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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,
While Marne's slow waters weave their mazy way,
See, to th' exulting sun, and fost'ring gale,
What boundless treasures his rich banks display!

Fast by the stream, and at the mountain's base,
The lowing herds through living pastures rove:
Wide-waving harvests crown the rising space :
And still superior nods the viny grove.

High on the top, as guardian of the scene,
Imperial Sylvan spreads his umbrage wide;
Nor wants there many a cot, and spire between,
Or in the vale, or on the mountain's side,

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
When Desolation vaunted here her reign;
One ravag'd desart was yon beauteous scene,
And Marne ran purple to the frighted Seine.

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
Does dreadful tales of worn Tradition tell;
Oft points to Epernay's ill-fated pass,

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
Yon cluster'd vineyard, or yon golden field,
If, niggards to yourselves, and fond of care,
You slight the joys their copious treasures yield?

Avails it aught, that Nature's liberal hand
With every blessing grateful man can know,
Clothes the rich bosom of yon smiling land,
The mountain's sloping side, or pendant brow,

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,
Her ample volume opens on your view,
The simple-minded swain, who running reads,
Feels the glad truth, and is it hid from you ?

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
Neglected leave the once well-water'd land,
To dreary wastes yon paradise would turn,
Polluted ooze, or heaps of barren sand.

ELEGY II.

ON THE

MAUSOLEUM OF AUGUSTUS.

TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE

GEORGE BUSSY VILLIERS, VISC. VILLIERS,
[Now Earl of Jersey.]

WRITTEN AT ROME, 1756.
By the Same.

AMID these mould'ring walls, this marble round,
Where slept the Heroes of the Julian name,
Say, shall we linger still in thought profound,
And meditate the mournful paths to fame ?

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.

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