And, by the broad imperious mole repell'd, Hark! how the baffled storm indignant roars." As thick to view these varied wonders rose, Shook all my soul with transport, unassured, The Vision broke; and, on my waking eye, Rush'd the still ruins of dejected Rome.

POEMS.

THE HAPPY MA N.

[FIRST PRINTED 1729.]

He's not the happy man, to whom is given
A plenteous fortune by indulgent Heaven;
Whose gilded roofs on shining columns rise,
And painted walls enchant the gazer's eyes:
Whose table flows with hospitable cheer,
And all the various bounty of the year;

Whose valleys smile, whose gardens breathe the spring,
Whose carved mountains bleat, and forests sing?
For whom the cooling shade in summer twines,
While his full cellars give their generous wines;
From whose wide fields unbounded autumn pours
A golden tide into his swelling stores:

Whose winter laughs; for whom the liberal gales
Stretch the big sheet, and toiling commerce sails;
When yielding crowds attend, and pleasure serves;
While youth, and health, and vigour string his nerves.
E'en not all these, in one rich lot combined,
Can make the happy man, without the mind:
Where judgment sits clear-sighted, and surveys
The chain of reason with unerring gaze;
Where fancy lives, and to the brightening eyes,
His fairer scenes, and bolder figures rise;
Where social love exerts her soft command,
And lays the passions with a tender hand,
Whence every virtue flows, in rival strife,
And all the moral harmony of life.

Nor canst thou, Dodington, this truth decline-
Thine is the fortune, and the mind is thine.

320

ON EOLUS'S HARP.

Ethereal race, inhabitants of air,

Who hymn your God amid the secret grove; Ye unseen beings, to my harp repair,

And raise majestic strains, or melt in love. Those tender notes, how kindly they upbraid! With what soft wo they thrill the lover's heart! Sure from the hand of some unhappy maid,

Who died for love, these sweet complainings part. But hark! that strain was of a graver tone,

On the deep strings his hand some hermit throws; Or he, the sacred Bard,* who sat alone

In the drear waste, and wept his people's woes. Such was the song which Zion's children sung, When by Euphrates' stream they made their plaint; And to such sadly solemn notes are strung Angelic harps, to soothe a dying saint.

Methinks I hear the full celestial choir,

Through heaven's high dome their awful anthem raise Now chanting clear, and now they all conspire To swell the lofty hymn from praise to praise.

Let me, ye wandering spirits of the wind,

Who, as wild fancy prompts you, touch the string,
Smit with your theme, be in your chorus join'd,
For, till you cease, my Muse forgets to sing.

HYMN ON SOLITUDE.

[FIRST PRINTED 1729.]

Hail, mildly pleasing Solitude,
Companion of the wise and good;
But from whose holy, piercing eye,
The herd of fools and villains fly.

* Jeremiah.

Oh! how I love with thee to walk, And listen to thy whisper'd talk, Which innocence and truth imparts, And melts the most obdurate hearts.

A thousand shapes you wear with ease, And still in every shape you please. Now wrapt in some mysterious dream, A lone philosopher you seem; Now quick from hill to vale you fly, And now you sweep the vaulted sky; A shepherd next, you haunt the plain, And warble forth your oaten strain. A lover now, with all the grace Of that sweet passion in your face; Then, calm'd to friendship, you assume The gentle-looking Hertford's bloom. As, with her Musidora, she (Her Musidora fond of thee), Amid the long-withdrawing vale, Awakes the rivall'd nightingale.

Thine is the balmy breath of morn, Just as the dew-bent rose is born; And while meridian fervours beat, Thine is the woodland dumb retreat; But chief, when evening scenes decay, And the faint landscape swims away, Thine is the doubtful soft decline, And that best hour of musing thine.

Descending angels bless thy train, The virtues of the sage, and swain; Plain innocence in white array'd Before thee lifts her fearless head; Religion's beams around thee shine, And cheer thy glooms with light divine: