Unsought, unwished, the curious scenery flows, But come, ye GOOD, to mark her living power, Whom nature fashioned in a happier hour, Whose tender nerves, to nicer sense alive, Feel in each touch electric life revive; If high in wish, your ardent souls explore If proud in bliss, at Hymen's brightened shrine Or, sad reverse! if cursed with every pain, Which crowds convulsion thro the trembling vein, Doomed lone and friendless life's drear paths to rove, The scorn of pride, or prey of injured love; Retire, and own SECLUSION's power to shed The cheering beam round merit's drooping head, Retire, and there the moral lesson prest Shall teach in blessing, how the heart is blest. Why will ye tell of all the world can give? Say, can it teach the science, how to live? And here the cottage emulates the throne. Can these, where avarice haunts the pining mind, O'er the proud scene the sword of haggard care Hangs to destroy, suspended by a hair! Search the wide world, or, versed in classic lore, Mark the dread truth on PUTEOLI's shore ; Mid gorgeous domes, and flattery's servile host, In vain debauch her syren forms assumes, Care haunts his soul with visionary glooms, The world's proud conqueror asks a moment's ease, Cursed in decline, and loathsome in disease. Alas! no balms the courted crowd dispense Its dubious aspect marks some base design. Yea, tho the generous smile, the polished grace, Like fair APEGA, ask a false embrace, (6) Too oft its victim finds, the glittering toy Lure to deceive, and flatter to destroy. The lovely maid, whose native virtues flow The pointed insult meets her downcast eyes. In vain may eloquence in mercy plead To spare the person, yet detest the deed, (7) Ungenerous censure dooms to deadlier woe The wretch, who suffered, than who dealt the blow. Poor, wandering outcast, tho with arrowy sway Imbittered memory haunt the fatal day, When life's bright visions with pollution fled, And virtue sickened with the tears she shed; No more returned the scenes of festive mirth, So to the picture's many coloured face Time's secret touch imparts a ripening grace, Mellows each tint, and still, as dies the blaze, Each softer beauty on the canvass plays. |