Reclaim'd, her wild licentious youth
Confefs'd the potent voice of truth,
And felt its juft controul:
The paffions ceas'd their loud alarms,
Aud virtue's foft perfuafive charms
O'er all their fenfes ftole.
Thy breath infpires the poet's fong,
The patriot's free unbiafs'd tongue,
The hero's gen'rous ftrife:
Thine are retirement's filent joys,
And all the sweet endearing ties
Of ftill, domeftic life.
No more to fabled names confin'd,
To thee, fupreme, all-perfect mind,
My thoughts direct their flight:
Wisdom's thy gift, and all her force
From thee deriv'd, unchanging fource
Of intellectual light!
O fend her fure, her fleady ray
To regulate my doubtful way,
Thro's life's perplexing road;
The mifts of error to controul !
And thro' its gloom direct my foul
To happiness and good!
Beneath her clear difcerning eye
The vifionary fhadows fly
Of folly's painted fhow:
She fees, thro' ev'ry fair difguife,
That all but Virtue's folid joys
Is vanity and woe.
March'd three miles thro' fcorching fand,
With zeal in heart, and notes in hand;
I rode four miles to great St. Mary;
Ufing four legs, when two were weary.
To three fair virgins I did tie men,
In the close bands of pleafing Hymen;
I dipt two babes in holy water,
And purified their mother's after.
Within an hour and eke an half,
I preach'd three congregations deaf,
While thund'ring out with lungs long-winded,
I chopt fo faft, that few there minded.
My emblem, the laborious fun,
Saw all thefe mighty labours done,
Before one race of his was run:
All this perform'd by Robert Hewet;
What mortal elfe could e'er go through it?
́ES, happy youths, on Camus' fedgy fide,
You feel each joy that friendship can divide
Each realm of fcience and of art explore,
And with the ancient blend the modern lore.
Studious alone to learn whate'er
may tend
To raife the genius, or the heart to mend ;
Now pleas'd along the cloifter'd walk you rove,
And trace the verdant mazes of the grove,
Where focial oft, and oft alone, ye
To catch the zephyr, and to court the Muse.
Meantime at me.(while all devoid of art
These lines gave back the image of my heart)
At me the pow'r, that comes or foon or late,
Or aims, or feems to aim, the dart of fate;
From you remote, methinks, alone I ftand,
Like fome fad exile in a defart land: '
Around no friends their lenient care to join,
In mutual warmth, and mix their heart with mine.
Or real pains, or those which fancy raise,
For ever blot the funfhine of
* Almoft all Tibullus's Elegy is imitated in this little Piece, from whence his tranfition to Mr. Pope's letter is very artfully contrived, and befpeaks a degree of judg ment much beyond Mr. Weft's years.
To ficknefs ftill, and ftill to grief a prey,
Health turns from me her rofy face away.
Juft Heaven! what fin, ere life begins to bloom, Devotes my head untimely to the tomb ?
Did e'er this hand against a brother's life
Drug the dire bowl, or point the murd'rous knife? Did e'er this tongue the flanderer's tale proclaim, Or madly violate my Maker's name ?
Did e'er this heart betray a friend or foe,
Or know a thought but all the world might know?
As yet, juft farted from the lifts of time,
My growing years have fcarcely told their prime;
Ufelefs, as yet, through life I've idly run,
No pleasures tafted, and few duties done.
Ah who, ere autumn's mellowing funs appear,
Would pluck the promise of the vernal year;
Or, ere the grapes their purple hue betray,
Tear the crude clufler from the mourning fpray?
Stern pow'r of Fate, whose ebon fceptre rules
The Stygian defarts and Cimmerian pools,
Forbear, nor rafhly finite my youthful heart,
A victim yet unworthy of thy dart ;
Ah, flay till age fhall blaf my withering face,
Shake in my head, and falter in my pace;
Then aim the fhaft, then meditate the blow,
And to the dead my willing fhade fhall go.
How weak is Man to Reason's judging eye!
Born in this moment, in the next we die ;
Part mortal clay, and part ethereal fire,
Too proud to creep, too humble to aspire.
In vain our plans of happiness we raise,
Pain is our lot, and patience is our praise ;
Wealth, lineage, honours, conqueft, or a throne,
Are what the wife would fear to call their own.
Health is at beft a vain precarious thing,
And fair-fac'd youth is ever on the wing;
'Tis like the stream befide whofe wat❜ry bed
Some blooming plant exalts his flow'ry head;
Nurs'd by the wave the spreading branches rise,
Shade all the ground, and flourish to the skies;
The waves the while beneath in fecret flow
And undermine the hollow bank below:
Wide and more wide the waters urge their
Bare all the roots, and on their fibres prey.
Too late the plant bewails his foolish pride,
And finks, untimely, in the whelming tide.
But why repine? Does life deferve my sigh?
Few will lament my lofs whene'er I die.
For thofe, the wretches I defpife or hate,
I neither envy nor regard their fate.
For me, whene'er all-conq'ring Death fhall spread
His wings around my unrepining head,
I care not, tho' this face be feen no more,
The world will pafs as cheerful as before;
Bright as before the day-ftar will appear.
The fields as verdant, and the fkies as clear;
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