An ELEGIAC EPISTLE To a Friend.
(Written by Mr. GAY, when labouring under a Dejection of Spirits, and not inferted in bis Works)
my youth! fhedd'st thou the pitying tear,
O'er the fad relics of my happier days?
Of nature tender, as of foul fincere,
Pour'st thou for me the melancholy lays?
Oh! truly faid!—the diftant landscape bright,
Whofe vivid colours glitter'd on the eye,
Is faded now, and funk in fhades of night,
As on fome chilly ere the clofing flow'rets die.
Yet, had I hop'd, when first, in happier times,
I trode the magic paths where Fancy led,
The Muse to fofter in more friendly climes,
Where never Mis'ry rear'd its hated head.
How vain the thought! Hope after hope expires!
Friend after friend, joy after joy is loft;
My dearest wishes feed the fun'ral fires,
And life is purchas'd at too dear a coft.
Yet could my heart the selfish comfort know,
That not alone I murmur and complain;
Well might I find companions in my woe,
All born to Grief, the family of Pain! Full well I know, in life's uncertain road,
The thorns of mis'ry are profufely fown; Full well I know, in this low vile abode,
Beneath the chaft'ning rod what numbers groan. Born to a happier ftate, how many pine
Beneath the oppreffor's pow'r, or feel the smart
Of bitter want, or foreign evils join
To the fad fymptoms of a broken heart.
How many, fated from their birth to view
Misfortunes growing with their rip'aing years;
The fame fad track, through various fcenes, purfue,
Still journeying onward through a vale of tears.
To them, alas! what boots the light of heav'n,
While ftill new mis'ties mark their deftin'd way,
Whether to their unhappy lot be giv'n
Death's long fad night, or life's fhort bufy day?
Me not fuch themes delight;-I more rejoice,
When chance fome happier, better change I see;
Though no fuch change await my luckless choice,
And mountains rife between my hopes and me.
For why should he who roves the dreary wafte,
Still jog on ev'ry fide to view the gloom?
Or when upon the couch of fickness plac'd,
Well pleas'd furvey a hapless neighbour's tomb ?
If e'er a gleam of comfort gla is my foul,
If e'er my brow to wonted fmiles unbends,
Tis when the fleeting minutes as they roll,
Can add one gleam of pleasure to my friends.
Ev'n in thefe fhades, the last retreat of grief,
Some tranfient bleffings will that thought bestow;
To Melancholy's felf yield fome relief,
And ease the break furcharg'd with mortal woe.
Long has my bark in rudeft tempefts tofs'd,
Buffeted feas, and stemm'd life's hoftile wave:
Suffice it now, in all my wishes croft'd,
To feek a peaceful harbour in the grave.
And when that hour fhall come (as come it muft)
Ere many moons their waning horns increase,
When this frail frame fhall mix with kindred duft,
And all its fond pursuits and troubles cease,
When those black gates that ever open ftand,
Receive me on th' irreme able fhore,
When Life's frail glass has run its latest sand,
And the dull jeft repeated charms no more.
Then may my friend weep o'er the fun'tal hearfe,
Then may his prefence gild the awful gloom,
And his lat tribute be fome mournful verse,
To mark the fpot that holds my filent tomb.
This
and no more: the reft let Heav'n provide ; To which refign'd, I trust my weal or woe : Affur'd howe'er its juftice ball decide,
To find nought worse than I have left below.
A SOLILOQUY
On the DEATH of Several FRIENDS.
WEIGH well, my foul, while yet there's time,
The tranfient fate of earthly things:
On Jacob's facred ladder climb,
To Jacob's God, the King of kings.
Farewell, ye vain, I hate your ways;
Ye groveling fons of pride, adieu;
Poor Av'rice, how thy hope decays!
Thy fteps I tremble to purfue.
To Sion's hill I lift my eye,
To Sion's hill direct my feet;
From all things learn to live and die,
From all the vile and vain retreat.
Among the dead fond Mem'ry weeps,
O'er graves of lov'd affociates gone :
The scythe of Death, how near it sweeps!
'Twill be my turn to fall anon.
See, where an old acquaintance lies!
Another! and another here!
This once, on earth was counted wife;
Facetious this, and this fincere ;
This was good-natur'd to a fault.
And this was charitably giv'n;
Alike they moulder, in the vault;
Ah, that alike they rofe to Heav'n!
She that lies here was fair and young,
The fond delight of every eye;
Heav'n claim'd its own away the fprung;
Tranfplanted now to yonder ky.
There fill the blooms, a heav'nly flow'r,
Again thofe lovely beauties blow:
Her virtues fcent th' eternal bow'r,
Untainted by the gales below.
Teach me, O thou that Teacher art
Of every duty here below;
The number of my days impart !
Be thou my guide where'er I go.
I afk not gold, nor length of days;
I meet thy will; thy will be done;
I know that Time itfelf decays;
And gold but fparkles in the fun.
When chaften'd, let me kifs the rod;
I wish no tranfient joy to claim :
Be thou my portion, O my God!
Through heav'ns eternal year the fame!
ODE for the NEW-YEAR. By HENRY-JAMES PYE, Efq.
NOT with more joy from desert shades,
Where prowl, untam'd, the favage train,
From pathless moors, and barren glades,
Sad Defolation's gloomy reign,
Averted, bends the weary eye,
To fcenes of rural industry;
Where harvests wave in yellow pride,
Where spreads the fertile champaign wide,
The lucid ftream while Commerce leads
Through peopled towns, and laughing meads;
Than turns the mind from scenes of woe,
Where ceafelefs tears of anguish flow;
Where Anarchy's infatiare brood,
Their horrid footsteps mark with blood,
To show where temp'rate Freedom reigns;
Where peace and order blefs the plains ;
Where Men the Sov'reign of their choice obey,
Where Britain's grateful Sons exult in George's sway.
Yet Albion ne'er, with felfish aim,
To her own race her care confines ;
On all, the facred gift who claim,
The golden beam of Freedom fhines.
Sad outcaft from his native fhore,
The wretched Exile, wafted o'er,
Feels Pity's lenient hand affuage
The wounds of Faction's cruel rage.
Her laws, to all protective, yield
Security's impartial shield;
Who breathes her air breathes pureft liberty;
Gaunt Slav'ry flies the coaft; who treads her fail is free.
Ambition's clarion has not charm'd
Her dauntless legions to the war;
Nor have her fons, by Fury arm'd,
Follow'd Oppreffion's iron car.
Tho' prompt, at Honour's call, to brave
The hoftile clime, the adverfe wave,
Their thunder, 'neath the burning zone,
Shook the proud defpot on his throne;
Yet, while aloft, in orient skies,
Conqueft's triumphant banner flies,
The gen'rous victor bide the conflict ceafe,
And midft his laurels twines the noble wreaths of peace.
Bleft Peace! O may thy radiance mild
Beam kindly on the op'ning yeer!
Yet, fhould, with frantic vengeance wild,
The fiends of Difcord urge their rafh career,
Not cold in Freedom's facred caufe,
Nor flow to guard her holy laws;
Faithful to him their hearts approve,
(The Monarch they revere, the Man they love)
Britannia's Sons shall arm, with patriot zeal,
Their Prince's cause their own, his rights the gen'ral weal,
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