In Deathless Records thou fhalt stand inroll'd,
And Rome's rich Pofts fhall fhine with Horns of Gold.
By Mr. PARNELL..
OVELY lafting Peace of Mind,
Sweet delight of Human Kind,
Heav'nly born, and bred on high,
To crown the Fav'rites of the Sky
With more of Happiness below,
Than Victors in a Triumph know:
Whither, O whither art thou fled,
To lay thy meek contented Head?
What happy Region doft thou please
To make the Seat of Calms and Eafe?
Ambition fearches all its Sphere
Of Pomp and State to find thee there.
Encreafing Avarice wou'd find
Thy Prefence in its Gold enfhrin'd.
The bold Advent'rer ploughs his way
Through Rocks amidst the foaming Sea
To gain thy Love, and then perceives
Thou wer't not in the Rocks and Waves.
The filent Heart whom Grief affails,
Treads foft and lonesome o'er the Vales,
Sees Daizies open, Rivers run,
And feeks (as I have vainly done)
Amusing Thought; but learns to know
That Solitude's a Nurfe of Woe.
No real Happiness is found
In trailing Purple o'er the Ground
Or in a Soul exalted high
Το range the Circuit of the Sky,
Converse with Stars above, and know
All Nature in its Forms below;
The Reft it feeks:in feeking dies,
And Doubts at laft for Knowledge rife.
Lovely lafting Peace appear;
This World it felf, if thou art here,
Is once again with Eden blefs'd,
And Man contains it in his Breaft
Twas thus, as under Shade I ftood,
I fung my Wishes to the Wood,
And, loft in Thought, no more perceiv'd
The Branches whisper as they way'd;
It seem'd as if the quiet Place
Confefs'd the Presence of the Grace,
Bid thy wild Paffions all be ftill,
Know God -----and bring thy Heart to know
The Joys which from Religion flow;
Then ev'ry Grace fhall prove its Guek,
And I'll be there to crown the rest.
Oh! by yonder Moffie Seat,
In my Hours of fweet Retreat,
Might I thus my Soul employ
With fense of Gratitude and Joy,
Rais'd, as Ancient Prophets were,
In heav'nly Vision, Praife, and Pray's,
Pleafing all Men, hurting none,
Pleas'd and bless'd with God alone.
Then, while the Gardens take my Sight,
With all the Colours of Delight,
While Silver Waters glide along,
To please my Ear, and court my Song;
I'll lift my Voice, and tune my String,
And Thee, great SOURCE of NATURE, fing.
The Sun that walks his airy Way,
To light the World, and give the Day;
The Moon that shines with borrow'd Light,
The Stars that gild the gloomy Night,
The Seas that roll unnumber'd Waves,
The Wood that fpreads its fhady Leaves,
The Field whofe Ears conceal the Grain,
The yellow Treasure of the Plain;
All of these, and all I fee,
Wou'd be fung, and fung by me.
They speak their Maker as they can,
But want and ask the Tongue of Man.
Go fearch among your idle Dreams,
Your bufie or your vain Extreams,
And find a Life of equal Blifs,
Or own the next begun in this.
Y Days have been fo wondrous Free,
The little Birds that flie
With careless Eafe from Tree to Tree,
Were but as blefs'd as I.
Ask gliding Waters, if a Tear
Of mine encreas'd their Stream?
Or ask the flying Gales, if ere
I lent a Sigh to them?
But now my former Days retire,
And I'm by Beauty caught,
The tender Chains of fweet Defire
Are fix'd upon my Thought.
An eager Hope within my Breaft
Does ev'ry Doubt controul,
And charming Ney ftands confeft
The Fav'rite of my Soul.
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