FROM THE FRENCH OF M. GRESSET .

O GODDESS of the golden mean,
Whom still misjudging Folly flies,
Seduc'd by each delusive scene;
Thy only subjects are the wise:
These seek thy paths with nobler aim,
And trace them to the gates of fame.

See foster'd in thy favouring shade,
Each tender bard of verse divine!
Who lur'd by fortune's vain parade.
Had never form'd the tuneful line;
By fortune lur'd or want confin'd,
Whose cold hand chills the genial mind.

In vain you slight the flowery crown,
That fame wreathes round the favour'd head;
Whilst laurell'd victory and renown
Their heroes from thy shades have led;
There form'd, from courtly softness free,
By rigid virtue and by thee.

By thee were form'd, from cities far,
Fabricius just, Camillus wise,
Those philosophic sons of war,
That from imperial dignities
Returning, plough'd their native plain,
And plac'd their laurels in the fane.

Thrice happy he on whose calm breast
The smiles of peaceful wisdom play,
With all thy sober charms possest,
Whose wishes never learnt to stray;
Whom truth, of pleasures pure but grave,
And pensive thoughts from folly save.

Far from the crowd's low-thoughted strife,
From all that bounds fair freedom's aim,
He envies not the pomp of life,
A length of rent-roll, or of name:
For safe he views the vale-grown elm,
While thunder-sounding storms the mountain pine o'erwhelm.

Of censure's frown he feels no dread,
No fear he knows of vulgar eyes,
Whose thought, to nobler objects led,
Far, far o'er their horizon flies:
With Reason's suffrage at his side,
Whose firm heart rests self-satisfied.

And while alternate conquest sways
The northern, or the southern shore,
He smiles at Fortune's giddy maze,
And calmly hears the wild storm roar.
Ev'n Nature's groans, unmov'd with fear,
And bursting worlds he'd calmly hear.

Such are the faithful hearts you love,
O Friendship fair, immortal maid;
The few caprice could never move,
The few whom interest never sway'd;
Nor shed unseen, with hate refin'd,
The pale cares o'er the gloomy mind.

Soft sleep, that lov'st the peaceful cell,
On these descends thy balmy power;
While no terrific dreams dispel
The slumbers of the sober hour;
Which oft, array'd in darkness drear,
Wake the wild eye of pride to fear.

Content with all a farm would yield,
Thus Sidon's monarch liv'd unknown,
And sigh'd to leave his little field,
For the long glories of a throne — —
There once more happy and more free,
Than rank'd with Dido's ancestry.

With these pacific virtues blest,
These charms of philosophic ease,
Wrapt in your Richmond's tranquil rest,
You pass, dear C — — , your useful days;
Where Thames your silent vallies laves,
Proud of his yet untainted waves.

Should life's more public scenes engage
Your time that thus consistent flows,
And following still these maxims sage
For ever brings the same repose;
Your worth may greater fame procure:
But hope not happiness so pure.