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O'er fancied injury Suspicion pines, And in grim silence gnaws the festering wound: Deceit the rage-embitter'd smile refines, And Censure spreads the viperous hiss around.

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Hope not, fond prince, though Wisdom guard thy throne, Though Truth and Bounty prompt each generous aim, Though thine the palm of peace, the victor's crown, The Muse's rapture, and the patriot's flame:

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Hope not, though all that captivates the wise, All that endears the good exalt thy praise: Hope not to taste repose: for Envy's eyes At fairest worth still point their deadly rays.

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Envy, stern tyrant of the flinty heart, Can aught of Virtue, Truth, or Beauty charm?

Can soft Compa.s.sion thrill with pleasing smart, Repentance melt, or Grat.i.tude disarm?

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Ah no. Where Winter Scythia's waste enchains, And monstrous shapes roar to the ruthless storm, Not Phoebus' smile can cheer the dreadful plains, Or soil accursed with balmy life inform.

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Then, Envy, then is thy triumphant hour, When mourns Benevolence his baffled scheme: When Insult mocks the clemency of Power, And loud dissension's livid firebrands gleam:

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When squint-eyed Slander plies the unhallow'd tongue, From poison'd maw when Treason weaves his line, And Muse apostate (infamy to song!) Grovels, low muttering, at Sedition's shrine.

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Let not my prince forego the peaceful shade, The whispering grove, the fountain and the plain: Power, with the oppressive weight of pomp array'd, Pants for simplicity and ease in vain.

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The yell of frantic Mirth may stun his ear, But frantic Mirth soon leaves the heart forlorn; And Pleasure flies that high tempestuous sphere: Far different scenes her lucid paths adorn.

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She loves to wander on the untrodden lawn, Or the green bosom of reclining hill, Soothed by the careless warbler of the dawn, Or the lone plaint of ever-murmuring rill.

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Or from the mountain glade's aerial brow, While to her song a thousand echoes call, Marks the wide woodland wave remote below, Where shepherds pipe unseen, and waters fall.

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Her influence oft the festive hamlet proves, Where the high carol cheers the exulting ring; And oft she roams the maze of wildering groves, Listening the unnumber'd melodies of Spring.

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Or to the long and lonely sh.o.r.e retires; What time, loose-glimmering to the lunar beam, Faint heaves the slumberous wave, and starry fires Gild the blue deep with many a lengthening gleam.

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Then to the balmy bower of Rapture borne, While strings self-warbling breathe Elysian rest, Melts in delicious vision, till the morn Spangle with twinkling dew the flowery waste.

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The frolic Moments, purple-pinion'd, dance Around, and scatter roses as they play; And the blithe Graces, hand in hand, advance, Where, with her loved compeers, she deigns to stray;

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Mild Solitude, in veil of rustic dye, Her sylvan spear with moss-grown ivy bound; And Indolence, with sweetly languid eye, And zoneless robe that trails along the ground;

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But chiefly Love--O thou, whose gentle mind Each soft indulgence Nature framed to share; Pomp, wealth, renown, dominion, all resign'd, Oh, haste to Pleasure's bower, for Love is there.

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Love, the desire of G.o.ds! the feast of heaven!

Yet to Earth's favour'd offspring not denied!

Ah! let not thankless man the blessing given Enslave to Fame, or sacrifice to Pride.

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Nor I from Virtue's call decoy thine ear; Friendly to Pleasure are her sacred laws: Let Temperance' smile the cup of gladness cheer; That cup is death, if he withhold applause.

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