This now was His: yet all mote nought avail, His loathing eyes that place did ever shun; But ever through his Neighbours lawns would run, Where every good lie fielde thrice goodlie seemd. Such was this weary Wight all woe-begone; Such was his life; and thus of things he deemd; And suchlike was his Cave, that all with sorrowes teemd. LX. To this fell Carle gay DISSIPATION led, From the dire Cave fain would the Knight have fled, And fain recalld the treachrous Nymphe from flight: But now the late Obtruder shuns his sight, And dearly must be wooed hard by the den, Where listless Bacchus had his tents ypight, A transient visit sometimes would he gain, While Wine and merry Song beguild his inward pain. LXI. 540 Yet, ever as he reard his slombering head, And aged Winter asks from Youth its stay; But thine comes poore of joy, comes with unhonourd gray. LXII. Thou hast no friend! still on the worthlesse 556 Traine Thy kindnesse flowd, and still with scorne repaid; Even she on whom thy favours heapt remain, LXIII. Thy Children too! Heavens! what a hopelesse sight! Ah, wretched Syre!-but ever from this scene 560 And in the Bowls wylde fever shuns his teene. LXIV. But boast not of superior shrewd addresse, Ye who can calmly spurn the ruind Mayd, Ye who unmovd can view the deepe distresse_ That crushes to the dust the Parents head, And rends that easie heart by You betrayd, Boast not that Ye his numerous woes eskew ; Ye who unawd the Nuptial couch invade, Boast not his weaknesse with contempt to view; For worthy is He still compard, perdie, to YOU. POEM V. THE MINSTREL; OR, THE PROGRESS OF GENIUS. BY JAMES BEATTIE, L.L.D. BOOK I. I. AH! who can tell how hard it is to climb The steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar; And waged with fortune an eternal war; Check'd by the scoff of Pride, by Envy's frown, And Poverty's unconquerable bar, In life's low vale remote has pined alone, Then dropt into the grave, unpitied and unknown! II. And yet, the languor of inglorious days Him, who ne'er listen'd to the voice of praise, There are, who, deaf to mad ambition's call, Fame; Supremely blest, if to their portion fall Health, competence, and peace. Nor higher aim Had HE, whose simple tale these artless lines proclaim. III. The rolls of fame I will not now explore; 20 How forth THE MINSTREL fared in days of yore, Right glad of heart, though homely in array; His waving locks and beard all hoary grey : While from his bending shoulder, decent hung His harp, the sole companion of his way, Which to the whistling wind responsive rung: And ever as he went some merry lay he sung. IV. 30 Fret not thyself, thou glittering child of pride, |