The Poetical Works of James Beattie. James Beattie

      Me vero primum dulces ante omnia Musæ,

      Quarum sacra fero, ingenti perculsus amore,

      Accipiant. –                                     VIRG.

      Ah! who can tell how hard it is to climb

      The steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar!

      Ah! who can tell how many a soul sublime

      Has felt the influence of malignant star,

      And waged with Fortune an eternal war;

      Check'd by the scoff of Pride, by Envy's frown,

      And Poverty's unconquerable bar,

      In life's low vale remote has pined alone,

      Then dropt into the grave, unpitied and unknown!

      And yet the languor of inglorious days,

      Not equally oppressive is to all:

      Him who ne'er listen'd to the voice of praise,

      The silence of neglect can ne'er appall.

      There are, who, deaf to mad Ambition's call,

      Would shrink to hear the obstreperous trump of Fame;

      Supremely blest, if to their portion fall

      Health, competence, and peace. Nor higher aim

      Had he, whose simple tale these artless lines proclaim.

      The rolls of fame I will not now explore;

      Nor need I here describe, in learned lay,

      How forth the Minstrel far'd in days of yore,

      Right glad of heart, though homely in array;

      His waving locks and beard all hoary gray;

      While from his bending shoulder decent hung

      His harp, the sole companion of his way,

      Which to the whistling wind responsive rung:

      And ever as he went some merry lay he sung.

      Fret not thyself, thou glittering child of pride,

      That a poor villager inspires my strain;

      With thee let Pageantry and Power abide:

      The gentle Muses haunt the sylvan reign;

      Where thro' wild groves at eve the lonely swain

      Enraptur'd roams, to gaze on Nature's charms:

      They hate the sensual, and scorn the vain,

      The parasite their influence never warms,

      Nor him whose sordid soul the love of gold alarms.

      Though richest hues the peacock's plumes adorn,

      Yet horror screams from his discordant throat.

      Rise, sons of harmony, and hail the morn,

      While warbling larks on russet pinions float;

      Or seek at noon the woodland scene remote,