O! if the muse must flatter lawless sway,
And follow still where Fortune leads the way;
Or if no basis bear my rising name,

But the fall'n ruins of another's fame;

Then teach me, Heav'n! to scorn the guilty bays, Drive from my breast that wretched thirst of praise ;

Unblemish'd let me live, or die unknown,

O! grant an honest fame, or grant me none!

SORROW,

POPE

BENEATH Some hoary mountain

I'll lay me down and weep,
Or near some warbling fountain
Bewail myself asleep;

Where feather'd choirs combining

With gentle murm'ring streams,
And winds in concert joining
Raise sadly-pleasing dreams,

ADDISON,

Temperance.-The African Prince. 129

TEMPERANCE.

-THERE's not an African

That traverses our vast Numidian deserts
In quest of prey, and lives upon his bow,
But better practises this boasted virtue.
Coarse are his meals, the fortune of the chace;
Amidst the running stream he slakes his thirst,
Toils all the day, and at th' approach of night,
On the first friendly bank he throws him down,
Or rests his head upon a rock till morn :
Then rises fresh, pursues his wonted game;
And if the following day he chance to find
A new repast or an untasted spring,
Blesses his stars, and thinks it luxury.

ADDISON.

THE AFRICAN PRINCE.

I've known young Juba rise before the sun,
To beat the thicket where the tiger slept,
Or seek the lion in his dreadful haunts:
How did the colour mount into your cheeks
When first you rous'd him to the chace! I've

seen you

Ev'n

130 Mountains of Ice.-A Storm in a Desert.

Ev'n in the Libyan dog days hunt him down, Then charge him close, provoke him to the rage Of fangs and claws, and, stooping from your horse,

Rivet the panting savage to the ground.

ADDISON.

MOUNTAINS OF ICE.

ZEMBLA'S cold rocks, the beauteous work of frost,

Rise white in hair, and glitter o'er the coast;
Pale suns, unfelt, at distance roll away,

And on th' impassive ice the lightnings play;
Eternal snows the growing mass supply,
Till the bright mountains prop th' incumbent sky:
As Atlas fix'd each hoary pile appears,
The gather'd winter of a thousand years.

POPE.

A STORM IN A DESERT.

So where the wide Numidian wastes extend, Sudden th' impetuous hurricanes descend, Wheel through the air, in circling eddies play, Tear up the sands, and sweep whole plains away.

The

The Goldfinch starved in his Cage. 131 The helpless traveller, with wild surprise, Sees the dry desert all around him rise, And smother'd in the dusty whirlwind, dies.

ADDISON.

THE GOLDFINCH STARVED IN HIS CAGE.

TIME was when I was free as air,
The thistle's downy seed my fare,

My drink the morning dew;
I perch'd at will on ev'ry spray,
My form genteel, my plumage gay,
My strains for ever new.

But gaudy plumage, sprightly strain,
And form genteel, were all in vain,`

And of a transient date;

For caught and cag'd and starv'd to death,
In dying sighs my little breath

Soon pass'd the wiry grate.

Thanks, gentle swain, for all my woes,

And thanks for this effectual close

And cure of every ill!

More cruelty could none express,
And I, if you had shown me less,
Had been your pris'ner stil.

COWPER.

132

The Pine-Apple and the Bee.

THE PINE-APPLE AND THE BEE.

THE pine-apples in triple row
Were basking hot, and all in blow;
A bee of most discerning taste
Perceiv'd the fragrance as he pass'd;
On eager wing the spoiler came;
And search'd for crannies in the frame,
Urg'd his attempt on ev'ry side,
To ev'ry pane his trunk applied;
But still in vain-the frame was tight,
And only pervious to the light:
Thus having wasted half his day,
He trimm'd his flight another way.

Our dear delights are often such:
Expos'd to view, but not to touch,
The sight our foolish heart inflames,
We long for pine-apples in frames:
With hopeless wish one looks and lingers,
One breaks the glass and cuts his fingers;
But those whom truth and wisdom lead,
Can gather honey from a weed.

COWPER.