Is this the man in Freedom's cause approved,
The man so great, so honour'd, so beloved,
This patient slave by tinsel chains allured,
This wretched suitor for a boon abjured,
This Curio, hated and despised by all,
Who fell himself to work his country's fall?
O lost, alike to action and repose!
Unknown, unpitied in the worst of woes!
With all that conscious, undissembled pride,
Sold to the insults of a foe defied!
With all that habit of familiar fame,
Doom'd to exhaust the dregs of life in
shame!

The sole sad refuge of thy baffled art
To act a statesman's dull, exploded part,
Renounce the praise no longer in thy power,
Display thy virtue, though without a dower,
Contemn the giddy crowd, the vulgar wind,
And shut thy eyes that others may be
blind.-

Forgive me, Romans, that I bear to smile,
When shameless mouths your majesty defile,
Paint you a thoughtless, frantic, headlong

Yet high and jealous of their free-born

name,

Fieroe as the flight of Jove's destroying flame,

Where'er Oppression works her wanton sway,

Proud to confront, and dreadful to repay.
But if to purchase Curio's sage applause,
My country must with him renounce her
cause,

Quit with a slave the path a patriot trod,
Bow the meek knee, and kiss the regal rod;
Then still, ye powers, instruct his tongue to
rail,

Nor let his zeal, nor let his subject fail:
Else, ere he change the style, bear me away
To where the Gracchi, where the Bruti
stay!

O long revered, and late resign'd to shame!
If this uncourtly page thy notice claim
When the loud cares of business are with-
drawn,

Nor well-dress'd beggars round thy footsteps fawn ;

In that still, thoughtful, solitary hour,
When Truth exerts her unresisted power,
Breaks the false optics tinged with fortune's
glare,

Unlocks the breast, and lays the passions

bare ;

Then turn thy eyes on that important scene,
And ask thyself-if all be well within.
Where is the heart-felt worth and weight of
soul,

Which labour could not stop, nor fear control?

Where the known dignity, the stamp of

awe,

Which, half-abash'd, the proud and venal saw?

Where the calm triumphs of an honest cause? Where the delightful taste of just applause ? Where the strong reason, the commanding tongue,

On which the senate fired or trembling hung? All vanish'd, all are sold-and in their room, Couch'd in thy bosom's deep, distracted gloom,

See the pale form of barbarous Grandeur dwell,

Like some grim idol in a sorcerer's cell!
To her in chains thy dignity was led ;
At her polluted shrine thy honour bled;
With blasted weeds thy awful brow she

crown'd,

Thy powerful tongue with poison'd philters bound,

That baffled Reason straight indignant flew,
And fair Persuasion from her seat withdrew:
For now no longer Truth supports thy cause;
No longer Glory prompts thee to applause;
No longer Virtue breathing in thy breast,
With all her conscious majesty confess'd,
Still bright and brighter wakes the almighty
flame,

To rouse the feeble, and the wilful tame,

And where she sees the catching glimpses roll,

Spreads the strong blaze, and all involves the soul;

But cold restraints thy conscious fancy chill, And formal passions mock thy struggling will;

Or, if thy Genius e'er forget his chain,
And reach impatient at a nobler strain,
Soon the sad bodings of contemptuous mirth
Shoot through thy breast, and stab the ge-
nerous birth,

Till, blind with smart, from truth to frenzy toss'd,

And all the tenor of thy reason lost,

Perhaps thy anguish drains a real tear; While some with pity, some with laughter hear.

Can art, alas! or genius, guide the head, Where truth and freedom from the heart are

The chiefs and princes of the unjust remain. Eternal barriers guard the pathless road

To warn the wanderer of the cursed abode ; But prone as whirlwinds scour the assive p sky,

The heights surmounted, down the steep they fly.

There, black with frowns, relentless Time awaits,

And goads their footsteps to the guilty gates;

And still he asks them of their unknown aims,

Evolves their secrets, and their guilt proclaims;

And still his hands despoil them on the road Of each vain wreath, by lying bards bestow'd, Break their proud marbles, crush their festal

cars,

And rend the lawless trophies of their wars.
At last the gates his potent voice obey;
Fierce to their dark abode he drives his
prey;

Where, ever arm'd with adamantine chains,
The watchful demon o'er her vassals reigns,
O'er mighty names and giant-powers of lust,
The great, the sage, the happy, and august.

No gleam of hope their baleful mansion cheers,

No sound of honour hails their unbless'd ears;

But dire reproaches from the friend be

tray'd,

The childless sire and violated maid;

But vengeful vows for guardian laws effaced, From towns enslaved, and continents laid waste;

But long posterity's united groan,

And the sad charge of horrors not their own, For ever through the trembling space resound, And sink each impious forehead to the ground.

Ye mighty foes of liberty and rest, Give way, do homage to a mightier guest! Ye daring spirits of the Roman race, See Curio's toil your proudest claims efface!Awed at the name, fierce Appius rising bends,

Till own'd their guide, and trusted with their power,

He mock'd their hopes in one decisive hour; Then, tired and yielding, led them to the chain,

And quench'd the spirit we provoked in vain."

But thou, Supreme, by whose eternal hands
Fair Liberty's heroic empire stands ;
Whose thunders the rebellious deep control,
And quell the triumphs of the traitor's soul,
Oh! turn this dreadful omen far away:
On Freedom's foes their own attempts repay:
Relume her sacred fire so near suppress'd,
And fix her shrine in every Roman breast:
Though bold Corruption boast around the
land,

"Let virtue, if she can, my baits withstand! Though bolder now she urge the accursed claim,

Gay with her trophies raised on Curio's shame;

Yet some there are who scorn her impious mirth,

Who know what conscience and a heart are worth.

O friend and father of the human mind, Whose art for noblest ends our frame design'd!

If I, though fated to the studious shade
Which party-strife, nor anxious power invade,
If I aspire in public virtue's cause,
To guide the Muses by sublimer laws,
Do thou her own authority impart,
And give my numbers entrance to the heart.
Perhaps the verse might rouse her smother'd
flame,

And snatch the fainting patriot back to fame;

Perhaps by worthy thoughts of human kind, To worthy deeds exalt the conscious mind; Or dash Corruption in her proud career,

And teach her slaves that Vice was born to

fear.

Akenside.-Born 1721, Died 1770.

904. THE PROGRESS OF LOVE.

Pope, to whose reed beneath the beachen shade

The nymphs of Thames a pleased attention paid;

While yet thy Muse, content with humbler praise,

Warbled in Windsor's grove her sylvan lays; Though now, sublimely borne on Homer's wing,

Of glorious wars and godlike chiefs she sing:
Wilt thou with me revisit once again
The crystal fountain, and the flowery plain ?
Wilt thou, indulgent, hear my verse relate
The various changes of a lover's state;
And, while each turn of passion I pursue,
Ask thy own heart if what I tell be true?

To the green margin of a lonely wood, Whose pendent shades o'erlook'd a silver flood,

Young Damon came, unknowing where he stray'd,

Full of the image of his beauteous maid:
His flock, far off, unfed, untended, lay,
To every savage a defenceless prey;

No sense of interest could their master move,
And every care seem'd trifling now but love.
Awhile in pensive silence he remain'd,
But, though his voice was mute, his looks
complain'd;

At length the thoughts, within his bosom pent,

Forced his unwilling tongue to give them

vent.

"Ah, luckless day! when first with fond surprise

On Delia's face I fix'd my eager eyes!
Then in wild tumults all my soul was tost,

Then reason, liberty, at once were lost :

And every wish, and thought, and care, was

gone,

But what my heart employ'd on her alone. Then too she smiled: can smiles our peace destroy,

Those lovely children of Content and Joy? How can soft pleasure and tormenting woe From the same spring at the same moment flow?

Unhappy boy! these vain inquiries cease, Thought could not guard, nor will restore, thy

peace :

Indulge the frenzy that thou must endure, And soothe the pain thou know'st not how to

cure.

Come, flattering Memory! and tell my heart How kind she was, and with what pleasing art

She strove its fondest wishes to obtain,
Confirm her power, and faster bind my chain.
If on the green we danced, a mirthful band,
To me alone she gave her willing hand;
Her partial taste, if e'er I touch'd the lyre,
Still in my song found something to admire,
By none but her my crook with flowers was
crown'd,

By none but her my brows with ivy bound: The world, that Damon was her choice, believed,

The world, alas! like Damon, was deceived.
When last I saw her, and declared my fire
In words as soft as passion could inspire,
Coldly she heard, and full of scorn withdrew,
Without one pitying glance, one sweet adieu.
The frighted hind, who sees his ripen'd corn
Up from the roots by sudden tempests torn,
Whose fairest hopes destroy'd and blasted
lie,

Feels not so keen a pang of grief as I.
Ah, how have I deserved, inhuman maid,
To have my faithful service thus repaid?
Were all the marks of kindness I received
But dreams of joy, that charm'd me and
deceived ?

Or did you only nurse my growing love,
That with more pain I might your hatred
prove ?

Sure guilty treachery no place could find
In such a gentle, such a generous mind:
A maid brought up the woods and wilds

among

Could ne'er have learnt the art of courts so young:

No; let me rather think her anger feign'd, Still let me hope my Delia may be gain'd; 'Twas only modesty that seem'd disdain, And her heart suffer'd when she gave me pain."

Pleased with this flattering thought, the love-sick boy

Felt the faint dawning of a doubtful joy;

Say, dearest friend, how roll thy hours away?
What pleasing study cheats the tedious day?
Dost thou the sacred volumes oft explore
Of wise Antiquity's immortal lore,
Where virtue, by the charms of wit refined,
At once exalts and polishes the mind?
How different from our modern guilty art,
Which pleases only to corrupt the heart;
Whose curst refinements odious vice adorn,
And teach to honour what we ought to scorn!
Dost thou in sage historians joy to see
How Roman greatness rose with liberty:
How the same hands that tyrants durst
control

Their empire stretch'd from Atlas to the
Pole;

Till wealth and conquest into slaves refined The proud luxurious masters of mankind? Dost thou in letter'd Greece each charm admire,

Each grace, each virtue, Freedom could inspire;

Yet in her troubled state see all the woes, And all the crimes, that giddy Faction knows ;

Till, rent by parties, by corruption sold,
Or weakly careless, or too rashly bold,
She sunk beneath a mitigated doom,

The slave and tutoress of protecting Rome?
Does calm Philosophy her aid impart,

To guide the passions, and to mend the heart?

Taught by her precepts, hast thou learnt the end

To which alone the wise their studies bend;
For which alone by Nature were design'd
The powers of thought-to benefit mankind?
Not, like a cloister'd drone, to read and doze,
In undeserving, undeserved repose;
But reason's influence to diffuse; to clear
Th' enlighten'd world of every gloomy fear;
Dispel the mists of error, and unbind
Those pedant chains that clog the free-born
mind.

Happy who thus his leisure can employ !
He knows the purest hours of tranquil joy;
Nor vext with pangs that busier bosoms tear,
Nor lost to social virtue's pleasing care;
Safe in the port, yet labouring to sustain
Those who still float on the tempestuous
main.

So Locke the days of studious quiet spent ; So Boyle in wisdom found divine content; So Cambray, worthy of a happier doom, The virtuous slave of Louis and of Rome. Good Wor'ster thus supports his drooping

age,

Far from court-flattery, far from party-rage;
He, who in youth a tyrant's frown defied,
Firm and intrepid on his country's side,
Her boldest champion then, and now her
mildest guide!

O generous warmth! O sanctity divine!
To emulate his worth, my friend, be thine :
Learn from his life the duties of the gown;
Learn, not to flatter, nor insult the crown;
Nor, basely servile, court the guilty great,
Nor raise the church a rival to the state:
To error mild, to vice alone severe,

Seek not to spread the law of love by fear. The priest who plagues the world can never mend :

No foe to man was e'er to God a friend.
Let reason and let virtue faith maintain :
All force but theirs is impious, weak, and
vain.

Me other cares in other climes engage, Cares that become my birth, and suit my age;

In various knowledge to improve my youth, And conquer prejudice, worst foe to truth; By foreign arts domestic faults to mend, Enlarge my notions, and my views extend; The useful science of the world to know, Which books can never teach, or pedants show.

A nation here I pity and admire, Whom noblest sentiments of glory fire, Yet taught, by custom's force and bigot fear, To serve with pride, and boast the yoke they bear:

Whose nobles, born to cringe and to command

(In courts a mean, in camps a generous band),

From each low tool of power content receive

Those laws, their dreaded arms to Europe give.

Whose people (vain in want, in bondage blest ;

Though plunder'd, gay; industrious, though opprest)

With happy follies rise above their fate,
The jest and envy of each wiser state.

Yet here the Muses deign'd awhile to sport In the short sunshine of a favouring court: Here Boileau, strong in sense and sharp in

wit,

Who, from the ancients, like the ancients writ,

Permission gain'd inferior vice to blame,
By flattering incense to his master's fame.
Here Molière, first of comic wits, excell'd
Whate'er Athenian theatres beheld;
By keen, yet decent, satire skill'd to please,
With morals mirth uniting, strength with

ease.

Now, charm'd, I hear the bold Corneille inspire

Heroic thoughts, with Shakspeare's force and fire!

Now sweet Racine, with milder influence,

move

The soften'd heart to pity and to love.

With mingled pain and pleasure, I survey The pompous works of arbitrary sway; Proud palaces, that drain'd the subjects' store,

Raised on the ruins of th' opprest and

roor,

Where e'en mute walls are taught to flatter state,

And painted triumphs style Ambition

GREAT

With more delight those pleasing shades I view,

Where Condé from an envious court withdrew;

Where, sick of glory, faction, power, and pride,

(Sure judge how empty all, who all had tried!)

Beneath his palms the weary chief reposed,
And life's great scene in quiet virtue closed.
With shame that other fam'd retreat I
see,

Adorn'd by art, disgraced by luxury :
Where Orleans wasted every vacant hour,
In the wild riot of unbounded power;
Where feverish debauch and impious love
Stain'd the mad table and the guilty grove.
With these amusements is thy friend de-
tain'd,

Pleased and instructed in a foreign land;
Yet oft a tender wish recalls my mind
From present joys to dearer left behind.
O native isle, fair Freedom's happiest seat!
At thought of thee, my bounding pulses beat;
At thought of thee, my heart impatient burns,
And all my country on my soul returns.
When shall I see thy fields, whose plenteous
grain

No power can ravish from th' industrious swain?

That

When kiss, with pious love, the sacred earth gave a Burleigh or a Russell birth? When, in the shade of laws, that long have stood,

Propt by their care, or strengthen'd by their blood,

Of fairless independence wisely vain,

The proudest slave of Bourbon's race disdain?

Yet, oh! what doubt, what sad presaging voice,

Bids me

Whispers within, and bids me not rejoice;
contemplate every state around,
From sultry Spain to Norway's icy bound;
Bids their lost rights, their ruin'd glory see:
These, like England, once

And tells me, were free!"

Lord Lyttelton.-Born 1709, Died 1773.

906.-TO THE MEMORY OF THE FIRST LADY LYTTELTON.

At length escaped from every human eye,
From every duty, every care,

That in my mournful thoughts might claim a share,

Or force my tears their flowing stream to dry;

Beneath the gloom of this embowering shade,

This lone retreat, for tender sorrow made,
I now may give my burden'd heart relief,
And pour forth all my stores of grief;
Of grief surpassing every other woe,
Far as the purest bliss, the happiest love
Can on th' ennobled mind bestow,
Exceeds the vulgar joys that move
Our gross desires, inelegant and low.