And adding, as you climb Discovery's hill, Think with what grief the spirit of thy friend, And drop, like buds that, (when the parent rose, Difeafe, dread fiend! whatever name thou bear, I most abhor thee as the child of Care; Blight intellectual fruits howe'er they bloom: 40 50 Yet e'en o'er thee, in thy defpotic hours, When thou haft chain'd the mind's excurfive powers, Though to thy gloomy keep by pain betray'd, That mind can triumph by celestial aid : From thee, dull monitor! e'en then can learn To know the fuffering fpirit's fure resource, And hail the hallow'd fount of human force. God of those grateful hearts that own thy fway, Howe'er their fibres flourish or decay, Safe in thy goodness, with no will but thine, Thy deareft gifts I cherish or refign! Yet, if by storms of many a season tried, And tofs'd, not funk, by life's uncertain tide, I yet may view, benevolently gay, A brighter evening to my darken'd day : Grace it, bleft Power! whate'er its date may be, Poets, dear Sculptor! who to fame aspire, Fearless pretend to inspiration's fire. 60 70 We boast of Mufes, who, without reward, Furnish the favour'd harp with golden chord : Feel the pure light a vocal transport raise, 80 And fondly hail it with melodious praise. A new Cambyfes, broke this lyre in twain : Still, like the ftatue fever'd on the ground, Though weaker, ftill its wonted voice is found: Warm'd by that light they love, the very fragments found *. * See NOTE I. O could the texture of this suffering brain Pleas'd, ere thy genius its beft record frame, But worn with anguish, may thy bard command Fond of no theme but what his heart might choose, The happy herald of a friend's renown; 90 100 When Truth re-echoed her ingenuous praise, The Arts and Friendship are angelic powers, Be theirs my prefent fong, and theirs my laft! If Health to him, who oft, with fruitless fighs, Those eyes, whose light can wither'd minds renew, If Health will yet her inspiration give, Call into life my verse, and bid it live! Years that, like visions, vanish all by stealth, Thy bard, though wreck'd on Study's restless sea, IIO 120 с |