 | The Poetical Works of Mr. William Pattison |  |
181
POEMS AND TRANSLATIONS: Wrote by Mr. Pattison,
When at Appleby-School;
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A Pastoral.
'Twas when the pearly Wings of Rosy Light,
Had chac'd the melancholy Shades of Night;
Each blushing Shrub with glitt'ring Diamonds gleam'd,
Each Field a Firmament of Spangles seem'd.
Refreshing Breezes wav'd the verdant Woods,
And fann'd the panting Bosom of the Floods:
Each Swain arose refresh'd with downy Sleep,
And pipe'd, and whistled to his frisking Sheep.
Had chac'd the melancholy Shades of Night;
Each blushing Shrub with glitt'ring Diamonds gleam'd,
Each Field a Firmament of Spangles seem'd.
Refreshing Breezes wav'd the verdant Woods,
And fann'd the panting Bosom of the Floods:
Each Swain arose refresh'd with downy Sleep,
And pipe'd, and whistled to his frisking Sheep.
But sad Sireno no Delights could move,
Wild were his Thoughts with late neglected Love.
For him each Virgin sigh'd, but sigh'd in vain,
Whilst lovely Laura show'd unjust Disdain.
On ev'ry neighb'ring Tree he carv'd her Name,
And with the living Letters grew his Flame.
To her the Firstlings of his Flock he brought,
For her the earliest Greens and Flowers he sought.
But all in vain—the lovely cruel Fair
As unrelenting as his barren Care.
No downy Slumbers lull'd his Soul to rest,
Sleep fled his Eyes, as Quiet did his Breast:
If some faint Slumber o'er his Temples crept,
Yet wakeful Love eternal Vigils kept.
In fancy'd Dreams he'd catch the lovely Maid,
But waking, curse the visionary Shade.
Wild were his Thoughts with late neglected Love.
For him each Virgin sigh'd, but sigh'd in vain,
Whilst lovely Laura show'd unjust Disdain.
On ev'ry neighb'ring Tree he carv'd her Name,
And with the living Letters grew his Flame.
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For her the earliest Greens and Flowers he sought.
But all in vain—the lovely cruel Fair
As unrelenting as his barren Care.
No downy Slumbers lull'd his Soul to rest,
Sleep fled his Eyes, as Quiet did his Breast:
If some faint Slumber o'er his Temples crept,
Yet wakeful Love eternal Vigils kept.
In fancy'd Dreams he'd catch the lovely Maid,
But waking, curse the visionary Shade.
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To a Lady.
A Paraphrastical Translation of the third Ode of the second Book of Horace.
Æquam memento rebus in arduis, &c.
I.
Let not the Turns of Fate molestThe sacred Quiet of your Breast;
Tho' the black Storm hang hov'ring o'er your Head;
Your Soul serene its Fury need not dread;
Let Fortune guide your destin'd State,
Yielding to Fortune, we subdue our Fate:
But when the fickle Siren smiles,
Trust not too far her treach'rous Wiles;
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As it repays your Ill, your Calm annoy:
Catch not with greedy Hopes the fleeting Shade;
Black Storms will soon the visionary Scene invade;
Like the alternate Shades of Day and Night,
The particolour'd Thread of Life is black and white.
II.
Be our Lot good, or be it ill,It makes no Measure for the fatal Wheel,
Should we spin out a wretched Life
In Cares and melancholy Grief,
'Twere but in vain to beg of Fate,
One fleeting Hour, to recompence our wretched State:
Or should we in some pleasant Grove refine
Our fading Life with sparkling Wine,
'Tis Fate's to measure Time, 'tis ours to live,
Nor can e'en Fate and Jove the past retrieve.
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III.
Since Fate is still the same,Then let us in some pleasant Grove,
Lull'd with the Murmurs of the purling Stream,
Banish all Cares and doubtful Life improve;
We'll quaff the sprightly Wine,
While Beauty fires the Eyes, and Fancy fills the Vein;
With Sweets anoint your flowing Hair,
And let it float and wanton in the Air,
Loose, and neglected as your Care.
Let the sweetest Flowers be brought,
Let the Rosy Wreath be wrought;
Let the short-liv'd Chaplet be
A Type of frail Mortality,
T' admonish us to catch the Golden Now;
While Youth and blooming Beauty bless at once the Brow.
Thus will we live and flourish while we may,
Thus will we live and say;
“To-morrow Life is Fate's, 'tis ours to-day.
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IV.
Be quick, be quick, we cannot live too fast,This pleasing Rapture cannot last,
An Age already's idly past!
Lo! rapid Hours roll round apace,
Now, now, unseen they swiftly steal the race:
'Tis past, 'tis past,—and now I see
The ghastly Head of bald Eternity!
Grim Death brings up the Rear,
In all the frightful Forms that Mortals fear:
Now must we leave this transitory Stage,
And mourn in vain an ill-spent Age!
Our sweet Delights, our smiling Hours,
Mossy Mountains,
Murmuring Fountains,
Shady Grottoes, rosy Bowers,
Alas no more are ours!
Of all our large Possessions Fate will but allow,
At most a mournful Cypress Bough.
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Will shed a counterfeiting Tear,
A Tear but for the sake of your Estate,
Which he must, with himself, too soon resign to Fate.
V.
Our Fates are mingled in one common Urn,Which soon or late must take their turn:
The Great, the Poor, the Low, the High,
Confus'dly blended lie;
The Weak, the Strong, the Base, the Brave,
Which here so different seem, are equal in the Grave;
Nor can we in the Dust distinction see:
And such as Hellen is, Belinda must thou be.
VI.
In vain the Hero toils, to shew his Worth,And from a Stem of Gods derives his Birth;
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While Tyrants bow, and Kings around him wait;
Yet at pale Death's approach, this godlike Brave
Trembles amidst his Pomp, and shudders like his meanest Slave!
Ah whither is his Strength and Courage flown,
That made the subject World his own!
How Tyrants trembled at his Nod,
Alas where is the God!
Where is his Pride, his Pomp, his Pageantry,
Which brib'd and conquer'd all—except the Destiny,
That whirls them in the Gulf of black Eternity.
Now in some gloomy Abbey is he laid,
Dismal and silent as the mould'ring Dead,
Who could the World with one small Nod command,
Has nothing but a scanty Spot of Land.
Perhaps a Monument they raise,
Which for a-while records his Praise:
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And all the fleeting Charities of Fame.
But then some Briar, or destroying Root,
Will eat its way, and thro' the Marble shoot—
The Tomb defac'd! this great, this god-like King,
Is a Romantic Tale, and a forgotten Thing.
1722. Æt. 15.
Upon Belinda, who, gathering a Rose, prick'd her Finger.
When you, bright Nymph, design'd to crop a Rose,To kiss your sweeter Hand, the Buds arose:
Your heedless Hand a pointed Prickle prest,
Stung with the Wound, you sunk into my Breast.
If so small Wounds can cause so great a Smart,
Think, O Belinda, on my bleeding Heart!
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The Conquest.
Oft had I read of Cupid's Arms,His matchless Power, resistless Charms,
How he defy'd Jove's thund'ring Hand,
Tho' loaded with the flaming Brand;
These Wonders put me to a stand.
But when I found this mighty God a Boy,
Naked, defenceless, blind, his Arms a Toy;
I laugh'd to think the Gods were foil'd
By such a little silly Child:
When Rosalinda strait came by,
Keen roguish Lightning arm'd her Eye,
Pity, fair Nymph, I faint, I die—
No more I'll wonder at this Infant's Art,
When your bright Eyes direct and head the Dart.
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ON CONTENTMENT.
Content, thou only Solace of the Mind,
Whom all pretend to seek, but none can find;
Tell me, O Goddess, in what foreign Seat,
Or Realm unknown remains your blest Retreat;
Where I may lull my raging Thoughts to rest,
And calm the Tempest rising in my Breast:
Say, shall I to the splendid Court repair,
And make the proudest Thoughts my darling Care;
Swell high my Soul—and now I am a God—
Bow scepter'd Slaves, obey your Sov'reign's Nod—
Content, I'll make you leave your humble Seat,
You cannot, dare not scorn me now I'm great.
Whom all pretend to seek, but none can find;
Tell me, O Goddess, in what foreign Seat,
Or Realm unknown remains your blest Retreat;
Where I may lull my raging Thoughts to rest,
And calm the Tempest rising in my Breast:
Say, shall I to the splendid Court repair,
And make the proudest Thoughts my darling Care;
Swell high my Soul—and now I am a God—
Bow scepter'd Slaves, obey your Sov'reign's Nod—
Content, I'll make you leave your humble Seat,
You cannot, dare not scorn me now I'm great.
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Thus rav'd a Fool, when lo! stupendous Sight!
A Nymph appear'd array'd in mantling Light;
Bright was her Aspect, yet serenely mild,
While thus she spoke, and as she spoke she smil'd.
A Nymph appear'd array'd in mantling Light;
Bright was her Aspect, yet serenely mild,
While thus she spoke, and as she spoke she smil'd.
Forbear, vain Man, to seek Contentment here,
Vain are your Hopes, and barren is your Care:
Believe no Fortune can so high aspire,
But proud, ambitious Thoughts are always higher:
What tho' you reign proud Tyrant of the East,
Yet Care, a greater Tyrant, rules your Breast;
You, with a Nod, the suppliant World command,
Yet cannot rule that little Empire, Man.
Hope not in Wealth to find Contentment here,
“For he that gathers Riches, gathers Care.
Then curb this curst Ambition—dare be Poor,
And find a richer in a poorer Store.
Go, vain mistaken Man, if you would find
That golden Ore, Contentment of the Mind,
Depart from all these busy Ills of Life
And live exempt from Pride, and Noise and Strife,
From all the griping Bonds of Usury,
From all the wicked Ills of Money free,
Too low for Envy, for Contempt too high.
Vain are your Hopes, and barren is your Care:
Believe no Fortune can so high aspire,
But proud, ambitious Thoughts are always higher:
What tho' you reign proud Tyrant of the East,
Yet Care, a greater Tyrant, rules your Breast;
You, with a Nod, the suppliant World command,
Yet cannot rule that little Empire, Man.
Hope not in Wealth to find Contentment here,
“For he that gathers Riches, gathers Care.
Then curb this curst Ambition—dare be Poor,
And find a richer in a poorer Store.
Go, vain mistaken Man, if you would find
That golden Ore, Contentment of the Mind,
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And live exempt from Pride, and Noise and Strife,
From all the griping Bonds of Usury,
From all the wicked Ills of Money free,
Too low for Envy, for Contempt too high.
She said—and vanish'd in a Flood of Light,
Unto her blest Abodes, and left my Sight.
Unto her blest Abodes, and left my Sight.
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A Divine Poem. Selected from the 18th, and 91st Psalms.
To God, my Muse, address your loftiest Song,
To God your Voice, your Lyre, your Lays belong;
Awake his Actions in each heavenly Line,
Great as his Goodness, as his Hand divine:
But first, O Lord, my trembling Breast inspire,
And fill my panting Soul with sacred Fire;
So shall my Lays to blooming Honours rise,
For what Heaven dictates, Time nor Age destroys.
To God your Voice, your Lyre, your Lays belong;
Awake his Actions in each heavenly Line,
Great as his Goodness, as his Hand divine:
But first, O Lord, my trembling Breast inspire,
And fill my panting Soul with sacred Fire;
So shall my Lays to blooming Honours rise,
For what Heaven dictates, Time nor Age destroys.
As the cœlestial Eagle stoops his Wings.
While the small Wren upon his Pinions springs,
Strait with a Bound he cuts his tow'ring Flight,
Thro' floating Air, and Groves of living Light;
The Wren with wonder views the Milky Way,
And the bright Mansions of eternal Day;
Wonders he does in Realms of Light unknown,
Buoy'd up with rapid Pinions, not his own.
While the small Wren upon his Pinions springs,
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Thro' floating Air, and Groves of living Light;
The Wren with wonder views the Milky Way,
And the bright Mansions of eternal Day;
Wonders he does in Realms of Light unknown,
Buoy'd up with rapid Pinions, not his own.
So they who trust in God's Omnipotence,
Find a safe Succour, and a sure Defence;
Not all the Fears that guilty Mortals know,
Can in their Souls create the smallest Woe;
Sweet are their Thoughts, as sweetest Slumbers are,
Calm as mild Evenings, as the Morning fair;
No guilty Conscience breaks their sacred Rest,
No foul Chimæras hover o'er their Breast,
No dismal Visions dare invade their Head,
Or pallid Phantoms stalk around their Bed:
With springing Light no carking Cares are born,
To cloud the pearly Beauty of the Morn;
Not loudest Storms that roar from Pole to Pole,
Can raise a Tempest in their settled Soul:
Should pois'nous Pestilence infest the Sky,
Angels would turn each tainted Arrow by,
Spirits unseen would guard their sacred Rest,
Play o'er their Head, and hover o'er their Breast.
Should hissing Serpents on vast Volumes ride,
And singe whole Forests with their spiral Pride;
Pleas'd with Delight, they'd stroke the living Fire,
The flaming Crest, and speckled Pride admire.
Should roaring Lions' Thunder shake the Ground,
To them 'twould seem the Cittern's Silver Sound:
They hear the brazen Throat of War to roar,
They hear—but like soft Music on the Shore.
Find a safe Succour, and a sure Defence;
Not all the Fears that guilty Mortals know,
Can in their Souls create the smallest Woe;
Sweet are their Thoughts, as sweetest Slumbers are,
Calm as mild Evenings, as the Morning fair;
No guilty Conscience breaks their sacred Rest,
No foul Chimæras hover o'er their Breast,
No dismal Visions dare invade their Head,
Or pallid Phantoms stalk around their Bed:
With springing Light no carking Cares are born,
To cloud the pearly Beauty of the Morn;
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Can raise a Tempest in their settled Soul:
Should pois'nous Pestilence infest the Sky,
Angels would turn each tainted Arrow by,
Spirits unseen would guard their sacred Rest,
Play o'er their Head, and hover o'er their Breast.
Should hissing Serpents on vast Volumes ride,
And singe whole Forests with their spiral Pride;
Pleas'd with Delight, they'd stroke the living Fire,
The flaming Crest, and speckled Pride admire.
Should roaring Lions' Thunder shake the Ground,
To them 'twould seem the Cittern's Silver Sound:
They hear the brazen Throat of War to roar,
They hear—but like soft Music on the Shore.
Tho' Floods of Foes my Soul serene surround,
My God shall all their impious Rage confound;
In God alone I find a sure Defence;
With God who dare dispute Omnipotence?
Witness the Day—Behold the Scene appears,
A Grove of Lances, and a Wood of Spears,
A gloomy Tempest threatens from afar
Quick Fate, and flourishes an iron War:
From azure Armour livid Lightnings play,
And gild the Tempest with a momentary Day—
O Lord—my God, the Floods my Soul surround,
And num'rous Deaths appear in num'rous Forms around.
O calm this Tempest with a single Nod,
Thou canst, O Lord—I know thou canst, O God—
Now say, my Muse, what Power disarm'd the Blow,
And rais'd me from the deepest Depths of Woe?
'Twas God—for God alone such Miracles can do.
Can you then cease his Goodness to adore!
To Love, what can be less! and yet he asks no more.
My God shall all their impious Rage confound;
In God alone I find a sure Defence;
With God who dare dispute Omnipotence?
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A Grove of Lances, and a Wood of Spears,
A gloomy Tempest threatens from afar
Quick Fate, and flourishes an iron War:
From azure Armour livid Lightnings play,
And gild the Tempest with a momentary Day—
O Lord—my God, the Floods my Soul surround,
And num'rous Deaths appear in num'rous Forms around.
O calm this Tempest with a single Nod,
Thou canst, O Lord—I know thou canst, O God—
Now say, my Muse, what Power disarm'd the Blow,
And rais'd me from the deepest Depths of Woe?
'Twas God—for God alone such Miracles can do.
Can you then cease his Goodness to adore!
To Love, what can be less! and yet he asks no more.
But lo! behold dark Horror sits around,
A sudden Earthquake rocks th' astonish'd Ground.
Behold that late insulting Troop appear,
All pale and shivering with a panic Fear,
Confusion leads the Van, and Death brings up the Rear.
Half dead, for Shelter some to Rocks repair,
In vain—the Rocks confess an equal Fear.
Lo! Rivers plunge into their deepest Beds,
And tott'ring Mountains bow their aged Heads,
From their Foundations rugged Rocks are torn,
And in black Whirlwinds thro' the Clouds are borne,
From hollow Caverns, hoarse deep Murmurs roar,
And drive the trembling Billows to the Shoar;
From Pole to Pole tremendous Storms resound,
Loud Thunders split the Heavens, loud Earthquakes rock the Ground.
But now a Scene insufferably bright,
O'erwhelms this Tempest with a Stream of Light—
Unfolding Realms of Day the Terror raise,
All Nature trembles, and the Heavens blaze—
But lo! the God—his dreadful Form behold,
In flaming Glory, and in fluid Gold!
Congealing Darkness, with a Night of Clouds,
His awful Majesty in Tempests shrouds;
A Storm of pointed Thunder arms the God,
A Seraph wing'd with Whirlwinds bears the dreadful Load;
Forth from his Nostrils Sheets of Flame expire,
He breathes a Tempest in a Flood of Fire;
With dread Divinity the Heavens bow,
The rolling Thunders fly, and Fate is in the Blow.
A sudden Earthquake rocks th' astonish'd Ground.
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All pale and shivering with a panic Fear,
Confusion leads the Van, and Death brings up the Rear.
Half dead, for Shelter some to Rocks repair,
In vain—the Rocks confess an equal Fear.
Lo! Rivers plunge into their deepest Beds,
And tott'ring Mountains bow their aged Heads,
From their Foundations rugged Rocks are torn,
And in black Whirlwinds thro' the Clouds are borne,
From hollow Caverns, hoarse deep Murmurs roar,
And drive the trembling Billows to the Shoar;
From Pole to Pole tremendous Storms resound,
Loud Thunders split the Heavens, loud Earthquakes rock the Ground.
But now a Scene insufferably bright,
O'erwhelms this Tempest with a Stream of Light—
Unfolding Realms of Day the Terror raise,
All Nature trembles, and the Heavens blaze—
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In flaming Glory, and in fluid Gold!
Congealing Darkness, with a Night of Clouds,
His awful Majesty in Tempests shrouds;
A Storm of pointed Thunder arms the God,
A Seraph wing'd with Whirlwinds bears the dreadful Load;
Forth from his Nostrils Sheets of Flame expire,
He breathes a Tempest in a Flood of Fire;
With dread Divinity the Heavens bow,
The rolling Thunders fly, and Fate is in the Blow.
202
Part of the 38th and 39th Chapters of Job,
Paraphras'd in Blank Verse.
But now the Lord ineffable and bright,
Shot thro' the Regions of eternal Day;
Swift as the Lightnings that his Vengeance throws,
Buoy'd up with Whirlwinds, on a Cherub's Wings,
He rode; all Nature trembled at her Lord,
And quiv'ring Mountains bow'd their aged Heads;
Whilst in a Storm of Thunders thus he spoke.
Shot thro' the Regions of eternal Day;
Swift as the Lightnings that his Vengeance throws,
Buoy'd up with Whirlwinds, on a Cherub's Wings,
He rode; all Nature trembled at her Lord,
And quiv'ring Mountains bow'd their aged Heads;
Whilst in a Storm of Thunders thus he spoke.
Presumptuous Man that dar'st upbraid thy God,
Shew the Omnipotence of which thou boasts;
Awake thy Wisdom's Eye, with which thou dar'st
Eclipse thy God's, and dive into his Secrets,
Collect thy self, and let us try our Godheads.
Shew the Omnipotence of which thou boasts;
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Eclipse thy God's, and dive into his Secrets,
Collect thy self, and let us try our Godheads.
Wast thou a Being when no Being was,
When Night and Darkness brooded o'er the Chaos,
In endless Anarchy and wild Disorder?
Didst thou from Nothing form this mighty Globe,
On nothing hung, but pois'd in fluid Air
Immoveable? or can thy dreaded Word
Dissolve again its brittle Form to Nothing?
Come shew some Miracle of Power and Wisdom,
And make thy wonderful Creator wise.
When Night and Darkness brooded o'er the Chaos,
In endless Anarchy and wild Disorder?
Didst thou from Nothing form this mighty Globe,
On nothing hung, but pois'd in fluid Air
Immoveable? or can thy dreaded Word
Dissolve again its brittle Form to Nothing?
Come shew some Miracle of Power and Wisdom,
And make thy wonderful Creator wise.
If since, thou hast attain'd this Power and Knowledge,
Who canst thou boast the Tutor of thy Godhead—
Thy self? exert thy Power upon thy self—
Whence came those dire Afflictions that oppress thee?
Dost thou afflict thy self? or canst thou cleanse
Thy self from all those pestilential Pains?
Since from thy self thou canst not boast this Power,
From whence can it proceed but from thy God?
Thy God, above all Power, all Light, all Knowlege!
Who canst thou boast the Tutor of thy Godhead—
Thy self? exert thy Power upon thy self—
Whence came those dire Afflictions that oppress thee?
Dost thou afflict thy self? or canst thou cleanse
Thy self from all those pestilential Pains?
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From whence can it proceed but from thy God?
Thy God, above all Power, all Light, all Knowlege!
Fond Man, who know'st not how, or whence thou art,
Curb this distemper'd Weakness of thy Brain:
How canst thou mimic God, and challenge Nature,
Who hast not the least Power o'er thy self!
Say, can thy Thunder shake the solid Earth?
Or can thy Voice, like mine, affright all Nature?
Canst thou, like me, on winged Whirlwinds ride
Thro' all the boundless Realms of endless Day?
Dost thou shew bloody Comets in the Air,
That shake Destruction from their flaming Tresses?
Or hast thou seen the silent Seats of Death,
Where Famine, War, and Plagues, and Pestilence
Attend my Nod? Grim Ministers of Fate:
Hast thou beheld the Chambers of the Deep,
Where Ocean rises from his Coral Bed,
Huge Marine Monsters gambol o'er the Ooze;
Or hunt among the Waves their panting Prey.
Say, didst thou form the great Leviathan,
That seems a living Island, when he moves,
He boils the Sea, and spouts it in a Tide.
Curb this distemper'd Weakness of thy Brain:
How canst thou mimic God, and challenge Nature,
Who hast not the least Power o'er thy self!
Say, can thy Thunder shake the solid Earth?
Or can thy Voice, like mine, affright all Nature?
Canst thou, like me, on winged Whirlwinds ride
Thro' all the boundless Realms of endless Day?
Dost thou shew bloody Comets in the Air,
That shake Destruction from their flaming Tresses?
Or hast thou seen the silent Seats of Death,
Where Famine, War, and Plagues, and Pestilence
Attend my Nod? Grim Ministers of Fate:
Hast thou beheld the Chambers of the Deep,
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Huge Marine Monsters gambol o'er the Ooze;
Or hunt among the Waves their panting Prey.
Say, didst thou form the great Leviathan,
That seems a living Island, when he moves,
He boils the Sea, and spouts it in a Tide.
When rosy Morning gilds the gladsom Sky,
Dost thou with liquid Diamonds sow the East?
Guard'st thou the Sun o'er the cœlestial Plain,
Thro' his nocturnal, and diurnal Course?
Because he travels round the spacious Globe;
Will he obsequious bear thy dread Behests;
Can'st thou with deeper Roses paint the Welkin,
And draw the sable Curtain of the West?
Hush ev'ry Wind that curls the glassy Ocean,
And ev'ry Breeze that waves the drowsy Grove?
Can'st thou on all bestow soft balmy Slumbers,
And cannot give thy self that wish'd-for Sleep?
Dost thou ordain the pale-fac'd waning Moon
To guide the Night, and fill the Stars with Flame?
To swell the Tide, or press the faint Reflux;
White spungy Clouds imbibe the lazy Vapours,
And brew a Tempest on the hoary Main?
At thy Command do roaring Channels rise,
Sweep away Plains, and thunder thro' the Woods?
Or can'st thou candy up a Silver Tempest,
To cloath the naked Year with Silver Snow?
Or treasure up thy stony Magazines,
Then pour the fatt'ning War upon the Ground?
Dost thou unlock the Bosom of the Spring,
When blust'ring Flora languishingly courts
Young vernal Zephyr with soft Blandishments?
At thy Command does Autumn crown the Year
With golden Pride and hoary Majesty?
Do all the Seasons their fix'd Stations keep,
And dance in mystic Order to thy Word?
Say, dost thou paint the Peacock's gaudy Plumes
With streaming Azure, and with waving Gold;
Here blushing Purples flow in fading Greens,
But waving vanish in a golden Breeze:
With what majestic Air he stalks along,
Struts in his Gait, and spreads his painted Pride?
Dost thou with liquid Diamonds sow the East?
Guard'st thou the Sun o'er the cœlestial Plain,
Thro' his nocturnal, and diurnal Course?
Because he travels round the spacious Globe;
Will he obsequious bear thy dread Behests;
Can'st thou with deeper Roses paint the Welkin,
And draw the sable Curtain of the West?
Hush ev'ry Wind that curls the glassy Ocean,
And ev'ry Breeze that waves the drowsy Grove?
Can'st thou on all bestow soft balmy Slumbers,
And cannot give thy self that wish'd-for Sleep?
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To guide the Night, and fill the Stars with Flame?
To swell the Tide, or press the faint Reflux;
White spungy Clouds imbibe the lazy Vapours,
And brew a Tempest on the hoary Main?
At thy Command do roaring Channels rise,
Sweep away Plains, and thunder thro' the Woods?
Or can'st thou candy up a Silver Tempest,
To cloath the naked Year with Silver Snow?
Or treasure up thy stony Magazines,
Then pour the fatt'ning War upon the Ground?
Dost thou unlock the Bosom of the Spring,
When blust'ring Flora languishingly courts
Young vernal Zephyr with soft Blandishments?
At thy Command does Autumn crown the Year
With golden Pride and hoary Majesty?
Do all the Seasons their fix'd Stations keep,
And dance in mystic Order to thy Word?
Say, dost thou paint the Peacock's gaudy Plumes
With streaming Azure, and with waving Gold;
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But waving vanish in a golden Breeze:
With what majestic Air he stalks along,
Struts in his Gait, and spreads his painted Pride?
Could then thy Hand create the brinded Lion,
That makes thee tremble at his very Voice?
Or wilt thou make him (seeing he is strong)
To bear thy Burdens, and to be thy Slave?
Dost thou direct the rapid Eagle's Wings
To sail thro' fluid Fields of floating Air,
There with his Beak to souse upon his Prey?
Or darting from a Cloud to truss a Serpent,
Aloft again he towers his Flight, in vain
The hissing Captive whisks his scaly Tail.
That makes thee tremble at his very Voice?
Or wilt thou make him (seeing he is strong)
To bear thy Burdens, and to be thy Slave?
Dost thou direct the rapid Eagle's Wings
To sail thro' fluid Fields of floating Air,
There with his Beak to souse upon his Prey?
Or darting from a Cloud to truss a Serpent,
Aloft again he towers his Flight, in vain
The hissing Captive whisks his scaly Tail.
Dost thou the Courser's rapid Force maintain,
With Thunder arm his Neck, his Feet with Lightning?
When from afar he hears the Din of Arms,
He list'ning stands, he stamps, he pricks his Ears:
If stronger Echoes bear the flying Noise,
Confus'd with clatt'ring and with rattling Shields,
He shoots his Neck to catch the noisy War,
And drowns the Thunder with his louder Voice;
But if he see the flashing Storm aloof,
The fighting Captains, and the flaming War
He dims the dazling Splendours of bright Arms,
With more incessant Light'ning from his Eye;
He fires, he foams, nor hears the Rider's Voice;
But leaves his Eye behind the rolling Plain,
And bears him in a Tempest on the Foe.
With Thunder arm his Neck, his Feet with Lightning?
When from afar he hears the Din of Arms,
He list'ning stands, he stamps, he pricks his Ears:
208
Confus'd with clatt'ring and with rattling Shields,
He shoots his Neck to catch the noisy War,
And drowns the Thunder with his louder Voice;
But if he see the flashing Storm aloof,
The fighting Captains, and the flaming War
He dims the dazling Splendours of bright Arms,
With more incessant Light'ning from his Eye;
He fires, he foams, nor hears the Rider's Voice;
But leaves his Eye behind the rolling Plain,
And bears him in a Tempest on the Foe.
209
AN ELEGY:
To the Memory of a Friend, begun in his Sickness.
[_]
N. B. Mr. Roche recovered, and the Public are obliged to Him for some fine Pieces hereunto annexed.
Yet, yet, He lives—O yet kind Heavens spare
The dear lamented Object of my Prayer!
Vain Hope, vain Wish—else why fresh Sorrows rise,
Spring from my Soul, and overflow my Eyes.
What chilling Anguish freezes ev'ry Part,
Sure tis my Friend just dying from my Heart:
Griefs big with Griefs, and Pangs on Pangs deplore
My dearest Friend, perhaps my Friend no more.
Ill-boding Thought—
Hah! from whence streams that melancholy Gloom,
Whence groan'd that Echo, from some hollow Tomb
'Tis sure the Call of Death! my Soul attend;
Lo! hark! I know the Voice, it cries, my Friend;
How pale it looks—but see the Vision o'er,
'Tis he—what Roche! I knew that Form before.
It must be so—Yet whence this guilty Fear!
Why freeze my Nerves, why bristles ev'ry Hair?
Did we thus meet! ah ever friendly stay,
What do I wish—alas I faint away.
Whence rose my Fears! the fictious Vision's flown,
Yet sure, too sure I hear some mournful Groan.
Those baleful Eughs that o'er the Window wave,
Could their deep Murmurs thus my Sense deceive!
Those Mid-night Beams, that pale yon Moon-light Wall;
Could they the Image of my Friend recall?
Could these Delusions thus disturb my Breast,
Startle my Soul, and burst the Bands of Rest?
Ah no! those Objects innocent appear,
Nor shock my Sight, nor terrify my Ear.
But hark! the horary-resounding Bower,
Doleful, proclaims the lonesome Mid-night Hour.
Now Sleep with downy Wings broods o'er the Ground,
While Death wide-stalking shapes his Nightly Round,
With Sleep's black Pinions, plumes his Ebon Dart,
And dismally beguiles the Slumberer's Heart.
Ah me! my Friend, my sickly Friend arise,
Death, Death lies ambush'd in the soft Disguise.
The dear lamented Object of my Prayer!
Vain Hope, vain Wish—else why fresh Sorrows rise,
Spring from my Soul, and overflow my Eyes.
What chilling Anguish freezes ev'ry Part,
Sure tis my Friend just dying from my Heart:
Griefs big with Griefs, and Pangs on Pangs deplore
My dearest Friend, perhaps my Friend no more.
Ill-boding Thought—
210
Whence groan'd that Echo, from some hollow Tomb
'Tis sure the Call of Death! my Soul attend;
Lo! hark! I know the Voice, it cries, my Friend;
How pale it looks—but see the Vision o'er,
'Tis he—what Roche! I knew that Form before.
It must be so—Yet whence this guilty Fear!
Why freeze my Nerves, why bristles ev'ry Hair?
Did we thus meet! ah ever friendly stay,
What do I wish—alas I faint away.
Whence rose my Fears! the fictious Vision's flown,
Yet sure, too sure I hear some mournful Groan.
Those baleful Eughs that o'er the Window wave,
Could their deep Murmurs thus my Sense deceive!
Those Mid-night Beams, that pale yon Moon-light Wall;
Could they the Image of my Friend recall?
Could these Delusions thus disturb my Breast,
Startle my Soul, and burst the Bands of Rest?
211
Nor shock my Sight, nor terrify my Ear.
But hark! the horary-resounding Bower,
Doleful, proclaims the lonesome Mid-night Hour.
Now Sleep with downy Wings broods o'er the Ground,
While Death wide-stalking shapes his Nightly Round,
With Sleep's black Pinions, plumes his Ebon Dart,
And dismally beguiles the Slumberer's Heart.
Ah me! my Friend, my sickly Friend arise,
Death, Death lies ambush'd in the soft Disguise.
Torn from the dear Recesses of thy Heart,
For ever! ah for ever we must part.
Nay, cease to tremble, stop that falling Tear,
'Tis I, my Friend; can I create thy Fear?
How we have lov'd, 'tis thou alone canst tell;
How we have lov'd, 'tis thou alone canst feel.
Yet would I sooth thy doubt-revolving Soul,
But Heaven forbids, and angry Tales controul.
Nor can Discourse as once beguile the Hours,
They're past—my Wish is all—I come, ye Powers.
For ever! ah for ever we must part.
Nay, cease to tremble, stop that falling Tear,
'Tis I, my Friend; can I create thy Fear?
How we have lov'd, 'tis thou alone canst tell;
How we have lov'd, 'tis thou alone canst feel.
Yet would I sooth thy doubt-revolving Soul,
But Heaven forbids, and angry Tales controul.
212
They're past—my Wish is all—I come, ye Powers.
O ever-honour'd! long-lamented Friend,
And is it thus our promis'd Joys must end?
And is it thus our promis'd Joys must end?
213
TO LAURA.
In vain my Laura you conceal that Name,
When every Verse betrays you into Fame.
Raptur'd I read, and as I read, I see
Virtue can only be describ'd by Thee.
Drest in thy Verse, how beautiful she shines,
Charms in thy Thought, and by thy Soul refines.
So drawn thro' tuneful Instruments, the Air
In Music warbles, and expels Despair.
Again, fair Nymph thy Power of Numbers try,
And sweeten Sorrow into Harmony.
When every Verse betrays you into Fame.
Raptur'd I read, and as I read, I see
Virtue can only be describ'd by Thee.
Drest in thy Verse, how beautiful she shines,
Charms in thy Thought, and by thy Soul refines.
So drawn thro' tuneful Instruments, the Air
In Music warbles, and expels Despair.
Again, fair Nymph thy Power of Numbers try,
And sweeten Sorrow into Harmony.
So oft when touch'd with Sickness I repair
To draw from fragrant Fields a purer Air:
Nature still strives t' amuse my Mind in vain,
'Till Birds wide-warbling melodize the Plain.
The sprightly Notes each Sense of Pain controul,
And sudden Health revives my fainting Soul.
Sooth'd, there I stand, and sweetly lost around,
Hear of my Pains, and healthen from the Sound.
To draw from fragrant Fields a purer Air:
214
'Till Birds wide-warbling melodize the Plain.
The sprightly Notes each Sense of Pain controul,
And sudden Health revives my fainting Soul.
Sooth'd, there I stand, and sweetly lost around,
Hear of my Pains, and healthen from the Sound.
With Virtue's Charms, my fair Physician prove,
And kindly make me such, as you could Love.
And kindly make me such, as you could Love.
215
An Idyllium.
Fast by those Banks, where aged Eden glides,And Trees embow'ring paint his azure Sides,
Young Florio sat; his Lyre the Muses strung,
And to the Streams attun'd the rising Song.
The Birds enchanted, as the Poet play'd,
Perch'd o'er his Head, and peopled all the Shade.
When, lo! descending to the Vocal Grove,
Approach'd the Parent, and the Power of Love:
Quick at his Sight, the Flowers fresh Sweets exhale,
And softer Murmurs dy'd in ev'ry Gale.
While thus the God-head spoke. “Say, Shepherd, say,
“Still shall thy stubborn Soul disdain my Sway?
216
“Nor one sure Arrow pierce thy lawless Heart?
“Have I for this subdu'd fam'd Chiefs of Old,
“Soften'd the Fierce, and Womaniz'd the Bold?
“Shall humbled Monarchs own my mighty Reign,
“And thou, a Boy, the Victor-God disdain?
To hide his Thoughts, in Silence, Florio strove,
Yet even Silence is a Speech in Love:
He watch'd th' unguarded Passage to his Heart,
And unawares deep lodg'd th' envenom'd Dart.
217
Description of a Shepherd.
Piping he sate, as merry as his Look,And by him lay his Bottle and his Crook;
His Buskins edg'd with Silver were, of Silk,
And sheath'd a Leg more white than Morning Milk.
Those Buskins he had got, and brought away,
For dancing best upon the Revel Day.
The Dissenter.
Non-con at Satan in the Pulpit rails,And musters up a Pack of dev'lish Tales:
How by Old Nick, Eve was at first betray'd,
Uriah's Wife by David backwards laid:
But never tells who makes him kiss his Maid.
218
Amoret and Florimello.
A Pastoral SONG.
I
Underneath a mossy Mountain,Close beside a falling Fountain,
Charming Amoret was laid;
Wanton Zephyrs whisper'd Kisses,
Toying with her flowing Tresses,
When the sighing Virgin said:
II
Must I then for-ever languish,With this soft consuming Anguish,
O the sadly pleasing Pain!
219
Love commands me to reveal it,
To my lovely Shepherd-Swain.
III
O thou sweetly vocal Water,Cease a harmless Maid to flatter;
And convey these dying Sighs,
Thro' this Flow'r-enamell'd Valley,
To yon fair enchanting Alley,
Where asleep my Lover lies.
IV
Florimello sweetly dreaming,Amoret consenting seeming,
Wak'd, and curst the jilting Shade;
Swift as Light'ning thro' the Bushes,
Half enrag'd the Shepherd rushes,
Finds, and clasps the real Maid.
220
To an old Lady who painted.
In vain, poor Nymph, to win our youthful Hearts,
You purchase Charms, and practise all your Arts.
In former Times we heard our Fathers say,
Flavia was tender, easy, fair, and gay.
Thus may we love each Picture that we view,
For that contains as many Charms as you.
You purchase Charms, and practise all your Arts.
In former Times we heard our Fathers say,
Flavia was tender, easy, fair, and gay.
Thus may we love each Picture that we view,
For that contains as many Charms as you.
Once more employ this strange creating Art,
And nicely animate each fading Part:
Then keep a constant Eye upon your Glass,
And be the Picture of what once you was:
So shall you gain one half of your Desire,
For then, but not till then, we can admire.
And nicely animate each fading Part:
Then keep a constant Eye upon your Glass,
And be the Picture of what once you was:
So shall you gain one half of your Desire,
For then, but not till then, we can admire.
221
Upon Zephyrinda's Singing.
When
Zephyrinda's softest Airs I hear,
She draws my Soul into my list'ning Ear;
Aghast I stand, unknowing where to praise,
Lost in a Maze of Joys ten thousand ways:
Sometimes I melt upon her Music's Sound,
And bless that charming Tongue that gives the Wound;
Sometimes I sighing view those magic Eyes,
Where all that's good and all that's lovely lies.
Soft panting Cupids play around the Fair,
They laugh, they peep, they think their Mother there.
But while the charming Zephyrinda sings,
They point their Darts, and wave their Silken Wings.
Floating on painted Streams they fly around,
Languish in Airs, and melt with pleasing Sound.
She draws my Soul into my list'ning Ear;
Aghast I stand, unknowing where to praise,
Lost in a Maze of Joys ten thousand ways:
Sometimes I melt upon her Music's Sound,
And bless that charming Tongue that gives the Wound;
Sometimes I sighing view those magic Eyes,
Where all that's good and all that's lovely lies.
Soft panting Cupids play around the Fair,
They laugh, they peep, they think their Mother there.
But while the charming Zephyrinda sings,
They point their Darts, and wave their Silken Wings.
222
Languish in Airs, and melt with pleasing Sound.
Like her sweet Orpheus sung his fleeting Love,
Like Me attentive stood the list'ning Grove.
But now no more let Poets Orpheus praise,
Or crown his hallow'd Lyre with greener Bays:
To Zephyrinda's Airs and sweeter Song,
A fairer Fame, and loftier Lays belong;
He only made the Hellish-Shades admire;
Her Eyes and Music charm the Heavenly-Choir;
And thus instructs the Soul to sing and love,
At once the Business and the Bliss above.
Like Me attentive stood the list'ning Grove.
But now no more let Poets Orpheus praise,
Or crown his hallow'd Lyre with greener Bays:
To Zephyrinda's Airs and sweeter Song,
A fairer Fame, and loftier Lays belong;
He only made the Hellish-Shades admire;
Her Eyes and Music charm the Heavenly-Choir;
And thus instructs the Soul to sing and love,
At once the Business and the Bliss above.
| The Poetical Works of Mr. William Pattison | |