ELEGY 4th. To Major Robert T—p, at Ticonderoga

Health to my friend! may ev'ry fav'rite joy Be thine, Censorius, and thy wishes crown; No rude intruding cares thy breast annoy, Or wayward fates on thee indignant frown.

Yet, ah! for me no brighten'd prospects bloom; Nor plausive Hope her flatt'ring mirror shews: Nor gay Ambition shakes his gaudy plume; Nor e'en my foster'd Muse admits repose:

Night follows night, and day succeeds to day— Painful succession! still without relief; Chearless I view the sun's diurnal ray, And Cynthia rises but to fit in grief.

By curs'd Oppression's arbitrary hand, From ev'ry comfort, ev'ry pleasure torn; Far from my home, and in a stranger land, I absent friends, and souls congenial, mourn.

For me, no more the soul-inspiring wine, Or jocund song, or jovial laugh, goes round; No more for me the brilliant bumpers shine, Or sparkling wit, in mirthful glee, resounds.

To seek the cooler recess of the grove, The shrubby covert, or the upland shade, What boots it then? as in disgust I rove; E'en Nature's beauties lose their charms, and fade.

The distant water-fall, the gurgling rill, That plaintive keeps the darken'd vale below; The pathless forest, and the airy hill— Seem but to vie for precedence in woe.

Sullen, some cragged steep I now ascend— Now o'er some waste, my gloomy course pursue; Here sad Reflection hints my high-priz'd friend, And doubly wounds, in ev'ry thought of you.

From early youth, and with our rising age, Alike we were so pair'd by destiny; Together we explor'd the Classic page, And riper years has firmer knit the tye.

'Tis yours to seek the Trophies of the field, And, toiling, tread the rough ascents to fame; For you, e'en distant climes their laurels yield, And northern blasts provoke the warrior's flame.

Here I, retir'd, and to the world unknown, Remote from Honour, and its madding blaze, Regard not Slander, or essay renown; Heedless alike of censure and of praise.

Say, when shall Fortune more propitious prove, And kinder stars, with kinder influence chear? Ah! when confer one soul that I could love, Of kindred mould, in social converse dear!

No greater bliss I'd court her to bestow, Grateful, content with this I'd ask no more; Soft as our union should the minutes go, And to my mind its long lost calm restore:

With him delighted, chearful could I stray; By him approv'd, revive with ev'ry smile; Joyful, salute each new returning day, And languid hours in sprightly chat beguile.

Perhaps some fav'ring Genius may decree A milder lot—my discontent suspend; Perchance, recall me to felicity; Perchance, a more auspicious season send.

Here, then, I rest—nor will no more complain; But bid my murmurs, with my lays, to cease; Some Glorious Aera shall restore again To me my friends, my freedom, and my peace.