In every shrub, in every flow'ret's bloom

That paints with different hues yon smiling plain, Some Hero's ashes issue from the tomb, "And live a vegetative life again.

For matter dies not as the Sages say,

But shifts to other forms the pliant mass, When the free spirit quits its cumb❜rous clay, And sees, beneath, the rolling Planets pass. 2

Perhaps, my Villiers, for I sing to Thee,
Perhaps, unknowing of the bloom it gives,
In yon fair scion of Apollo's tree

The sacred dust of young Marcellus lives.

Pluck not the leaf-'twere sacrilege to wound
Th' ideal memory of so sweet a shade;
In these sad seats an early grave he found,
And the first rites to gloomy Dis convey'd.

Witness thou Field of Mars, that oft hadst

known

His youthful triumphs in the mimic war, Thou heard'st the heart-felt universal groan When o'er thy bosom roll'd the funeral car.

Witness thou Tuscan stream, where oft he glow'd In sportive strugglings with th' opposing wave, Fast by the recent tomb thy waters flow'd

While wept the wise, the virtuous, and the brave.

O lost too soon!-yet why lament a fate

By thousands envied, and by Heaven approv'd? Rare is the boon to those of longer date

To live, to die, admir'd, esteem'd, belov'd, 46

Weak are our judgments, and our passions warm,
And slowly dawns the radiant morn of truth,
Our expectations hastily we form,

And much we pardon to ingenuous youth.

Too oft we satiate on th' applause we pay
To rising Merit, and resume the Crown;
Full many a blooming genius, snatch'd away,
Has fall'n lamented who had liv'd unknown.

For hard the task, O Villiers, to sustain

Th' important burthen of an early fame; Each added day some added worth to gain, Prevent each wish, and answer every claim.

Be thou Marcellus, with a length of days!
But O remember, whatsoe'er thou art,
The most exalted breath of human praise
To please indeed must echo from the heart.

56

Though thou be brave, be virtuous, and be wise,

By all, like him, admir'd, esteem'd, belov'd,

'Tis from within alone true Fame can rise,

The only happy is the Self-approv❜d.

ELEGY III.

TO THE RIGHT HON.

GEO. SIMON HARCOURT, VISC. NEWNHAM,

[Now Earl Harcourt.]

WRITTEN AT ROME, 1756.

By the Same.

YES, noble Youth, 'tis true; the softer arts,
The sweetly-sounding string, and pencil's power,
Have warm'd to rapture even heroic hearts,
And taught the rude to wonder, and adore.

For beauty charms us, whether she appears
In blended colors; or to soothing sound
Attunes her voice; or fair proportion wears
In yonder swelling dome's harmonious round.

All, all she charms; but not alike to all

'Tis given to revel in her blissful bower; Coercive ties, and Reason's powerful call,

Bid some but taste the sweets, which some devour.

When Nature govern'd, and when Man was young, Perhaps at will th' untutor'd Savage rov❜d, Where waters murmur'd, and where clusters hung He fed, and slept beneath the shade he lov'd.

But since the Sage's more sagacious mind,

By Heaven's permission, or by Heaven's command, To polish states his social laws assign'd,

And general good on partial duties plann'd;

Nor for ourselves our vagrant steps we bend
As heedless Chance, or wanton Choice ordain;
On various stations various tasks attend,

And men are born to trifle or to reign.

As chaunts the woodman whilst the Dryads weep,
And falling forests fear th' uplifted blow,
As chaunts the shepherd, while he tends his sheep,
Or weaves to pliant forms the osier bough;

To me 'tis given, whom Fortune loves to lead
Through humbler toils to life's sequester'd bowers, 3
To me 'tis given to wake th' amusive reed,
And sooth with song the solitary hours.

But Thee superior soberer toils demand,

Severer paths are thine of patriot fame;

Thy birth, thy friends, thy king, thy native land,

Have given thee honors, and have each their claim.

Then nerve with fortitude thy feeling breast

Each wish to combat, and each pain to bear; Spurn with disdain th' inglorious love of rest, Nor let the syren Ease approach thine ear.40

Beneath yon cypress shade's eternal green,

See prostrate Rome her wond'rous story tell, Mark how she rose the world's imperial queen, And tremble at the prospect how she fell!

Not that my rigid precepts would require
A painful struggling with each adverse gale,
Forbid thee listen to th' enchanting Lyre,

Or turn thy steps from Fancy's flowery vale.

Whate'er of Greece in sculptur'd brass survives, Whate'er of Rome in mould'ring arcs remains, Whate'er of Genius on the canvass lives,

Or flows in polish'd verse, or airy strains,

Be these thy leisure; to the chosen few,
Who dare excel, thy fostʼring aid afford;
Their arts, their magic powers with honors due
Exalt; but be thyself what they record.