ELIGHT of human kind, and Gods above, Parent of Rome, propitious queen of love, Whofe vital pow'r, air, earth, and fea fupplies; And breeds whate'er is born beneath the rowling fkies:
For every kind, by thy prolific might,
Springs, and beholds the regions of the light. Thee, Goddess, thee the clouds and tempefts fear, And at thy pleafing prefence difappear:
For thee the land in fragrant flow'rs is dreft;
For thee the ocean smiles, and smooths her wavy
And Heav'n itself with more ferene and
For when the rising spring adorns the mead,
And a new scene of nature stands display'd,
When teeming buds, and chearful greens appear,
And western gales unlock the lazy year;
The joyous birds thy welcome first express,
Whose native fongs thy genial fire confefs,
Then favage beasts bound o'er their flighted food,
Struck with thy darts, and tempt the raging flood.
All nature is thy gift; earth, air, and sea:
Of all that breathes, the various progeny,
Stung with delight, is goaded on by thee.
O'er barren mountains, o'er the flow'ry plain,
The leafy forest, and the liquid main,
Extends thy uncontrol'd and boundless reign.
Through all the living regions doft thou move,
And scatter'ft, where thou go'ft, the kindly feeds
of love.
Since then the race of every living thing
Obeys thy pow'r; fince nothing new can spring
Without thy warmth, without thy influence bear;
Or beautiful, or lovefome can appear;
Be thou my aid, my tuneful song-inspire,
And kindle with thy own productive fire;
While all thy province, Nature, I furvey,
And fing to Memmius an immortal lay
Of heav'n and earth, and every where thy won-
drous pow'r difplay:
To Memmius, under thy sweet influence born, Whom thou with all thy gifts and graces doft adorn.
Infusing verfes worthy him and thee.
Mean-time on land and fea let barb'rous difcord
And lull the liftning world in univerfal peace.
To thee mankind their foft repofe must owe;
For thou alone that bleffing canft bestow;
Because the brutal business of the war
Is manag'd by thy dreadful fervant's care;
Who oft retires from fighting fields, to prove
The pleasing pains of thy eternal love;
And, panting on thy breast, supinely lies,
While with thy heavenly form he feeds his fa-
mish'd eyes;
Sucks in with open lips thy balmy breath,
By turns reftor'd to life, and plung'd in pleafing death.
There while thy curling limbs about him move,
Involv'd and fetter'd in the links of love,
When, wishing all, he nothing can deny,
Thy charms in that aufpicious moment try;
With winning eloquence our peace implore,
And quiet to the weary world reftore.
IS pleasant, safely to behold from shore
The rowling fhip, and hear the tempeft roar:
Not that another's pain is our delight;
But pains unfelt produce the pleafing fight.
'Tis pleasant alfo to behold from far
The moving legions mingled in the war.
But much more sweet thy lab'ring steps to guide
To virtue's heights, with wisdom well supply'd,
And all the magazines of learning fortify'd:
From thence to look below on human kind,
Bewilder'd in the maze of life, and blind:
To fee vain fools ambitiously contend
For wit and pow'r; their laft endeavours bend
T'outfhine each other, waste their time and health
In search of honor, and pursuit of wealth.
O wretched man! in what a mist of life,
Inclos'd with dangers and with noify ftrife,
He spends his little fpan; and overfeeds
His cramm'd defires, with more than nature needs!
For nature wifely ftints our appetite,
And craves no more than undisturb'd delight:
Which minds, unmix'd with cares and fears obtain;
A foul ferene, a body void of pain.
So little this corporeal frame requires ;
So bounded are our natural defires,
That wanting all, and setting pain afide,
With bare privation sense is satisfy'd.
If golden fconces hang not on the walls,
To light the coftly fuppers and the balls;
If the proud palace shines not with the state
Of burnish'd bowls, and of reflected plate;
If well-tun'd harps, nor the more pleafing found
Of voices, from the vaulted roofs rebound ;
Yet on the grafs, beneath a poplar shade,
By the cool stream, our careless limbs are lay'd;
With cheaper pleasures innocently blest,
When the warm fpring with gaudy flow'rs is dreft.
Nor will the raging fever's fire abate,
With golden canopies and beds of state:
But the poor patient will as foon be found
On the hard mattress, or the mother ground.
Then fince our bodies are not eas'd the more
By birth, or pow'r, or fortune's wealthy ftore,
|