ELEGY III. To the Right Honourable George Simon Harcourt, Visc. Newnham. Written at ROME, 1756. William Whitehead Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
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Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T131163 K104099.006 Dodsley, Robert, 1703-1764. A Collection of Poems in Six Volumes. By Several Hands. Vol. VI. London printed by J. Hughs, for R. and J. Dodsley 1763 [1st ed. 1758] pp. 47-49. 6v.: music; 8⁰.

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ELEGY III . To the Right Honourable George Simon Harcourt , Visc. Newnham . Written at ROME , 1756. YES , noble Youth , 'tis true ; the softer arts , The sweetly-sounding string , and pencil's pow'r , Have warm'd to rapture even heroic hearts , And taught the rude to wonder , and adore . For Beauty charms us , whether she appears In blended colours ; or to soothing sound Attunes her voice ; or fair proportion wears In yonder swelling dome's harmonious round . All , all she charms ; but not alike to all 'Tis given to revel in her blissful bower ; Coercive ties , and Reason's powerful call Bid some but taste the sweets , which some devour . When Nature govern'd , and when Man was young , Perhaps at will th' untutor'd Savage rov'd , Where waters murmur'd , and where clusters hung He fed , and slept beneath the shade he lov'd . But since the Sage's more sagacious mind , By Heaven's permission , or by Heaven's command , To polish'd states has social laws assign'd , And general good on partial duties plann'd , Not for ourselves our vagrant steps we bend As heedless Chance , or wanton Choice ordain ; On various stations various tasks attend , And Men are born to trifle or to reign . As chaunts the woodman whilst the Dryads weep , And falling forests fear th' uplifted blow , As chaunts the shepherd , while he tends his sheep , Or weaves to pliant forms the osier bough , To me 'tis given , whom Fortune loves to lead Thro' humbler toils to life's sequester'd bowers , To me 'tis given to wake th' amusive reed , And sooth with song the solitary hours . But Thee superior soberer toils demand , Severer paths are thine of patriot fame ; Thy birth , thy friends , thy king , thy native land , Have given thee honors , and have each their claim . Then nerve with fortitude thy feeling breast Each , wish to combat , and each pain to bear ; Spurn with disdain th' inglorious love of rest , Nor let the syren Ease approach thine ear . Beneath yon cypress shade's eternal green See prostrate Rome her wond'rous story tell , Mark how she rose the world's imperial queen , And tremble at the prospect how she fell ! Not that my rigid precepts would require A painful strugling with each adverse gale , Forbid thee listen to th' enchanting Lyre , Or turn thy steps from Fancy's flowery vale . Whate'er of Greece in sculptur'd brass survives , Whate'er of Rome in mould'ring arcs remains , Whate'er of Genius on the canvass lives , Or flows in polish'd verse , or airy strains , Be these thy leisure ; to the chosen few , Who dare excel , thy fost'ring aid afford ; Their arts , their magic powers with honors due Exalt ; but be thyself what they record .