Thus pleas'd at heart, and not with fancy's dream,
In silent happiness I rest unknown;
Content with what I am, not what I seem,
I live for Delia and myself alone.

Ah, foolish man, who thus of her possest,
Could float and wander with ambition's wind,
And if his outward trappings spoke him blest,
Not heed the sickness of his conscious mind!
With her I scorn the idle breath of praise,
Nor trust to happiness that 's not our own;
The smile of fortune might suspicion raise,
But here I know that I am lov'd alone.
Stanhope, in wisdom as in wit divine,
May rise, and plead Britannia's glorious cause,
With steady rein his eager wit confine,
While manly sense the deep attention draws.

Let Stanhope speak his listening country's wrongs,
My humble voice shall please one partial maid;
For her alone I pen my tender song,
Securely sitting in his friendly shade.

Stanhope shall come, and grace his rural friend,
Delia shall wonder at her noble guest,
With blushing awe the riper fruit commend,
And for her husband's patron cull the best.
Hers be the care of all my little train,
While I with tender indolence am blest,
The favourite subject of her gentle reign,
By love alone distinguish'd from the rest.
For her I'll yoke my oxen to the plough,
In gloomy forests tend my lonely Lock;
For her a goat-herd climb the mountain's brow,
And sleep extended on the naked rock :
Ah, what avails to press the stately bed,
And far from her 'inidst tasteless grandeur weep,
By marble fountains lay the pensive head,
And, while they murmur, strive in vain to sleep?
Delia alone can please, and never tire,
Exceed the paint of thought in true delight;
With her, enjoyment wakens new desire,
And equal rapture glows through every night :
Beauty and worth in her alike contend,
To charm the fancy, and to fix the mind;
In her, my wife, my mistress, and my friend,
I taste the joys of sense and reason join'd.
On her I'll gaze, when others loves are o'er,
And dying press her with my clay-cold hand-
Thou weep'st already, as I were no more,
Nor can that gentle breast the thought withstand.
Oh, when I die, my latest moments spare,
Nor let thy grief with sharper tormerts kill,
Wound not thy checks, nor hurt that flowing hair,
Though I am dead, my soul shall love thee still:
Oh, quit the room, ob, quit the deathful bed,
Or thou wilt die, so tender is thy heart;
Oh, leave me, Delia, ere thou see ine de id,
These weeping friends will do thy mournful part:
Let them, extended on the deceat bier,
Convey the corse in melancholy state,
Through all the village spread the ten lor tear,
While pitying maids our wondrous loves relate.

ELEGY XIV. To D. lia.

WHAT Scenes of bliss my raptur'd fancy fram'd, In some lone spot with P..ce and thee retir d! VOL. XI.

Though reason then my sanguine fondness blam'd,
I still believ'd what flattering love inspir'd:

But now my wrongs have taught my humbled mind,
To dangerous bliss no longer to pretend,
In books a calm, but fix'd content to find,
Safe joys, that on ourselves alone depend:
With them the gentle moments I beguile,
In learned ease, and elegant delight;
Compare the beauties of each difierent style,
Each various ray of wit's diffusive Ight:
Now mark the strength of Milton's sacred lines,
Sense rais'd by genius, fancy rul'd by art,
Where all the glory of the Godhead shines,
Aud carliest innocence enchants the heart.
Now, fir'd by Pope and Virtue, leave the age
In low pursuit of self-undoing wrong,
And trace the author through his moral page,
Whose blameless life still answers to his song.
If time and books my lingering pain can heal,
And reason fix its empire o'er my heart,
My patriot breast a noble warmth shall feel,
And glow with love, where weakness has no part.
Thy heart, Lyttelton, shall be my guide,
Its fire shall warm me, and its worth improve ;
Thy heart, above ali envy, and all pride,
Firm as maas sense, and soft as woman's love.
And you, O West, with her your partner dear,
Whom social mirth and useful sense commend,
With learning's feast my drooping mind shall chear,
Glad to escape from love to such a friend.
But why, so long my weaker heart deceive?
Ah, still I love, in pride and reason's spite,
No books, alas! my painful thoughts relieve,
And while I threat, this Elegy I write.

ELEGY XV.

To Mr. George Grenville.

OH, formid alike to serve us, and to please;
Polite with honesty, and learn'd with ease;
With heart to act, with genius to retire ;
Open, vet wise; though gentle, full of fire:
With thee I scorn the low constraint of art,
Nor fear to trust the follies of my heart;
Hear then from what my long despair arose,
The faithful story of a lover's woes.
When, in a sober melancholy hour,
Rele'd by sickness under reason's power,
I view'd my state, too l'ttle weigh'd before,
And Love himself could flatter me no more,
My Delia'Shops I would no more deecive, [leave;
Bat who lay passion lact, through friendship
I chose the coldest words may heard to hide,
Andure her sey's weakness ti rough its pride:
The prudence which I taught, I ill pursued,
The chor a my renson broke, my heart renew'd :
Again sub nissive to her feet feme,

And proved too well my passion by my shame;
Well she, secare in, coʻl or disdain,
Forgot any love, or frinemb'd 'n its pa'u,
Began with Ligher yie s her tho 1hts to raise,
hund set of her praise :

her faith each ar less tale,

the tarts fiat molec try'd, at was on the lover's 'te: The seere, of fan od life? end, die inities, and the wife?

Her years of promis'd love were quickly past,
Not two revolving moons could see them last.-
To Stow's delightful scenes I now repair,
In C bham's smile to lose the gloom of care!
Nor fear that he my weakness should despise,
In nature learned, and humanely wise:
There Pitt, in manners soft, in friendship warm,
With mild advice my listening grief shall charm,
With sense to counsel, and with wit to please,
A Roman's virtue with a courtier's ease.
Nor you, my friend, whose heart is still at rest,
Contemn the human weakness of my breast;
Reason may chide the faults she cannot cure,
And pains, which long we scorn'd, we oft endure;
Though wiser cares employ your studious mind,
Form'd with a soul so elegantly kind,

Your breast may lose the calın it long has known,
And learn my woes to pity, by its own.

ELEGY XVI.

To Miss Dashwood,

O SAY, thou dear possessor of my breast,
Where's now my boasted Eberty and rest!
Where the gay moments which I once have known!
O, where that heart I fondly thought my own!
From place to place I solitary roam,
Abroad uneasy, not content at home.
I corn the beauties common eyes adore;
The more I view them, feel thy worth the more;
tamov'd I hear them speak, or see them fair,
And only think on thee who art not there.
In vain would books their formal succour lend,
Nor wit nor wisdom en relieve their friend;
Wit can't deceive the pain I now endure,
And wisdom shows the ill without the cure.
When from thy sight I waste the tedious day,
A thousand schemes I form, and things to say;
But when thy presence gives the time I seck,
My heart's so full, I wish, but cannot speak.

And could I speak with eloquence and ease,
Till now not studious of the art to please,
Could I, at woman who so oft exclaim,
Expose nor blush) thy triumph and my shame,
Abjure those maxims I so lately priz'd,
And cou t that sex I foolishly despusid,
Own thou hast soften'd my obdurate mind,
And thus reveng`d the wrongs of womankond:

Lost were my words, and fruitless all my pain,
In vain to tell thee, all I write in vain;
My humble sighs shall only reach thy ears,
And all my eloquence shall be my tears.

And now (for more I never must pretend)
Hear me not as thy lover, but thy friend;
Thousands will fain thy little heart ensnare,
For without danger none like thee are fair;
But wisely choose who best deserves thy flame,
So shall the choice itself become thy fame;
Nor yet despise, though void of winning art,
The plain and honest courtship of the heart:
The skilful tongue in Love's persuasive lore,
Though less it feels, will please and flat er more,
And, meanly learned in that guilty trade,
Can long abuse a fond, unthinking maid.
And since their lips so knowing to deceive,
Thy unexperiene'd youth might soon believe;
And since their tears, in false submission drest,
Might thaw the icy coldness of thy breast;
O! shut thine eyes to such deceitful woe:
Caught by the beauty of thy outward show,
Like me they do not love, whate'er they seem,
Like me with passion founded on esteem.

PROLOGUE

ΤΟ

LILLO'S ELMERIC 1.

No labour'd scenes to night adorn our stage,
Lillo's plain sense would here the heart engage.
He knew no art, no rule; but warmly thought
From passion's force, and as he felt, he wrote.
His Barnwell once no critic's test could bear,
Yet from each eye still draws the natural tear.
With generous candour hear his latest strains,
And let kind pity shelter his remains.
Deprest by want, allicted by disease,
Dying he wrote, and dying wish'd to please.
Oh, may that wish be now humanely paid,
And no harsh critic vex his gentle shade.
'Tis yours his unsupported fame to save,
And bid one laurel grace his humble grave.

See the epilogue to this tragedy among the poems of lord Lyttelton. In the Life of Lillo bowever, that epilogue is confidently ascribed to Mr.

Hammond.