Horace in London Consisting of imitations of the first two books of the odes of Horace. By the authors of the rejected addresses, or the new theatrum poetarum [Horace and James Smith] |
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 | Horace in London |  |
65
ODE XVII. THE WELCH COTTAGE.
Velox amænum sæpe Lucretilem.
To Laura.
The wood nymphs crown'd with vernal flow'rs,
Who roam thro' Tempe's classic bow'rs
And sport in gambols antic;
If e'er they quit their native vales,
Will find around my cot in Wales,
A region more romantic.
Who roam thro' Tempe's classic bow'rs
And sport in gambols antic;
If e'er they quit their native vales,
Will find around my cot in Wales,
A region more romantic.
Green pastures girt with pendant rock,
Along whose steep my snowy flock,
Adventurously wanders;
Impending shrubs and flowers that gleam,
Reflected in the chrystal stream,
Which thro' the scene meanders;
Along whose steep my snowy flock,
Adventurously wanders;
Impending shrubs and flowers that gleam,
Reflected in the chrystal stream,
Which thro' the scene meanders;
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In sylvan beauty charm the eyes,
While no ungracious sounds arise
Of misery or anger;
The song of birds, the insect's hum
Are never broken by the drum,
Or trumpet's brazen clangor.
While no ungracious sounds arise
Of misery or anger;
The song of birds, the insect's hum
Are never broken by the drum,
Or trumpet's brazen clangor.
If sleeping echo starts to mark
The matin carols of the lark,
Or sounds of early labour;
Again she seeks her calm retreat,
Till evening calls her to repeat,
The shepherd's pipe and tabor.
The matin carols of the lark,
Or sounds of early labour;
Again she seeks her calm retreat,
Till evening calls her to repeat,
The shepherd's pipe and tabor.
Whene'er I woo the muse serene,
Her magic smile illumes the scene,
And brighter tints discloses.
But e'en the muses' chaplet fades,
Unless the hand of Cupid braids
Her myrtle with his roses.
Her magic smile illumes the scene,
And brighter tints discloses.
But e'en the muses' chaplet fades,
Unless the hand of Cupid braids
Her myrtle with his roses.
Haste then, my Laura, to my bower,
And let us give the fleeting hour
To plenty, love, and pleasure:
Where wanton boughs an arbour wreathe
I to thy melting harp will breathe
My amatory measure.
And let us give the fleeting hour
To plenty, love, and pleasure:
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I to thy melting harp will breathe
My amatory measure.
Let not the town your soul enthral,
The crouded rout and midnight ball,
Those penalties of fashion:
If nature still have power to please,
Oh! hither fly to health and ease,
And crown a poet's passion.
The crouded rout and midnight ball,
Those penalties of fashion:
If nature still have power to please,
Oh! hither fly to health and ease,
And crown a poet's passion.
No jealous fears shall curb your mind,
Here shall no spirit be confin'd
By prejudiced opinion.
My Laura here a Queen shall be,
From all control and bondage free,
Save Cupid's soft dominion.
Here shall no spirit be confin'd
By prejudiced opinion.
My Laura here a Queen shall be,
From all control and bondage free,
Save Cupid's soft dominion.
| Horace in London | |