Elegy VIII. He describes his early love of poetry, and its consequences. To Mr. G—, 1745

AH me! what envious magic thins my fold?
What mutter'd spell retards their late increase?
Such less'ning fleeces must the swain behold,
That e'er with Doric pipe essays to please.

I saw my friends in ev'ning circles meet;
I took my vocal reed, and tun'd my lay;
I heard them say my vocal reed was sweet:
Ah, fool! to credit what I heard them say.

Ill-fated Bard! that seeks his skill to show,
Then courts the judgment of a friendly ear;
Not the poor vet'ran, that permits his foe
To guide his doubtful step, has more to fear.

Nor could my G— mistake the critic's laws,
Till pious Friendship mark'd the pleasing way:
Welcome such error! ever bless'd the cause!
Ev'n tho' it led me boundless leagues astray.

Couldst thou reprove me, when I nurs'd the flame
On list'ning Cherwell's osier banks reclin'd?
While foe to Fortune, unseduc'd by Fame,
I sooth'd the bias of a careless mind.

Youth's gentle kindred, Health and Love, were met;
What tho' in Alma's guardian arms I play'd?
How shall the Muse those vacant hours forget?
Or deem that bliss by solid cares repaid?

Thou know'st how transport thrills the tender breast
Where Love and Fancy fix their op'ning reign;
How Nature shines, in livelier colours drest,
To bless their union, and to grace their train.

So first when Phoebus met the Cyprian queen,
And favour'd Rhodes beheld their passion crown'd,
Unusual flow'rs enrich'd the painted green,
And swift spontaneous roses blush'd around.

Now sadly lorn, from Twitnam's widow'd bow'r
The drooping Muses take their casual way,
And where they stop a flood of tears they pour,
And where they weep no more the fields are gay.

Where is the dappled pink, the sprightly rose?
The cowslip's golden cup no more I see:
Dark and discolour'd ev'ry flow'r that blows,
To form the garland, Elegy! for thee—

Enough of tears has wept the virtuous dead;
Ah! might we now the pious rage control!
Hush'd be my grief ere ev'ry smile be fled,
Ere the deep-swelling sigh subvert the soul!

If near some trophy spring a stripling bay,
Pleas'd we behold the graceful umbrage rise,
But soon too deep it works its baneful way,
And low on earth the prostrate ruin lies.