University of Virginia Library

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.