University of Virginia Library

previous section The Life and Poetical Works of James Woodhouse
next section
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,
106

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.
107

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.
108

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
109

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,
110

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.
111

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.
112

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;
113

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.
114

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;
115

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.
116

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.
117

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,
118

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
119

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,
120

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.
previous section The Life and Poetical Works of James Woodhouse
next section