No more shall he with anguish grin;
No more shall smart his mangled chin,
Thanks to thy strap so famous!
A strap which gives the face such ease,
Might e'en a mighty monarch please,
When shav'd by Billy Ramus.
Could'st thou in France thy razor's grind,
Thy talents there would surely find
Mongst lawgivers a station.
Smooth as thy strap their chins would feel→
Thou'dst sharpen for the public weal
The razor of the nation!
Oh! could'st thou, by a lucky hit,
Find out a strap to sharpen wit!
(Tho' high thy present state is)
Then would'st thou make a monarch smile,
The ruler of a sea-girt isle,
And get a patent gratis.
Then would the spreading voice of fame,
With Paracelsus rank thy name,
And other great gold-finders—
The long-sought philosophic stone
Become, without dispute, thy own,
Thou prince of Razor Grinders.
On! tarry gentle traveller;
Oh, tarry now at setting day; Nor haste to leave this lowly vale, For lofty mountains far away.
Oh! tell me what has tempted thee
Thro' woods and dreary wilds to roam?
Oh! tell me what has tempted thee
To quit thy lot and peaceful home?
Say, hast thou not a partner dear,
That's constant to thy love, and kind ? And wilt thou leave her faithful side, Nor cast one sorrowing look behind?
Yon sun that gilds the village spire,
And gaily flings his parting ray,
Say, smiles he not as sweetly o'er
Thy native village far away?
Does mad ambition lure thy steps
To wander in the paths of strife?
Ah, think how soon thy moments fly!
Ah, think how short thy span of life!
For life is like yon crimson beam
That trembles in the western skies;
Full soon, alas! its glories cease;
It sparkles-glimmers-fades—and dies.
Oh! waste not then thy fleeting hours
In foreign climes and paths unknown;
Return thee to thy happy plains
That bounteous nature made thy own.
For me, nor gold, nor princely pow'r,
Nor purple vest, nor stately dome,
Nor all that trophy'd grandeur boasts,
Shall lure me from my tranquil home.
This rustic cot and silent shade
Shall evermore my dwelling be;
E'en when my destin'd days are spent
I'll rest beneath yon aged tree.
Besides the brook a simple stone
Shall serve to guard my cold remains,
And tell the pilgrims as they pass,
I dy'd amidst my native plains.
Return then, gentle traveller;
Return thee with the morning ray; Nor leave again thy lowly vale,
For lofty mountains far away.
ELEGY IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.
No more I wander the muse-haunted grove,
Where deeds of glory swell the epic strain,
Or where the raptures of requited love
Wake the sweet numbers of th' impassion'd swain.
For, ah! how transient love's endearing joy,
The richest boon of fav'ring heaven to man;
And what ambition, but an infant's toy,
To minds that ponder life's contracted span ?
Then come, Reflection, nymph of sober mien,
Who rov'd beneath the yew tree's shade with Gray;
Teach me to meditate the solemn scene,
As pensive thro' the long drawn aisles. I stray.
Here oft has Britain's royal pageant pass'd,
And titl'd pride her gaudy charms display'd;
Here wou'd the crowd with pagan ardour haste
T'adore the idol that their folly made.
Yet, a few season's fled, the train return'd,
With hearts untouch'd, to mimic sorrow's gloom;
With woe's grimmace the pompous herald mourn'd,
And lavish'd flatt'ry o'er the senseless tomb.
Here jarring statesmen meet, once haughty foes,
Who spurn'd indignant at a rival's pow'r;
There beauty withers like the blushing rose,
The fragrant pride of summer's transient hour.
The votive song to Delia's vernal bloom,
Vibrates to rapture on her deafen'd ear;
Ev'n proud ambition stoops beneath a tomb,
And pleasure's syren voice is silent there.
Dumb, too, the minstrel's harp, whose magic lays Arous'd the valiant breast to deeds of fame; Yet time shall spare the virtuous poet's praise, And age to age repeat his honour'd name.
Yet here, till wisdom fly the British coast,
Oft-times the musing moralist shall come,
Heedless of grandeur's monumental boast,
To seek, good Addison, thy humble tomb.
And long thy precepts, with resistless pow'r,
Shall lure the wand'rer to the shrine of truth;
Chase puerile folly from life's ev'ning-hour,
And whisper caution to impetuous youth.
Nor view'd with careless eye the recent grave
Of Johnson, moral mentor of our age,
Tho' mark'd by superstition for her slave,
Tho' bigotry deform th' historic page.
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