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H! who can tell how hard it is to

climb

The steep where Fame's proud temple
shines afar!

Ah! who can tell how many a soul sublime
Has felt the influence of malignant star,
And waged with Fortune an eternal war!
Checked 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, 10 Not equally oppressive is to all;

Him who ne'er listened to the voice of praise,

The silence of neglect can ne'er appal.

There are, who, deaf to mad Ambition's call, Would shrink to hear the obstreperous trump of Fame;

Supremely blest, if to their portion fall

Health, competence, and peace. Nor higher

aim

Had he, whose simple tale these artless lines pro

claim.

III.

The rolls of fame I will not now explore; Nor need I here describe, in learned lay, 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.

20

Fret not thyself, thou glittering child of pride, That a poor villager inspires my strain; With thee let Pageantry and Power abide : 30 The gentle Muses haunt the sylvan reign; Where thro' wild groves at eve the lonely swain Enraptur'd roams, to gaze on Nature's charms: They hate the sensual, and scorn the vain, The parasite their influence never warms, Nor him whose sordid soul the love of gold alarms.

V.

Though richest hues the peacock's plumes adorn,
Yet horror screams from his discordant throat.
Rise, sons of harmony, and hail the morn,
While warbling larks on russet pinions float; 40
Or seek at noon the woodland scene remote,
Where the grey linnets carol from the hill:
O let them ne'er, with artificial note,

To please a tyrant, strain the little bill, But sing what Heaven inspires, and wander where they will!

VI.

Liberal, not lavish, is kind Nature's hand; Nor was perfection made for man below: Yet all her schemes with nicest art are planned, Good counteracting ill, and gladness woe. With gold and gems if Chilian mountains glow; If bleak and barren Scotia's hills arise; There plague and poison, lust and rapine grow; Here peaceful are the vales, and pure the skies, And freedom fires the soul, and sparkles in the eyes.

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VII.

Then grieve not, thou, to whom th' indulgent Muse

Vouchsafes a portion of celestial fire;

Nor blame the partial Fates, if they refuse

The imperial banquet, and the rich attire: Know thine own worth, and reverence the lyre. Wilt thou debase the heart which God refined? No; let thy heaven-taught soul to heaven aspire, To fancy, freedom, harmony, resigned; Ambition's grovelling crew for ever left behind.

62

VIII.

Canst thou forego the pure ethereal soul In each fine sense so exquisitely keen, On the dull couch of Luxury to loll, Stung with disease, and stupified with spleen; Fain to implore the aid of Flattery's screen, Even from thyself thy loathsome heart to hide, (The mansion then no more of joy serene), Where fear, distrust, malevolence abide, And impotent desire, and disappointed pride?

70

IX.

O, how canst thou renounce the boundless store Of charms which Nature to her votary yields! The warbling woodland, the resounding shore, The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields ; All that the genial ray of morning gilds, And all that echoes to the song of even, All that the mountain's sheltering bosom shields, And all the dread magnificence of Heaven, O, how canst thou renounce, and hope to be for

given !

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X.

These charms shall work thy soul's eternal health,
And love, and gentleness, and joy impart.
But these thou must renounce, if lust of wealth
E'er win its way to thy corrupted heart:
For, ah! it poisons like a scorpion's dart;
Prompting th' ungenerous wish, the selfish
scheme,

The stern resolve unmoved by pity's smart, The troublous day, and long distressful dream. Return, my roving Muse, resume thy purposed theme.

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90

XI.

There lived in Gothic days, as legends tell,
A shepherd-swain, a man of low degree;
Whose sires, perchance, in Fairyland might
dwell,

Sicilian groves, or vales of Arcady;

But he, I ween, was of the north countrie;1 A nation famed for song, and beauty's charms; Zealous, yet modest; innocent, though free; Patient of toil; serene amidst alarms; Inflexible in faith; invincible in arms.

1 There is hardly an ancient ballad, or romance, wherein a Minstrel or a Harper appears, but he is characterized, by way of eminence, to have been "of the north countrie." It is probable, that under this appellation were formerly com prehended all the provinces to the north of the Trent. See Percy's Essay on the English Minstrels.

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