Fair Fountain! on thy margin green
May Spring her flow'rs display,
And pendant shades thy bosom screen
From noon's obtruding ray.
O! may the morn's ambrosial sky
With pearly dew thy stores supply,
May health infuse her balm;
And some soft virtue in thee flow
To mitigate the pangs of woe,
And bid the heart be calm.
Fair Fountain! to thy gelid streams
May Lethe's clouded spring,
Emerging from the land of dreams,
Some balm oblivious bring:
With that blest opiate in my bowl,
Far shall I from my wounded soul
The thorns of spleen remove;
Forget how there at first they grew,
And once again with man renew
The ties of cordial love.
For what avails the wretch to bear
Imprinted on his mind,
The lessons of distrust and fear,
Injurious to mankind?
Hopeless, in his disastrous hour
He sees the gath'ring tempest low'r,
The bursting cloud impend,
Tow'rds the wild waste he casts his eye,
Nor can that happy port descry
The bosom of a friend.
How chang'd since that propitious time
When woo'd by fortune's gale,
Fearless in youth's advent'rous prime
He crowded ev'ry sail :
The swelling tide, the sportive breeze,
Lightly along the halcyon seas
His bounding pinnace bore;
In search of happiness the while
He steer'd by ev'ry fragrant isle,
And touch'd at ev'ry shore.
Ah me! to youth's ingenuous eye,
What charms the prospect wears:
Bright as the portals of the sky
The op'ning world appears.
There ev'ry object stands confess'd
In all the sweet advantage dress'd
Of Candour's radiant robe;
There no mean cares admission find,
Love is the bus'ness of mankind,
And honour rules the globe.
But if those lights fallacious prove
That paint the world so fair,
If there be found for generous love
No soft asylum there,
If men fair Faith, fair Fame deride,
Bent on the crooked paths that guide
To Interest's sordid shrine,
Be yours, ye gloomy sons of woe,
The melancholy truth to know,
The dream of bliss be mine.
How often wrong's our nomenclature,
How our names differ from our nature,
'Tis easy to discern ;-
Here lies the quintessence of wit,
For mirth and humour none so fit,
And yet men call'd him-Stern-e.
On a Tomb erected to the memory of Doctor Rose.
WHOE'ER thou art, with silent footsteps tread
The hallow'd mould where ROSE reclines his head. Ah! let not folly one kind tear deny,
But pensive pause, where truth and honour lie.
His the gay wit that fond attention drew,
Oft heard, and oft admir'd, yet ever new;
The heart that melted at another's grief;
The hand in secret that bestow'd relief;
Science untinctur'd with the pride of schools,
And native goodness free from formal rules.
With zeal thro' life he toil'd in learning's cause,
But more, fair virtue, to promote thy laws.
His ev'ry action sought the noblest end;
The tender husband, father, brother, friend!
Perhaps, e'en now, from yonder realm of day,
To his lov'd relatives he sends a ray;
Pleas'd to behold affections like his own,
With filial duty raise this votive stone.
EPITAPH ON MR. WORTH,
A Gunner in the Navy.
WHOE'ER thou art, if here by wisdom led,
To view the silent mansions of the dead;
And search for truth from life's last mournful page,
Where malice stings not, nor where slanders rage;
Read on-no bombast swells these friendly lines,
Here truth unhonour'd, and unvarnish'd shines;
Where o'er yon sod an envious nettle creeps,
From care escap'd, an honest GUNNER sleeps;
As on he travell'd to life's sorrowing end,
Distress for ever claim'd him as a friend;
Orphans and widows were alike his care,
He gave with pleasure all he had to spare:
His match now burnt, expended all his priming,
He left this world and us without repining.
Deep in the earth his carcase is entomb'd,
Which love of grog for him had honeycomb'd;
Joking apart, retir'd from wind and weather,
Virtue and Worth are laid asleep together.
Minster Church-yard, Kent.
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