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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=539268" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Elegy XIX. - Written in Spring, 1743</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Again the labouring hind inverts the soil;<br>Again the merchant ploughs the tumid wave;<br>Another spring renews the soldier's toil,<br>And finds me vacant in the rural cave.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">As the soft lyre display'd my wonted loves,<br>The pensive pleasure and the tender pain,<br>The sordid Alpheus hurried through my groves,<br>Yet stopp'd to vent the dictates of disdain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He glanced contemptuous o'er my ruin'd fold;<br>He blamed the graces of my favourite bower;<br>My breast, unsullied by the lust of gold;<br>My time, unlavish'd in pursuit of power.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yes, Alpheus! fly the purer paths of Fate;<br>Abjure these scenes, from venal passions free;<br>Know, in this grove, I vow'd perpetual hate,<br>War, endless war, with lucre and with thee.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here, nobly zealous, in my youthful hours,<br>I dress'd an altar to Thalia's name:<br>Here, as I crown'd the verdant shrine with flowers,<br>Soft on my labours stole the smiling dame.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Damon,' she cried, 'if, pleased with honest praise,<br>Thou court success by virtue or by song,<br>Fly the false dictates of the venal race;<br>Fly the gross accents of the venal tongue.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Swear that no lucre shall thy zeal betray;<br>Swerve not thy foot with fortune's votaries more;<br>Brand thou their lives, and brand their lifeless day-'<br>The winning phantom urged me, and I swore.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Forth from the rustic altar swift I stray'd;<br>'Aid my firm purpose, ye celestial Powers!<br>Aid me to quell the sordid breast,' I said;<br>And threw my javelin towards their hostile towers.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Think not regretful I survey the deed,<br>Or added years no more the zeal allow;<br>Still, still observant, to the grove I speed,<br>The shrine embellish, and repeat the vow.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sworn from his cradle Rome's relentless foe,<br>Such generous hate the Punic champion bore;<br>Thy lake, O Thrasimene! beheld it glow,<br>And Cannae's walls and Trebia's crimson shore.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But let grave annals paint the warrior's fame;<br>Fair shine his arms in history enroll'd;<br>Whilst humbler lyres his civil worth proclaim,<br>His nobler hate of avarice and gold.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now Punic pride its final eve survey'd;<br>Its hosts exhausted, and its fleets on fire:<br>Patient the victor's lucid frown obey'd,<br>And saw th' unwilling elephants retire.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But when their gold depress'd the yielding scale,<br>Their gold in pyramidic plenty piled,<br>He saw the unutterable grief prevail;<br>He saw their tears, and in his fury smiled.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Think not,' he cried, 'ye view the smiles of ease,<br>Or this firm breast disclaims a patriot's pain;<br>I smile, but from a soul estranged to peace,<br>Frantic with grief, delirious with disdain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'But were it cordial, this detested smile,<br>Seems it less timely than the grief ye show?<br>O Sons of Carthage! grant me to revile<br>The sordid source of your indecent woe.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Why weep ye now? ye saw with tearless eye<br>When your fleet perish'd on the Punic wave:<br>Where lurk'd the coward tear, the lazy sigh,<br>When Tyre's imperial state commenced a slave?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">''Tis past-O Carthage! vanquish'd, honour'd shade!<br>Go, the mean sorrows of thy sons deplore;<br>Had freedom shared the vow to Fortune paid,<br>She ne'er, like Fortune, had forsook thy shore.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He ceased-abash'd the conscious audience hear,<br>Their pallid cheeks a crimson blush unfold,<br>Yet o'er that virtuous blush distreams a tear,<br>And falling, moistens their abandon'd gold.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=William+Shenstone">William Shenstone</a><div class=q>
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Again the merchant ploughs the tumid wave;
Another spring renews the soldier's toil,
And finds me vacant in the rural cave.

As the soft lyre display'd my wonted loves,
The pensive pleasure and the tender..."></div>
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