Let this suffice: nor thou, great saint, refuse This humble tribute of no vulgar Muse: 360 Who, not by cares, or wants, or age depress'd, Stems a wild deluge with a dauntless breast; And dares to sing thy praises in a clime Where vice triumphs, and virtue is a crime; Where even to draw the picture of thy mind, Is satire on the most of human kind: Take it, while yet 'tis praise; before my rage, Unsafely just, break loose on this bad age; So bad, that thou thyself hadst no defence From vice, but barely by departing hence. 370 Be what, and where thou art: to wish thy place, Were, in the best, presumption more than grace. Thy relics (such thy works of mercy are) Have, in this poem, been my holy care. As earth thy body keeps, thy soul the sky, So shall this verse preserve thy memory; For thou shalt make it live, because it sings of thee. * * * * * FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 37: 'Third errand:' Enoch and Elias were the first two.] * * * * * V. ON THE DEATH OF AMYNTAS. A PASTORAL ELEGY. 'Twas on a joyless and a gloomy morn, Wet was the grass, and hung with pearls the thorn; When Damon, who design'd to pass the day With hounds and horns, and chase the flying prey, Rose early from his bed; but soon he found The welkin pitch'd with sullen clouds around, An eastern wind, and dew upon the ground. Thus while he stood, and, sighing, did survey The fields, and cursed the ill omens of the day, He saw Menalcas come with heavy pace; 10 Wet were his eyes, and cheerless was his face: He wrung his hands, distracted with his care, And sent his voice before him from afar. Return, he cried, return, unhappy swain! The spungy clouds are fill'd with gathering rain: The promise of the day not only cross'd, But even the spring, the spring itself is lost. Amyntas--oh!--he could not speak the rest, Nor needed, for presaging Damon guess'd. Equal with heaven young Damon loved the boy, 20 The boast of nature, both his parents' joy, His graceful form revolving in his mind; So great a genius, and a soul so kind, Gave sad assurance that his fears were true; Too well the envy of the gods he knew: For when their gifts too lavishly are placed, Soon they repent, and will not make them last. For sure it was too bountiful a dole, The mother's features, and the father's soul. Then thus he cried; the morn bespoke the news: 30 The morning did her cheerful light diffuse: But see how suddenly she changed her face, And brought on clouds and rain, the day's disgrace! Just such, Amyntas, was thy promised race: What charms adorn'd thy youth, where nature smiled, And more than man was given us in a child! His infancy was ripe: a soul sublime In years so tender that prevented time: