Poems and Plays | ||
159
SONNETS, SONGS, AND OCCASIONAL VERSES.
161
SONNET TO THE EARL OF HARDWICKE
1779.
Hardwicke! whose bright applause a poet crown'd
Unknown to thee and to the Muse's quire;
Permit his hand with joyous pride to sound
A note of gratitude on freedom's lyre!
And fear not flattery's song from one plac'd higher
Than she has power to raise her menial crew;
From one who, proud of independent fire,
Scorns the base Noble, but reveres the true.
The liberal spirit feels thy generous praise
Fall from pure honour's sphere, like genial dew;
Blest if its vital influence shall raise
A future flower more worthy of thy view!
Blest if in these re-polish'd lays thou find
Some light reflected from thy letter'd mind!
162
SONNET TO EDWARD GIBBON, Esq.
1781.
With proud delight th' imperial founder gaz'd
On the new beauty of his second Rome,
When on his eager eye rich temples blaz'd,
And his fair city rose in youthful bloom:
A pride more noble may thy heart assume,
O Gibbon! gazing on thy growing work;
In which, constructed for a happier doom,
No hasty marks of vain ambition lurk:
Thou may'st deride both time's destructive sway,
And baser envy's beauty-mangling dirk;
Thy gorgeous fabrick, plann'd with wise delay,
Shall baffle foes more savage than the Turk:
As ages multiply its fame shall rise,
And earth must perish ere its splendor dies.
On the new beauty of his second Rome,
When on his eager eye rich temples blaz'd,
And his fair city rose in youthful bloom:
A pride more noble may thy heart assume,
O Gibbon! gazing on thy growing work;
In which, constructed for a happier doom,
No hasty marks of vain ambition lurk:
Thou may'st deride both time's destructive sway,
And baser envy's beauty-mangling dirk;
Thy gorgeous fabrick, plann'd with wise delay,
Shall baffle foes more savage than the Turk:
As ages multiply its fame shall rise,
And earth must perish ere its splendor dies.
163
SONNET TO THE SAME.
[_]
Written in Madame de Lambert's Essays on Friendship and Old Age; in the Name of the Lady who translated them.
This artless copy of a Gallic gem?
Wilt thou not cast th' unpolish'd work aside,
And with just scorn my failing line condemn?
No! thou wilt never, with pedantic phlegm,
Spurn the first produce of a female mind;
Young flowers! that, trembling on a tender stem,
Court thy protection from each ruder wind.
Tho' I may injure, by a coarser style,
The work that Lambert's graceful hand design'd,
I still, if favour'd by thy partial smile,
Shall boast like her of friendship's joys refin'd;
Nor fear from age her list of female woes,
If, as my years increase, thy friendship grows.
164
SONNET TO EDMUND ANTROBUS, Esq.
Kind Host! who bordering on the vale of years,Keep'st in thy generous heart a youthful glow,
Whose liberal elegance of soul endears
The joy thy bounty glories to bestow;
Accept a volume, in whose pages flow
The mild effusions of a female mind!
First of the letter'd fair that France can show,
Of sprightly wit with moral truth combin'd!
In the faint copy may thy candour see
Some slight resemblance of her style refin'd:
Whate'er the merits of the book, in thee
May all the blessings of its theme be join'd!
Thine be that joy which friendship's bosom fills;
And thine the peace of age, without its ills!
165
SONNET TO Dr. HARINGTON
Harmonious friend! to whom my honour'd MuseIs eager to declare how much she owes,
Accept, and with indulgent eye peruse
Her hasty verse, impatient to disclose
How from your aid her new attraction flows.
Cold as the figure of unfinish'd clay,
Which by Prometheus' plastic hand arose,
My lifeless song in half existence lay:
I could not add the spark of heav'nly flame:
To harmony's high sphere I dar'd not stray
To steal from thence—but in this languid frame
You pour, without a theft, the vital ray:
Your generous art the quick'ning spirit gives,
And by your tuneful fire the Ballad lives.
166
SONNET TO WILLIAM MELMOTH, Esq.
Melmoth! in talents and in virtues blest!Pleas'd I contemplate thy attractive page,
Where thy mild Pliny, and Rome's guardian Sage,
Of purer eloquence, thy powers attest,
And rare felicity:—near half an age
Our polish'd tongue has rank'd thee with the best
Of England's classics; yet detraction's rage
Has fail'd to point her arrows at thy breast:
Rich in those palms that taste and truth bestow,
Who praise in learning's field thy long career,
By what nice skill, that worth can seldom show,
Hast thou eluded slander's envious sneer?
Blest who excel! but tenfold bliss they know,
Who in excelling live without a foe.
167
SONNET TO Mrs. HAYLEY
Thou vext Atlantic, who hast lately seenBritain's vain thunder on her offspring hurl'd,
And the blind parent, in her frantic spleen,
Pouring weak vengeance on a filial world!
Thou, whose rough billows, in loud fury curl'd,
Have roar'd indignant under many a keel;
And, while contention all her sails unfurl'd,
Have groan'd the weight of ill-starr'd war to feel;
Now let thy placid waters gaily bear
A freight far differing from blood-thirsty steel;
See Hayley now to cross thy flood prepare,
A female merchant, fraught with friendly zeal!
Give her kind gales, ye spirits of the air,
Kind as her heart, and as her purpose fair!
168
SONNET TO JOHN SARGENT, Esq.
Away with diffidence and modest fear,Thou happy fav'rite of Castalia's quire!
Withhold no longer from the public ear
The rich delight thy varied lays inspire!
Nor from the Press with trembling awe retire!
That dread essay is dangerous alone,
When mimic dross adulterates the lyre:
Thine is of purest gold—its perfect tone
The fancy and the heart alike obey:
Invention's self has made her Mine thy own;
Give its new gems to blaze in open day,
And seat that bounteous queen on glory's throne,
A brother Bard, if he may boast the name,
Sounds with proud joy this prelude to thy fame.
169
SONNET ON ROMNEY's Picture of Cassandra.
Ye fond idolaters of antient art,Who near Parthenope, with curious toil,
Forcing the rude sulphureous rocks to part,
Draw from the greedy earth her buried spoil
Of antique tablature; and from the soil
Of time, restoring some fair form, acquire
A fancied jewel, know, 'tis but a foil
To this superior gem, of richer fire!
In Romney's tints behold the Trojan maid!
See beauty blazing in prophetic ire!
From palaces engulph'd could earth retire,
And shew thy works, Apelles, undecay'd,
E'en thy Campaspe would not dare to vie
With the wild splendor of Cassandra's eye.
170
SONNET TO Mrs. SMITH
Thou whose chaste song simplicity inspires,Attractive poetess of plaintive strain!
Speak not unjustly of poetic fires,
Nor the pure bounty of thy Muse arraign:
No, not the source, the soother she of pain.
If thy soft breast the thorns of anguish knew,
Ah! think what myriads with thy truth complain
Of fortune's thorny paths! and think how few
Of all those myriads know thy magic art,
The fiercer pangs of sorrow to subdue,
By those melodious tears that ease thy heart,
And bid the breath of fame thy life renew;
Sure to excite, till nature's self decays,
Her lasting sympathy, her endless praise!
171
SONNET TO Mr. WILLIAM LONG
Blest be the day which bids my grief subside,Rais'd by the sickness of my distant friend!
Blest the dear lines, so long to hope deny'd,
By languor's aching fingers kindly penn'd!
How keen the fear to feel his letters end,
Whose wit was my delight, whose truth my guide!
But how did joy that painful fear transcend,
When I again his well-known hand descried!
Such was the dread of new-created man,
When first he miss'd the setting orb of day;
Such the delight that thro' his bosom ran,
When he perceiv'd the re-ascending ray.
Ah no! his thoughts endur'd less anxious strife;
Thou, Friendship! art the sun of mental life.
172
EPITAPH ON WILLIAM BRYANT,
Aged 91, Parish Clerk of Eartham.
1779,
By sportive youth and busy manhood blest,
Here, thou meek father of our village, rest!
If length of days, in toilsome duties spent,
With chearful honesty, and mild content;
If age, endur'd with firm and patient mind;
If life with willing piety resign'd;
If these are certain proofs of human worth,
Which, dear to Heaven, demand the praise of earth;
E'en Pride shall venerate this humble sod,
That holds a Christian worthy of his God,
173
ON FRANCES KENT,
Aged 19; buried in Eartham Church-Yard.
1777.
Here youthful innocence, of humble birth,
Is sunk untimely into silent earth:
This quiet hamlet knew no gentler mind,
“In sickness patient, and in death resign'd.”
Thou peaceful villager, whoe'er thou art,
Now bending o'er her grave with feeling heart,
Learn from her blameless life, tho' short the date,
Each modest virtue that becomes thy state!
174
ON MARY HAYLEY.
1775.
Spirit of Truth, thy warmest language give!
Let all the Mother on this marble live!
The stone may boast, that in her frame combin'd
Woman's soft heart and man's undaunted mind:
But O, fond Parent! no sepulchral lay
Can speak thy kindness, or thy care repay:
Death bore thee to the Power, whose love alone,
Whose love parental could exceed thy own.
Still, thou blest being! still my soul inspire!
Breathe from thy tomb religion's holy fire!
And teach me, ere this fleeting breath shall cease,
To tread that aweful path in mental peace,
That path, which thou without a pang hast trod,
To meet thee at the throne of mercy's God:
The God, whose worship from thy lips I caught,
Shall fix thy image in my faithful thought:
So thou my spirit to his presence raise,
Who as thy Maker most commands my praise!
175
ODE TO DEATH.
Hail to thee, gloomy spectre, Death!
So seldom hail'd by human breath
With vital vigour warm!
Approach!—let me thy features know,
For my undaunted eye would grow
Familiar with thy form!
So seldom hail'd by human breath
With vital vigour warm!
Approach!—let me thy features know,
For my undaunted eye would grow
Familiar with thy form!
I see thee well, and all thy train,
The horrid armament of pain,
Who execute thy will:
I know their force: with rapid aim,
Early they fasten'd on my frame,
And only fail'd to kill.
The horrid armament of pain,
Who execute thy will:
I know their force: with rapid aim,
Early they fasten'd on my frame,
And only fail'd to kill.
176
O Death! I know thy utmost sway;
This flesh is thy devoted prey:
My soul derides thy power;
Derides each wound, which thou canst give,
Safe from thy stroke, and form'd to live
Beyond thy final hour.
This flesh is thy devoted prey:
My soul derides thy power;
Derides each wound, which thou canst give,
Safe from thy stroke, and form'd to live
Beyond thy final hour.
I own thee not as Terror's king,
Tho' shrieking slaves thy title ring,
Around the trembling globe:
The hand of Faith thy mantle tore,
And Fear can dress thy form no more
In Horror's ghastly robe.
Tho' shrieking slaves thy title ring,
Around the trembling globe:
The hand of Faith thy mantle tore,
And Fear can dress thy form no more
In Horror's ghastly robe.
I see thee, stript of all thy pride,
A simple herald, doom'd to guide
The Spirit's destin'd march:
Thy trumpet, with no dreadful blast,
Proclaims the victor soul has past
The tomb's triumphal arch.—
A simple herald, doom'd to guide
The Spirit's destin'd march:
Thy trumpet, with no dreadful blast,
Proclaims the victor soul has past
The tomb's triumphal arch.—
177
Ah! why should age, with weak delay,
In vain contention wish to stay,
When robb'd of vigour's shield?
What labourer, call'd to take his hire,
Persists his worn-out limbs to tire
Around the stubble field?
In vain contention wish to stay,
When robb'd of vigour's shield?
What labourer, call'd to take his hire,
Persists his worn-out limbs to tire
Around the stubble field?
This motley scene of jest and strife,
This tragi-comedy of life,
On observation palls:
Its fancied joys too slightly touch;
Its fancied woes afflict too much,
Before the curtain falls.
This tragi-comedy of life,
On observation palls:
Its fancied joys too slightly touch;
Its fancied woes afflict too much,
Before the curtain falls.
Eager I pant, with fond presage,
To gaze on a sublimer stage
Above yon starry pole:
That stage, by kindred angels trod,
Illumin'd by the throne of God,
Must fill the raptur'd soul.
To gaze on a sublimer stage
Above yon starry pole:
That stage, by kindred angels trod,
Illumin'd by the throne of God,
Must fill the raptur'd soul.
178
O Death! I hear thy stern reply:—
“Dar'st thou presume, Mortality!
“So abject, so infirm!
“Fearless that Presence to abide,
“Before whose blaze celestial pride
“Has shrunk into a worm?”
“Dar'st thou presume, Mortality!
“So abject, so infirm!
“Fearless that Presence to abide,
“Before whose blaze celestial pride
“Has shrunk into a worm?”
Of follies sick, not sunk by crimes,
With filial hope my spirit climbs,
Nor fears a Father's rod.
I go with awe, but not dismay:
My soul is on the wing:—away!
And lead me to my God!
With filial hope my spirit climbs,
Nor fears a Father's rod.
I go with awe, but not dismay:
My soul is on the wing:—away!
And lead me to my God!
179
SONG.
[Ye cliffs! I to your airy steep]
I
Ye cliffs! I to your airy steepAscend with trembling hope and fear,
To gaze on this extensive deep,
And watch if William's sails appear.
II
Long months elapse, while here I breatheVain expectation's frequent prayer;
Till bending o'er the waves beneath,
I drop the tear of dumb despair.
III
But see a glistening sail in view!Tumultuous hopes arise:
'Tis he!—I feel the vision true,
I trust my conscious eyes.
IV
His promis'd signals from the mastMy timid doubts destroy:
What was your pain, ye terrors past,
To this ecstatic joy!
180
SONG.
[From glaring shew, and giddy noise]
I
From glaring shew, and giddy noise,The pleasures of the vain,
Take me, ye soft, ye silent joys,
To your retreats again.
II
Be mine, ye cool, ye peaceful groves,Whose shades to love belong;
Where echo, as she fondly roves,
Repeats my Stella's song.
III
Ah, Stella! why-should I departFrom solitude and thee,
When in that solitude thou art
A perfect world to me!
181
SONG.
['Tis Memory's aid my vows implore]
I
'Tis Memory's aid my vows implore,For she will smile when fortune's coy;
And to the eye of love restore
The spirit of departed joy.
II
O plunge me still, with magic art,In soothing fancy's soft abyss;
And fill my fond, my faithful heart
With visions of thy purer bliss!
182
SONG.
[Stay! O stay, thou lovely shade]
I
Stay! O stay, thou lovely shadeBrought by sleep to sorrow's aid:
Ah! the sweet illusion ends!
Light and Reason, cruel friends!
Bid me not, with frantic care,
Vainly worship fleeting air!
II
Night, return on rapid wing!Round my head thy poppies fling!
Hateful day! thy reign be brief!
Darkness is the friend of grief.
Could'st thou, sleep! my dream restore,
I should wish to wake no more.
183
SONG.
[Enjoy, my child, the balmy sleep]
I
Enjoy, my child, the balmy sleep,Which o'er thy form new beauty throws;
And long thy tranquil spirit keep
A stranger to thy mother's woes!
Tho' in distress,
I feel it less,
While gazing on thy sweet repose.
II
Condemn'd to pangs like inward fire,That thro' my injur'd bosom roll,
How would my heart in death desire
Relief from fortune's hard coutroul,
Did not thy arms
And infant charms
To earth enchain my anxious soul!
184
III
Flow fast, my tears!—by you reliev'd,I vent my anguish thus unknown;
But cease, ere ye can be perceiv'd
By this dear child, to pity prone,
Whose tender heart
Would seize a part
In grief, that should be all my own.
IV
Our cup of woe, which angels fill,Perchance it is my lot to drain;
While that of joy, unmix'd with ill,
May thus, my child, for thee remain;
If thou art free,
(So Heaven decree!)
I bless my doom of double pain.
185
ODE TO RICHARD VERNON SADLEIR, Esq.
1777.
I
Business, be gone! Thou vulture, Care,No more the quivering sinews tear
Of Sadleir's mortal frame!
Full well his firm and active mind
Has paid the duties that mankind
From sense and virtue claim.
II
Alas! too well—for mental toilOur fine machinery will spoil,
As Nature has decreed:
She form'd the powers that raise the foul
Like wheels, that kindle as they roll,
And perish by their speed.
186
III
Let health and vigour on the stageSupport the scene, while milder age
Resigns the bustling part:
If flowers the busy path adorn,
Ingratitude there plants her thorn,
Which pierces to the heart.
IV
Oft hast thou seen her poison'd shoot,Where Hope expected fairest fruit;
Yet still thy bounty flows
Like constant dew that falls on earth,
Although it wakens into birth
The nightshade with the rose.
V
Thy warmth of heart O still retain!Nor of ingratitude complain,
Howe'er her wounds may burn!
Bliss from benevolence must flow;
Angels are blest while they bestow,
Unconscious of return.
187
VI
And happiness we only findIn those exertions of the mind
That form the ardent friend:
In these it dwells, with these it flies,
As all the comet's splendor dies
Whene'er its motions end.
VII
O let the lustre of thy soulNo more eccentrically roll
Thro' Labour's long career!
O haste, its dangerous course confine,
And let it permanently shine
In Pleasure's milder sphere!
VIII
In Friendship's name thy voice invitesOur willing hearts to social rites,
Where Laughter is thy guest:
But, O! these eyes with anguish burn,
And fear their weaken'd orbs to turn
From Nature's verdant vest.
188
IX
Thy invitation then forbear,Tho' at thy board, in union rare,
Kind Plenty reigns with Wit:
Thy roof is joyous, but I doubt
That we should find the brilliant rout
For burning eyes unfit.
X
Thy noisy town and dusty streetDo thou exchange for this retreat,
Whose charms thy songs commend:
On Learning's page forbid to look,
We yet can read that dearer book—
The visage of a friend.
189
A CARD of INVITATION TO Mr. GIBBON,
at Brighthelmstone.
1781.
An English Sparrow, pert and free,
Who chirps beneath his native tree,
Hearing the Roman Eagle's near,
And feeling more respect than fear,
Thus, with united love and awe,
Invites him to his shed of straw.
Tho' he is but a twittering Sparrow,
The field he hops in rather narrow,
When nobler plumes attract his view
He ever pays them homage due,
And looks with reverential wonder
On him whose talons bear the thunder;
Nor could the Jack-daws e'er inveigle
His voice to vilify the Eagle,
Tho', issuing from those holy tow'rs
In which they build their warmest bow'rs,
190
In hopes to find him on his perch
(For Pindar says, beside his God
The thunder-bearing Bird will nod)
Then, peeping round his still retreat,
They pick from underneath his feet
Some moulted feather he lets fall,
And swear he cannot fly at all.—
Lord of the sky! whose pounce can tear
These croakers, that infest the air,
Trust him, the Sparrow loves to sing
The praise of thy imperial wing!
He thinks thou'lt deem him, on his word,
An honest, tho' familiar Bird;
And hopes thou soon wilt condescend
To look upon thy little friend;
That he may boast around his grove
A visit from the Bird of Jove.
191
TO Mr. MASON,
On his sending the Author his Translation of DuFresnoy, with Notes by Sir Joshua Reynolds.
1783.
I
Dear Brother of the tuneful art,To whom I justly bend,
I prize, with a fraternal heart,
The pleasing gift you send.
II
With pride, by envy undebas'd,My English spirit views
How far your elegance of taste
Improves a Gallic Muse.
III
I thought that Muse but meanly drestWhen her stiff gown was Latin;
But you have turn'd her grogram vest
Into fine folds of sattin.
192
IV
Mild Reynolds looks with liberal favourOn your adopted girl;
And to the graceful robe you gave her,
Adds rich festoons of pearl.
193
IMPROMPTU TO Mr. MEYER.
On his sending the Author, from the Continent, two Prints, representing The Coronation of Voltaire, and Rousseau's Arrival in Elysium.
1784.
I
The Song that shakes the festive roof,When mirth and music's liveliest notes ascend,
Is not more pleasing than the proof
Of kind remembrance from an absent friend.
II
Then guess the pleasure that we share,And thus, dear Meyer, accept the thanks we owe,
While we behold the crown'd Voltaire,
And see Elysium hail our lov'd Rousseau!
194
III
May all the honour, all the joy,Known by each genius in thy gift portray'd,
Be thine, without the dull alloy
That ting'd their golden days with dusky shade!
IV
As lively as the gay Voltaire,With his keen pen may thy fine pencil strive!
May'st thou as long delight the fair,
And triumph, like the Bard, at eighty-five!
V
As tender as the warm Rousseau,Like him thy happier thoughts on nature fix!
But 'midst thy prospering children know
A true Elysium—on this side the Styx!
195
IMPROMPTU, TO EYLES IRWIN, Esq.
at Eartham.
1786.
How fiercely gold is tried by fire,
The tropes of the poetic quire
Have forcibly exprest:
Yet, Indus, oft thy golden tide
To British virtue has supplied
A still severer test.
The tropes of the poetic quire
Have forcibly exprest:
Yet, Indus, oft thy golden tide
To British virtue has supplied
A still severer test.
Britain has sent thee many a name
(Of martial and of civic fame)
In honour sound and whole;
Return'd by thee in different mould,
Encrusted o'er with scales of gold,
A leper in the soul.
(Of martial and of civic fame)
In honour sound and whole;
Return'd by thee in different mould,
Encrusted o'er with scales of gold,
A leper in the soul.
196
Far other thoughts of proud delight,
Dear Irwin, may the wish'd-for sight
Of thy return afford!
To welcome thee our hearts expand;
Fondly we clasp the purest hand
That Indus e'er restor'd.
Dear Irwin, may the wish'd-for sight
Of thy return afford!
To welcome thee our hearts expand;
Fondly we clasp the purest hand
That Indus e'er restor'd.
The tender lips of Beauty greet
This happy hand with homage sweet,
And bless the nuptial chain:
While Friendship sings, in joyous ode,
Thro' this the trying millions flow'd,
Nor left a single stain.
This happy hand with homage sweet,
And bless the nuptial chain:
While Friendship sings, in joyous ode,
Thro' this the trying millions flow'd,
Nor left a single stain.
197
A RECEIPT TO MAKE A TRAGEDY.
Take a Virgin from Asia, from Afric, or Greece,At least a king's daughter, or emperor's niece:
Take an elderly Miss for her kind confidant,
Still ready with pity or terror to pant,
While she faints and revives like the sensitive plant:
Take a Hero thought buried some ten years or more,
But with life enough left him to rattle and roar:
Take a horrid old Brute who deserves to be rack'd,
And call him a tyrant ten times in each act:
Take a Priest of cold blood, and a Warrior of hot,
And let them alternately bluster and plot:
Then throw in of Soldiers and Slaves quantum suff.
Let them march, and stand still, fight, and halloo enough.
Now stir all together these separate parts,
And season them well with Ohs! faintings, and starts:
198
Of Rage and of Horror, of Love and Illusion;
With madness and murder complete the conclusion.
Let your Princess, tho' dead by the murderous dagger,
In a wanton bold epilogue ogle and swagger:
Prove her past scenes of virtue are vapour and smoke,
And the stage's morality merely a joke:
Let her tell with what follies our country is curst,
And wisely conclude that play-writing's the worst.
Now serve to the public this olio complete,
And puff in the papers your delicate treat.
199
TO Miss SEWARD,
On her being at Eartham, in the variable Weather,
August, 1782.
I
“Whence are these storms?”—an angry poet cry'd,Who saw his shady summer haunts defac'd;
Saw o'er his shatter'd grove black whirlwinds ride,
And loud lamented this untimely waste.
II
He spoke, and Æolus uprear'd his head:Half his huge form, round which dark clouds were driv'n,
Rising from ocean's broad and billowy bed,
Fill'd up the vast expanse from earth to heav'n.
III
As his fierce eye survey'd the rough profound,From the stern god the voice of anger broke;
Air, earth, and sea, reverberate the found,
And shrinking nature shudder'd as he spoke:
200
IV
“Know, thou vain Bard, within thy mansion dwells“The wond'rous source of all this wild uproar;
“Thence round my cave the din of discord swells,
“And I my rebel offspring rule no more.
V
“To own my laws my mad'ning sons refuse,“All, all are deaf to my paternal pow'r;
“Struggling alike to kiss that vagrant Muse,
“Who deigns to visit thy sequester'd bow'r.
VI
“Rough Boreas, us'd in these still months to sleep,“Starts from his cell, in passion's wild alarms;
“While dripping Auster rushes from the deep,
“To snatch the Fair-one from his brother's arms.
VII
“Each other's fond ambition to destroy,“Alike they struggle, merciless as death;
“See my young Zephyr, Nature's tender joy,
“Encounters Eurus with contentious breath.
201
VIII
“Cease, my rash sons, this cruel war to wage,“Tho' tempting beauty gave your conflict birth,
“Lest Famine, waken'd by your frantic rage,
“Stalk in fell triumph o'er the blasted earth.
IX
“See shiv'ring mortals mourn th' inverted year,“While Ceres weeps her golden pride deprest:
“If ye no longer Nature's law revere,
“Yet mildly listen to your sire's request:—
X
“Let each in order taste the tempting bliss,“For which these mutual wounds ye vainly bear;
“Each unmolested take one precious kiss,
“And freely clasp this phrenzy-kindling Fair.”
XI
He paus'd;—black Boreas, eldest of his race,Whose stormy passion the chill Maiden shocks,
Binds her reluctant in his strong embrace,
And sports licentious in her auburn locks.
202
XII
Eurus succeeds, of less disgusting mien,Yet mad the trembling Fair-one to assail;
Beneath his pressure, more intensely keen,
The wounded ruby of her lip grows pale.
XIII
Next, with mild charms, and less tumultuous love,By melting Auster see the nymph carest;
He, with the softness of the murm'ring dove,
Waves his moist pinions o'er her softer breast.
XIV
Now, lively Zephyr, the sweet Muse is thine,O long embrace her in our laughing skies!
And round her bid this joyous landscape shine,
Rich as her verse, and radiant as her eyes!
203
CONTENT.
1781.
“How idle are mortals!” (said Wisdom to Youth)
“They slight the clear dictates of Reason and Truth;
“They worship Ambition, to Pleasure they bend,
“Yet blindly o'erlook a more excellent friend:
“And hence their vain hopes are eternally crost,
“Their life in a tempest of wishes is lost;
“Still destin'd to toil, and of toil to repent,
“For neglect of just vows to the Goddess Content;
“That Goddess from whom all felicity flows,
“Who unites every good in the gift she bestows;
“So free of her bounty to all who confess it,
“To solicit her smile is almost to possess it.”
When I heard this fine speech, my fond passion was rais'd,
And I set forth in quest of the Being so prais'd;
At the mansion of Grandeur my search I begin,
And ask if the Goddess Content is within:
But Pride, who as centinel guarded the door,
Said bluntly he ne'er heard her title before;
He told me I wanted a poor rustic slut,
And bade me go look in some little thatch'd hut.
I march'd to the Villager's lowly abode,
'Twas a snug pretty cottage, and stood near the road:
And here a good woman, possessing, tho' humble,
A face that could frown, and a tongue that would grumble,
Said—the person I ask'd for had lodg'd in her cot,
But, alas! such good luck was no longer her lot;
For she quitted her roof, where she oft had repos'd,
When yon great house was built, and the common inclos'd.
“They slight the clear dictates of Reason and Truth;
“They worship Ambition, to Pleasure they bend,
“Yet blindly o'erlook a more excellent friend:
“And hence their vain hopes are eternally crost,
“Their life in a tempest of wishes is lost;
“Still destin'd to toil, and of toil to repent,
“For neglect of just vows to the Goddess Content;
“That Goddess from whom all felicity flows,
“Who unites every good in the gift she bestows;
“So free of her bounty to all who confess it,
“To solicit her smile is almost to possess it.”
When I heard this fine speech, my fond passion was rais'd,
And I set forth in quest of the Being so prais'd;
204
And ask if the Goddess Content is within:
But Pride, who as centinel guarded the door,
Said bluntly he ne'er heard her title before;
He told me I wanted a poor rustic slut,
And bade me go look in some little thatch'd hut.
I march'd to the Villager's lowly abode,
'Twas a snug pretty cottage, and stood near the road:
And here a good woman, possessing, tho' humble,
A face that could frown, and a tongue that would grumble,
Said—the person I ask'd for had lodg'd in her cot,
But, alas! such good luck was no longer her lot;
For she quitted her roof, where she oft had repos'd,
When yon great house was built, and the common inclos'd.
I conceiv'd, as I now bade the village farewell,
With the mild sons of Science this Goddess must dwell;
But those, where I sought some obliging instructor,
Were squabbling about an electric conductor.
Some cry'd-up the point; some commended the ball;
The soft breath of Science was turn'd to a squall:
The Sages no mental conductor could find
To draw off the flame that now flash'd on their mind.
With the mild sons of Science this Goddess must dwell;
But those, where I sought some obliging instructor,
Were squabbling about an electric conductor.
Some cry'd-up the point; some commended the ball;
The soft breath of Science was turn'd to a squall:
205
To draw off the flame that now flash'd on their mind.
In haste I exclaim'd, to the Learned adieu!
For e'en Science offends, when she talks like a shrew.
For e'en Science offends, when she talks like a shrew.
Having wander'd so wide of the object I sought,
I was now led to think, and rejoic'd at the thought,
This Goddess (herself for her charms so renown'd)
With the daughters of Beauty must surely be found:
With this hope I approach'd (unperceiv'd by them all)
Three lovely young girls just array'd for the ball;
In each, whose bright eyes on a mirror were bent,
I thought I discover'd a spark of Content;
But watching them more, in their beautiful faces,
Of the Goddess I sought I no more saw the traces;
For as they survey'd, with a critical glance,
The elegant Montagu move in the dance,
In her exquisite figure such graces were shown,
That viewing her charms they distrusted their own.
Thou gentlest of nymphs! while thy triumphs increase,
Unconscious of beauty, so fatal to peace!
Tho' the sparks of Content in one sex thou may'st smother,
Bright Ecstasy's flame thou wilt raise in the other.
If in bosom parental Content could reside,
The heart of thy parent this treasure must hide;
But, alas! 'tis a truth which all parents lament,
Their tender anxiety stifles Content.
I was now led to think, and rejoic'd at the thought,
This Goddess (herself for her charms so renown'd)
With the daughters of Beauty must surely be found:
With this hope I approach'd (unperceiv'd by them all)
Three lovely young girls just array'd for the ball;
In each, whose bright eyes on a mirror were bent,
I thought I discover'd a spark of Content;
But watching them more, in their beautiful faces,
Of the Goddess I sought I no more saw the traces;
For as they survey'd, with a critical glance,
The elegant Montagu move in the dance,
In her exquisite figure such graces were shown,
That viewing her charms they distrusted their own.
Thou gentlest of nymphs! while thy triumphs increase,
Unconscious of beauty, so fatal to peace!
Tho' the sparks of Content in one sex thou may'st smother,
Bright Ecstasy's flame thou wilt raise in the other.
206
The heart of thy parent this treasure must hide;
But, alas! 'tis a truth which all parents lament,
Their tender anxiety stifles Content.
O tell me, while vainly to find thee I pant,
Dear latent Divinity! where is thy haunt?
“Away to Batheaston,” Good-nature replies,
“Behold she there weaves the poetical prize.”
With thy Myrtle, kind Miller! O let me be crown'd,
Then my search is repaid, and the Goddess is found:
Nay, if to another your wreath you assign,
And give it to verse far superior to mine,
My search's dear object I still must attain;
And the proof of this wonder 's exceedingly plain,
It rests on this maxim, by Horace invented,
The Bard who writes worst is the Bard most contented.
My claim to this blessing thus made very clear,
If I've nothing to hope, I have nothing to fear;
For Miller can please while the mind she amuses,
Both when she bestows, and e'en when she refuses;
In truth I suspect, from her singular aim,
The Goddess I seek is conceal'd by her name:
She herself is Content, and her house is the fane,
Where Spleen and Ill-nature no favours obtain:
Some mortals in vain for admission must pray,
But all who once enter go smiling away.
Dear latent Divinity! where is thy haunt?
“Away to Batheaston,” Good-nature replies,
“Behold she there weaves the poetical prize.”
With thy Myrtle, kind Miller! O let me be crown'd,
Then my search is repaid, and the Goddess is found:
Nay, if to another your wreath you assign,
And give it to verse far superior to mine,
My search's dear object I still must attain;
And the proof of this wonder 's exceedingly plain,
It rests on this maxim, by Horace invented,
The Bard who writes worst is the Bard most contented.
My claim to this blessing thus made very clear,
If I've nothing to hope, I have nothing to fear;
For Miller can please while the mind she amuses,
Both when she bestows, and e'en when she refuses;
In truth I suspect, from her singular aim,
The Goddess I seek is conceal'd by her name:
207
Where Spleen and Ill-nature no favours obtain:
Some mortals in vain for admission must pray,
But all who once enter go smiling away.
Poems and Plays | ||