For neither gold can lull to rest,

Nor all a Consul's guard beat off
The tumults of a troubled breast,
The cares that haunt a gilded roof.

Happy the man, whose table shows
A few clean ounces of old plate;
No fear intrudes on his repose,
No sordid wishes to be great.

Poor short-liv'd things, what plans we lay'
Ah, why forsake our native home!
To distant climates speed away:

For self sticks close where'er we roam.

Care follows hard; and soon o'ertakes The well rigg'd ship, the warlike steed, Her destin'd quarry ne'er forsakes,

Not the wind flies with half her speed.

From anxious fears, of future ill

Guard well the cheerful, happy Now; Gild even your sorrows with a smile, No blessing is unmix'd below.

Thy neighing steeds and lowing herds,
Thy num'rous flocks around thee graze,

And the best purple Tyre affords
Thy robe magnificent displays

On me indulgent Heav'n bestow'd
A rural mansion, neat and small,
This Lyre; and as for yonder crowd,
The happiness to hate them all.

I make no apology for the introduction of the fol lowing lines, though I have never learned who wrote them. Their elegance will sufficiently recommend them to persons of classical taste and erudition, and I shall le happy if the English version that they have received from me, be found not to dishonour them. Affection for the memory of the worthy man whom they celebrate, alone prompted me to this endeavour.

W. COWPER.

VERSES

ΤΟ

THE MEMORY OF DR. LLOYD,

SPOKEN AT THE WESTMINSTER ELECTION NEXT AFTER HIS DECEASE.

ABIIT senex! periit senex amabilis !
Quo non fuit jucundior.
Lugete vos, ætas quibus maturior

Senem colendum præstitit,
Seu quando, viribus valentioribus
Firmoque fretus pectore,

Florentiori vos juventute excolens
Cura fovebat patria.

Seu quando fractus, jamque donatus rude,

Vultu sed usque blandulo,

Miscere gaudebat suas facetias

His annuis leporibus.

Vixit probus, puraque simplex indole

Blandisque comis moribus,

Et dives æqua mente-charus omnibus,

Unius* auctus munere.

Ite tituli! meritis beatioribus

Aptate laudes debitas!

Nec invidebat ille, si quibus favens
Fortuna plus arriserat.
Placide senex! levi quiescas cespite,
Etsi superbum nec vivo tibi
Decus sit inditum, nec mortuo
Lapis notatus nomine.

THE SAME IN ENGLISH.

OUR good old friend is gone, gone to his rest,
Whose social converse was, itself, a feast.
O ye of riper age, who recollect

How once ye loved, and eyed him with respect.
Both in the firmness of his better day,
While yet he ruled you with a father's sway,
And when, impair'd by time, and glad to rest,
Yet still with looks in mild complacence dress'd,
He took his annual seat, and mingled here
His sprightly vein with yours-now drop a tear.
In morals blameless as in manners meek,
He knew no wish that he might blush to speak,
But, happy in whatever state below,

And richer than the rich in being so,

Obtain'd the hearts of all, and such a meed
At length from One,† as made him rich indeed.

* He was usher and under-master of Westminister near fifty years, and retired from his occupation when he was near se venty, with a handsome pension from the king.

See the note in the Latin copy.

Hence then, ye titles, hence, not wanted here
Go, garnish merit in a brighter sphere,
The brows of those whose more exalted lot
He could congratulate, but envied not.

Light lie the turf, good Senior! on thy breast,
And, tranquil as thy mind was, be thy rest!
Tho' living, thou hadst more desert than fame,
And not a stone, now, chronicles thy name.

TO MRS. THROCKMORTON,

ON

HER BEAUTIFUL TRANSCRIPT OF HORACE'S ODE,

AD LIBRUM SUUM.

[February, 1790.]

MARIA, Could Horace have guess'd
What honour awaited his ode,
To his own little volume address'd,

The honour which you have bestow'd,

Who have traced it in characters here

So elegant, even, and neat,

He had laugh'd at the critical sneer

Which he seems to have trembled to meet.

And sneer, if you please, he had said,
A nymph shall hereafter arise,

Who shall give me, when you are all dead,
The glory your malice denies.

Shall dignity give to my lay,

Although but a mere bagatelle;
And even a poet shall say,

Nothing ever was written so well.

INSCRIPTION

For a Stone erected at the Sowing of a Grove of Oaks at Chillington, the seat of T. Gifford, Esq.

1790,

[June, 1790.]

OTHER stones the era teil,
When some feeble mortal fell;
I stand here to date the birth
Of these hardy sons of Earth.

Which shall longest brave the sky,
Storm and frost-these oaks or I?
Pass an age or two away,
I must moulder and decay,

But the years that crumble me
Shall invigorate the tree,
Spread its branch, dilate its size,
Lift its summit to the skies.

Cherish honour, virtue, truth,
So shalt thou prolong thy youth.
Wanting these, however fast
Man be fix'd and form'd to last
He is lifeless even now,

Stone at heart, and cannot grow.
12*

.T