Yet fay, ye monks, (beneath whofe mofs-grown feat,
Within whose cloister'd cells th' indebted Muse
Awhile fojourns, for meditation meet,

And these loose thoughts in penfive ftrain pursues,)

Avails it aught, that War's rude tumults spare
Yon cluster'd vineyard, or yon golden field,
If niggards to yourselves, and fond of care,
You flight the joys their copious treasures yield §

Avails it aught that Nature's liberal hand

With every bleffing grateful man can know
Cloaths the rich bofom of yon fmiling land,
The mountain's floping fide, or pendant brow,
If meagre Famine paint your pallid cheek,

If breaks the midnight bell your hours of rest,
If 'midft heart-chilling damps, and winter bleak,
You fhun the chearful bowl, and moderate feast!

Look forth, and be convinc'd! 'tis Nature pleads,
Her ample volume opens on your view,
The fimple-minded fwain, who running reads,
Feels the glad truth, and is it hid from

you

?

Look forth, and be convinc'd. Yon profpects wide
To Reason's ear how forcibly they speak,
Compar'd with thofe how dull is letter'd Pride,
And Auftin's babbling Eloquence how weak!

Temp'rance,

Temp'rance, not Abftinence, in every blifs

Is Man's true joy, and therefore Heaven's command
The wretch who riots thanks his God amifs :
Who ftarves, rejects the bounties of his hand.

Mark, while the Marne in yon full channel glides,
How smooth his course, how Nature fmiles around!
But should impetuous torrents fwell his tides,
The fairy landskip finks in oceans drown'd.

Nor lefs difaftrous fhould his thrifty urn
Neglected leave the once well-water'd land,
To dreary wastes yon paradife would turn,
Polluted ooze, or heaps of barren fand.

A

Written at ROME. 1756.

MID these mould'ring walls, this marble round,

Where flept the Heroes of the Julian name,

Say, fhall we linger ftill in thought profound,
And meditate the mournful paths to fame ?

* It is now a garden belonging to Marchefe di Corré,

What

What no' no cyprefs fhades, in funeral rows,
No sculptur'd urns, the last records of Fate,
O'er the shrunk terrace wave their baleful boughs,
Or breathe in ftoried emblems of the great;

Yet not with heedlefs eye will we furvey

The scene tho' chang'd, nor negligently tread; These variegated walks, however gay,

Were once the filent manfions of the dead.

In every shrub, in every flow'ret's bloom

That paints with different hues yon fmiling plain,
Some Hero's afhes iffue from the tomb,
And live a vegetative life again.

For matter dies not, as the Sages say,
But fhifts to other forms the pliant mafs,
When the free spirit quits it's cumb'rous clay,
And fees, beneath, the rolling Planets pafs.
Perhaps, my Villiers, for I fing to Thee,
Perhaps, unknowing of the bloom it gives,
In yon fair fcyon of Apollo's tree

The facred duft of young Marcellus lives.

Pluck not the leaf'twere facrilege to wound
Th' ideal memory of so sweet a shade;
In these fad feats an early grave he found,
And * the first rites to gloomy Dis convey'd.

*He is faid to be the first perfon buried in this monument.

Witness

Witness thou Field of Mars, that oft hadft known
His youthful triumphs in the mimic war,
Thou heardft the heart-felt univerfal groan
When o'er thy bofom roll'd the funeral car.

Witness thou Tufcan stream, where oft he glow'd
In fportive ftruglings with th' oppofing wave,
Fast by the recent tomb thy waters flow'd

While wept the wife, the virtuous, and the brave.

O loft too foon!

yet why lament a fate

By thousands envied, and by Heaven approv❜d.
Rare is the boon to thofe of longer date

To live, to die, admir'd, efteem'd, belov'd.

Weak are our judgments, and our paffions warm,
And flowly dawns the radiant morn of truth,
Our expectations haftily we form,

And much we pardon to ingenuous youth.

Too oft we fatiate on th' applaufe we pay

To rifing Merit, and refume the Crown;
Full many a blooming genius, fnatch'd away,
Has fallen lamented who had liv'd unknown.

For hard the task, O Villiers, to fuftain

Th' important burthen of an early fame;
Each added day fome added worth to gain,
Prevent each wifh, and answer every claim.

+ Quantos ille virum magnum mavortis ad urbem
Campus aget gemitus!

Vel quæ, Tyberine, videbis
Funera, cum tumulum præterlabere recentem.

VIRG.

Be thou Marcellus, with a length of days!
Bat O remember, whatso'er thou art,
The most exalted breath of human praise

To please indeed much echo from the heart.

Tho' thou be brave, be virtuous, and be wife,
By all, like him, admir'd, esteem'd, belov❜d,
'Tis from within alone true Fame can rise,
The only happy is the Self-approv❜d.

EL EGY

To the Right Honourable

III.

George Simon Harcourt, Vifc. Newnham.

Y

Written at ROME. 1756.

E S, noble Youth, 'tis true; the softer arts,

The fweetly-founding ftring, and pencil's power,

Have warm'd to rapture even heroic hearts,

And taught the rude to wonder, and adore.

For Beauty charms us, whether she appears
In blended colours; or to foothing found
Attunes her voice; or fair proportion wears
In yonder fwelling dome's harmonious round.

All,