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Vain man! that in a narrow space
At endless game projects the daring spear!
To diftant climates, and a foreign air ? Fool! from thyfelf thou canst not fly, Thyfelf, the fource of all thy care. So flies the wounded stag, provok'd with pain, Bounds o'er the spacious downs in vain ; The feather'd torment sticks within his fide, And from the fiarting wound a purple tide Marks all his way with blood, and dyes the graffy plain..
But fwifter far is execrable Care
Than ftags, or winds that through the skies
Purfuing Care the failing fhip out-flies,
And dwells alike in courts and camps, and makes all places yield.
Then, fince no ftate 's compleatly bleft,
With gentle mirth, and wisely gay
And leave to fate the reft.
Nor with vain fear of ills to come
The hero fell by fudden death;
While Tithon to a tedious wafting age
Drew his protracted breath.
And thus old partial Time, my friend,
Perhaps unafk'd to worthless me
Thofe hours of lengthen'd life may lend,
Which he'll refufe to thee.
Thee fhining wealth and plenteous joys furround, And, all thy fruitful fields around,
Unnumber'd herds of cattle ftray.
Thy harness'd steeds with sprightly voice 80
While smoothly thy gay chariot flies o'er the swift meafur'd way.
To me the fears, with less profufion kind,
And no untuneful Lyric vein,
But a fincere contented mind,
That can the vile malignant crowd disdain.
BIRTH OF THE ROSE.
FROM THE FRENCH.
ONCE, on a folemn feftal.day
Held by th' immortals in the skies,
Flora had fummon'd all the Deities
Ye shining graces of my courtly train,
O'er the gay flowery univerfe below ;
queen I'll chufe, with spotless honour fair,
Let me your counsel and affistance ask,
The Deities that stood around,
The vileft thistle that infests the plain
Will think his tawdry painted pride Deferves the crown; and, if deny'd, Perhaps with traitor-plots moleft your reign. Vain are your fears, Flora reply'd,
'Tis fix'd and hear how I'll the caufe decide.
Deep in a venerable wood,
Where Oaks, with vocal skill endued, Did wondrous oracles of old impart, Beneath a little hill's inclining fide
A grotto 's feen where nature's art Is exercis'd in all her smiling pride. Retir'd in this sweet graffy cell,
A lovely wood-nymph once did dwell.
She always pleas'd; for more than mortal fire
Shone in her eyes, and did her charms inípire;
A Dryad bore the beauteous nymph, a Sylvan was her fire.
Chafte, wife, devout, she still obey'd
With humble zeal heaven's dread commands, 40
To every action afk'd our aid,
And oft before our altars pray'd;
Pure was her heart, and undefil'd her hands.
She's dead and from her sweet remains
The wondrous mixture I would take,
This much defir'd, this perfect flower to make. Affift, and thus, with our transforming pains, We'll dignify the garden-beds, and grace our favourite
Th' applauding Deities with pleasure heard,
A bufy face the God of Gardens wore ;
From various sweets th' exhaling spirits drew
Of richeft fruits a plenteous ftore;
And Vefta promis'd wondrous things to do.
Of Smiles and Graces: the plump God of Wine
And fill'd large goblets with his juice divine.
On a foft couch of turf the body lay;
In filence, and with awe profound.
Flora thrice bow'd, and thus was heard to pray.
Exert thy great creative power!
Let this fair corpse be mortal clay no more; Transform it to a tree, to bear a beauteous flower
Scarce had the Goddess spoke; when see!
The nymph's extended limbs the form of branches
Behold the wondrous change, the fragrant tree!