LVII.

Near the dreare gate, beneath the rifted rock, The Keeper of the Cave all haggard satt, His pining corse a restlesse ague shook, And blistering sores did all his carkas frett: All with himselfe he seemd in keen debate ; For still the muscles of his mouthe he drew Ghastly and fell; and still with deepe regrate He lookd him round, as if his heart did rew His former deeds, and mournd full sore his sores to view.

LVIII.

Yet not Himselfe, but Heavens Great King he

blamd,

And dard his wisdom and his will arraign; For boldly he the ways of God blasphemd, And of blind governaunce did loudly plain, While vile Selfe-pity would his eyes distain; As when an Wolfe, entrapt in village ground, In dread of death ygnaws his limb in twain, And views with scalding teares his bleeding wound: Such fierce Selfe-pity still this Wights dire portaunce

crownd.

LIX.

Near by there stood an hamlet in the dale,

Where, in the silver age, CONTENT did wonne;

This now was His: yet all mote nought avail, His loathing eyes that place did ever shun; But ever through his Neighbours lawns would run, Where every goodlie fielde thrice goodlie seemd. Such was this weary Wight all woe-begone; Such was his life; and thus of things he deemd; And suchlike was his Cave, that all with sorrowes teemd.

LX.

To this fell Carle gay DISSIPATION led,
And in his dreary purlieus left the Knight.

From the dire Cave fain would the Knight have fled,

And fain recalld the treachrous Nymphe from

flight:

But now the late Obtruder shuns his sight,

And dearly must be wooed hard by the den, Where listless Bacchus had his tents ypight, A transient visit sometimes would he gain, While Wine and merry Song beguild his inward pain.

LXI.

Yet, ever as he reard his slombering head,
The ghastly tyrant at his couch stood near;
And ay with ruthless clamour gan upbraid,
And words that would his very heartstrings tear :
See now, he sayes, where setts thy vain career;
Approching elde now wings its cheerlesse way,
Thy fruitlesse Autumn gins to blanch thy heare,

And aged Winter asks from Youth its stay; But thine comes poore of joy, comes with unhonourd

gray.

LXII.

Thou hast no friend! - still on the worthlesse

Traine

Thy kindnesse flowd, and still with scorne repaid;
Even she on whom thy favours heapt remain,
Even she regards thee with a bosome dead,
To kindly passion, and by motives led
Such as the Planter of his Negro deems;
What profit still can of the wretch be made
Is all his care, of more he never dreams :

So, farre remote from her, thy troubles she esteems.

LXIII.

Thy Children too! Heavens! what a hopelesse sight!

Ah, wretched Syre!-but ever from this scene
The wretched Syre precipitates his flight,

And in the Bowls wylde fever shuns his teene.
So pass his dayes, while What he might have beene
Its beauteous views does every morne present:
So pass his dayes, while still the raven SPLEEN
Croaks in his eares, The brightest parts mispent
Beget an hoarie age of griefe and discontent.

LXIV.

But boast not of superior shrewd addresse, Ye who can calmly spurn the ruind Mayd, Ye who unmovd can view the deepe distresse That crushes to the dust the Parents head, And rends that easie heart by You betrayd, Boast not that Ye his numerous woes eskew ; Ye who unawd the Nuptial couch invade, Boast not his weaknesse with contempt to view; For worthy is He still compard, perdie, to YOU.

POEM V.

THE

MINSTREL;

OR,

THE PROGRESS OF GENIUS.

BY

JAMES BEATTIE, L. L. D.

BOOK I.

I.

АH! who can tell how hard it is to climb

The steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar;
Ah! who can tell how many a soul sublime
Has felt the influence of malignant star,

And waged with fortune an eternal war;

Check'd by the scoff of Pride, by Envy's frown, And Poverty's unconquerable bar,

In life's low vale remote has pined alone,

Then dropt into the grave, unpitied and unknown!