LII. Nor lefs to regulate man's moral frame Science exerts her all-compofing fway. Flutters thy breaft with fear, or pants for fame, Or pines to indolence and Spleen à prey, Or Avarice, a fiend more fierce than they? • Flee to the fhade of Academus' grove; • Where cares moleft not, difcord melts away. In harmony, and the pure paffions prove (Love. • How fweet the words of truth breathed from the lips of LIII. • What cannot Art and Industry perform, When Science plans the progrefs of their toil! And oceans from their mighty mounds recoil. Deep-verfed in man the philofophic Sage Prepares with lenient hand their phrenzy to affwage. "Tis he alone, whofe comprehenfive mind, Enraptured by the Hermit's ftrain, the Youth LVI. Nor love of novelty alone inspires, Their laws and nice dependencies to scan; And the long hours of Toil and Solitude to charm. But She who fet on fire his infant heart, And all his dreams, and all his wanderings fhared And blefs'd the Mufe and her celestial art, Still claim'd th' Enthusiast's fond and first regard. From Nature's beauties variously compared And variously combined, he learns to frame Thofe forms of bright perfection, which the Bard, While boundless hopes and boundless views inflame, Enamour'd confecrates to never-dying fame. LVIII. Of late, with cumbersome, though pompous fhow, Tempers his rage: he owns her charm divine, And clears th' ambiguous phrafe, and lops th' unwieldy line. LIX. Fain would I fing (much yet unfung remains) When the great Shepherd of the Mantuan plains * * VIRGIL. Fain would I fing, what tranfport ftorm'd his foul, Homer raised high to heaven the loud, th' impetuous fong. And how his lyre, though rude her first effays, Now skill'd to footh, to triumph, to complain, Warbling at will through each harmonious maze, Was taught to modulate the artful train, I fain would fing-but ah! I ftrive in vain.— Sighs from a breaking heart my voice confound.— With trembling ftep, to join you weeping train, 1 hatte, where gleams funeral glare around (found. Aud, mix'd with fhrieks of wot, the knells of death re LXI. Adieu, ye lays, that fancy's flowers adorn, And poor my bitter tears.-Ye flowery lays, adieu! LXII. Art thou, my G*******, for ever fled! When fortune's forms affail this weary head, (tears. 'Tis meet that I thould mourn :-flow forth afresh my *This excellent perfon died fuddenly, on the 10th of February, 1773The conclufion of the poem was written a few days after. |