Here, beckon❜d on by Freedom's lawless smile,
I wander'd forth to pass the well-known mile
Some chiding "voice in every breeze" I heard;
Now onwards ran-now trembling, scarcely stirr❜d:
Here Superstition raised no local dread,
With careless step I roved among
Laugh'd at the quaint memorials of our doom
That, carved on wood, adorn'd the rustic's tomb.
Here have I tasted innocent delight;
No conscious guilt disturb'd my rest at night:
May no sad contrast to these happy times
Add weight to woe, or aggravate my crimes.
Scenes of my youth, farewell! nor thou refuse
This tributary effort of my Muse;
Thou, whom no more 'tis flattery to commend,
My guide-excuse a fonder term-my friend.
Still prune with care the student's vagrant lays;
Sweeten the toil of early worth with praise;
Bid Genius kindle at a poet's name,
young Ambition emulate thy fame.
But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade,
With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd;
In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain,
The toiling pleasure sickens into pain.
GOLDSMITH'S Deserted Village.
How swiftly pass our early years away!
Youth seems the short-lived phantom of a day:
Childhood is gone, that fairy scene is o'er;
The sports of infancy now please no more;
On past delights remembrance loves to dwell,
While sighs break forth to calm the bosom's swell.
You smile, perchance, at such a mournful strain;
"Mine are the joys of life, why thus complain?”
Though Fashion beckons from the splendid hall,
Though Pleasure seems to triumph at the ball,
*Festinat enim decurrere velox,
Flosculus angustæ miseræque brevissima vitæ
Portio dum bibimus, dum serta, unguenta, puellas,
Poscimus, obrepit non intellecta senectus.-Juv., Sat. ix.
Think not that real happiness is there,
Nor trust, my Mary, wealth's imposing glare.
Of all the motley crew who crowd the town,
How few there are who can exist alone!
Some fly to gaieties to banish grief:
Can flippant nonsense give the heart relief?
Some to conceal their narrow range of thought;
These look intelligence, yet talk of nought:
No airy visions o'er their fancy sweep,
Their souls are chain'd in one perpetual sleep.
Such fools are solemn mountebanks at best,
Outcasts of Nature, though by Fortune blest,
Compared with him whose bosom Genius fires,
Whom Science brightens, or the Muse inspires!
Youth's freshening aspect, Beauty's faultless form,
Shrink from the searching blast of Sorrow's storm;
But Intellect, that deity within,
Will soften grief; nay more, may conquer sin.
It gathers strength through each successive year,
More amiable in age its charms appear;
While Pleasure's surfeit palls upon the heart,
And Fashion's fair illusions soon depart.
THE DEATH OF GENERAL FITZPATRICK.
BLEST as thou wert, Fitzpatrick, with a mind
By eloquence sublimed, by wit refined,
With all the gifts that science could impart,
With all the social virtues of the heart;
Colloquial elegance to charm the fair-
The table's boast, though Sheridan was there;
Well might we mourn for ever, ever gone
Such splendid qualities combined in one!
Yet, hating all the foppery of praise,
Thy Muse retiring shunn'd the public gaze:
The multitude's applauses are but low,
Compared with those the admiring few bestow.
If Fox,* companion of an honour'd few,
Souls of a higher class, to friendship true,
* Quin ubi se a vulgo et scenâ in secreta remôrant
Virtus Scipiadæ et mitis sapientia Læli.
Smiled on thy efforts, in those glorious nights
When Fancy soar'd above her usual flights;
Or when Philosophy display'd her charms,
To lure the patriot from her sister's arms,
His kind approval was thy best reward;
It warm'd the man, inspirited the bard.
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