"I faw, the pride of all the meadow, "Bloom'd in the filver waves below; By noon-tide's heat its youth was wasted, "The waters, as they pass'd, complain'd : "At eve its glories all were blasted, "And not one former tint remain'd. "Nor let vain wit's deceitful glory Lead you from wisdom's path astray; "What genius lives renown'd in story "To happiness who found the way? "In yonder mead behold that vapor way; 60 65 But fhould fome hapless wretch pursuing "Tread where the treach'rous meteors glow, 70 "He'd find, too late his rafhnefs rueing, "That fatal quickfands lurk below. "In life fuch bubbles nought admiring, 75 "There feek the never-wafted treasure, "And blefs'd and bleffing you will live. 80 "If heav'n with children crowns your dwelling, "As mine its bounty does with you, "In fondness fatherly excelling "Th' example you have felt pursue." He paus'd-for tenderly careffing Now Night her mournful mantle spreading, When back to city follies flying, 'Midst custom's flaves he liv'd refign'd, His face, array'd in smiles, denying The true complexion of his mind; For feriously around furveying Each character, in youth and age, 85 90 95 100 (Peaceful himself and undefigning) He loath'd the scenes of guile and strife, And felt each fecret with inclining To leave this fretful farce of life. Yet to whate'er above was fated Obediently he bow'd his foul, For what all bounteous heav'n created, 105 THE LAWYER'S FAREWELL TO HIS MUSE. WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1744. BY SIR WILLIAM BLACKSTONE, KT. ONE OF THE JUDGES OF THE COMMON PLEAS. As, by fome tyrant's stern command, A wretch forfakes his native land, By verdant hill, or fhady grove, * Born 1723; dyed 1780. Where fervent bees, with humming voice, Chear'd by the warbling of the woods, Then all was joyous, all was young, And years unheeded roll'd along; 20 25 But now the pleafing dream is o'er, Thefe fcenes must charm me now no more. 30 Loft to the field, and torn from you, Farewel!-a long, a last adieu. Me wrangling courts, and stubborn Law, And midnight conflagrations glare ; 35 In frighted streets their orgies hold; Shakespear no more, thy fylvan fon, |