118
Epistles.
That awful form which, so the Heav'ns decree,
Must still be lov'd and still deplor'd by me,
In nightly visions seldom fails to rise,
Or rous'd by Fancy meets my waking eyes. 70
If bus'ness calls or crowded courts invite
Th' unblemish'd statesman seems to strike my sight;
If in the stage I seek to sooth my care
I meet his soul, which breathes in Cato there;
If pensive to the rural shades I rove, 75
His shape o'ertakes me in the lonely grove;
'Twas there of just and good he reason'd strong,
Clear'd some great truth or rais'd some serious song;
There patient show'd us the wise course to steer,
A candid censor and a friend severe; 80
There taught us how to live and (oh! too high
The price for knowledge) taught us how to die.
Thou Hill! whose brow the antique structures grace
Rear'd by bold chiefs of Warwick's noble race,
Why, once so lov'd, whene'er thy bow'r appears 85
O'er my dim eyeballs glance the sudden tears!
How sweet were once thy prospects fresh and fair,
Thy sloping walks and unpolluted air!
How sweet the glooms beneath thy aged trees,
Thy noontide shadow and thy ev'ning breeze! 90
His image thy forsaken bow'rs restore,
Thy walks and airy prospects charm no more,
No more the summer in thy glooms allay'd,
Thy ev'ning breezes and thy noonday shade.
Must still be lov'd and still deplor'd by me,
In nightly visions seldom fails to rise,
Or rous'd by Fancy meets my waking eyes. 70
If bus'ness calls or crowded courts invite
Th' unblemish'd statesman seems to strike my sight;
If in the stage I seek to sooth my care
I meet his soul, which breathes in Cato there;
If pensive to the rural shades I rove, 75
His shape o'ertakes me in the lonely grove;
'Twas there of just and good he reason'd strong,
Clear'd some great truth or rais'd some serious song;
There patient show'd us the wise course to steer,
A candid censor and a friend severe; 80
There taught us how to live and (oh! too high
The price for knowledge) taught us how to die.
Thou Hill! whose brow the antique structures grace
Rear'd by bold chiefs of Warwick's noble race,
Why, once so lov'd, whene'er thy bow'r appears 85
O'er my dim eyeballs glance the sudden tears!
How sweet were once thy prospects fresh and fair,
Thy sloping walks and unpolluted air!
How sweet the glooms beneath thy aged trees,
Thy noontide shadow and thy ev'ning breeze! 90
His image thy forsaken bow'rs restore,
Thy walks and airy prospects charm no more,
No more the summer in thy glooms allay'd,
Thy ev'ning breezes and thy noonday shade.
