The Life and Poetical Works of James Woodhouse :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Life and Poetical Works of James Woodhouse

(1735-1820): Edited by the Rev. R. I. Woodhouse

Woodhouse, James (1735-1820)

I, II.

VOL: I., II.

The Life and Lucubrations of Crispinus Scriblerus.

CORONATION OF GEORGE III. AND QUEEN CHARLOTTE.

TO WILLIAM SHENSTONE, Esq., IN HIS SICKNESS, By Mr. WOODHOUSE.

POEMS ON Several Occasions

POEMS ON Several Occasions ... WITH An Address to the Public.

Norbury Park, A Poem; With several others, written on various occasions.

LOVE LETTERS TO MY WIFE;

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

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POEMS ON Several Occasions

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE GEORGE, LORD LYTTLETON, Baron of Frankley, THIS WORK IS INSCRIBED, AS AN HUMBLE ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF HIS CONDESCENSION, HUMANITY AND BENIFICENCE TOWARDS THE AUTHOR; IN WHOM IT WOULD BE PRESUMPTION TO ENLARGE ON HIS VIRTUES, WHICH ARE EVERY DAY EXERTED IN THE HIGHEST AND MOST EXTENSIVE SPHERE; OR TO SPEAK OF HIS GENIUS, WHICH NOT ONLY ADORNS THE PRESENT, BUT WILL ILLUMINATE FUTURE AGES.

AN ELEGY TO WILLIAM SHENSTONE, Esq., OF THE LESSOWES.

Pardon, O Shenstone! an intruding strain,
Nor blame the boldness of a village swain,
Who feels ambition haunt the lowliest cell,
And dares on thy distinguish'd name to dwell;
Let no censorious frown deform thy face,
But gladd'ning smiles maintain their wonted grace.
Hence, vain surmise! my muse can ne'er offend
One truly good! To all mankind a friend!
Tho' ev'ry muse disclaims my rustic lay,
Thy songs delight, the tuneful god of day;
What true respect inspires, let me believe
The generous Shenstone will at least forgive;
Shall he, benevolent as wife, disdain
The muse's suitor, tho' a sandal'd swain?
Tho' no auspicious rent-rolls grace my line,
I boast the same original divine.
Tho' niggard fate with-held her sordid ore,
Yet liberal nature gave her better store;
Whose influence early did my mind inspire
To read her works, and seek her mighty Sire.
Oft has she led me to thy fair domains,
Where she, with art, in sweet assemblage reigns;
Has led me to the dusky twilight cell,
Where meagre melancholy loves to dwell:
Oft has creative fancy seen her move,
With pensive pace, along the mournful grove;
Her haggard eye, and looks all downward bent,
Slow, creeping on, with solemn step she went;
Where tow'ring trees assail the sapphire sky,
While on their tops the panting breezes die,
Whose deep-entwined branches all conspire
To banish Sol, or damp his parching fire.
In vain! their efforts but endear the blaze,
While thro' the shade his penetrating rays
Between the quivering foliage all around
In circled dances gild the chequer'd ground.
See, thro' the centre, bursts a flood of light,
And woods, hills, hamlets rush upon the sight.
Again immerg'd, adown the green abode,
My joyful feet explor'd the mazy road;
Whence not a sacrilegious footstep strays,
Nor, lawless, seeks to tread forbidden ways.
Here fragrant shrubs, here limpid streams appear,
Whose trilling murmurs strike the ravish'd ear.
See, from their dark recess they slowly creep,
The tear-hung flowers beside the margin weep.
With gurgling moan the winding stream complains,
And dyes its pebbly bed with sanguine stains;
Yet, blest by heav'n, its gracious ends to serve,
To chear the languid eye, and brace the slacken'd nerve:
Th' insatiate pond its boundless gifts receives,
Absorpt and bury'd in its crystal waves;
The bounding fish the dimpling surface spurn,
And hail the Naiad as she stoops her urn.

Below with sudden burst, and louder tone,
The sounding cataract rushes headlong down.

Oft-times beneath the verdant slope I've stood,
And as the jutting stones divide the flood,
Well pleas'd beheld the wide expanded stream
Reflecting far an adamantine gleam.
Its self-scoop'd reservoir, beneath, it laves
In foaming eddies; then, in circling waves,
Kisses in wanton sport the rocky sides,
Till, sweetly smiling, smoothly on it glides.
What flowers along its borders nature spreads,
That o'er the liquid mirror hang their heads!
With vain self-love, their painted charms survey,
And like Narcissus, fondly pine away.

Here gloomy grottos spread a solemn shade;
There bench'd alcoves afford their friendly aid:
Here lucid streams in wild meanders stray,
And ramble wide, to share the smoothest way;
Or, nobly bold, with unremitting pride,
O'er stones and fragments pour the impetuous tide;
While on the margin, with Vertumnus, reigns
The blooming Flora, chequ'ring all the plains;
And painted kine the flow'ry herbage graze,
Whose milky store their bill of fare repays;
While, warbling round, the plumy chorists throng,
And glad th' horizon with their rural song.

Hail, blooming Eden! Hail, Arcadian shades!
Where dwells Apollo; dwell th' Aonian maids;
Immortal train! who alway thee attend,
Their chosen fav'rite, and their constant friend:
With heart-felt joy I've traced their various song,
Express'd in fragments, all thy walks along:
To read them all would be my humble pride;
But only part is granted, part deny'd:
I feel no Grecian, feel no Roman fire;
I only share the British muse's lyre;
And that stern penury dares almost deny;
For manual toils alone my wants supply:
The awl and pen by turns possess my hand,
And worldly cares, e'en now, the muse's hour demand.
Once fickle fortune's gifts before me shone,
But now, that tantalizing vision's gone!
What is, is best: And now that hope's no more,
Am I less happy than I was before,
Who live resign'd to my Creator's will,
And sweet contentment's presence blesses still?

Think not I write for hire!—My gen'rous muse
Has no such mean, such mercenary views!
I only wish to be thy serving friend,
And on thy footsteps faithful to attend!
I ask no pay; let all my wages be
My mind's improvement, while I wait on thee.
To hear thy works, to read them o'er and o'er,
Wou'd be both Indies; Wisdom's richest store!
Aw'd by thy modest worth, I dare no more.
Is this my prayer? It must acceptance find;
My muse not venal; thine humane and kind.

Once thy propitious gates no fears betray'd,
But bid all welcome to the sacred shade;
'Till Belial's sons (of gratitude the bane)
With cursed riot dar'd thy groves profane:
And now their fatal mischiefs I deplore,
Condemn'd to dwell in Paradise no more!
Thy just revenge, like heaven's flaming guard,
With frowning bolts all entrance has debarr'd,
On that blest Day, which with the great I share
In luscious ease, retir'd from toil and care;
That ease, which banishes the frown austere,
And ranks the peasant equal with the peer.
Then hear my humble claim; and smiling grant
The fond petition of thy supplicant;
That when before thy villa's gate I stand,
An offer'd key may grace thy servant's hand:
Nor shall the youthful votary of the muse,
Nor friends select, her haunts and thine abuse;
But share her influence; bless the live-long day;
And, when again she sings, resound a nobler lay.

Enough; nor shall her tasteless, tuneless song,
With scrannel pipe, thy gentle patience wrong.

Rowley, June, 1759.

J. Woodhouse.

ELEGY II. WRITTEN TO WILLIAM SHENSTONE, Esq., OF THE LESSOWES.

A rude presumptuous muse, uncheck'd,
More favour'd than she could expect,
Again replumes her feeble wing,
And thus, again, essays to sing.

Serenely smil'd the festal day,
Inviting to thy shades away;
No sable clouds, thro' heav'n's domain,
With angry frown, foreboded rain;
No wide-mouth'd Eol, blust'ring loud,
To tumults rouz'd his factious crowd;
Thin flying vapours veil'd the sun,
But soon, unmask'd, he clearly shone;
Here, golden lustre free from stains;
There, flitting shadows patch the plains.

And O thou steel enchanter, hail!
That canst o'er bolts and bars prevail;
Thy magic touch gives free access,
Nor leaves occasion to transgress;
More I could sing, for more's thy meed;
But now I leave thee, and proceed.
Favonius rov'd the shades among,
Suffus'd with fragrance and with song,
All jocund play'd his balmy breeze
Among the flow'rs, among the trees;
Pilf'ring from each transpiring sweets,
Then, with the spoil, each wand'rer greets.
Distant the swan, elate and vain,
Sail'd stately o'er the wat'ry plain;
His ermin'd breast the pool divides,
And, while soft parting from his sides,
The widening waves his paths betray,
Beneath his oars distending play;
He snorts contempt, his neck he turns,
And every feather'd vassal spurns.

Though these delights around me throng,
And thousands that remain unsung;
Yet, hapless I! still doom'd to moan,
I found my kind Mecenas gone:
No friendly partner in my grief,
By sympathy to give relief;
Except the weeping fount below,
(Whose crystal tears for ever flow)
Which through the verdant lichen crept,
And smil'd the more, the more it wept.
But let me other woes bemoan,
Than what attended me alone.

Here, ruthless crowds, disdaining bounds,
Climb'd o'er thy gates, leap'd all thy mounds;

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There, pathless lawns and meadows crost,
And through the crashing fences burst.
Ye Nymphs and Fauns, my wish befriend!
Ye Dryads all, assistance lend!
Oh! lead them through your mazy shade,
To thorns and quivering bogs betray'd.
See where yon island lifts its head,
The boat for social pleasure made,
Seiz'd by the same tumultuous band,
And driving from its peaceful stand
To break the tender osier's shoots,
To bare or bruise its matted roots.
Ye Naiads, guardians of these streams,
Defend what your protection claims.
Ye clouds, pour down your vengeful showers;
Let Eol too unite his powers,
To raise the storm to heave them o'er,
And send them duck'd, half-drown'd, to shore.

Embracing here this alder fair,
Led by the fost'ring hand of care,
A twining woodbine rear'd its head,
And, once, mellifluent odour shed;
Now fever'd by some trait'rous knife,
Lies robb'd of fragrance, verdure, life!
Surely such sweetness might assuage
The fell assassin's murd'ring rage!
What hellish dæmon was his guide
To rob thee of thy blooming pride?
May heaviest rains on him descend!
No friendly tree its shelter lend!
But, from their leafy sides and tops,
Drench him with pond'rous, chilling drops!
Or, wilder'd in the blackest night,
May screaming owls his ears affright!
And, if his breast a woodbine bear,
May withering mildews blast it there!

What though each avenue thou bar;
Yet insufficient's all thy care:
Except thy watchful eye attend,
Who shall thy blithesome scenes defend?
Let not thy generous hand refuse
This second offering of my muse;
But still thy friendship let me boast,
Or—I am in oblivion lost!
As Phœbus, thy great system's soul,
Lights up the orbs that round him roll;
Let me, though at such distance plac'd,
With thy extended ray be blest!
My whole ambition is to shine
By one reflected beam from thine.

At the Close of June, 1759.

J. Woodhouse.

101

BENEVOLENCE.

Ah! what avails it thus to shine,
By ev'ry art refin'd;
Except Benevolence combine
To humanize the mind!
The Parian floor,
Or vivid cieling, fresco'd o'er,
With glaring charms the gazing eye may fire;
Yet may their lords, like statues cold,
Devoid of sympathy, behold
Fair worth with want repine,
Or indigence expire;
Nor ever know the noblest use of gold.

'Tis yours, with sympathetic breast
To stop the rising sigh,
And wipe the tearful eye,
Nor let repining merit sue unblest:
This is a more applausive taste
Than spending wealth
In gorgeous waste,
Or with dire luxury destroying health;
It sweetens life with ev'ry virtuous joy,
And wings the conscious hours with gladness as they fly.

102

SPRING.

The sun's returning genial fires
With flow'rets paints the dale;
With joy the herd and flock inspires,
With music fills the gale.

Yet he renews his warmth in vain,
With flow'rets scents the ground;
The lambkins gambol o'er the plain,
And songsters chant around.

To me, in vain does nature smile,
In vain her charms display;
Whilst I, with never-ending toil,
Consume the lengthen'd day.

Time was I've trod the velvet green,
That rob'd the quick'ning earth,
And ey'd the universal scene,
And mark'd each flow'ret's birth.

Mark'd where the snow-drop's silver crest
Shot forth his daring head,
And where the violet's sapphire vest
Its fragrant incense shed.

Not with unlawful, thankless gaze
Survey'd fair nature's face,
The tow'ring heights, the solar blaze,
The vast ætherial space.

(For who that views this wond'rous frame,
Replete with beauty shine,
But must with ecstasy proclaim
The plastic power divine?)

Oft, in the deep sequester'd shade,
From care and business free,
Have sought the muses sprightly aid,
And sung to liberty.

Oft, with my Daphne in my arms,
The hours in transports flew,
Comparing her attractive charms
With all fair nature drew.

Oft, by some fountain laid along,
Dissolv'd in downy ease,
With raptures heard the woodland song,
And breath'd the scented breeze.

Oft, stretch'd beneath the mountain's brow,
Secur'd from mid-day gleams,
Have pass'd the hours, unheeding how,
In soft, romantic dreams.

And oft, with sweet Benevolence,
That heaven-descended fair!
Have sacrific'd the sweets of sense,
Sublimer joys to share.

Oft forc'd the thickest thorny shade;
Oft climb'd the shaggy hill,
Explor'd each tuft, each mossy glade,
And trac'd the mazy rill;

With care to cull each healing plant,
To hoard the balmy store,
That where or dire disease, or want,
Invade the friendless poor;

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There to dispense their cheering aids
Through each distressful cot,
Where feeble swains or pallid maids,
Bemoan'd their dreary lot.

But, ah! the herbs, the flowers, I seek
With curious eye, no more;
No more they flush the haggard cheek,
Or blooming health restore:

Lost now their use, their healing art,
Now where they bloom they die;
No healthful tincture they impart,
No cordial draught supply.

For now domestick cares employ,
And busy ev'ry sense,
Nor leave one hour of grief or joy,
But's furnish'd out from thence:

Save what my little babes afford,
Whom I behold with glee,
When smiling at my humble board,
Or prattling on my knee.

Not that my Daphne's charms are flown,
These still new pleasures bring;
'Tis these inspire content alone,
'Tis all I've left of Spring.

The dew-drop sparkling in her eyes,
The lily on her breast,
The rose-bud on her lip supplies
My rich, my sweet repast.

Her hair outshines the saffron morn;
To her harmonious note,
The thrush sits list'ning on the thorn,
And checks his swelling throat.

Nor wish I, dear connubial state,
To break thy silken bands;
I only blame relentless fate,
That ev'ry hour demands.

Nor mourn I much my task austere,
Which endless wants impose!
But—oh! it wounds my soul to hear
My Daphne's melting woes!

For oft she sighs, and oft she weeps,
And hangs her pensive head;
While blood her furrow'd finger steeps,
And stains the passing thread.

When orient hills the sun behold,
Our labour's long begun!
And when he streaks the west with gold,
The task is still undone.

How happy is each bird and beast,
Who find their food unsought,
Whom nature feeds with constant feast,
Without one anxious thought.

The beasts in freedom range the fields,
Nor care, nor sorrow, know;
Their meat, the tender herbage yields,
The springs, their drink bestow.

Each hour the birds, with sprightly voice,
In rival songs contend;
Or o'er their bounteous meals rejoice,
Or in fond dalliance spend.

But foresight warns me not to taste
The bliss which heav'n design'd;
But joyless all my nights to waste,
To shun more woes behind.

Oh! why within this tortur'd heart,
Must keen reflection dwell?
To double ev'ry present smart,
And future pains foretell?

But, oh my soul! no longer blame
That lot which Heav'n decreed;
Nor thus, with petulance, disclaim
The patient christian's meed.

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But rather, with true filial fear,
Adore the present God;
And his paternal stripes revere,
And kiss his healing rod.

No more his pow'r shall be withstood,
No more oppos'd his will;
Nor let what wisdom meant for good,
My folly construe ill.

Who knows but liberty and wealth
Might work a woeful change;
Excess and ease impair my health,
Or virtuous thoughts estrange?

What I dislike, God gives in love,
In love my suit denies;
Or oft my wish my bane might prove,
My bliss what I despise.

Then let not my presumptuous mind
Oppose his love or might;
For well has moral Pope defin'd,
“Whatever is, is right.”

Though now with penury opprest,
I give my sorrows vent,
He soon may calm my troubled breast,
Or sooth my discontent.

Come, Reason, then, bid murm'ring cease,
And intellectual strife!
Come, smiling Hope, and dove-ey'd Peace,
And still the storms of life.

My little skiff, kind Pilots! steer
Adown the stream of time;
And teach me, melancholic fear,
And dark distrust's a crime.

For has not truth's unerring Sire,
Who all our wants must know,
Proclaim'd, what nature can require,
His bounty shall bestow?

He feeds the birds that wing their flight
Along the passive air;
And lilies bloom in glossy white
Beneath his fost'ring care.

Nor accident, nor fate, recalls
The life that He has lent;
For not a single sparrow falls
Without his full assent,

Shou'd Poverty's oppressive train,
Still haunt my lowly cell,
Yet Faith shall smile away my pain,
And all their threat'nings quell.

For when through Ether's boundless space,
This orb terrene has run
A few more times his annual race,
Wide circling round the sun;

Or, haply, ere the day be past,
And evening's shades descend,
My weary'd heart may pant its last,
And all my sorrows end:

Then shall the disembodied soul
Resign her dark domain,
And range where countless systems roll,
And springs eternal reign.

Yet not in solitude to soar;
But with a kindred band,
The pow'r and wisdom to explore
Of her Creator's hand.

Or with her tuneful pow'rs complete,
To chaunt the bliss above;
Or, in ecstatic notes, repeat
Her dear Redeemer's love!

105

THE LESSOWES.

A POEM.

Once more, O Shenstone! my advent'rous muse
Attempts to sing; nor thou the song refuse,
No child of fancy, no poetic dream,
But thy Arcadia is her pleasing theme;
A theme which oft has wak'd her rustic lyre,
Has warm'd her breast, with more than vulgar fire;
Yet has she only sung thy fair domains,
These first inspir'd her rude, unpractis'd strains.

As the young bird that hops from spray to spray,
Unskill'd as yet to swell its rural lay,
The little flights she took betray'd her fear,
Nor dar'd she trust the pathless fields of air;
'Till gath'ring strength, a longer flight she tries,
And all thy Paradise, with wonder, eyes.
Yet, doubtful still, she spreads her tender wing,
Despairing, with her heedless notes, to sing
The various-pleasing scenes that round her throng,
Foiling the pencil and the pow'r of song.
But why despair? On Shenstone's love rely,
He marks thy faults with smiling candour's eye;
Will with his judgment's subtle fires refine,
Smooth ev'ry rough, and nerve each lab'ring line.
Fir'd with the charming hope thy task pursue,
Do thou, like him who Beauty's Goddess drew,
Sketch the rude outlines of these fairy bow'rs,
The trees, the buildings, landscapes, fountains, flow'rs;
But, aw'd with charms where all attempts must fail,
Over their matchless beauties throw a veil.

First, o'er a flow'ry lawn my muse descend,
Where nodding cowslips o'er the herbage bend;
Or now, enwrapp'd in solemn shades, beside
The fringed margin of a smiling tide,
Where headlong woods inverted seem to rise,
Their branches stretch'd to meet the nether skies:
See, in the grove's extremest southern bound,
A gloomy grotto sunk in shades profound,
In sullen state, with roots and moss inwrought,
Dispensing awe, the nurse of sober thought.

As, void of charms the mine salutes the eye,
Yet in its womb rich sparkling diamonds lie;
So these rude roofs far brighter gems unfold,
That ought to shine emboss'd with burnish'd gold;
For, in this grot, may ev'ry eye discern
Those sacred truths which ev'ry heart should learn;
The truth's in Shenstone's moral heart pourtray'd,
And copied by his muse beneath this shade.

Hence, o'er the oft-resounding road I roam,
That leads to Shenstone's hospitable dome;
There first the eye the sylvan reign surveys,
Where murm'ring streams, and warbling woodlands, please.

Now seated in a flower-enamel'd vale,
Where fanning Auster breathes a fresh'ning gale,

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And sighs through whisp'ring leaves, and sips the springs,
To ease his panting breath, and cool his sun-burnt wings;
With sudden sound, deep-gurgling murmurs rise,
Their source unseen, to strike with more surprize;
Till gushing floods their darksome prison loose,
Eject their treasure through the op'ning sluice;
And o'er the ragged rocks, with spangling bound,
Scatter the ten-fold torrent all around.

From hence the riv'let undisturbed strays,
And under bending boughs of alder plays;
Where speckled osiers rise in painted ranks,
And pine, and chesnut, shade the upper banks.

And now, behold! a lovely landscape nigh,
Whose complicated beauties charm the eye;
Where rising hills are deck'd with ev'ry grace,
And spacious pools supply the middle space,
There a tall spire its lofty summit rears,
Proud to be seen, in various views appears.

Now, where the plane expands its ample leaves,
And mingling sprays the almond willow weaves;
The Grot and stream, with branchy trees o'erhung,
And Grey's illustrious name, demand the song.
Nor sparkling fossil here, nor pearly shell,
Nor slabs of marble ornament the cell;
But rugged roots, uncouth, in rustic rows,
With tufted moss, the edifice compose.
Yet who this humble grot contemptuous scorns,
While Stamford's name the striking scene adorns?
Or this fair fountain, which, from secret source,
Through distant groves begins its shining course?
For o'er the rocks, through oaks and hazels tall,
Like sheets of liquid silver see it fall:
And now a moment from the eye conceal'd;
And now again in curling waves reveal'd;
Again it's hid, again it freely shoots
O'er craggy stones, and intersecting roots;
Now from another eminence it starts;
Now o'er another, and another, darts;
Till, stretch'd in one continuous cascade,
It foams, and glimmers, down the pleasing shade.
The skipping nymphs in blithsome mood advance;
And Naïads in conjunction frisk the dance;
While to the trilling streams, the Dryad band,
With Fauns, and Satyrs, gambol o'er the strand.

O Thou, the lord of Enville's noble seat,
Where all is beauty, elegantly great;
The patron of those temples, streams and groves,
Which, fix'd with wonder, ev'ry taste approves;
Disdain not this applauded grot and spring,
That might adorn the walks of Britain's King.

Hence, wand'ring on, with joy-dilated heart,
See! through the trees a well-wrought statue start,
His finish'd muscles all replete with life!
With shrill and warbling notes he swells his fife;
For fancy's ear can trace th' unreal sound,
And hear from hills aërial tones rebound.

A Moment here, my muse, thy steps retard,
Nor pass unnotic'd by the gen'rous bard;
Who, free from sordid views of future pelf,
With rich donations crown'd my scanty shelf;
Replenish'd now with many a bounteous tome,
Prime decoration of my rustic dome!
Nor wilt thou, Dodsley, with unfeeling pride,
These genuine strains of gratitude deride;
Although thy name may boast so bright a dow'r,
Th' adopted guardian of this beauteous bow'r.

For native genius fires thy glowing mind,
And ev'ry muse and ev'ry virtue join'd;
With jealous warmth conspiring, all contest
The happy empire of thy noble breast:
And fortune o'er thy labours deigns to smile,
With bounty crowning all thy care and toil.

Where yonder hazel-twigs their foliage spread,
Fit dormitory for poetic dead!
Upon that argent urn appears enroll'd,
With splendid epitaph, in types of gold,
The name of Somerville; whose winged muse,
With panting speed, the bounding stag pursues.

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But not an uninstructive tale alone
Could ever gain that monumental stone;
For merit only Shenstone's friendship gains;
His voice applauds no weak immoral strains;
Unmeaning folly tho' he scarcely blames,
Ingenious vice his shudd'ring soul disclaims.
These honours by judicious Shenstone paid,
To valued Somerville's delighted shade,
Proclaim his title to th' immortal bays,
Though I ne'er saw his much applauded lays.

For fortune wreaks on me her utmost spite,
And seeks to rob me of that true delight,
Which I in constant quest of knowledge find,
The sweet reviver of a pensive mind.
But not unlike are fortune's favourites found;
For he who plann'd this fair Hesperian round,
Griev'd that one spark of genius should expire,
With pleasure strung my weak, discordant lyre;
Nor deafly heard me learning's want repine.
But, from his copious literary mine,
To ease my mourning muse's discontent,
Full many a glowing volume frankly lent;
Nor spurn'd me, scornful, from his social board,
With frugal bounty hospitably stor'd;
Where oft my soul in reverie has hung
On the smooth accents of his tuneful tongue;
While bright'ning fancy, borne on wing sublime,
By judgment guided, rapidly would climb
The heights of truth, with arguments refin'd,
To purest sense a happy diction join'd:
Often have I felt their intellectual force,
And quaff'd the stream of genius at their source;
Ah! while these silken-pinion'd moments flew,
I, then, nor freedom's want, nor fortune's knew.

Now, where a copse of crowding oaks aspire,
The loit'ring muse's tardy steps retire:
Attaining now the grove's ascending verge,
Where op'ning fields invite her to emerge;
Till, on the seat contiguous stretch'd at ease,
She all the scene with raptur'd eye surveys.

Before the view appears another urn,
Suggesting truths vain man is loth to learn;
In silent precepts to each sober sense,
With more than Ciceronian eloquence,
The tacit monitor, with dumb address,
Proclaims what ev'ry mortal must confess;
That ruthless death dissolves each tender tie,
That dearest brothers—dearest friends, must die:
For weeping numbers there commemorate
A brother's sorrow for a brother's fate.

The muse, obsequious, turns to take the view,
Where op'ning woodlands form an avenue;
Whose charms peculiar, cross a verdant mead,
The curious eye with soft enticements lead,
To view a priory of Gothic mien,
Where antique graces solemnize the scene,
Scenes well adapted to a gloomy sect,
Who nature's laws would rigidly correct;
As if a life recluse, inglorious ease,
A God who form'd us sociable, could please:
From lawless pleasures let but man refrain,
He dooms no one to misery and pain.

Mistaken mortals! can Almighty love,
Laws, which its goodness ne'er impos'd, approve?
Did he vouchsafe man's appetites in vain?
Or, what's far worse, the certain cause of pain?
Man seldom errs when nature is his guide,
But oftentimes through ignorance and pride.
While we behold the earth with food replete,
And God pronounces, “Ye may freely eat:”
Will the permission follow'd give offence?
Or is He better pleas'd with abstinence?
Shall we with hunger obstinately pine,
In hopes to please beneficence divine?

Did He not give the breast its warm desires,
And objects fair to fan those am'rous fires?
When Eve rose perfect from his plastic hand,
“Increase and multiply” was his command:
Yet not, like brutes, without restraint to range
Through all the species, ever prone to change.
Omniscient wisdom, when this appetite
Was plac'd in man to minister delight,
Implanted love's fix'd bound'ry in the soul,
Its vagrant inclinations to controul.

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Nor were man's various senses e'er design'd
To rust in endless solitude confin'd:
Must he from harmless sweets of sense refrain,
And what was meant for pleasure turn to pain?
And must the longing palate seldom eat
Diminutive repasts of coarsest meat?
Then were the apple's flavor void of use,
The plum, and turgid grape's nectareous juice.
And must the baffled nostrils only smell
The musty vapours of a cobweb'd cell?
These flowrets, then, were scatter'd here in vain,
In vain the odours of the thymy plain.

Again returns my unambitious muse,
With rapture sweet her wonted theme pursues;
Now stops a while beneath the shepherd's bush,
Where, softer than the sprightly-warbling thrush,
Or lark exalted on her matin wing,
Or mingled chorus of the vocal spring,
My Shenstone tunes his soft symphonious lyre,
While moral virtues all his mind inspire,
And innocence, descendant of the sky,
Displays her beauties to his mental eye.

Ye gaudy sons of false perverted taste,
Whose giddy moments fly in joyless waste,
Leave your light gewgaws and the thoughtless throng,
And mark his simple sentimental song;
Attend his soothing, his impassion'd lay,
And hear each vain solicitude away.

Could Orpheus' numbers tame each barb'rous brute,
Or old Amphion strike his magic lute,
Till senseless stones obey'd the pow'rful call,
And in strict order form'd the Theban wall?
Shall then my Shenstone's more bewitching strain
Attempt the cause of innocence in vain?
No! his instructive numbers must impart
A tender impulse to each tutor'd heart;
Nay, every rustic bosom, even mine,
Feels all their rapt'ring energy divine;
For every bold enthusiastic flight,
With natural ease and harmony unite;
And gentle art, conjoin'd with utmost skill,
Attune the passions, captivate the will;
Till all the thoughts in thrilling measure move,
And all the soul's sublim'd to innocence and love.

Oh, innocence! thou lovely meek-ey'd maid,
Who haunt'st this peaceful, this sequester'd shade;
Thou fairest nymph! in virtue's, Shenstone's, train,
Oh! fly not me, a poor plebeian swain,
While underneath this willow's waving boughs,
Before thy shrine I breathe my fervent vows!
Tho' abject poverty's thy votary's lot,
Yet oft thou deign'st to glad the lowliest cot;
Then, oh! attend me to my rural cell,
And with thy supplicant vouchsafe to dwell:
Thy mild associate too, contentment, bring,
And raise my lowly lot above a king;
For ye can more than wealth and honours give,
And make me happy, if I die, or live.

While elevated with the cordial hope,
My placid muse ascends the winding slope,
Where dark-green firs the upper part inclose,
And, rang'd in form, an octagon compose;
And a fair seat, within the central space,
Of correspondent shape, adorns the place;
Whence the eye wanders over boundless scenes
Of dusky woodlands, and extensive plains,
Beyond the vast Sabrina's rolling tides,
Where the huge Clees distend their turgid sides,
Approaching near old craggy Cambria's bound,
With frequent fogs and misty meteors crown'd.

There, like Olympus, see the Wrekin rise,
Whose brow stupendous meets the bending skies;
And, wrapt in azure mantle, proudly stands,
A mighty gnomon o'er Salopian lands!

See yonder, more distinct, before your eyes
The lovely scite of Enville's villa rise,
Where, interspers'd with lawns of living green,
Its waving woods and bright alcoves are seen;
Embosom'd in whose shades the waters sleep,
Or toss their tides o'er many a stony steep,

While near my feet, by tasteful Shenstone led,
A limpid lake dissects the verdant mead

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With scollop'd sides, that now with peaceful breast
Receives the image of the skies imprest;
While silver-fringed vapours glide below,
And mimic suns in nether regions glow:
Now breathes a ruffling zephyr o'er the glades,
And ev'ry fair celestial object fades;
But soon again subsides the tranquil stream,
And o'er its bosom brighter glories gleam.

Such is the state of virtue's votaries here;
Now, undisturb'd by accident or fear,
They boast each blest idea from above,
Whose reflex rays beneficence and love,
Beam back on man, to soothe each pungent smart,
Or warmth transfuse thro' each congenial heart:
And now, by passion's or misfortune's blast,
They see her lovely image quite effac'd;
But soon a calm returns, and all's serene,
And she resumes her gladsome smiles again.
Virtue can each rough incident controul,
And lay the ruffled passions of the soul;
Mild chearfulness diffusing o'er the face,
Love, through the heart, for all the human race.
So Shenstone feels the heav'n-descended dame
Breathe through his soul her animating flame;
Inspiring ev'ry intellectual sense,
In the fair form of sweet Benevolence.

For here, behold this antiquated jar
The secret impulse of his soul declare;
But these dull types can never half impart
The strong expressions of his noble heart;
For his large breast not only comprehends
His fond acquaintance, or his fonder friends;
Nor, with affection's more unbounded plan,
Grasping alone the kindred race of man;
Since not a beast that loves the genial spring,
And not a bird that mounts on plumy wing,
Insect, or reptile, but a share may find
Of fellow-feeling from his tender mind.

Happy the man whose will is thus subdu'd
Within the bounds of moral rectitude;
Whose bosom never burns with envious fires,
Nor, fraught with spleen, a brother's ill desires;
Whose undisguised heart sincerely greets,
With honest welcome, ev'ry man he meets;
Though he salute not all with equal glee,
Yet all or share his love, or charity.
Just farther on, a copse of alder shoots,
With tap'ring stems, from intertwining roots;
Which, crawling, naked on the surface grow,
That once conceal'd their shapeless limbs below;
Till undermining springs, with treach'rous toil,
Loosen'd, with horrid rage, the upper soil
While Gnomes and Dryads, with a piteous tale,
Bemoan'd it floating down the distant dale.

Upon a terrace green, a fair alcove
Appears, beside the margin of the grove,
In Gothic form; beneath an oaken shade,
A prospect yielding o'er a verdant glade.

In idiom obsolete, and types of yore,
Beneath the roof, in soft persuasive lore,
In wonted strains, mellifluent Shenstone sings
His love of innocence, and lawns, and springs;
While, in sweet echoes to his warbling voice,
The nodding woods and smiling hills rejoice;
And taunt in silence the bewild'ring sports,
Of bustling cities and delusive courts.
See o'er yon plain, with barren heath o'erspread,
Yielding nor flow'r, nor fruit, nor friendly shade,
(Emblems of immorality and vice)
By Dudley's care, a sacred Temple rise;
Heav'n grant the Word there sown increase may yield,
And turn the Desert to a fruitful Field!

Let abject minds, with vain self-glory fill'd,
The huge rotund, or stately column, build;
'Tis thine, great Dudley Ward! with noble flame,
To rear the dome to thy Creator's name;
Not aim'd alone to catch the gazing sight,
But to illume the mind with heav'nly light.

Excursive now, the muse directs her way
Where purling rills with prattling pastime play,
And, roving underneath an alder shade,

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In louder murmurs fall a clear cascade;
Then, sunk beneath the flow'ry surface, roam,
In secret channel, down to Shenstone's dome;
Where, spouting pure thro' many a brazen sluice,
Dispense their streams for culinary use;
Or, when Sol rages with the canine star,
Their cooling waves refresh the sickly air,
Or fall in tuneful measure soft and clear,
And lull with liquid lapse the list'ning ear;
Or else dilute their owner's generous wines,
Or yield a tepid draught whene'er he dines.
Ye loathsome reptiles, which the waters haunt,
From these pure riv'lets, gliding snakes, avaunt;
Shew not your sable, forky, quiv'ring tongue,
Nor, hissing, draw your crooked length along;
Approach not here your burning thirst to slake,
But fly, remote, to some sequester'd lake;
And ye that croak in swol'n, unsightly shape,
With noxious newts, a filthy race, escape;
Stretch not your frightful limbs upon these brinks,
Nor dare to foul the streams which Shenstone drinks;
Or, if they dare approach, ye Naiads, turn,
Each, on their ugly backs a brimful urn;
While dash'd precipitate on distant strands,
They breathless sprawl beneath your vengeful hands.

Ye healing fossils, and restringent ores,
Blend with these lucid tides your strengthening stores;
In one continu'd stratum form their bed,
And through each wave your cordial atoms spread.

Fair flow'rs that on the painted margin bloom,
From halesome Zephyrs pilfer each perfume;
Then all your sweet collected spoils dispense,
Through ev'ry drop a balmy quintessence;
And thus, with health suffus'd, each pain assuage,
Till Shenstone reach the date of Nestor's age.

By a tall fence, where eglantines are found,
And alders rise, with honey-suckles bound;
So fond their tendrils round their bridegrooms twin'd,
They press their substance through the yielding rind,
Whose hanging heads a thousand blossoms bend,
That, to each breeze, a thousand odours lend:
The muse retires; and now her footsteps reach
The spreading branches of a lofty beech;
Through matted grass, its sturdy trunk beside,
In channel deep, slow-moving waters glide;
Across whose banks a boarded bridge is laid,
And motto'd seat, that wooes her to the shade.
'Tis Horace sings beneath this lovely tree;
He sings; but, ah! in barb'rous lays to me;
But, though in silence these dumb strains appear,
Yet I in other notes the numbers hear;
For Shenstone touch'd them with his magic hand,
And made them speak, and made me understand.

Oh, happy Horace! happy in thy muse!
And, happier still, the Gods did not refuse
Thy potent prayer! All would like thee complain,
Could all, like thee, their favour'd wish obtain.

No longer, then, I'd pine a landless boor,
Nor trudge, thro' sloughs, around a rented door,
In russet garb, whose ragged rent-holes grin,
And ill conceal the skeleton within:
Nor heavy hours in listless labour waste;
Nor pall, with viands coarse, my blunted taste;
Nor ken unornamented murkey walls;
Nor join the chorus of domestic brawls;
Nor lend an ear to leaden senseless chat,
Or the shrill clamours of each squalling brat:
Nor wish I sceptre, diadem, and throne,
But, Horace-like, a vill and farm my own;
To range among my lawns, my streams, my trees,
Such as he wish'd; or, rather, such as these:
Or, in deep meditation stretch'd along,
I'd court the muses with a sylvan song;
Or hear, in beamy morn, the sprightly airs
Of blushing milkmaid, as she brisk repairs,
In snow-white pail to press the juicy teat;
Or oxen low; or frisky lambkins bleat;
Or hear, when ev'ning o'er the mountain gleams,
The saunt'ring plough-boys whistle home their teams?
Or mellow blackbird sing departing day,
Or flitting woodlark trill the light away.

Nor should my table smoke with dainty meats,
But clean and wholesome be my chearful treats;
With faithful friends encircled, there I'd sit,
To scan, with taste, the works of art and wit.

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Would bounteous heav'n my whole petition give,
Like thee, O Shenstone! would I wish to live.

But since our wishes ease not present smart,
But sink misfortunes deeper in the heart;
Nor can my warmest hopes my mind beguile,
To fancy here an end of care and toil;
I'll live resign'd to my depressed fate,
And wing my wishes to a future state.

From hence I pass, where, rising from the sod,
The shining tutsan's yellow blossoms nod:
And now a lofty hazel hedge-row trace,
At whose extreme a pond's resplendent face
Surrounds within the central part an isle,
On whose round summit golden sallows smile;
Where, brooding in the midst, on downy nest
The stately gander rears his crimson crest;
Or round, and round, encircling all the stream,
With warlike mien, and many a whooting scream,
A faithful sentinel! he threat'ning swims,
To combat danger from the neighbouring brims;
Not once abandons the defenceless brood,
To perish thro' neglect, or want of food.

But men, more ruthless than the feather'd fowls,
Or savage beast that thro' the desert howls,
From want of care, or industry, resign
Their tender mates, or let their offspring pine;
Regardless of a wife's convulsive throes,
Or lisping infant's supplicating woes.

There, at a distance, stranded on the shore,
Its edge with argent flourish chequer'd o'er,
A pleasure boat distains the redd'ning tides,
With bright reflexions from its sanguine sides;
While on its head a pictur'd halcyon stands,
In glossy plumage o'er the sedge-wove strands.

Beside the lake, a clump of trees extend
Their length'ning arms, and o'er the waters bend,
A mighty shade, of oak and beech compos'd,
While in the midst a regal tree inclos'd,
With pride supports the honour'd name of Spence,
Bright sun of learning, candour, wit, and sense!
Who, tho' he bears the critic's awful name,
Vouchsafes to all their rightful share of fame;
Tho' pride or dulness ne'er obtain his praise,
He deigns to smile on meritorious lays;
And Crispin's numbers are to him as dear
As equal merit in a prince, or peer.
His gentle mind can relish more delight
In placing beauties in the fairest light,
Than painting blemishes in odious hue,
Distinctly glaring in dark envy's view.

Now, thro' fair walks, and shades inscrib'd to love,
Led by the muse, my lagging footsteps move;
Where arching sprays their softest umbrage shed,
And flow'rs and grass a painted carpet spread;
And riv'lets, murm'ring down the winding glade,
In little cat'racts harmonize the shade;
Where, underneath a beech's fair retreat,
To lovers dear an assignation seat,
Involv'd in lonely shades appears obscure,
Where am'rous shepherds, free from thoughts impure,
Swell with their tender vows the fleeting wind,
Or print them, sighing, on the polish'd rind;
Or, with their boxen pipes, at ev'ning hour,
Invite their nymphs to this sequester'd bow'r;
Or, side by side, each faithful tongue imparts
The simple dictates of their guileless hearts.

O ye, whose bosoms burn with lawless fire,
Hence, from these consecrated groves retire;
Your talk obscene let other shades attend,
Nor here your time in wanton dalliance spend:
May certain vengeance wait that wayward swain,
Who, impious, dares these hallow'd haunts profane!

See dogwood spread its milk-white umbells there,
And spiring frutex conic blossoms bear;
While here, with lighter tints, the trees among,
Laburnums shine, with golden tresses hung,
That proudly flaunt upon the dangling spray,
As round their blooms the am'rous breezes play;
For blandly here the lisping zephyrs rove,
But leave their ruder blasts behind the grove;
And, like fond fearful lovers, trembling sip
The breathing fragrance of each honey'd lip.

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Awhile the charming beauties please the eye,
But soon, too soon, the charming beauties die.
Such, such was fair Maria! Nymphs behold
This glittering urn, bespread with leafy gold;
Nor only gaze, but lend a list'ning ear,
And drop beside her urn one sorrowing tear.
Who can refrain? while plaintive mottoes tell,
Maria's gone, and Shenstone sighs—farewell!
And, wailing by, the sympathizing stream
In mournful murmurs echoes to the theme.
“Ah! beauty's frail!” Maria's ashes say,
Attend their speech, ye nymphs, that pass this way.
“Tho' fresher now than daisies in the dale,
“To-morrow ye may droop as lilies pale;
“Tho' sweeter now than show'ry spring your breath,
“This evening it may feel the taint of death:
“Tho' brighter now your eye than dew-drop glows,
“This hour that eye eternally may close;
“Tho' all your lovely frame with beauty shine,
“It soon must moulder in the tomb, like mine;
“And if the fates delay the final wound,
“Time strews the head with hoary locks around,
“And dims the eye, and wrinkles o'er the face,
“Destroys each sprightly look, each moving grace;
“Short, and precarious too, is beauty's date,
“By time soon tarnish'd, or destroy'd by fate:
“Then fix your chiefest care, ye gentle maids
“On that which never dies, which never fades;
“Which accident and destiny disarms,
“And heightens all your graces, all your charms;
“Creates those pleasures that can never cloy,
“And gives a greater gust to every joy;
“Can wound each heart without the sense of pain,
“And fix your conquest o'er some worthy swain;
“And make your offspring, like yourselves, impart
“The truest pleasure to each eye and heart.
“Virtue, ye fair! can only here bestow
“The zest of pleasure, and the balm of woe;
“And when you sink beneath a weight of years,
“Will waft your parting soul to brighter spheres;
“And if, like me, ye quit this mortal stage,
“In bloom of beauty and the spring of age,
“Some urn, like mine, your mem'ry may prolong,
“Or that more lasting monument—a song!”

From hence, the muse a spiral path ascends,
That thro' thick woodlands, frequent curving, bends;
And now a seat her panting steps attain,
Where Shenstone's dome adorns the op'ning plain;
And, cloath'd in golden blooms, a furze-blown field,
And burnish'd waters, all the prospect gild;
And now again, secluded from the day,
Along the pendent copse she winds her way.

And now, a mighty visto strikes the view,
Deceptive narrowing all the woodland through;
Yet not from ev'ry rule of nature swerves,
Its base descends or heaves in swelling curves;
Where cherry-trees, arrang'd in right-lin'd rows,
On either side their grizled trunks oppose;
And, from their spreading tops, profusely strow
A bloomy show'r o'er all the walk below;
And silver-rinded birches shine between,
And mountain-ash with clust'ring blooms is seen:
While in the center of the happy grove,
With gothic front, appears a fair alcove;
Where, o'er a terrace, bursts a flood of light;
And striking landscapes rush upon the sight.

There, like Titanian twins, not distant far,
Gigantic Walton mounts the cumber'd air;
And tree-crown'd Clent seems swell'd with conscious pride
That beauteous Hagley decks its western side.
Here a broad lake illuminates the vale,
And there Hales-Owen stretches o'er the dale;
And rural domes o'erlook their subject farms,
Where damask'd meads display their various charms;
Plash'd hedge-rows trim are stuck with branchless trees,
Where corn-fields wave before the whisp'ring breeze;
And flocks of fatt'ning sheep, and new-milch kine,
Luxurious graze, or on the turf recline;
The draught-horse there on strength'ning herbage feeds;
Here o'er the pastures prance the nobler steeds.

Exert, O Ceres! thy celestial pow'r,
Nor let these wanton beasts thy crops devour;

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O goddess! let thy watchful eye attend,
Propitious all thy embryo sheaves defend;
And teach thy sons with diligence to keep
Each stubborn fence against the ox and sheep;
Let neither mildews reign in vernal night,
Nor with'ring worm corrode, nor eastern blight;
And may the æstive lightning's ruddy glare
Each milky grain and filmy blossom spare:
And may not show'rs of fierce autumnal rain
Destroy the product of the rip'ned plain;
Till o'er their rising stacks the swains rejoice,
And “harvest home” resounds from ev'ry voice.
And careful watch, O Pan! thy past'ral charge,
Nor let the tender lambkins rove at large;
Lest, wand'ring devious from the fost'ring teat,
With cold and hunger pin'd they vainly bleat:
And guard the lib'ral rams, and teeming ewes,
When rav'nous dog athirst for blood pursues;
And from erosive rot, and wily fox,
Defend with constant care thy fleecy flocks;
For British swains in thrifty flocks behold
A richer store than fam'd Potosi's gold.

The peasant there, as meditation leads,
Eyes the brown produce of the rip'ning meads;
And marks where silver grass, or rattle, grow,
Resolving when to strike the slaught'ring blow;
Or, whistling on, a pond'rous bottle bears,
(Whose foamy freight the sputt'ring cork declares)
Alternate shifted to each weary'd hand,
Jocund he goes to meet the sturdy band;
Who in their motions time and order keep,
As by their sides they lodge the swelling heap,
Or rear the crooked blades, that o'er the fields
Dispread their dazling gleams, like burnish'd shields;
As whetstones o'er the polish'd edge resound,
And with loud clangors fill the vales around;
While, join'd in concert, ev'ry manly voice
Makes the surrounding hills and woods rejoice;
While, o'er the shaven ground, the mingled throngs
Or sooth their toil with chat, or rural songs:
Here nymphs and swains the shining pitchfork wield,
To spread the swarth, or turn the with'ring field;
There, rang'd with rakes, the shining wind-rows seen,
In length'ning stripes; or cocks bespot the green:
And there, with mixed tools, a jovial train
Mould larger cocks, or load the groaning wain
Or comb the reliques of the scatter'd plain.

See, underneath yon oak's refreshing shade,
With snowy cloth the pleasing verdure spread;
With smoaking cates in earthen dishes stor'd,
Such cates as swains admire, as cots afford;
The pious master sanctifies the treat,
And while clean beechen trenchers bear the meat,
Blythe nymphs and swains, encircled on the ground,
The viands share, or lift the goblet round;
Now, o'er the harmless tale they chearful smile;
Now, stretch'd beneath the shade, they nod awhile,
And now, with glee, resume their wonted toil.

Ye threat'ning clouds suspend your baneful store,
Nor injure what your bounty gave before!
Disgorge your wombs on scorch'd Iberian lands,
Or shed your useless load on Libya's sands;
But here, thin, fleecy curtains oft display,
To shield from Sol's intolerable ray!
And oh! ye lightsome breezes, frequent fly,
To cool the scalding sweat, and damp the flaming sky.

And now the muse attains the grove's extreme,
Where, never blest with Titan's gladsome gleam,
Solemn appears the dusky twilight cell,
Where moping melancholy likes to dwell;
For oft has magic fancy seen her rove,
A meagre sprite, along the silent grove;
Slow-creeping on with tott'ring step she went,
Her haggard looks for ever downward bent;
Oft a slow tear bedew'd her deep-sunk eyes,
Oft her gaunt breast hove high with hollow sighs.

Oh! gloomy Goddess! ne'er approach my cot,
To make more dreary my penurious lot;
To damp my labour, break my peaceful rest,
And cloud the sunshine of my chearful breast.
Could thy dull presence, when dire ills intrude,
Assuage their smart, or future pains preclude,
Thy happy influence then I'd ne'er disown,
But round my heart erect thy ebon throne:
But thou mak'st misery strike with double force,
Still pois'ning every pleasure at its source.

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Then leave my breast, with all thy hated trains,
Nor spread thy raven plumes on Albion's plains;
To nunn'ries, cloisters, monasteries, fly,
There damp the heart, and dim the radiant eye;
With abstinence thy sullen vot'ries pine,
And pilgrimages, penances, enjoin.
But rational Reflection, eagle-ey'd,
Point thou my path, with Chearfulness thy guide;
Teach me, though misery's ev'ry mortal's meed,
Though pains to pleasure, pleasures pains succeed;
Though brumal blasts awhile deform the year,
Yet soon the jocund smiles of spring appear.
Then I'll enjoy the pleasures while they last,
Nor fear the future, nor regret the past:
Those pleasures which befit a virtuous mind,
For other pleasures leave a sting behind;
Preventing ills, for ills will oft intrude,
My heart still arm'd with Christian fortitude;
That fortitude which virtue will attend
Thro' life's short conflict, which so soon must end.

No longer, now, the cooling shades I share,
But up yon terrace with the muse repair;
Where o'er the west unbounded prospects lie,
Whose charms unnumber'd fill the veering eye;
Where woods and fields unfold a various green,
And lucid lakes illuminate the scene:
And Stourbridge there, and there old Swinford stands,
And Dudley here the side-long glance demands,
In whose domains, enrob'd in russet hue,
A sterile wild diversifies the view;
Black groups of little mounds the surface throng,
With straggling trees, and countless cots among.

Though few external charms the surface grace,
Its garb though mean, and abject though its face;
Though nature all the fields increase deny'd,
And all the flow'ry meadow's gaudy pride,
Nor reverend woods the outward part adorn,
Nor aught dwells there but poverty and scorn;
Though pomp nor pow'r the barren scenes await,
They pass with scornful looks its lowly state;
Yet pride and folly only will despise,
Still honour'd by the gentle and the wise;
Well knowing its internal parts conceal
Its master's glory, and its country's weal;
More than Peru its pearls or gold can boast,
Or peerless gems of Coromandel's coast.

And such art thou, O merit; virtue, thou:
When pomp nor riches deck your humble brow,
The world, unfriendly, passes heedless by,
Or marks your pen'ry with disdainful eye.

Yet some seraphic minds may condescend
To brighten merit, virtue to befriend.
Ev'n such to me did gentle Shenstone prove;
And such was B---n's undeserved love;
Nor yet did G---z, nor yet did L---th disdain,
Nor gen'rous M---bs, the unknown village swain.

Thus all she can the grateful muse repays,
While with your names she dignifies her lays.
But still to S---g are thankful numbers due,
And to you, R---n's, and F---d's, you;
Whose kind beneficence, dear female band,
The best returns of gratitude demand.

Still heaves with gratitude my lab'ring breast,
To you, whom blushing Hymen never bless'd;
To breathe your pleasing names, ye bounteous fair!
But—O my muse! their painful blushes spare.

Yet—should you e'er the marriage life prefer,
With my warm wish, connubial pow'rs! concur:
May each, like Grandison, behold her mate,
To bless the happy hymeneal state:
Nor e'er such pen'ry and confinement see,
The hapless lot of Daphne and of me.

Back thro' the cell I now the muse attend,
And wind the wood, and down the dale descend;
Where first a gentle-waving walk is seen,
An auburn stripe along the velvet green;
Where hawthorns, fronting Phœbus' orient ray,
Now sickly blossoms, berries now, display.

Here, shapely limes erect their formal heads,
There, the proud beech its rough-husk'd fruitage sheds;

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Round whose wide circuit, shook by summer wind,
The turkey-tribe their kernel'd viands find;
Or, underneath its solemn branches laid,
The wearied wand'rer finds both rest and shade.

Anon, a cover'd skreen a shelter yields,
When western show'rs bedew the flow'ry fields;
Or Sol, from Cancer sultry radiance pours,
And mid-day rages with the fervid hours;
To sit and catch the cooling eastern gale,
With spicy pinion flutt'ring o'er the vale.
Behind, with ever-verdant honours crown'd,
Young cone-topp'd pines adorn the rising mound.

A distant seat now strikes the busy view,
O'er-hung with tufts of holly, larch, and yew;
Whose beauteous boughs with polish'd laurels join
Their various leaves, and emulative twine
A living wreath, to grace an honour'd name,
That shines in courts, and literary fame;
Great Lyttelton! the British senate's guide,
The foe of faction, and the statesman's pride;
Alike the friend of science and of song;
But—to his praise sublimer strains belong.
Nor scoff thou, Hagley, while my artless lays
Attempt in rural notes the Lessowes praise.
Ye lovely streams, that sparkle silver light,
In frequent falls from many a stony height;
Whose tuneful murmurs fill the floating gale
With liquid music, echoing down the dale,
Where weeping willows hide the rocky shore,
With crab-trees, blushing blossoms arched o'er;
Whose branches form a fair fantastic wreath,
And, dangling, shade the foamy floods beneath:
Here glassy lakes reflect their florid sides,
And cackling wild-ducks skim the curling tides;
There, o'er the trees, the humble turrets rise
Of Shenstone's dome, the seat of social joys!
While fields and woods combine their various hue,
And bord'ring hills surround th' enchanting view.

My eager muse now seeks the far-fam'd grove,
Where untir'd fancy might for ever rove;
That needs not tuneful Virgil's title court,
Its native charms might all its fame support.
Nor thou, sweet Mantuan muse, despise the shades,
Where art to nature lends her soft'ning aids;
Think not thy name disgrac'd in this fair scite,
Which fills each tasteful soul with soft delight:
Nor Shenstone, thou, the rustic muse disdain,
Who, thus ambitious, sings thy dear domain.

First, half-reveal'd between the waving sprays,
The monument to deathless Maro's praise,
An obelisk, like bashful beauty, stands
Erected here by grateful friendship's hands;
And well rewarded are the builder's pains,
With thy harmonious, thy mellifluent strains;
And what more lasting praise could he bestow,
For whom these groves ascend, these fountains flow?
Except his numbers should enroll thy name,
That shall, like thine, ensure eternal fame,
And his lov'd virtues flourish fresh and gay,
When these proud stones are mix'd with kindred clay.

And next, to Thompson's mem'ry ever dear,
(Who sung the seasons of the circling year;
But not a mere description to rehearse,
He crown'd each pregnant scene with moral verse)
With letter'd lays inscrib'd, a friendly seat
Affords a view of all the blest retreat.

But why thus heaves my breast with pensive sighs?
Why starts the tear, and dims my dizzy eyes?
Ah! tho' with fame and honours dignify'd,
Yet here I learn the matchless Maro dy'd:
Nor yet could flowing verse, nor virtue, save
The gentle Thompson from the greedy grave;
And so, alas! must Shenstone, soon or late,
Like them, experience such disast'rous fate.
Nor bard nor prince can from death's shafts retire,
He's virtue's guest, he's sent to bring her hire.
Yet why, O Shenstone! should I fear for thee?
I ne'er that inauspicious hour may see:
Thine eyes may range this dear Arcadia o'er,
When mine behold the blissful scene no more.

There, on the left, between the swelling hills,
A lucid lake collects the limpid rills;
Whose silver currents, gather'd to a head,
Their freedom gain to form the grand cascade.

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How oft beneath these sloping arbours laid,
As o'er the jetting stones the waters play'd,
Well pleas'd I've ey'd the broad-expanded flood,
With diamond lustre lighten all the wood;
Its self-scoop'd reservoir beneath it laves
In foaming eddies, then in circling waves,
Kissing, in wanton sport, the rocky sides,
Till, sweetly smiling, smoothly on it glides:
And now it sinks beneath the cavern'd road,
And gurgling moans along the dark abode;
Now winds, thro' grass and fern, its mazy way,
And now again it bubbles into day;
No longer shrowded in the path obscure,
But spreads its broad'ning bosom smooth and pure;
And now, in less cascades, the bustling tide,
Flings down its wanton waves with dashing pride;
Between the falls, the stream divided flows,
Where, on a greensward isle, a willow grows,
Supreme in sweetness o'er the prouder trees,
Whose fragrant foliage scents each passing breeze.
Below, a bridge across its current bends,
Whose curvy head a steady passage lends,
Where, on its peaceful surface, round imprest,
A shining circle marks its shadowy breast;
Then in the neighb'ring pond it rests awhile,
Exempt from ev'ry pleasure, ev'ry toil.

And here, the moralizing muse must find
A striking emblem of the human kind:
The rapid stream, impetuous and wild,
Denotes the giddy, thoughtless, playful child;
Then sinking from the sight, like studious youth,
Secluded from the world in search of truth,
Till, growing by degrees, his mental pow'rs,
To public pastime dedicates his hours;
And now to ripen'd manhood he attains,
The age that dull obscurity disdains;
Embark'd upon the busy tides of life,
Alternate reigns tranquility and strife;
By every blust'ring blast of passion tost,
Buoy'd up with hope, or in despondence lost;
Till sinking in the icy arms of death,
With slow and short'ning sobs resigns his breath.

What flow'rs along its borders nature sheds,
That o'er the wat'ry mirror hang their heads;
There, vainly, all their self-lov'd charms survey,
Until, Narcissus like, they pine away.
And first, the primrose clad in yellow pale,
And violets blue their od'rous sweets exhale;
And purple hyacinths, from their pendent bells,
Purfume with incense all the neighb'ring dells;
And wood-anemonies, rob'd in snowy white,
Whose spotless beauty's ev'ry grove's delight;
Their fairest turbans, here with pride display'd,
In rich profusion deck the laughing glade:
But chief, the water-loving marygold,
When all her thronging blossoms wide unfold,
Each in a glossy tunic gaily drest,
With cloth of tissue all the vale invest.

The thick-wove trees attract the lifted sight,
Whose blended verdure scarce admits the light;
Here poplars tremble o'er the prostrate stream,
Whose wavy face reflects a twinkling gleam;
And chesnuts tall, with limes and elms combin'd,
With op'ning arms embrace the wanton wind;
And here the hazel, here the alder spreads,
And oaks and ashes lift their lofty heads;
And all aspiring, climb their upward way,
To stretch their summits in the realms of day.
The hawthorn there and furrow'd maple grow,
And scarlet clusters on the dogwood glow;
And others, of a like inferior race,
Replenish with their boughs the nether space.

Before the eye, in view direct, appears
The weeping fount for ever bath'd in tears;
And though with ceaseless waste the drops distil,
A scanty source supplies the frugal rill.

So, should the fates with parsimonious hand,
Refuse what pride or lux'ry might demand,
With but a sparing patrimony blest,
Prudential care may furnish out the rest.

Close where the streams descend with raving force,
A small chalybeat spring derives its source;
Where rusty links an iron bowl sustain,
And hollow'd stones the gushing rill restrain;
Whose waters, with salubrious virtue fraught,
To languid limbs afford a strength'ning draught.

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The muse no longer now, with chearful strain,
Describes the charms of this Hesperian scene;
But thus, retiring, wakes her plaintive voice:
As Eve bewail'd the loss of Paradise.
Though all thy flow'rets bloom beyond compare,
Thy fountains more than other fountains fair;
No shrubs, no trees, as thine so fresh and gay,
More soft thy songsters flute from ev'ry spray:
Sweet scene of love! what blissful charms are thine!
And must I all thy dear delights resign?
Yes, fleeting Time, with frowning brow severe,
Sternly forbids a longer durance here;
And other scenes the roving muse invite,
For fickle mortals still in change delight;
For pleasure new awakens new desire,
And makes the past with slighter pangs retire;
Progressive thus, each sublunary joy
Shall quickly vanish, or will quickly cloy;
Except the pleasures that a virtuous mind
In acts of goodness may for ever find.
The reason's plain; the grosser joys of sense
Ne'er mix with those of pure benevolence;
That rapt'ring foretaste of the bliss above,
Where all is endless ecstasy and love.
But earthly pleasures, like man's earthly frame,
Nor long endure, nor long remain the same:
Yet, though so transitory is their date,
Adapted to this low terrestrial state,
They're fix'd to be in Providence's plan
Yearly renew'd, and last the date of man;
Not meant by heav'n to perish unenjoy'd,
Or pass'd with scorn by superstitious pride;
Nor, grov'ling here, the brutal soul to chain,
Where happiness is still alloy'd with pain;
But there the soaring intellect to fix,
Where pain or sorrow ne'er with transport mix.

Hence, up an easy winding way I tread,
Across a verdant flow'r-besprinkled mead,
To where a thousand scents the shrubb'ry yields,
Diffusing fragrance o'er surrounding fields,
Approaching thoughtless near, with careless gaze,
Each startled bosom beats with soft amaze:
For, as a lover, by some rural shade,
Not yet expecting his dear sylvan maid,
His heedless looks o'er all the prospect rove,
Hills, woods, and fields, when turning tow'rds the grove,
From thicket close she starts before his eyes,
And fills his breast with pleasure and surprize;
So here, the bright-streak'd phillyreas between,
And broad-leav'd laurels ever-shining green,
A Medicean Venus' charms impart
A sudden impulse to each gazer's heart;
And might her statuary's soul inflame,
More than Pygmalion's by his iv'ry dame:
Yet while her beauties every breast inspire,
Her bashful look suppresses wild desire;
In perfect symmetry the whole is wrought,
And every well-turn'd limb with beauty fraught;
Her modest mien, her graceful attitude,
And lively feature, seem with thought endu'd.
Thus, by an oval bason's grass-grown side,
Across whose dimpling surface gold-fish glide,
She stands beneath a fair laburnum's head,
With saffron-tassel'd blossoms overspread:
These intermixing, purple lilacs meet,
And fragrant myrtle blooms beside her feet;
Geraniums spread their painted honours by,
And orange-plants, whose fruitage tempts the eye:
But what still pleases more, the musing mind,
Near, on a mossy mould'ring root, may find
In polish'd stanzas many a tuneful strain,
The gard'ner's art, and beauty's pow'r explain.
By these, the prickly-leaved oak you see,
And, with frontated leaves, the tulip-tree;
Here, yellow blows the thorny barberry-bush;
And velvet roses spread their bright'ning blush;
And here the damask, there the provence rose,
And cerasus's, double blooms disclose;
With rip'ning fruit domestic raspberries glow,
And sweet americans their scents bestow:
White lilacs and syringas shed perfumes,
And gelder-roses hang their bunchy blooms;
And tow'ring planes erect their heads sublime,
And, by the sweet-briar, flow'ring willows climb;
Here flimsy-leav'd acacia drooping weeps,
And lowly laurustinus humbly creeps;
The foreign dogwood shoots its sanguine sprays,
And sable yews combine with chearful bays;
While, by the double-blossom'd hawthorn, stands
Curl'd laurel, brought from Portugalian strands;
And arbor-vitæ's rear their fetid heads,

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And stinking tithymal effluvia spreads;
Here Scotch and silver firs, the shrubs among,
And lovely larch with hairy verdure hung,
And sycamores their lofty summits rear,
And silver-border'd foliage hollies wear;
While these above, with various others, twine,
Beneath, the piony and catch-fly shine;
Narcissus fair, and early daffodil,
Between their stems the vacant spaces fill.
Across the center, o'er a pebbly way,
From latent fountain, limpid waters play;
Where, from a terrace grac'd with Iago's name,
Who oft has felt the muse's thrilling flame,
A painted seat appears, in green array'd,
A prospect yielding o'er a lovely glade:
The batter'd priory crowns its further side,
Beyond, hills, lakes, and buildings scatter'd wide:
While, half-conceal'd behind the thick wrought leaves,
Another seat supports the name of Graves.

Graves, gentlest bard of Acmancesta's plain,
Whose mind's as gen'rous as his heart's humane.

Oh! happy scenes! of ever soft delight,
To charm the ravish'd ear, the smell, the sight;
Buds not a bush these warbling woods among,
But yields from some sweet chorister a song;
Breathes not a breeze across these fragrant vales,
But may compare with sweet Sabean gales;
While all the fields and meads, the woods and bow'rs,
With fairest verdure shine, with fairest flow'rs.

Within these walks what blissful hours I've spent!
Nor felt the pangs of dreary discontent;
But all my spirits flow'd serenely gay,
My bosom thrill'd beneath the muse's sway.
But chief, O Shenstone! when with thee I've stray'd
O'er chequer'd lawns, or thro' the mazy shade;
To trim the avenue's encroaching side,
That would or houses, hills, or waters hide,
To lop the thistle's tall unseemly head,
Or brambles, that o'er walks unwelcome spread;
Or underneath some fair umbrageous tree
Have sat, and heard th' instructive lore with glee;
Have heard thee philosophic truths impart,
Or teach my artless muse the muses' art;
Or plant thy morals in my docile breast,
In clearest language, clearer still express'd.

But now, when o'er the chequer'd lawn I stray,
Where Flora wanders, weeping all the way;
And, as at every step she drops a tear,
The flow'rets fade, and noisome weeds appear;
Or if along the woodland walk I rove,
The Dryads groan along each frighted grove;
From every tree the Hamadryads wail,
The Fauns and Satyrs o'er each hill and dale.

Pan throws his untun'd syrinx heedless by,
And musing stands, and wipes each tearful eye;
Or hideous howling, with incessant cries,
O'er every plain, and echoing woodland flies;
While starting sudden from the circling waves,
With shrillest shrieks each madd'ning Naiad raves,
And beat their throbbing breasts, and wildly tear
Their long lank locks of loose dishevel'd hair;
Then sadly sob along the verdant brink,
Then plunging in the billows, sighing sink.

Apollo leans upon his unstrung lute,
Around him every mourning muse is mute,
Except Melpomene, who, to trembling strings,
This plaintive dirge in broken accent sings:
“Oh! hear, ye rocks, and Heliconian shades!
Oh! join me, sisters, soft Pierian maids!
With me our son's, our brother's, loss deplore;
Alas! alas! dear Shenstone is no more!
O honour'd sire! could not thy healing hand,
The fev'rish fire, the putrid pow'r withstand?
Why didst not thou his flutt'ring heart sustain,
And pour thy balm thro' every throbbing vein?
Or with nectareous draughts his life prolong,
And make his frame immortal as his song?
Or didst thou envy his expansive name,
Lest he should rival thy celestial fame?”

Oh, had I heard thy last departing breath!
And clos'd thine eyes, thy lovely eyes! in death;
For thy example, would at last, supply

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A lesson how to live, as well as die:
That I might there have pour'd mine heart, mine eyes,
In all the luxury of tears and sighs;
That ev'ry word and action might have prov'd
How much I honour'd, and how much I lov'd!
And, with ten thousand fervent pray'rs, have strove
Thy iron heart, O ruthless death! to move.
Or rather bent my knees to his blest will,
Who breaks thy shafts, or gives them pow'r to kill;
For all that art and med'cine's power could do,
O Ash, and Wall, was minister'd by you!
But ah, in vain! for fix'd was heav'n's design,
To crown his virtues, and to call forth mine.

O thou, Philander! tuneful friend unknown,
Whose elegiac notes his death bemoan;
My soul, transported, heard thy warbling lays,
While ev'ry accent wept my Shenstone's praise;
More, than because thy muse recorded me,
“The tender shoot of blooming fancy's tree.”

And Cunningham, whose plaintive numbers show
A heart that melts with sympathy of woe,
Accept my thanks—To thee my thanks are due,
For who is Shenstone's friend, is virtue's too.
And who, that e'er his happy friendship blest,
But feels the sad contagion strike his breast?
And who, that ever felt the muse's fire,
But in his praise must wake the weeping lyre?
And who, that ever heard his numbers flow,
But felt the muse through all his bosom glow?

When my stunn'd eyes thy faded visage saw,
When I approach'd thy breathless corse with awe;
Oh! that my tears, as fresh'ning summer rains
Revive the flow'rs that droop on droughty plains,
Had, with like pow'r, impell'd thy silent heart,
Had push'd the vital flood through ev'ry part;
While with my sighs I'd mov'd thy lab'ring breast,
And instant rouz'd each torpid pow'r from rest:
But oh! I vainly sigh'd! I vainly wept!
For in the frigid grasp of death he slept.

But, base self-love! no longer thus complain,
Nor wish him back to misery and pain;
Man's happiness is ne'er secure below,
But oft he feels the random shafts of woe:
Then all ye unavailing murmurs cease,
Nor banish from my breast the sweets of peace;
But acquiesce in Heav'n's benign decree,
'Tis Heav'n's—'Tis best for Shenstone and for me;
But, pardon, Heav'n! my recent woe recoils,
With poignant anguish still my bosom boils;
My will prophane, with reason still at strife,
Though all in vain, would wish him back to life.

Oh happy spirit! where dost thou reside?
Say, how are all thy blissful hours employ'd?
Dost thou, O kind Philanthropist! descend
To visit earth (man's universal friend)?
Dost thou, unseen, the pow'r of vice controul,
And breathe thy spirit thro' each wayward soul?
Dost thou the sad complaints of misery hear,
And, unperceiv'd, repel each doubt and fear?
Or dost thou rove Britannia's bards among,
The guardian genius of the moral song?
Or, strung t' angelic numbers, does thy lyre
Now sweetly join the blest celestial choir?
Who to their golden harps incessant sing
Their hallelujahs to th' Eternal King.
Or does thy spirit range without a bound,
Where other planets, other scenes, surround?
Or visit these thy native woods and streams,
Where oft thy muse has sung her sylvan themes?

Ye lofty woods of spreading beech and oak,
Long, long may ye escape the woodman's stroke;
Ye groves, ye fields, should Shenstone pass this way,
Your loveliest leaves, your brightest blooms display;
That, in these shades, he oft may deign to dwell,
And ev'ry threat and injury repel.

But it avails not me where Shenstone roves,
Or whether now the guardian of these groves;
Within the dust his body mould'ring lies,
His mind eludes these gross corporeal eyes.

How welcome would I meet my final doom,
How willing drop my carcase in the tomb,

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Would Heav'n conduct me to that blissful seat,
Where joys ne'er end, where ev'ry joy's compleat;
Where he, and countless kindred spirits, prove
Virtue's reward, and their Redeemer's love;
For happiness is virtue's lot confess'd;
Shenstone was virtuous, Shenstone must be bless'd.

But death will soon arrive without a call,
And, by disease, or time, I soon must fall.
Tho' these tall shades the murd'ring axe defy,
Yet soon will time's slow-wasting fangs destroy;
And soon these lovely fields by which they stand,
And all the fair extent of Albion's land,
Each flinty rock, and marble hill, decay,
And all this vast rotund of earth shall melt away.

And now, my muse, recline thy feeble plume,
No more on thine unaided strength presume;
No more on waxen pinions dare to fly,
With none to guide thee thro' the pathless sky;
No more will Shenstone patronize thy lay,
Thy beauties gild, or prune thy faults away.

And thou, my lyre, beneath this cypress shade,
In scatter'd fragments be for ever laid:
Thy strings bedew'd with many a streaming tear,
With one expiring clangor strike my ear;
For thus I dash thee on the moisten'd ground,
While with confused notes the hills and woods resound:
For you've accomplish'd now your pleasing themes,
Have sung the Lessowes groves, the Lessowes streams;
Have sung my Shenstone's dear departed ghost,
The muse's glory, every virtue's boast;
Have sung the sorrows of my troubled breast;
Rest thou my muse, my lyre for ever rest.

121

WROTE AT THE LESSOWES, AFTER Mr. SHENSTONE'S DEATH.

Ah! still sad memory tends my side,
As thro' these groves I stray;
Still makes the rivulet weeping glide,
The wind sigh o'er the spray:

For still I fondly range these shades,
Where Shenstone fondly rov'd;
These mazey rills, these fringed glades,
I love because he lov'd.

'Twas not these scenes that pleas'd alone
I feel, since fate unkind
Has snatch'd him hence; for still I moan,
Tho' these are left behind:

For, all the rural joys I share,
I gladly could forego,
Had fate but deign'd my friend to spare,
Or would again bestow.

O, Orpheus! could my numbers charm,
Like thine, the ear of death,
Could Pluto's breast with pity warm,
To give him back his breath;

I'd sing the sun adown the west,
Nor once recline my head
To court the balmy pow'r of rest,
Till gloomy night was fled:

But ah! I sing my plaintive tale,
And sigh, and weep, in vain;
No more he'll glad the hill, the dale,
The woodland, or the plain.

When summer flush'd these leafless bow'rs,
With verdure deck'd the glades,
And strew'd the fields with painted flow'rs,
I sought these lovely shades;

If tree of brighter hue appear'd,
Or flow'r of fairer dye,
Or bird of softer note was heard,
I always wish'd him by:

Then, fancy'd paint on shady seat,
His image in my mind,
Or hear his voice in each retreat,
Or feign his step behind;

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But soon, at reason's wak'ning call,
The mimic phantasm flees;
His voice—was but a water-fall,
His step—was but a breeze:

Then, sorrow thrill'd thro' every part,
My bosom swell'd with sighs,
A sudden gloom depress'd my heart,
And tears bedew'd my eyes:

But chiefly, now, when chilling show'r,
And cold ungenial blast,
Have robb'd the fields of every flow'r,
And laid the woodland waste;

When snows involve the pathless ground,
And hide the bending brake,
And frosts each silent rill have bound,
And crusted o'er the lake;

When night, with melancholy gloom,
Each pleasing object hides,
And fancy seeks the dreary tomb,
Where ghastly spectre glides;

I see the torch's horrid glare,
From this, once blest, abode,
Stream, crackling thro' the livid air,
And light the murkey road;

While rumbling hearse, and doleful knell,
Thro' all the night resound;
And still, the dire occasion tell,
And still, my bosom wound.

I see his lifeless body laid,
Bereft of all those pow'rs,
That vernal beauties brighter made,
And chear'd the wintry hours;

No more, till that auspicious day,
To bless my longing sight,
When earth's foundations melt away,
And Sol's depriv'd of light:

Unless the disembodied mind,
(Thro' heav'n's unbounded love,)
May all its dear companions find,
To crown the bliss above.

Sweet hope! the balm of every woe,
Shall earth-born joys endear,
Till I, in heav'n, my Saviour know,
And meet my Shenstone there.

November, 1763

123

PALEMON AND COLINET.

A PASTORAL ELEGY.

When spring with green had every grove array'd,
And deck'd the fields in all their flow'ry pride,
Two shepherds met beneath an hazel shade,
Palemon sung, and Colinet reply'd:

'Twas in the Lessowes sadly-pleasing grove,
Beside the margin of that weeping stream,
Contending passions in their bosoms strove,
And long-lost Damon was their mournful theme.

PALEMON.
I still frequent dear Damon's matchless bow'rs,
His limpid springs, and sweet umbrageous vales;
Where I was wont to pass the blisful hours,
When Damon's voice attun'd the scented gales.

COLINET.
Sure, never shepherd sung so sweet a strain,
None could in soft instructive tales excel;
None could, like him, express a lover's pain;
But, all his fame his songs alone can tell.

PALEMON.
A gentler soul ne'er warm'd a shepherd's breast,
He spurn'd not pen'ry with imperious air;
Low worth exulted, with his bounty blest;
Each tuneful swain was his peculiar care.

COLINET.
But, ah! no more his voice shall charm the grove,
From lowly worth his future bounty's fled;
No more shall tuneful swain his goodness prove,
He's gone to mix among the vulgar dead.

PALEMON.
Ah! now I feel, again, the pangful wound
Which late I felt, lamenting o'er his grave,
With vulgar turf and twisted brier bound,
Nor less prophan'd than that which shrowds a slave.

COLINET.
While murd'rous chiefs, and crafty statesmen's dust,
And titled vice, and scepter'd ignorance, lie
Beneath the sculptur'd stone, and polish'd bust,
Where lying motto's catch the cheated eye.

124

PALEMON.
When Damon's brother fell by partial fates,
His pious hands fraternal trophies raise;
And one, his tuneful friend commemorates,
And one, proclaims the beauteous Dolman's praise.

COLINET.
What tho' no grateful soul, with gen'rous hand,
Nor marble urn, nor common tombstone give,
In shepherds' hearts his character shall stand,
And, in his lays, his fame shall ever live.

PALEMON.
My only ram should quit my little fold,
(Nor would Narcissa that profusion blame)
To see bright marble Damon's dust enfold,
And lasting epitaph support his fame.

COLINET.
Perchance, in future day, some friend sincere,
Of tuneful genius, and of soul sublime,
Some monument may o'er his ashes rear,
And snatch his mem'ry from the wreck of time.

PALEMON.
Mean-while, from Damon's fields, and Damon's bow'rs,
What charm'd him with their tints, or soft perfume,
We'll yearly cull, sweet shrubs, and glowing flow'rs,
And spread the grateful wreath upon his tomb.

March 31, 1764.

125

TO THE Right Honourable LORD LYTTLETON.

As when, with empty purse, and tatter'd weed,
By superstition urg'd to pious deed,
An youthful pilgrim seeks some sacred fane,
Thro' many a lonely wood and pathless plain,
When sullen winter vents its stormy rage,
Beneath the feeble sun's contracted stage;
Till, glimm'ring in his just-departing light,
The gilded turrets catch the ravish'd sight.
But soon the treach'rous pilot disappears,
While hideous howls affright his trembling ears;
Then, swiftly back, with terror wing'd, he flies,
And soon his peaceful cell salutes his eyes;
There, stills his breast, within the safe abode,
Resolv'd, no more, to try the dang'rous road.
But when fair summer sheds his chearful beams,
His terrors past appear like empty dreams;
And while a brighter sun illumes the pole,
A steadier courage animates his soul.

So my rash muse, by poverty oppress'd,
With fond pursuit of fame inspir'd my breast;
While Shenstone's kindness, like a wint'ry sun,
Too soon, with life, its shorten'd race had run;
And while the setting orb withdrew its rays,
The luring object caught my eager gaze.
By passion prompted, still the youthful muse,
Thro' paths untry'd the dazzling fair pursues:
But ignorance round me dreadful darkness spread,
And growling critics fill'd my soul with dread;
Till, lodg'd in calm contentment's humble dome,
In airy chace, resolv'd, no more to roam.
When you, like summer's sun, all-gracious rose,
My fairer hopes condemn'd such dull repose;
And, shelt'ring under your protecting name,
Again attempt the arduous heights of fame.

126

TO THE Right Honourable LORD LYTTLETON.

AN EPISTLE.

My Lord,

Say, why Augusta yet so long detains
Hagley's lov'd Lord from more inviting scenes?
No longer Phœbus, blithesome god of day!
In fogs envelop'd, shrowds his fost'ring ray.
His genial fires bleak winter's pow'r disarms,
And Hagley shines in all its wonted charms.

When blust'ring storm, and long-benighted sky,
Proclaims th' approach of dreary winter nigh;
While motley autumn stains those roseate bow'rs,
And sadness clogs the leaden-sandal'd hours;
No friend to spur them thro' the tedious way,
But books alone beguile the loitering day;
While all the soul seems rankling into spleen,
'Tis wise to fly the melancholy scene;
To fly to bright Augusta's happier sphere,
Whose blandishments renew the smiling year.
No vacant hour, there, dulls the active mind,
But all her pow'rs a full employment find;
Fresh objects rising ever in her view,
The lov'd variety of life renew;
Some new device, still fitted to her taste,
Forbids one sand of time should run to waste.

As, roving devious, hum the lab'ring bees,
O'er primrose banks, or flow'ring willow-trees,
And load, with temper'd wax, their thick'ning thighs,
Or bear their golden freightage thro' the skies;
Shape geometric combs, with curious toil,
And store their hexagons with luscious spoil:
As ants, in vernal gleams, their burdens bear,
And damag'd cells with wond'rous art repair;
So move Augusta's sons, a bustling throng!
By various hopes and fears impell'd along;
Some rear the tow'ring structure, others store
The costly freightage of each foreign shore;
One vast machine of life! nor with the day
Its complex movements, or its sounds, decay;
For thick-rang'd lamps, diffusing plenteous light,
Protract the day, and mock th' approach of night.

Beheld with wonder, from surrounding plains,
Supremely spreading o'er her wide domains,
Augusta stands; whose tow'rs, superbly high,
Affect to prop the sapphire-ceiled sky.

With kingly mien, Paul's rears its awful round,
With living sculpture, breathing statues crown'd;
While columns fair support th' imperial pile,
The pride and glory of Britannia's isle:
Perfidious Gaul, Germania's ample coast,
Nor papal Rome, so fair a structure boast.

127

In honours first, though not the first in name,
Old Peter's long has grac'd the rolls of fame.
Her pregnant womb with teeming glory shines,
Of martial trophies, and of sainted shrines.
Here poets, heroes, kings, of old, are shewn,
Surviving still in animated stone.
How sweetly-melancholy 'tis to tread
Those hallow'd mansions of the mighty dead!
To conn the story of each blazon'd name,
To drop the tear and sigh for honest fame;
To catch the virtues from the label'd cell,
Of those who nobly liv'd, or bravely fell;
Collect the maxims of the sculptur'd page,
And plan the code of wisdom for the age;
Weigh well the end of ev'ry earth-born joy,
And point our future views beyond the sky.
What gentle mind, in these sad, solemn scenes,
But feels a thousand fancy'd woes and pains;
And hears expiring sounds, or seems to hear,
From marble voice, or spirit hov'ring there?
Repels each rising thought of vicious mould,
Lest some pure, unseen agent should behold;
And, borne on seraph wing, with holy love,
Indict the miscreant in the courts above.
Why there, alone, that caution? His broad eye,
Whose pow'r and wisdom fram'd the earth and sky,
With single ken sees boundless systems roll,
And probes each nook of earth from pole to pole;
Nor cavern'd cell, nor midnight's blackest veil,
Can thought, or action, from that eye conceal.

What rich delight to spend a fav'rite hour,
In scanning samples of creative pow'r!
Man, curious man! may barren Afric rove,
And brave the perils of each Asian grove;
May navigate the Ganges hallow'd flood,
Trace every western river, isle, and wood;
Each dark recess of earth's wide womb explore,
Each tide-deserted ooze, and rocky shore;
All needless labour; whilst Britannia's isle
Condemns his dangers, and precludes his toil:
In her Museum man may raptur'd see,
The whole creation's fair epitome:
For scarce a fossil lodg'd within the globe,
Or flow'r that sprigs its gorgeous vernal robe;
Or shrub that clings to Neptune's rocky caves,
Or painted shell that drinks his briney waves;
Or insect, prone, that crawls in dank, or dry,
Or, volant, wantons in the fluid sky;
Or hideous reptile, haunting bog, or brake,
Malignant viper, or innoxious snake;
But in those precincts, eyes observant, find,
To feast the fancy, and enrich the mind:
Antiques, coins, medals, tomes of wisdom's lore,
All finish'd works of art compleat the store.

To Op'ras see a glitt'ring throng repairs,
Where musick in the prize with beauty shares:
Divides the heart, or captivates the soul,
Sooths, chills, inflames, and subjugates the whole,
Both urge a social war; both shew their skill,
To lead the soul in triumph at their will:
While reason bound by philt'ring fancy lies,
And drinks soft poison at the ears and eyes.
Meet field for Venus and her darkling son,
To found new reigns, or fix a reign begun:
Meet scene for nymphs whose hearts with rapture dance,
And hope full conquest from a single glance.
But how absurd, to hear a female note,
Transpire, soft warbling, from a manly throat:
Absurd, to hear a British audience roar,
From troops of warlike lungs the loud encore;
Convuls'd with raptures at a flimsy song,
In lisping accents, and an unknown tongue:
To hear re-choing hands clap wild applause,
At taste inverted, and fair nature's laws:
To hear each clashing passion of the breast,
In mimic trills and soothing sounds exprest.
Can anger, hate, revenge, be felt or shewn;
In trembling notes that breathe a lover's moan?
Shall martial Etius breathing wars alarms,
Be drawn with am'rous Cytherea's charms?
Or warriors plan campaigns, in arms array'd,
Like lovers pining in the sylvan shade?
To join spontaneous talk to artful tune,
Is like constructing wings to coast the moon;
Like! O forgive my half-presumptuous strain!
If coupling sacred things with things prophane,
And fir'd with nature's charms, the muse compares,
Cathedral service with Italian airs;
When gratitude enkindles pure desire,

128

And love celestial fans the sacred fire,
The tow'ring thoughts in measur'd cadence move,
And tuneful sounds the glowing sense improve:
But music joins unnatural delights,
And quite burlesques the solemn, pious rites,
When calm requests in craving accents rise,
Or words are wing'd with penitential sighs.

Avaunt fantastic op'ras! Shall the night,
Without improvement take an heedless flight?
Give me the feast of wisdom from the stage,
The comic ridicule, or tragic rage;
With laughter just to shake th' expanded breast,
Or weep tho' mimic virtue seems distress'd.
But far be thence the lewd immoral scene,
The low buffoon'ry, and jest prophane.
Let vice and folly boldly stand pourtray'd,
That visit courts, or saunter in the shade,
Let wisdom dare assert her rightful claim,
To fix on folly's front the badge of shame;
Laugh where she may, and pity where she can,
Shew what deforms, what dignifies the man;
And rummage each close quarter of the heart,
To scourge out smuggling vice from ev'ry part.
That minds by vice and folly ulcer'd o'er
Satyr may syringe, precept heal the sore:
Till Britain's sons, by such examples taught,
Stab vice and folly in the womb of thought.

Far nobler scenes employ the patriot's breast,
Divide his days, contract his nightly rest;
When once his country calls his pleading voice,
To form their judgment, and direct their choice.

How oft, when Britain's weal your tongue inspir'd,
Have crowded senates listen'd and admir'd;
Heard you the virtuous policy unfold
Of ancient states; contrast the new and old;
Shew by what arts these rose to glorious fame,
And by what arts they scarce exist in name.
Shew how, as virtue, or corruption sway'd,
Their rights were fix'd, or liberties betray'd.
While hundred-mouth'd, vocif'rous faction fled,
And pale corruption hid her palsy'd head;
Gaunt envy, skulking in a corner, stood,
And shook her snakey locks, in sulkey mood;
Fermenting spleen her venom'd bosom stor'd,
In dark cabals to vend the pois'nous hoard;
O'er each opponent heav'n-born truth prevails,
Fair justice lifts her equal-poised scales;
Serene, in charms of clemency array'd,
Or, rouz'd to wrath, unsheathes her vengeful blade;
While liberty and law, with semblant face,
Conjoin in fond, reciprocal embrace.

Relax'd from senatorial toil and care,
You lose no time, the wise have none to spare.
In chariot borne you speed the friendly tour,
Or friendly rapps assault your sounding door.
Or, steep'd in study, time unnotic'd flies;
Or friendship clips his wings with social joys.
What higher bliss can human life afford,
Than friendly converse round the festive board?
As gloomy ghost or spectre slinks away,
When mild Aurora's cheeks are flush'd with day,
So anxious care and melancholy flee,
Before the dawning rays of social glee;
The tranquil bosom feels its peace refin'd,
The strings of life in unison are join'd;
Sweet friendship in the heart confirms her throne,
Joy stamps each meaning feature for her own.
When, smit with love of virtue, you resort,
Where clad in beauty's charms she keeps her court;
Where plenty crowns the board with pleasing wealth,
And gen'rous bounty weds with sprightly health;
For plenty's handmaid, elegance, attends,
And watchful temp'rance guards the health of friends.
No mawkish adulation palls the taste,
Nor pickl'd Satyr sours the rich repast;
In streams of eloquence the periods glide,
While taste and virtue over speech preside:
Where sense and learning in conjunction sit,
And strong discretion bridles restive wit,
Where neither modest maid, or matron meek,
With words confront that stain the bashful cheek;
Nor holy zeal, nor contrite conscience, fear,
Licentious speech to shock the tender ear:
But gen'rous bosoms, more than gems of gold,
Rich funds of morals, knowledge, sense, unfold;
Transmitting each, to each, the rising store,
For wisdom's plants, while cropping, flourish more,
A magic circle! whose enchanted round,

129

Admits no fiend to tread the hallow'd ground;
In judgment's sunshine fancy's flow'rets bloom,
And innocence exalts their fresh perfume:
No weeds of envy choke the fertile soil,
In sleek dissimulation's fost'ring smile;
But virtuous reputation's blossom there,
Nor blights of scandal, or, detraction fear.

Dissolv'd are now those spells, that magic scene;
The sweet enchantress charms the rural plain;
And London like a worn-out jilt appears;
Oppress'd with burning lust, disease and years;
Whose rich gallants, desert her loathed arms,
To court the virgin spring's unrifl'd charms;
And leave her noisy haunts, and harlot face,
To plodding trade, and busy cits embrace.
The sock and buskin strut the stage no more,
Nor eunuch squeaks excite the clapp'd encore;
No senates call you in your country's cause,
To guard her sacred liberty and laws;
Then what allurements can Augusta yield,
To vie with verdant wood and flow'ry field?
Can squatting smoke, low-hov'ring in the sky,
With Sol's celestial, fleecy curtains vie?
Can whirling dust, and smutty, stifling air,
With azure skies, or breezy hills compare?
Or mingl'd streams a richer fragrance bring,
Than brisk Favonius' incense-wafting wing?
Can tinsel signs, and tawdry toy-shops please,
Like flow'ring hedge-rows, and the leafy trees?
Or endless jolts, o'er rattling pavements drawn,
Like smoothly swimming o'er the silent lawn?
Can busy traders, or confused throngs,
Excel the hum of bees, or vernal songs?
Or noisy hacks, and sly jew, croaking deep,
The low of oxen, and the bleat of sheep?
Or shady Ranelagh and Sadlers-wells,
The warbling milkmaid and umbrageous dells?
If simple nature's boorish charms deride,
The city's gorgeous pomp, and studied pride;
Supernal pleasure must her charms impart,
When deck'd, and soften'd, by her pupil, art:
Where art and nature join their utmost skill,
Where nature's art, yet art is nature still;
By art and nature such is Hagley drawn,
Each building, woodland, water, hill and lawn.

As late, lone musing, thro' those groves I stray'd,
A pleasing voice sweet-warbled from the shade;
I list'ning turn'd, while, from a princely oak,
In plaintive strains, the hamadryad spoke.

Immur'd in town, why will our patron stay,
While Hagley revels in the pride of May?
Apollo's fiery coursers bounding high,
Attempt the zenith of our arctic sky.
The wintry train, before his blazing shield,
With dastard flight resign the conquer'd field;
In varied glory shine the meteor train,
His bright retinue! o'er the chequer'd plain,
Thro' which he frequent stoops, from golden seat,
Still wanting Him to make his reign complete;
Sheds thro' these fanning shades attemper'd beams,
And eyes, well pleas'd, his image in the streams:
The streams that toss their liquid arms around,
No more in winters icey handcuffs bound.

Fair Flora long has mourn'd her first-born flow'rs,
Successive cherish'd in these fav'rite bow'rs;
Her maiden snow-drops prank'd the infant year,
Till daffodils bedeck'd their early bier;
The pensive primrose soon bewail'd their doom,
And vi'lets wept soft odours o'er their tomb;
Now mournful Hyacinth with drooping head,
Laments in silence o'er his sisters dead;
Nor hopes his murd'rous friend can longer save,
His purple reliques from their annual grave.
The tribes that deck yon garden's glowing space,
Tho' Phœbus courts them with a smiling face,
And sportive Sylphs, in fragrant robes array'd,
On bland Zephyrus' tepid gales convey'd,
Caressing, whisper ev'ry shrub and flow'r,
No more to dread the night-frost's nipping pow'r,
Still husband all their sweets with niggard care,
When He arrives to flood the scented air.

Then haste, beloved patron! quickly haste,
Nor lovely spring, nor life, will ever last.
Nor solitary come, but bring along,
The patroness of virtue and of song:
She, whose bright presence, dull December's day
Might metamorphose into sprightly May;
Whose virtuous manners, and whose polish'd mind,

130

May stand the test and mirror of mankind:
Where mortals may detect each vicious stain,
That spots the heart or taints th' ungovern'd brain;
And, closely scanning her, may clearly know,
How near perfection human virtues grow.
Her gentle soul's with richer treasure stor'd,
Than Indian mines, and sands, and woods afford.
Each art and science lodg'd in her fair breast,
With heav'n's bright caravan of virtues rest.
Her tuneful tongue with eloquence and ease,
The golden merchandize of thought conveys;
Brisk fancy wafts it with her sprightly gales,
While judgment ballasts all the swelling sails.
Thus form'd to give, and relish, social joys,
Time limps not idle, or ignobly flies,
Where she resides; but moves with chearful pace,
Conceals his glass, and smiles with youthful grace.
Her presence vice nor folly dare prophane,
But chaste delights confirm her friendly reign;
And dove-like innocence is ever by,
With artless mien, and heav'n-reflecting eye.
Thus once we saw her in this happy shade,
With ev'ry virtue, ev'ry grace array'd;
And view'd her charms with such intense delight,
Each jealous wood-nymph sicken'd at the sight,
While, here beside these consecrated streams,
Your raptur'd fancy sung enchanting themes:
Each sister grace the magic notes obey'd,
And pac'd, with measur'd steps, the chequer'd shade;
While, warbling soft, the Heliconian choir,
To strains responsive wak'd the tuneful lyre.
Again, with you, oh! would she now appear,
With new delights we'd crown the rip'ning year;
Proclaiming while she treads the blissful scene,
All hail! bright summer's celebrated queen!
Our quiv'ring leaves in canopies should meet,
And painted flow'rs surround your passing feet,
Still pave your way, and still with dying breath,
Bequeath their richest sweets, and smile in death.
We'd purge the hot and rheumy blasts that blow,
And fan pure balmy airs to you below;
Implore propitious Jove with pray'rs and vows,
In aromatic fumes, from whisp'ring boughs,
To interpose his providential pow'r,
With health, and peace, to crown each gladsome hour,
With zeal more ardent than to calm the sky,
When tempests rage, or forky lightnings fly.
Then haste, beloved Patron! quickly haste,
Nor lovely Spring, nor life, will ever last.

May, 1765.

131

VERSES Addressed to ------ On receiving some valuable Books.

As orphans mourn their tender parents dead,
Unknowing whence to hope their future bread;
So I, an intellectual famine fear'd,
When, snatch'd by fate, my Shenstone disappear'd.
Some scanty morsels mock'd my eager mind,
Now half replenish'd, now with hunger pin'd;
Till all my painful, anxious craving ceas'd,
When your kind hand vouchsaf'd a constant feast.
So Israel's offspring, on the desert plain,
Bewail'd Egyptian roots and herbs in vain;
Till bounteous heav'n, to ease their discontent,
Show'r'd luscious manna round each murm'ring tent.
But, like that lustful, that insatiate race,
Shall I still murmur, and the gift disgrace?
No! grateful as a pining wand'rer's heart,
When christian hands a plenteous dole impart;
And call'd to share the fire's reviving heat,
While frigid storms around his temples beat;
As warm to you, to all, my bosom glows,
Who sympathiz'd with mine and Daphne's woes.

132

GRATITUDE.

A POEM. To ------

O gratitude! impart thy wonted fire,
With warmth celestial all my breast inspire;
While calm reflection in her steady light,
Displays past favours to my mental sight.
With kindling glow I feel my soul expand,
Enjoy each gift, and bless each giver's hand;
Whilst round each eye the trembling drops appear,
Meek sign of grateful love, and joy sincere.

But where, my Muse! wilt thou begin? where end?
To thank each fair, each noble, gen'rous friend!
Forgive her, while her first unequal lays,
In vain, bright ------! attempt your praise:
Whom bounteous nature fram'd in lavish mood,
And lovely form with beauteous mind endu'd:
Not only gave a soft, enchanting face,
Attractive mien, or wit replete with grace;
But, wand'ring devious from her wonted plan,
To female softness join'd the sense of man.
As limpid streams soft, soothing murmurs yield,
And feed the teeming tree, and pregnant field;
So flows your sweet, improving eloquence,
It charms with music, and manures with sense;
While virtuous thoughts with learned art conjoin'd,
To views immortal wake the op'ning mind.
Your vig'rous fancy, like a fertile soil,
By judgment till'd, o'erpays the tiller's toil;
And, through your ever-fruitful pen, displays,
Fair wit and wisdom, in poetic phrase:
As full-grown orange-plants at once produce;
Leaves, flow'rs, and fruit, for pleasure and for use.

Britannia blessing, and by Britons blest,
Each public virtue glowing in his breast:
Shone hoary Bath, on life's remotest stage,
Those virtue's heighten'd with the stamp of age;
As antique coin, or statue, still appears
Advanc'd in value, as advanc'd in years.
He kindly deign'd my humble plaint to hear,
And bade his bounty stop the future tear.

Should gen'rous Lyttleton remain unsung,
Eternal silence seal my abject tongue:
Ev'n He who o'er those matchless scenes presides,
Where ev'ry muse and ev'ry grace abides;
And smiling dryads join with gentle fawns,
To shape the trees and mould the swelling lawns;
Ev'n He forgot a while the happy bow'rs,
Forgot his tuneful lyre's enchanting pow'rs;
To hear rude numbers from a village bard,
While praise and bounty prov'd his kind regard:
As if sweet Philomel from Hagley's grove,
O'er rugged rocks and barren wilds should rove;
And stop her own inimitable strain,

133

To hear a cooing mountain dove complain;
And call her from bleak hills, and dreary glades,
A denizon of Hagley's blissful shades.
His Brother too, whose courtly talents please,
His graceful dignity, his artless ease;
By radiant circles of the gay caress'd,
Whose true politeness crowns the social feast;
And finish'd manners happily combine,
With native sense, in camp, or court, to shine,
Tho' wont to kindle at the voice of war,
Pursuing, dreadless, grim Bellona's car,
Inur'd to trumpets sound, or cannons roar,
To dying groans, and floods of human gore;
Unmov'd on Fontenoy's embattl'd plain,
Mid gallic shouts and heaps of Britons slain;
He's form'd to relish more serene delight,
In verdant wood, or lawn, or fountain bright;
In warbling concert of the feather'd choir,
Or sweeter sounds that swell th' Aonian lyre:
Ev'n He preferr'd my muse's rural charms,
To rattling drums, and horrid clang of arms:
Nor only listen'd to her plaintive voice,
But o'er his bounty makes her pipe rejoice.
Nor He, the church's bright support and pride,
Did simple swain, or sylvan song, deride;
But stoop'd each homely moral truth to scan,
And prais'd the poet while he bless'd the man.
Nor Dudley Ward withheld a gladd'ning meed,
Nor his kind Heir despis'd the oaten reed;
But crown'd with gold, and boxen pipe, my lays.
A pipe that might inspire a nobler praise:
And, like fam'd Lyttelton, with gen'rous mind,
To bounty added favours unconfin'd,
A free recourse to many a learned tome,
And constant welcome to his friendly dome.

With equal honours, claiming equal praise,
A noble train demand my thankful lays;
That deign'd to hear me chaunt my mournful airs,
While balmy gifts asswag'd my wounding cares;
Worth, godlike worth! must in their bosoms dwell,
Whose rays of goodness chear the rural cell:
Inferior minds the syren pleasure seek,
And shun the throbbing breast, the humid cheek,
While squand'ring wealth, in idle, useless, toys,
Mischievous frolics, or delusive joys,
See want and misery haunt the gloomy cot,
Nor fancy swains deserve a better lot.

Should Martin's name unkindly rest forgot,
May endless ills infest my hapless cot!
Tho' unadorn'd with titles, pomp, or state,
No cringing vassals crowd his humble gate,
Yet truly noble is that gen'rous heart,
That, freely, could so rich a gift impart;
For, ravish'd by its aid, my eyes behold
The wonders of creative pow'r unfold;
In flow'r, and insect, heav'nly wisdom trace,
Or view bright Phœbus' maculated face;
Or pallid Luna's craggy disk descry,
Or horned Venus gild the western sky;
Old Saturn's ring, great Jove's attendant train,
Or twinkling orbs that stud the azure plain:
Or, o'er the painted wall, delighted, view
The soft-reflected landscape's chequer'd hue.

Nor frowning critics damp the muse's fire,
Nor drown, with clam'rous din, her feeble lyre,
While friends of taste and learning curb their spite,
And Hawkesworth in her praise vouchsafes to write;
As when, from hostile foes, a venom'd dart,
Invades with pungent pain some tender part,
Till skilful hands the arrow disengage,
While antidotes allay the poison's rage;
So shafts discharg'd by th' envious, heedless, blind,
Inflam'd, a while, and fester'd in my mind,
'Till kind applauses every pang suppress'd,
Clos'd every wound, and steel'd my daring breast.

Though some kind friends their names with care conceal,
Dispensing bounty from behind a veil;
As when the sun withdraws his gladsome light,
The honey-dews pervade the gloom of night;
With fair Aurora we the drops explore,
But see no hand that shed the luscious store.
Yet, tho' their names embellish not my lay,
The muse shall oft her grateful tribute pay;
Shall oft, with silent thanks, their goodness own,
While fervent pray'rs pursue each hand unknown.
Nor shall a grateful mem'ry of the past,
A slight impression make, a moment last,

134

Like those imperfect types by school-boy drawn,
Along the bosom of the snowy lawn,
That, smote by Titan's beams oblique, decay,
Or Boreas' blust'ring pinion puffs away.
Nor passion's blast, nor fretting foot of time,
No chance of fortune, and no change of clime,
Shall e'er erase, from my tenacious breast,
The sacred marks by Gratitude imprest:
But, as the marble monument retains
Each symbol graven on it's polish'd planes,
Still faithful to each dead, or living, fame,
While its uninjur'd form remains the same;
So shall my honest heart maintain its trust,
Till the soft substance moulders into dust.

But shall my soul, while earth-born gifts inspire,
Return no thanks to her Almighty Sire?
From His stupendous love all blessings flow,
That sweeten life, or blunt the edge of woe.
Within the womb I felt his forming hand,
And life, and light, enjoy'd at his command.
He lodg'd my food within the fost'ring breast,
And each successive year his bounty blest.
He planted, fed, and rear'd, each virtuous thought,
By learned volumes tut'ring schools untaught;
Unveiling, by that light, to heedless youth,
The sweets of piety, the charms of truth.
He fledg'd my youthful fancy's vent'rous wing,
Inform'd her flight, and taught her voice to sing.
He warm'd the social breast with kindred love,
To ease that heart where want with virtue strove.
He prompts my mind to chaunt the grateful song,
Nor snatch a blessing like the thankless throng.
He sent illumin'd saints those truths to teach,
No stretch of human wisdom e'er could reach;
For man's offences gave his Son to die,
To purchase man a title to the sky;
Thence gives me faith his future care to crave,
And lift a fearless look beyond the grave.
Then, O great God! forgive a mortal song;
Thy praise unfinish'd flows from Seraph's tongue:
Yet wilt thou lend a kind paternal ear,
Invok'd by songs of love, and filial fear:
Then hear, all-knowing Pow'r! eternal King!
Accept my pious fervour while I sing;
O pardon me! if Care, or Lust, or Pride,
Unduly lure my cheated thoughts aside:
Vouchsafe, my soul, celestial joys may share,
And endless years, thy endless praise declare.

135

TO THE Right Honourable the Countess of ------ On the Death of a Daughter.

Fair Flora lay within a roseate bow'r,
And wept, in nightly dews, a fav'rite flow'r,
A flow'r she fancy'd fate had snatch'd away,
In all the charms of youth and beauty, gay.

With pity Pallas view'd the mourning fair,
Her streaming eye, and melancholy air;
And left, awhile, her azure throne above,
To soothe her, thus, in words of peace and love.
Gentle nymph! no longer pine,
Bow at Jove's imperial shrine;
Who, with kind, auspicious pow'r,
Bore away your tender flow'r,
From this cold ungenial clime,
From the reach of Fate, and Time;
Bore it to yon peaceful skies,
Where no storms or tempests rise,
Where no frosts or mildews come,
There to live in endless bloom:
Favour'd nymph! no longer mourn,
Grateful thanks to Jove return.

ODE TO APOLLO.

[_]

Imitated from Horace.

What, while my best oblations thus I pay,
Shall I request? great God of verse and day!
Not all the golden grain Britannia yields,
Or fleecy flocks that throng her fertile fields;
Not meeds and villas washed by silver Thames,
Or endless wealth that loads his smiling streams:
Let fortune's fav'rites prune their subject vines,
Let merchants quaff in gold the gen'rous wines,
While prospering Gods each wealthy bark sustain,
That frequent plows the wide Atlantic main:
Me, herbs and fruits and simple viands please;
O grant, Latona's son! O grant me Ease,
Content and Health—an ever-tuneful lyre—
Rever'd old age—these bound my full desire.

University of Virginia Library

POEMS ON Several Occasions

AN ELEGY TO WILLIAM SHENSTONE, Esq., OF THE LESSOWES.

ELEGY II. WRITTEN TO WILLIAM SHENSTONE, Esq., OF THE LESSOWES.

BENEVOLENCE.

AN ODE. Inscribed to my Friends.

SPRING.

THE LESSOWES.

A POEM.

WROTE AT THE LESSOWES, AFTER Mr. SHENSTONE'S DEATH.

PALEMON AND COLINET.

A PASTORAL ELEGY.

TO THE Right Honourable LORD LYTTLETON.

TO THE Right Honourable LORD LYTTLETON.

AN EPISTLE.

VERSES Addressed to ------ On receiving some valuable Books.

GRATITUDE.

A POEM. To ------

TO THE Right Honourable the Countess of ------ On the Death of a Daughter.

ODE TO APOLLO.