Let all my slaves their arts combine Ah, no: Yon Indian will not go, No Scythian deigns to bend his bow. No sullen Negro shoots the flood. How, slaves!Or am I understood? All, all, my empty power disown, I turn and find myself alone; 'Tis Fancy's vain illusion all, Nor Moor nor Scythian waits my call. Can I command, can I consign? Alas, what earthly thing is mine? Come then, my Muse, companion dear Of poverty, and soul sincere, Come dictate to my grateful mind A gift that may acceptance find; An heart that scorns a shameful thing, If all whate'er my verse has told, Golconda's gems, and Afric's gold; If all were mine from pole to pole, How large her share who shares my soul? But more than these may Heaven impart ; Be thine the treasures of the heart; Be calm, and glad thy future days With Virtue's peace, and Virtue's praise. Let jealous pride, and sleepless Care, And wasting Grief, and black Despair And Langour chill, and Anguish fell, For ever shun thy grove and cell ; There only may the happy train Of Love, and Joy, and Peace, remain : May Plenty, with exhaustless store, Employ thy hand to feed the poor, And ever on thy honor'd head The prayer of Gratitude be shed. A happy mother may'st thou see Thy smiling virtuous progeny, Whose sportful tricks, and airy play, Fraternal love, and prattle gay, Or wonderous tale, or joyful song ΤΟ A YOUNG LADY, ON HER PLAYING UPON THE HARPSICHORD, In a Room hung with some Flower-Pieces of her own Painting. By the Same. WHEN STELLA strikes the tuneful string Where beauty lavishes her powers, When charms thus press on every sense, And forming, with unerring art, New chains to hold the captive heart. Might Truth intrude with daring flight, Mark, when from thousand mingled dyes, How passion's well-accorded strife, Thy pictures shall thy conduct frame, |