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Bless’d as the immortal gods is he,
The youth who fondly sits by thee,
And hears and sees thee all the while
Softly speak, and sweetly smile.
'Twas this depriv'd my soul of rest, And rais'd such tumults in
breast; For while I gaz'd, in transport toss'd, My breath was gone, my voice was lost.
My bosom glow'd: the subtle flame
Ran quickly through my vital frame;
O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung,
My ears with hollow murmurs rung.
In dewy damps my limbs were chill'd,
My blood with gentle horrors thrill'd;
My feeble pulse forgot to play,
I fainted, sunk, and died away.
LEONARD WELSTED, a victim of Pope's satire, whose verses did not always deserve it.
SMILE, my Hephestion, smile, no more be seen
This dupe to anger, and this slave to spleen';
No more with pain ambition's trappings view,
envy the false greatness, nor the true.
Let dull St. Bevil dream o'er felon's fates,
Bright Winnington in senates lead debates,
Vain Bulbo let the sheriff's robe adorn,
And Holles · wake to bless the times unborn.
The palm excels that trembles o'er the brooks,
The bastard rose nor half so gaudy looks,
The myrrh is worth that scents Arabia's sky,
An hundred gourds, yet rises not so high.
This not disturbs you, nor your bliss alloys,
Then why should fortune's sports and human toys ?
What is’t to us if Clod the self-same day
Trolls in the gilded car and drives the dray?
If Richvil for a Roman patriot pass,
And half the Livery vote for Isinglass.
· Welsted's great patron, the Duke of Newcastle.
With grateful mind let's use the given hour,
And what's our own enjoy and in our power.
To his great chiefs the conqueror Pyrrhus spoke,
Two moons shall wane, and Greece shall own our
yoke. 'Tis well, replied the friend; admit it so, What next? Why next to Italy I'll go, And Rome in ashes lay.- What after that? Waste India's realms.-- What then? Then sit and
Then quaff the grape, and mirthful stories tell.
Sir, you may do so now, and full as well.
Look through but common life, look o'er mankind,
A thousand humbler madmen there you'll find;
A thousand heroes of Epirus view;
Then scorn to beat this hackney'd path anew.
In search of fancied good forget to roam,
Nor wander from your safer, better home.
See Heartgood, how he tugs for empty praise ;
He's got the vine, yet scrambles for the bays :
A friendly neighbour born, his vain desire
Prompts him to get a little cubit higher;
When all unvex'd, untroubled, he might live,
And all that nature ask'd his farm would give.
Colville and Madge one field, one cow possess'd,
Had dwelt unanxious many years and blest;
A quiet conscience and their neighbour's praise
They held-It was in Friar Bacon's days.
No thief alarm's the lowly cottage roof,
And pride and base contention kept aloof.
At length the rumour all about was flown
The monk had found the philosophic stone.
Quoth Colville, be't-in comfort, peace we live,
For his arcanum not a hair I'll give;
To me all wealth contentment does impart,
I have this chemic secret in
Let Munich bow the haughty Othman crest,
Among my humble teams I'll be as blest;
Let the Great Schach o'er trembling Ganges ride,
I'll boast more conquests by my chimney side.
What post you stand in, trust me, my Hephestion,
The part you bear in life is not the question;
But how you act it, how your station grace,
There is the matter ; that's the point in case.
All one if peer or pedlar you sustain,
A laurell'd victor be or shepherd swain;
For social weal alike each state was made,
And every calling meant the other's aid;
Together all in mystic numbers roll,
All in their order act, and serve the whole,
Who guard the laws, or bid the orchat bloom,
Who wield the sceptre, and who guide the loon.
An easy and contented mind is all,
On whom and where it will let glory fall;
Let us the soul in even balance bear,
Content with what we have and what we are.
On rapt'rous visions long had Berkley fed,
The lemon groves were ever in his head;
He hangs on Waller', and the landscape aids,
Sees in Bermuda blooming Ida's shades.
'Tis said—'tis done-the project quick prevails;
He gets the promis'd freight-he weds-he sails.
The storms loud rattle, but on storms he smiles,
They will but waft me to Bermuda's isles.
At length the port he gains, when all his dreams
He vanish'd views, and owns the airy schemes :
The orange branch had lost its fragrant load,
The cedar wav'd not, nor the citron blow'd;
In Eden's stead he sees a desart stand,
For figs and vines a poor unpeopled land;
For balmy breezes, and for cloudless skies,
He hears around the whistling tempest rise.
And is this all ? said the good Dean of Down,
Is this the end, my hope and labour's crown?
Too blest the swain o'er Ormond's flowery dales
Who roves at ease, or sleeps in Derry's vales.
Henceforth I'll gratulate my native shore,
In search of bright delusions range no more,
Content to be, to cure this rambling itch,
An humble bishop, and but barely rich.