 | The Life and Poetical Works of James Woodhouse |  |
91
TO WILLIAM SHENSTONE, Esq., IN HIS SICKNESS,
By Mr. WOODHOUSE.
Ye flow'ry plains, ye breezy woods,
Ye bowers and gay alcoves,
Ye falling streams, ye silver floods,
Ye grottoes, and ye groves!
Ye bowers and gay alcoves,
Ye falling streams, ye silver floods,
Ye grottoes, and ye groves!
Alas, my heart feels no delight,
Tho' I your charms survey;
While he consumes in pain the night,
In languid sighs the day.
Tho' I your charms survey;
While he consumes in pain the night,
In languid sighs the day.
The flowers disclose a thousand blooms,
A thousand scents diffuse;
Yet all in vain they shed perfumes,
In vain display their hues.
A thousand scents diffuse;
Yet all in vain they shed perfumes,
In vain display their hues.
Restrain, ye flowers, your thoughtless pride,
Recline your gaudy heads;
And sadly drooping, side by side,
Embrace your humid beds.
Recline your gaudy heads;
And sadly drooping, side by side,
Embrace your humid beds.
Tall oaks, that o'er the woodland shade,
Your lofty summits rear!
Ah why, in wonted charms array'd
Expand your leaves so fair!
Your lofty summits rear!
Ah why, in wonted charms array'd
Expand your leaves so fair!
For lo, the flowers as gayly smile,
As wanton waves the tree;
And tho' I sadly plain the while,
Yet they regard not me.
As wanton waves the tree;
And tho' I sadly plain the while,
Yet they regard not me.
Ah, should the fates an arrow send,
And strike the fatal wound,
Who, who shall then your sweets defend,
Or fence your beauties round?
And strike the fatal wound,
Who, who shall then your sweets defend,
Or fence your beauties round?
But hark, perhaps, the plumy throng
Have learnt my plaintive tale,
And some sad dirge, or mournful song,
Comes floating in the gale.
Have learnt my plaintive tale,
And some sad dirge, or mournful song,
Comes floating in the gale.
Ah no! they chant a sprightly strain,
To soothe an amorous mate;
Unmindful of my anxious pain,
And his uncertain fate.
To soothe an amorous mate;
Unmindful of my anxious pain,
And his uncertain fate.
But see, these little murmuring rills;
With fond repinings rove;
And trickle wailing down the hills,
Or weep along the grove.
With fond repinings rove;
And trickle wailing down the hills,
Or weep along the grove.
92
Oh mock not if beside your stream,
You hear me too repine;
Or aid with sighs your mournful theme,
And fondly call him mine.
You hear me too repine;
Or aid with sighs your mournful theme,
And fondly call him mine.
Ye envious winds the cause display,
In whispers as ye blow,
Why did your treacherous gales convey
The poison'd shafts of woe?
In whispers as ye blow,
Why did your treacherous gales convey
The poison'd shafts of woe?
Did he not plant the shady bower,
Where you so blithely meet?
The scented shrub, and fragrant flower,
To make your breezes sweet?
Where you so blithely meet?
The scented shrub, and fragrant flower,
To make your breezes sweet?
And must he leave the wood, the field,
The dear Arcadian reign?
Can neither verse nor virtue shield
The guardian of the plain?
The dear Arcadian reign?
Can neither verse nor virtue shield
The guardian of the plain?
Must he his tuneful breath resign,
Whom all the Muses love?
That round his brow their laurels twine,
And all his songs approve.
Whom all the Muses love?
That round his brow their laurels twine,
And all his songs approve.
Preserve him, mild Omnipotence!
Our Father, King, and God,
Who clear'st the paths of life and sense,
Or stop'st them at thy nod.
Our Father, King, and God,
Who clear'st the paths of life and sense,
Or stop'st them at thy nod.
Blest pow'r, who calm'st the raging deep,
His valued health restore,
Nor let the sons of Genius weep,
Nor let the Good deplore.
His valued health restore,
Nor let the sons of Genius weep,
Nor let the Good deplore.
But if thy boundless Wisdom knows
His longer date an ill,
Let not my soul a wish disclose
To contradict thy will.
His longer date an ill,
Let not my soul a wish disclose
To contradict thy will.
For happy, happy were the change,
For such a god-like mind,
To go were kindred spirits range,
Nor leave a wish behind.
For such a god-like mind,
To go were kindred spirits range,
Nor leave a wish behind.
And tho' to share his pleasures here,
Kings might their state forego;
Yet must he feel such raptures there,
As none can taste below.
Kings might their state forego;
Yet must he feel such raptures there,
As none can taste below.
| The Life and Poetical Works of James Woodhouse | |