But if this dull, this feeble breast of mine,

Can't reach such heights, or hold such truths divine,
Oh! may I seek the rural shades alone,

Of half mankind unknowing and unknown,
Range by the borders of the silver flood,
And waste a life ingloriously good.

Hail! blooming fields, where joy unclouded reigns,
Where silver Sperchius laves the yell'wing plains;
Oh! where, Taygeta, shall I hear around
Lyæus praise the Spartan virgins sound?
What god will bear me from this burning heat,
In Hæmus' valley, to some cool retreat,
Where oaks and laurels guard the sacred ground,
And with their ample foliage shade me round?

Happy the man, who versed in Nature's laws,
From known effects can trace the hidden cause!
Him not the terrors of the vulgar fright
The vagrant forms and terrors of the night;
Black and relentless fate he tramples on,

And all the rout of greedy Acheron.
Happy whose life the rural god approves,
The guardian of his growing flocks and groves;
Harmonius Pan and old Sylvanus join

The sister nymphs, to make his joys divine;
Him not the splendours of a crown can please,
Or consul's honours bribe to quit his ease.
Though on his will should crowding armies wait,
And suppliant kings come suing to his gate;
No piteous objects here his peace molest,
Nor can he sorrow while another's blest;
His food alone what bounteous nature yields,
From bending orchards and luxuriant fields,
Pleased he accepts, nor seeks the mad resort
Of thronging clients and litigious court.

Let one delight all danger's forms to brave,
Rush on the sword, or plunge amid the wave,
Destroy all nations with an easy mind,
And make a general havoc of his kind,

That on a Tyrian couch he may recline,
And from a costlier goblet quaff his wine;
Another soul is buried with his store,

Hourly he heaps, and hourly longs for more;
Some in the rostrum fix their sole delight,
Some in the applauses of a rich third night;
While gain smiles lovely in another's eyes,

Though brother's blood should buy the horrid prize;
Though from his country guilt should make him run,
Where other nations feel another sun.

The happy rustic turns the fruitful soil,

And hence proceeds the year's revolving toil;
On this his country for support depends,
On this his cattle, family, and friends;
For this the bounteous gods reward his care,
With all the product of the various year;
His youngling flocks now whiten all the plain,
Now sink the furrows with the teeming grain;
Beauteous to these Pomona adds her charms,
And pours her fragrant treasures in his arms,
From loaden boughs, the orchard's rich produce,
The mellow apple, and the generous juice.
Now winter's frozen hand benumbs the plain,
The winter too has blessings for the swain;
His grunting herd is fed without his toil,
His groaning presses overflow with oil;

The languid autumn crown'd with yellow leaves,
With bleeding fruit and golden-bearded sheaves,
Her various products scatters o'er the land,
And rears the horn of Plenty in her hand.

Nor less than these, wait his domestic life,
His darling children, and his virtuous wife,
The day's long absence they together mourn,
Hang on his neck, and welcome his return;
The cows, departing from the joyful field,
Before his door their milky tribute yield,
While on the green, the frisky kids engage,
With adverse horns and counterfeited rage.

He too, when mark'd with white the festal day,
Devotes his hours to rural sport and play;

Stretch'd on the green amid the jovial quire,
Of boon companions that surround the fire,
With front enlarged he crowns the flowing bowl,
And calls thee, Bacchus, to inspire his soul;
Now warm'd with wine, to vigorous sports they rise;
High on an elm is hung the victor's prize;

To him 'tis given, whose force with greatest speed
Can wing the dart, or urge the fiery steed.

Such manners made the ancient Sabines bold,
Such the life led by Romulus of old;
By arts like these divine Etruria grows,
From such foundations mighty Rome arose,
Whose god-like fame the world's vast circuit fills,
Who with one wall hath circled seven vast hills;
Such was, ere Jove began his iron reign,
Ere mankind feasted upon oxen slain,
The life that Saturn and his subjects led,
Ere from the land offended justice fled;
As yet the brazen use of arms unknown,
And anvils rung with scithes and shares alone.

In addition to this and the version of the Idyllium of Theocritus already mentioned, Mr. Burke made not only other translations, but wrote original pieces, some of them of length. A few of the shorter ones were submitted to the inspection of Mr. Shackleton, or directly addressed to him on temporary circumstances; several of them reported to be juvenile enough; others to display talent, and an ardent love of virtue; but the major part believed to be now irrecoverably lost. Conjointly, they wrote a poem, taking Ballitore for the subject. The address before noticed, to the river Blackwater, which was considered to possess superior

merit, was, with several letters written by Mr. Burke during the early part of his career in London, borrowed by his father from Mr. Shackleton, and never returned.

One other memorial of him, however, is preserved in the following lines, owing probably to the kind care of the gentleman to whom they were addressed; and they will be read with interest as the production of a pen so universally celebrated for its powers in prose.

To Richard Shackleton, on his Marriage.
Written by Mr. Burke, 1748.

WHEN hearts are barter'd for less precious gold,
And like the heart, the venal song is sold;
Each flame is dull, and but one base desire
Kindles the bridal torch and poet's fire;
The gods their violated rites forbear,
The Muse flies far, and Hymen is not there.

But when true love binds in his roseate bands
That rare but happy union, hearts and hands-
When nought but friendship guides the poet's song,
How sweet the verse! the happy love how strong!
Oh! if the Muse, indulging my design,
Should favour me, as love has favour'd thine,
I'd challenge Pan at peril of my life,

Though his Arcadia were to judge the strife.

Why don't the vocal groves ring forth their joy
And lab'ring echoes all their mouths employ?
To tell his bride, what sighs, what plaints they heard,
While yet his growing flame's success he fear'd,
And all his pains o'erpaid with transport now,
When love exults and he enjoys his vow?
Silent ye stand-nor will bestow one lay
Of all he taught to grace this happy day;
Can joy ne'er harbour in your sullen shade,
Or are ye but for lover's sorrows made?

I'll leave you then, and from the Bride's bright eye, A happier omen take which cannot lie,

Of growing time, still growing in delight,

Of rounds of future years all mark'd with white,
Through whose bright circles, free from envious chance,
Concord and love shall lead an endless dance.

What is the monarch's crown, the shepherd's ease,
The hero's laurel, and the poet's bays?
A load of toilsome life too dull to bear,
If heav'n's indulgence did not add the fair;
E'en Eden's sweets our Adam did despise,
All its gay scenes could not delight his eyes,
Woman God gave, and then 'twas Paradise.
Another Eve and Paradise are thine,
May'st thou be father of as long a line!
Your heart so fix'd on her, and hers on you,
As if the world afforded but the two,

That to this age your constancy may prove,
There yet remains on earth a power call'd love.
These to my friend, in lays not vainly loud,
The palm, unknowing to the giddy crowd
I sung, for these demand his steady truth,
And friendship growing from our earliest youth;
A nobler lay unto his sire should grow,
To whose kind care my better birth I owe,
Who to fair science did my youth entice,
Won from the paths of ignorance and vice.

Things of this description are not constructed to withstand the wintry winds of rigid criticism, yet it is one of the best of the kind; the thoughts chiefly original, the versification harmonious, the expression only in a few places faulty, and the allusions, as has been remarked of his speeches, and even colloquial pleasantries, classical.

That acquaintance with history which distinguished his future life, and which there is no doubt