What Scenes of Bliss my raptur'd Fancy fram'd,
In some lone Spot with Peace and thee retir'd,
Tho' Reason then my sanguine Fondness blam'd,
I still believ'd what flatt'ring Love inspir'd:
But now my Wrongs have taught my humbled Mind,
To dangerous Bliss no longer to pretend,
In Books, a calm but fixt Content to find,
Safe Joys, that on our selves alone depend:
With them the gentle Moments I beguile,
In learned Ease, and elegant Delight,
Compare the Beauties of each different Stile,
Each various Ray of Wit's diffusive Light:
Now mark the Strength of Milton's sacred Lines,
Sense rais'd by Genius, Fancy rul'd by Art,
Where all the Glory of the God-head shines,
And earliest Innocence inchants the Heart.
Now fir'd by Pope and Virtue leave the Age
In low Pursuit of self-undoing Wrong,
And trace the Author thro' his moral Page,
Whose blameless Life still answers to his Song.
If Time and Books my lingring Pain can heal,
And Reason fix it's Empire o'er my Heart,
My Patriot Breast a nobler Warmth shall feel,
And glow with Love where Weakness has no part.
Thy Heart, O Lyttleton, shall be my Guide,
It's Fire shall warm me, and it's Worth improve,
Thy Heart, above all Envy, and all Pride,
Firm as Man's Sense, and soft as Woman's Love.
And you, O West, with her your Partner dear,
Whom social Mirth and useful Sense commend,
With Learning's Feast my drooping Mind shall chear,
Glad to escape from Love to such a Friend.
But why, so long my weaker Heart deceive?
Ah still I love in Pride and Reason's Spite,
No Books, alas my painful Thoughts relieve,
And while I threat, this Elegy I write.