding fhades,.
But more by bashful modefty, conceal'd.
Together thus they fhun'd the cruel fcorn
Which virtue, funk to poverty, would meet
From giddy paffion and low-minded pride:
Almoft on Nature's common bounty fed;
Like the gay birds that fung them to repofe,.
Content, and careless of to-morrow's fare.
Her form was fresher than the morning rofe,
When the dew wets its leaves; unftain'd and pure,
As is the lily, or the mountain fnow.
The modest virtues mingled in her eyes,
Still on the ground dejected, darting all

Q6

Their