ELEGIES MORAL, DESCRIPTIVE, AND AMATORY. ELEGY I. BY WILLIAM WHITEHEAD, ESQ. WRITTEN AT THE CONVENT OF HAUT VILLIERS, In Champagne, 1754. SILENT and clear, through yonder peaceful vale, Fast by the stream, and at the mountain's base, High on the top, as guardian of the scene, To mark that man, as tenant of the whole, Claims the just tribute of his culturing care, Yet pays to Heaven, in gratitude of soul, The boon which Heaven accepts of, praise and prayer. O dire effects of war! the time has been Oft at his work, the toilsome day to cheat, The swain still talks of those disastrous times, When Guise's pride, and Condé's ill-starr'd heat, Taught Christian zeal to authorize their crimes Oft to his children sportive on the grass Where force thrice triumph'd, and where Biron fell. O dire effects of war!-may evermore Through this sweet vale the voice of discord cease! A British bard to Gallia's fertile shore Can wish the blessings of eternal peace. Yet say, ye monks (beneath whose moss-grown seat, Within whose cloister'd cells th' indebted Muse Awhile sojourns, for meditation meet, And these loose thoughts in pensive strain pursues,) Avails it aught, that War's rude tumults spare Avails it aught, that Nature's liberal hand If meager Famine paint your pallid cheek, If breaks the midnight bell your hours of rest, If, 'midst heart-chilling damps, and winter bleak, You shun the cheerful bowl, and moderate feast? Look forth, and be convinc'd! 'tis Nature pleads, Look forth, and be convinc'd! Yon prospects wide To Reason's ear, how forcibly they speak, Compar'd with those how dull is letter'd Pride, And Austin's babbling Eloquence how weak! Temp'rance, not Abstinence, in every bliss Is Man's true joy, and therefore Heaven's com. mand: The wretch who riots thanks his God amiss : Who starves, rejects the bounties of his hand. Mark, while the Marne in yon full channel glides, How smooth his course, how Nature smiles around! But should impetuous torrents swell his tides, The fairy landskip sinks in oceans drown'd. Nor less disastrous, should his thrifty urn ELEGY II. ON THE MAUSOLEUM OF AUGUSTUS. TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE GEORGE BUSSY VILLIERS, VISC. VILLIERS, WRITTEN AT ROME, 1756. AMID these mould'ring walls, this marble round, What though no cypress shades, in funeral rows, No sculptur'd urns, the last records of Fate, O'er the shrunk terrace wave their baleful boughs, Or breathe in storied emblems of the great; Yet not with heedless eye will we survey The scene though chang'd, nor negligently tread; These variegated walks, however gay, Were once the silent mansions of the dead. |