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

163

NORBURY PARK.

A POEM, Inscribed to W. LOCK, Esq.

Written in 1789.
While far inferior Scenes have wak'd the Lyre,
Shall Norbury's bright Ascent no Song inspire?
Shall no descriptive, no entender'd strain,
Attempt the beauties of thy bless'd Domain?
No moral numbers—no religious lay,
The prompt inspirings of such Scenes display?
Where Nature sits on bright, embellish'd throne,
And ev'ry Science, ev'ry Art's well known—
Charms, simple or sublime, in every view,
And Worth which might each savage Mind subdue.
Wilt Thou, O gentle Lock! my Muse forgive,
And let my Verse beneath thy Virtues live?
Befriend a starveling venturing into birth,
And stoop to foster such inferior worth?
Can thy exalted Soul—thy taste correct—
Pursuits of knowledge and fair Arts neglect—
The sage Historian; Orator, and Bard;
Creative brush and chisel disregard—
Affection's calls, and Duty's claims, decline,
To waste one moment on a Muse like mine?
Can Learning sanction what mere Rustics write?
Wisdom in puerilities delight?
Taste relish raptures apish wonder felt,
Or Wit expound what Ignorance weakly spelt?
These must condemn the vain audacious deed;
Business would blame—rude Pride would scorn to read;
But Heav'n deriv'd Benevolence, like yours,
The right intention in the deed endures.
Such kind Good-nature, pardoning all Offence,
Interprets trifles into signs of Sense—
Such Condescension, soothingly will sit,
And strive to construe Weakness into Wit—
Pure Sensibility with sister smile,
With patience wait and bear her pains the while;
And soft ey'd Pity's partial ear attend
The feeblest efforts of the humblest Friend—
While prompt Politeness, with unbridled ease
Commends, with kindness, poorest aims to please—
And sweet Simplicity, attentive, by,
Will watch each motion of the meaning eye;
While gay Hilarity will gladly join,
To pardon faults, and praise each lucky line,
These, with their attributes, most rich and rare!
Both You, and Yours, in full perfection share.
And thus embolden'd, Modesty may aim,
For useful ends, to raise an honest Name—
May boldly dare to chaunt, in chearful tone,
The bless'd bewitchings in thy Mansion known—
The fascinating groves—enchanted ground—
And all the magic wonders rising round!
164

I court no compliment—I seek no bribe—
I scorn to mix with Mammon's sordid tribe;
No fame solicit—seek no selfish dow'r,
From Flattery—Falshood—Riches—Pomp—or Pow'r.
My Muse disdains each sly, sinister view—
She dedicates her strains to Truth and You,
To tell the working's of her labouring breast—
The fine sensations Norbury's charms impress'd—
The strong emotions, pleasing and sublime,
Which still resist the razing tread of Time.
Hail! lovely Landscapes! hail fair height supreme!
My Muse's inspiration! Virtue's theme!
Thy varied views, thy matchless eminence,
Enchant the Soul while rapturing every Sense!
Thy charms may challenge more exalted meed
Than the weak warblings of my rustic reed;
Might summon the sublimer Sons of Song,
To seek thy sweets, and sing thy shades among—
To pace thy curvey slopes—thy sudden swells—
Sequester'd tracks of deep umbrageous dells—
Thy greensward woodland walks and groves antique,
Where Purity may sport, and Love may speak—
Chaunt all thy chaste delights, with rapture high'r,
Than Pindus' heights by Heliconian choir.
Art's grand attempts may crowd more gorgeous Seats,
May proudly rise round Potentates' retreats;
May share distinction from high-titled name,
And shine in venal verse with faithless fame—
From artificial shades, and garnish'd grounds,
May boast more brilliant sights, and bolder sounds—
Extensive lakes may foam in temporal falls,
Proud battlements may swell, and ampler halls;
Temples and tow'rs, in every portion start,
Expelling Nature, and outraging Art—
But none, like Thee, can boast their boxen shades,
No wintry wind or summer sun pervades;
Or ancient Yews that grow with vernal grace,
Deathless as Time—firm as their chalky base;
Much less exhibit such superior proofs,
Of Sense and Softness lodg'd beneath their roofs—
Nor can they claim a Bard, whose secret Soul
Feels more the force of sacred Truth's controul;
Whose Spirit more espouses Freedom's cause—
Loves Virtue more, or honours social laws,
Or less regards a peccant World's applause.
Some favour'd Poet, with more flattering strains,
May swell the praises of such proud Domains—
With more sham virtues make their Masters shine,
Till Folly's brain may fancy both divine:
But this, tho' poor, contems those hollow lays,
Which puff with foolish lies a Patron's praise—
Who, tho' so lately hurl'd from higher sphere,
Still holds his honesty, and honour, dear—
Tho' plung'd in woes, with conscious virtue bold,
Could scorn, amidst his penury, gifts of gold—
Could spurn, in deep distress, to condescend,
And seize false favours from a faithless Friend;
But felt reflection rouse resentment more
From wrongs, and base indignities before!
Who'd gladlier dwell among degraded men,
Than barter Time and Liberty agen—
To stand a butt in blind Caprice's way,
To shoot her shafts, and fag for paltry pay.
Would rather rank with hordes of human race,
Than seek a Pension, or accept a Place.
Would sooner stock the turnpike for poor bread,
Than reap rich harvests where his Virtue bled—
Than swell Pomp's train where tyrant Pride oppress'd—
Meet squint-ey'd Scorn in squalid tatters dress'd—
Would meanest Clown, with supplications meet,
And hold his hat for farthings in the street,
Before he'd bow to Dolts, on Despots fawn,
Or foul his conscience for a shabby pawn—
Become unpensioned Laureat for the Poor,
And pick up scanty scraps from door to door,
Than let his Sense be sold, his Soul be slain,
By flattering Fools, or Knaves, for fame, or gain.
'Tis better far to bow at Virtue's shrine,
Than reign coequal with the worshipp'd Nine—
Better to bend at fair Religion's feet
Than sit on idolized Apollo's seat—
Happier with pious Poverty to live,
Than grasp all groveling Servitude can give—
Nobler with Want to drudge, with Woe to die,
Than feast with Fraud, and sing with sensual joy!
Can Wealth, alone, impugning Wisdom's pow'r,
Yield Hope and Peace, in sharp Affliction's hour?
Can Sensuality's lewd Sonnets raise
Emotions pure, like holy Hymns of praise?
Or prurient haunts of Pride, in Cities, please,
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Like Scenes of simple Pleasure such as these?
Such as Experience finds thy friendly Dome,
Sincerity's asylum! Honour's home!
Fair seat of Science! School of curious Arts!
Where Transport enters—Whence Regret departs—
Where all the faculties of Soul, and Sense,
Enjoy supreme repast, nor fear offence—
While every Friend, when feasted to the full,
Feels no perceptive pow'r grow cloy'd or dull,
But, while indulging, with intense delight,
Experience, still, increases appetite—
Yet could such sweet reiterations cloy,
Surrounding scenes would renovate the joy;
Would cold Satiety's dull damps controul,
And pour fresh vigour thro' the thrilling soul!
Rich views the northern scope of vision fill,
Harrow's fam'd height, and Stanmore's favour'd hill;
That fam'd for Learning, and for classic Lore,
This deck'd by Fortune, but by Merit more.
Friends, stretching far their Virtues, kind regard,
Beyond the interests of an injured Bard.
Not to a narrow circle so confin'd,
That Self excludes the rest of human-kind;
But hearts enlarg'd, which gladly would embrace,
And heal the wants and woes of all the Race.
Enjoying bliss while blessings they bestow,
The happiest use of pow'r and wealth below!
Friends that might furnish many a nobler lay,
Like gems about its crown their beams display,
Did some sublimer Muse appreciate Worth,
Above ungracious, groveling, worms of Earth—
Friends, while they honour Stanmore's fair outside,
The grateful feelings of my Heart divide,
And, filling up my Soul's respective cells,
Each in its warmest mansion ever dwells!
The Muse might here recite each honour'd Name,
And fill her tiny tube with feeble fame—
A few of all their kindnesses record,
And virtues rarely met in modern Lord;
Virtues which might adorn a princely page,
And shame the monsters of this iron Age—
But, gentle Lock! their modest Minds, like thine,
In panegyric page ne'er wish to shine,
While prompting still, their self-denying Sense
Deems fame oppressive, and all praise offence.
There Hampstead's villas thro' her vistos peep—
There Highgate reddens o'er the rising steep—
Augusta's tow'rs, heneath, like cliffs, appear,
That o'er her seas of smoke their summits rear,
Stretching unnumber'd streets, with annual stride,
To meet the countless Vills that swell on every side.
How different are her dark, and sordid, scenes,
Contrasted with the gay, untainted, greens—
How different all the foul effluvia there
Compar'd with thy pure, scented, atmosphere—
With all the objects Eye, or Fancy, sees,
Within her precincts when compar'd with these!
'Twere endless toil should Understanding trace
The faults and follies of her ample space,
And these, by strong antithesis, compare,
And what's found here of sweet, and good, and fair.
Her great—her gross—incorrigible crimes,
Are never known in these Elysian climes—
Her noise and nonsense hither ne'er extend—
Her bribery and corruptions find no Friend—
Nor hither can her rank deceptions reach,
False forms, and plausibilities of speech—
Her fashions and her frailties rarely shewn—
Her villanies and vices never known—
While all that can survive on Virtue's ground,
That Courts embellish, or in Cots abound;
The soft amenities that sense approves,
Religion sanctions, or Politeness loves;
To Delicacy sweet, or Wisdom dear,
Are always found, and always flourish, here!
Yet would the Muse not hint this impious thought,
In great Augusta Virtue's vainly sought—
That, in the midst of her vast multitude,
Nothing is found but Vices vile, and rude—
That nought but Libertines, and Rascals range—
Form families—fill shops—and cheat on Change—
That Infidels, alone, Blasphemers meet,
Degrade each dwelling, and defile each street;
While Hypocrites compose Religion's train,
Pollute her temples, and her rites profane—
No—far from truth would such a libel be,
Against the noble—mean—and low—degree—
For, in the different ages—sexes—ranks—
My Muse beholds the thought with boundless thanks,
166

Which makes my bosom with strong transport beat,
While wandering, tranquil, round this calm retreat,
Rejoicing o'er that Manhood—Age—or Youth—
That find true knowledge—feel celestial Truth—
Its duties strive to fill, and stem the tide
Of dissipation—lust—and temporal pride—
For, tho' the bulk of all that bustling throng,
By Vanity and Pomp are borne along—
With talents trifle—privileges spurn—
Nor truths reveal'd from Heav'n, or precepts, learn;
But waste their strength and dissipate their time,
Both night and day accumulating crime—
Still counteracting God's most gracious will,
Their offer'd graces quench, and mercies kill—
Yet, in the midst of all the mighty crowd,
So vain—so vicious—profligate—and proud—
Thousands are interspers'd, whose holy light
Prevents the spread of Pope's, or Paynim's night—
Their saline influence thro' the mass convey,
And stop Corruption's universal sway;
Or soon the Million that compose the State
Must suffer Sodom's, or fall'n Salem's fate!
Innumerous beauties spread the space between,
Where every Art adorns the vivid scene;
All architectural cunning can supply,
To fence the frame, or fascinate the eye.
All Horticulture's compound pow'rs can yield,
Or Husbandry produce in fatten'd field;
Irriguous gardens, shades, and shrubberies bright,
For Leisure's lounge, or Luxury's delight.
Towns—hamlets—sumptuous domes, in prospect rise
And scarce a scrap of Earth neglected lies.
All fair and fertile by the plough, or spade—
With strengthening crops, or ornaments, array'd—
Where Usefulness and Beauty bless each part,
To cherish hope, and charm the eye and heart;
Except, O Epsom! thy uncultur'd wild,
By wisdom spurn'd—by Dissipation spoil'd!
In Nature's rugged garment rude, and waste!
By Toil unbroken, and unbless'd by Taste!
Where, Friends in semblance, Dupes and Swindlers, meet,
Caress each other, and each other cheat.
Vile mint of execrations, oaths, and lies,
That prove the Scoundrel, and provoke the Skies!
Mad chaos of Debauchery, Filth, and Fraud!
That none but Knaves approve, and Fools applaud.
Confusion—Uproar—Impudence—and Lust—
Bless'd Peace appal, and Decency disgust.
Where Justice staggers—Reason feels offence—
And Trick, and Trifling, banish Truth and Sense.
Where Folly all Reflection overturns—
Pure Conscience boggles—every Virtue burns—
All held, by Angels, or by Christians, dear,
Trod down by Phrenzy in her fierce career.
A Whirlpool swallowing up each awful thought
That Heav'n had stamp'd, or education taught.
Where Nature's noble Brute, caress'd before,
Is bath'd in floods of sweat, and streams of gore,
His strength and constitution soon destroy'd;
A sacrifice to Selfishness or Pride!
Erewhile so tender, so superbly, bred—
Like Peers' or Princes' offspring lodg'd and fed—
With separate Servant at his shrine to crouch;
To store his table—and to shake his couch—
Yet, after all, so nurtur'd, and so nurs'd,
Soon by Caprice and Persecution curs'd—
When, having long maintain'd exalted name,
And rais'd his Master's fortune, or his fame,
From battening board and kind Attention turn'd;
In rank degraded, and by Sportsmen spurn'd,
His short remains of life in misery spends,
And, friendless days, in ditch, or kennel, ends!
Is this improving Nature's pure intent,
Perverting basely what Heav'n's bounty lent?
Destroying blessings meant for better use,
For Sport or Avarice butcher'd by Abuse?
Thus wasting Wealth, and tantalizing Time?
Still adding Cruelty to every other Crime!
But turn, my Muse! thy soberer thoughts aside,
From such vile haunts of Perfidy and Pride!
From those impure, and unproductive plains,
Where neither Morals rule, or Order reigns!
Turn to that happy Dome—those hills and dells,
Where Beauty riots, and Refinement dwells.
Where monarch Man, by Duty's dictates wise,
For proper ends each privilege employs.
O'er subject Beasts extends no lawless sway,
Wild Prodigality's, or Passion's prey!
With mad amusements, or intemperate joys,
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No Sense distracts, or Sympathy destroys.
No Vice perverts, no Vanity devours,
Or wealth—or time—or intellectual pow'rs.
Trains not proud Steeds in pompous studs to shine,
With boasted lineage from Arabian line—
To leave each Courser in contested race,
Or fleet competitor in cruel chace—
To fly the fence—to dare the desperate flood,
Or victory vaunt in fields of faultless blood—
And when by age, or hurt, depriv'd of speed,
Their pow'rs no more competitors exceed;
No more outfly the field, outstrip the plain,
To seize the glory, or secure the gain—
No pomp support, no greediness supply,
With want, or negligence, degraded die!
But he, who o'er this Paradise presides,
Not forc'd by Folly's storms, or Fashion's tides,
But Wisdom with Humanity contends,
Their pains to spare, with furthering useful ends.
He feeds and fosters with a friendly care,
To help necessity, yet comfort share.
Not us'd for Emulation—Fraud—or Strife—
But prudent purposes of social Life—
For temperate Expedition—Ease—or Health—
Appendage fit for providential Wealth;
To make Heav'n's Law, with Liberty accord,
Not Nature's Tyrant, but Creation's Lord!
He educates the Teams of sturdier breed,
To tear the turf, or cover scatter'd seed—
Impel the manure cart, or harvest wain,
With plenty spreading joy around the plain.
Thus shines the valley—thus the mountains rude,
Adorn'd by Nature, or by Art subdu'd—
Where Norbury, rising with unequall'd crest,
In regal grandeur tow'rs above the rest!
Sublimely rearing her majestic height,
In princely diadem and drapery bright,
Auspicious smiles, and feels her bosom glow,
To see such tributes paid from all below!
While circling hills appear like subject Chiefs,
That hold of her, as Queen, their noblest fiefs;
Stooping subordinate beneath her throne,
By humbler looks and plainer garments known.
Unveil'd, the southern Vale's allurements lie,
To catch the glances of her kindling eye!
Deep ocean of delights! where sight may swim,
Or bask in beauty, on the radiant brim.
Pure source of sweets! where, unlike Circe's bowl,
Sense may indulge and not defile the Soul.
A concave, bright! whose pregnant matrix teems
With more than plastic Fancy's fairy dreams—
More than e'er sprung from Painter's mimic pow'rs,
Or Poet figur'd in his happiest hours—
Whose richly decorated hollow, holds
All beauties Earth's prolific lap unfolds.
Bewildering landscape! where enchantment reigns,
More than on other hills, and other plains.
Imagination's magic force must fail
Till vision wanders o'er this wonderous dale—
Like Love's pure source, which still the Mind enjoys,
Nor Memory tires, nor contemplation cloys!
First Mickleham's lovely village, plain and neat!
With deference kneeling at fair Norbury's feet,
Like a poor Client, lifts a suppliant eye
To pow'rful patron, who inhabits by;
Whose mute beseechings, eloquently crave,
Her low estate to succour and to save—
Or glows with silent gratitude and love,
For show'rs and sunshine scatter'd from above;
Yet, while in dumb devoirs she seems to bend,
She smiles assur'd her suit shall find a friend:
Or, as a bashful Virgin blushing stands,
The conscious object of surrounding lands,
With charms suffus'd, and dress'd in fair attire,
The universal flame of fond desire;
So Mickleham's modest looks and lovely mien,
By every eye with admiration seen;
Each bosom bounding with unfeign'd delights,
That views her charms from Norbury's blissful heights!
But tho' thus humbly looks the silent dell,
Within those Cots more genuine Worth may dwell,
Than titled Domes, or Palaces, can boast,
In Sycopants that form their motley Host—
Some Individual's value well express,
Full confirmation of the Muse's guess,
Whose honest heart, indignant, would disdain
The crafty traffic of the courtly train;
And, with pure Merit, modestly repel
The strains, tho' true, which strive that Worth to tell—
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Would still, with unassuming mien, conceal
What every act, and word, and look reveal—
Would stop the tongue endeavouring to declare
The various Virtues in high rank so rare;
Wishing the World to all those Merits blind,
So felt by Friends, and mimic'd by Mankind!
Among the various tints of tenderest green,
The clustering clumps, and tufted banks, between,
Thro' intersected fields, and flowery meads,
The white-wav'd Mole its mazey current leads,
And throws, thro' lucid breaks, the solar beam,
In dazzling glimpses from the glittering stream.
By this enchanted spot the burrowing wave
Probes thro' the spongey soil a temporal grave;
But soon emerges from the shades of night,
Cleans'd of its filth, reflecting clearer light:
So, when Man's Spirit quits its coil of clay,
His Body leaves, a time, the realms of day,
But soon from dust and darkness will return,
And, purg'd from dross, with brighter glories burn—
Unless that Body, clogg'd with impious crimes,
Sinks down to darker, and to drearier, climes,
With Spirit deeper plung'd from Earth and Skies,
To scenes of Light, and Love—no more to rise!
Around the nurturing Dale, embosom'd deep,
Contrasted Hills extend their circling sweep;
Like battlements uprear'd, on every side,
To screen its crops, and fence its flowery pride,
Except the South; where, opening all its charms,
It wooes the Sun with wide expanded arms,
With fragrant bosom, and with blushing face,
To fructify her womb, by warm embrace;
And, tho' she shuns, by night, the balmy bliss,
Still turns her couch to catch his morning kiss—
When tir'd, at intervals, with panting sport,
To Auster's cooling pinions pays her court,
To still the fever of her beating breast,
And lull, with opiate airs. her heart to rest;
While, when his fanning wings refrain from toils,
With perfumes pays him, and unceasing smiles?
The Hills with furrow'd brow, or flaunting wreath,
Ambitious frown, or bow, o'er all beneath,
Or broider'd gay, with blooms and verdure glow,
Reflecting, fondly, lovlier births below!
Here woods, indigenous, with native pride,
Rear their ag'd crowns, and wield their sceptres wide;
Or foreign colonies, with recent sway,
Expand their plumes, and wave their banners gay.
There helmed Yews, and speary Hollies, spread
Their scatter'd squadrons o'er the Mountain's head;
With straggling standards every foe defy,
While hostile armies scour the wintry sky;
Still holding honourable trophies fast,
While dastard trees are stripp'd by every blast.
But chief the Mount, among its brethren seen,
With shining garb close cover'd, ever green.
Where tufted Juniper, and spiney Thorn,
Defend its bosom, and its brow adorn,
While charitable Box rich boons bestows,
To shield its shoulders from the frosts and snows;
Like furry robe of ever-verdant hue,
To chear each eye till spring her charms renew.
Transporting picture! where the ravish'd sight
Ranges and rests with ever-new delight!
Dwells on the figures, and surveys the frame,
The Spirit kindling with increasing flame—
Inspects the parts, and meditates the plan,
In this perceives the God—in that the Man.
In Deity beholds the grand design,
The striking curvatures—the bold outline—
Each separate feature, and each general form—
The undecaying ground—the colouring warm—
To Man belongs, alone, the lesser Arts,
To move, and modify, inferior parts—
To clump, or scatter—ravel, or arrange—
Operate on all susceptible of change—
Select the subjects—lights and shadows place—
Retouch what's fading—what offends erase!
To liven, and illuminate the view,
Can guide the gurgling rills in channels new—
Can form or dry a flood, or drain a fen—
Can raise a hillock, or can scoop a glen—
Can grub a forest, or can plant a grove—
Erect a ruin, or a rock remove;
With imitative skill can mimic all,
Heaven's hand has fashion'd o'er this earthly Ball;
Yet, still, with delegated pow'rs Man plods,
Materials—tools—ev'n Artists—all are God's!
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These were the scenes that wak'd my sluggish lays,
While hymning them to hope some whispering praise—
But chief, O Norbury! in thy Eden's found
The aggregate of graces, clustering round.
Here might the Muse, with syllogistic truth,
Sing Yews, five centuries old still fresh with youth;
Like hardy Sires, in ant'deluvian days,
Defying fell Disease, and Time's decays.
Of monarch Oaks, extending calm command,
Whose sheltering shields protect large tracts of land;
Or tyrant pow'r, oppressing subject broods,
The huge Leviathans of vassal woods!
Of giant Beeches, bright with matchless charms,
Lifting, Briareus like, their hundred arms;
Not threatening Lovers with an hostile air,
But boldly to defend each tender Fair—
Of hospitable Elms, whose shadows dense
Shut out the solar fires, or show'r's offence;
Or friendly Ashes, whose fair branches flow,
To fan, with wingy foliage, all below.
How Groves in conjugal embraces join,
Twisting their wedded limbs with nuptial twine;
Whose every feature, every form, appears,
As bright in beauty as robust in years,
While all with claims of emulation climb,
Bless'd denizon's of dwelling so sublime!
But let, O youthful Lock! thy wonted skill
Pourtray those wonders of thy natal Hill—
Thy fancy, and thy fingers, best can tell
How fresh they flourish, and how proud they swell—
How firm, how full, their boles, and branches are,
Their forms, how fine! their foliage, how fair!
Yet tho' they smile so hale, and soar so high,
Their strength must fail—stability must fly!
But Thou, with canvas, and with colours clear,
Canst conquer Time amidst his mad career—
Thy tints and tablets every trait secure,
Make delicacy live, and dignity endure!
Ye thickening Bow'rs of intertwining Box,
Whose matted networks wrap the secret rocks;
To suck their snowy bosom closely cling,
And hide their naked paps with endless Spring—
Will You, while warm Imagination roves
Thro' your symphonious, never-fading groves—
Will You vouchsafe one small, one smiling, spray,
To crown my Muse and chear her on her way?
Ye sombre Shades of everlasting Yews!
Withhold your blighting damps—your deadly dews—
While underneath your umbrage I recline,
And register your praise in lowly line—
Blot not my numbers with oblivious tear,
Nor chill my chasten'd Mind while musing here!
Let not your nodding plumes' impervious night,
Shroud my lov'd labours from the gladdening light!
Let not fond Fancy weep her lot, forlorn,
To find her offsprings perish ere they're born!
Tho' neither fragrant plants, or painted flow'rs,
Survive one season in your sullen bow'rs;
Yet may some viler shrub, and vulgar blooms,
Shoot in your shades, and garnish all your glooms!
And sure I am you never can refuse,
To foster and befriend the moral Muse;
Much less relax the force, and quench the fire,
That strikes and kindles the religious Lyre;
For you've Religion's make, and Virtue's mien,
Your stems eternal! garments always green!
Your hardy frames still baffling Time's attack,
His teeth controul, and beat his footsteps back!
Your deathless limbs, and fadeless features, last
In spite of Summer's heat and Winter's blast,
While tresses float, and flowing robe defies,
The frequent skirmishings of hostile skies—
And while your shrivell'd feet, denuded, spread
Continuous masses o'er the Mountain's head,
Clasping its chalky cliffs with twisted toes,
Each gutter'd trunk, thro' countless Ages, grows—
Your iron arms extending, undecay'd,
Thro' all your close circumference of shade,
Sustain thick vestments, fring'd with feathery pride,
The body's shame, with leafy folds to hide.
Your hoary heads crisp locks, grotesquely hung,
Strike, as antique, yet look for ever young,
And low, with hairy honours, duteous, droop
To greet your Patron, Spouse, and stripling Troop.
Your size, your shape, your aged aspect, shew,
Exception, sole, to other growths below—
The Flow'r soon falls! the shrub soon shrinks away!
The whole fraternities of trees decay!
Mansions will moulder! Families must fall!
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All flux! all fickle! round this rolling ball!
Yet whate'er alters, or whoe'er may claim,
You, miracles of Life! remain the same!
Still stand—still flourish—still maintain your state—
Defying Fortune, and the shafts of Fate!
Without descent! claiming coeval birth
With wonderous broods of postdeluvian Earth,
Which rise around—magnificently grand!
Like Ocean, wild with rage, transform'd to Land,
With furniture terrene—all firmly fix'd—
Woods—buildings—lawns—and living creatures mix'd.
Here the prodigious billows sink, or swell,
To mould the mountain, or to scoop the dell;
With all their freightage fall, or boldly rise,
To seek the centre, or to scale the skies—
Less waves, suspended round, in solid tides,
Cling to their skirts, and prop their scollop'd sides—
All permanent with rock, and cloath'd with soil,
Where silky greensward grows, or blossoms smile;
Or deck'd with shrubs, and crown'd with kingly trees,
No more the tools of tyrant blast, or breeze.
Some, bleak and brown, in wretched robes appear,
Neglected, lean, and languid, all the year;
Like Providence's Poor; to bondage born;
The rich Man's property, the proud Man's scorn.
Ne'er deck'd by Vanity, or dress'd for State,
Caress'd for gain, or courted by the Great—
Ne'er flush'd with pride, or fluttering with parade—
For strength, simplicity, and meekness, made.
On their plain tops no tawdry gew-gaw shines,
No frippery round their brows, or bosoms, twines—
No pomp, or pageantry their skirts display,
In flaunting folds, or glowing flow'rets gay—
They smile serene, when storms and tempests roar;
No wasting whirlwind lays their honours low'r.
Their humble breasts no emulation fills,
When looking round on far superior hills;
Yet pearly tears, in pitying streamlets, flow,
Viewing the grossness of the vales below—
While frequent fogs their showry faces shrowd,
They look aloft, and pierce the passing cloud;
Their upward prospect shining ever clear,
And peaceful flocks find pleasant pasturage there—
Inspire pure air, which fans that healthy zone,
And draw their drink from heavenly dews alone—
Still ask, and still obtain, those bless'd supplies,
Wealth ne'er can give, nor Heaven e'er denies,
That share of sunshine, and refreshing rain,
Which dries the dunghill, and which drowns the plain.
Tho' rude by Nature, and untouch'd by Art,
They scarce attract one eye, or touch one heart.
Their desolate exterior tends to shew
The varied plan of Providence below—
Clear of Man's envy, and their Maker's curse—
Lust's antidote, and Vanity's reverse—
Beneath Pride's snares, above Contempt's low sneer,
In pure simplicity their heads they rear—
Unlike Hypocrisy, who strives to hide
Much foulness, lodg'd beneath a fair outside;
While these, with specious wiles, ne'er aim to win,
Tho' bare, and base, without, yet white within.
But where is Contemplation's Spirit stray'd,
And dropp'd her prone Companion in the shade?
Oh! whither has she wing'd the musing Mind,
And left thy beauties, Norbury, behind!
Tho' she feels prompt capacity to soar,
And, rapid, range the whole Creation o'er;
Outstripping storm, or fiery meteor's flight,
Electric blaze, or beams of solar light;
Yet must the Spirit's pow'rs be oft employed,
On things of Sense, while here with Flesh allied—
Press temporal subjects, and supply her posts,
Till call'd by Death to join celestial Hosts.
Resume, with warmth, my Muse, thy thrilling Theme,
Nor now indulge thy moralising dream.
No more, in devious visions wandering, roam,
But trace the charms that deck thy transient home—
Not those alone, in proud profusion pour'd,
By Nature's hand from her exhaustless hoard,
O'er every verdant mead, and chequer'd mound,
But most profuse in Norbury's fairy round.
Note what new treasures from Her funds are drawn,
To scent the shrubbery, or illume the lawn—
Where, heightening all, Art gives an added grace,
With emigrants embodied round the place,
In mix'd assemblies, or gregarious groups,
With smiles array'd, and rang'd in happy troops;
Diversified in colour, shape, and size,
To store the fancy, and to feast the eyes—
171

And rich, in varied vestments, grateful stand,
To compliment the Colonizer's hand.
The Larch, whose fringey blooms, with blushing hue,
Before her hairy leaflets, Spring renew;
And pines, and firs, of every foreign brood,
That clump the hillock, and that crown the wood;
Which, unlike her, their hardier tresses hold,
Amid the frantic storms, and freezing cold;
With countless others of deciduous class,
That sprig the meadow, or compose the mass,
And seeming conscious of their blissful scite,
With smiles, peculiar, manifest delight,
Unmix'd with discontent or cold disgust,
As all inhabitants of Norbury must.
The scented shrubs and plants adopted trains,
That paint the terraces, or that stripe the plains;
Unfurl their foliage, or unfold their flow'rs,
To blush on borders, and embellish bow'rs;
Still gratify, with fullest choice, and change,
The peerless Nymphs that round their precincts range—
The velvet verdure laughs with love to meet
It's charming Patroness's passing feet,
And every duteous tree, delighted flings
Soft cooling shadows from it's wavering wings,
While fragrant leaves and flow'rs, lie doubly bless'd,
To spend their sweets, and sleep upon her breast.
Full well she merits all their buds and blooms,
Their brightest paintings, and their best perfumes,
Whose constant care, and fond affections, tend,
As gracious Mistress—Manager—and Friend—
Watches their welfare with parental zeal;
Pines o'er their wants—rejoices in their weal—
Provides their nursery—plans their airings, pure—
To shield their infancy—their strength mature—
In choicest aspect spreads their charms, divine,
While Spring breathes balm, and Summer's glories shine,
And coverings, warm, constructs, while Winter lasts,
To skreen their beauties from the killing blasts.
There 'mong the ranks of diff'rent flow'r and leaf,
Rich rows of Orange Plants, appearing chief,
Their stately emerald mantles, fair, unfold,
Prank'd thick with pearls, and hung with globes of gold
In favour first, but next in rank beneath,
Myrtles, in leaf and bloom, soft incense breathe;
With numbers more whose merits might repay,
The Gardener's labour, and the Muse's lay.
Hither their fair intendant oft retires,
Urg'd with a Lover's fond impulsive fires;
Admires their lineaments—complexion—dress—
Bathes in their sweets and prints the warm caress—
Such speeches, looks, and blandishments, bestows,
As none but Friend, or Child, or Consort knows.
Nor let inferior labours rest forgot,
The straw-stol'd honours of her conic cot;
With light festoons of honeysuckles bound,
Which fadeless firs, and frail-leav'd larch surround—
Not rear'd for empty purposes of pride,
Its humble form, or simple face, to hide—
Not to conceal such lowly cell from sight,
To pour on Poverty contempt or spite;
But raising round a shelter, tempest-proof,
From cruel winds to skreen its reedy roof,
And hint what sympathy such bosoms warms,
Which furnish Need and fence it from the storms.
But labours, light and trivial, such as these,
Building sham cottages, and planting trees,
Or cherishing exotic scents and hues,
For vain applause, or egotistic views,
Engross not all her highly-gracious hours,
Her delegated wealth, and mental pow'rs;
But ingenuity, and time, and store,
Are sanctified by portions lent the Poor,
To banish need, and strengthen useful toil,
And o'er each face diffuse a chearful smile;
Fulfilling all the offices of love,
For which such gifts were granted from above.
Whene'er about this Paradise I prowl,
What fine sensations fill my ravish'd Soul!
Whether my eyes on neighbouring hills regale,
Or drink deep draughts from Tempe's modern dale—
On towering trees, gigantic, eager gaze,
Or prodigal parterres' embroider'd blaze—
The naturaliz'd plantation's windings trace,
Or undulating lawns, delightful face—
The pathway wood—the unincumbered glade,
Or labyrinthine thickets deepening shade;
Still strange emotions all my pow'rs expand,
And lift reflection to the forming hand!
Let me, beneath this reverend Yew, at rest,
Explore the raptures that enlarge my breast—
172

Search why these scenes such novel joys impart,
And find such interest in a feeling heart.
Is it, because, in this transcendent scite,
The loveliest objects of each Sense unite?
Because the Landscapes shine supremely fair?
That purity and perfume form the air?
Because Earth's carpet's trimm'd with tenderest pile,
And Flow'rets sweeter smell, and softer smile?
That Shrubs and Trees their brightest tints display,
And choicest Songsters chaunt on every spray?
Such grateful feelings, separate, or combin'd,
Transfuse refreshment thro' the musing Mind;
But higher transport, still, reflection yields,
Surveying habitations, woods, and fields,
To mark each happy agent smile serene,
That climbs the grove, or occupies the green—
That o'er the hills, or round the hamlet, roam,
Or fill each office in domestic dome;
For all that builds up bliss, or weakens woes,
Their Lord's Humanity and Taste bestows,
Not that Humanity whose warmth extends
To useful Subjects for mere selfish ends;
Nor that cold Taste which squanders heaps of pelf,
To win gross fame, while gratifying Self—
'Tis not for these, alone, that labour feeds
The milky kine, or stalls the sinewy steeds—
That constant vigilance, and caution, keep
The multifarious flocks of battening sheep;
But prompt pursuits of bland Benevolence,
Considering comforts more than simple sense;
In conscious creatures chief, whose thoughts reflect
On pains and pleasures of high Intellect;
Nor ever wilfully, or willing, blasts
One sentient creature's bliss while being lasts.
Such sympathy no object would destroy
That shews one single signature of joy;
Would ev'n imaginary pleasure spare
In ev'ry smiling plant, or flow'ret fair,
Nor suffer, should Necessity not call
One shrub to perish, or one tree to fall.
No hateful Force, unauthorized by Taste,
These groves degrades, or lays these woodlands waste.
No hostile axes Hamadryads chace,
From old possessions in this hallow'd place,
Nor are their broods by murderous mattock slain,
Victims to Vice, in this propitious reign,
No bleeding head beheld, or mangled limb,
Torn from their trunks by Wantonness, or Whim.
Safe to Life's limits, undisgrac'd they grow,
While yearly liveries vernal Suns bestow.
No dread assault, the Fawns, or Dryads, fear,
To interrupt their feast, or frolics, here;
But, in calm habitations dwell secure,
While verdant coverings, and firm frames, endure,
Still, in these gracious purlieus, gayly sport,
And keep, with native Nymphs, their constant court,
While Virtue, in its loveliest shapes alone,
Informs the ministers and fills the Throne.
Here unclipp'd Box may still enlarge its bound—
And Haws' and Hazles' fruitage ripen round—
The glossy Beech its lengthening pinions spread,
And shake full harvests from its shining head—
Oaks, Ashes, Sycamores fresh offsprings raise,
From conic acorns; straight, or forked keys—
More near the clouds Elms, Pines, and Poplars climb,
And Yews still flourish till the fall of Time.
The Birds may here uninterrupted throng,
And pour, in peace, their serenading song;
Spread their gay plumage in each gladsome grove—
In full protection take their fill of love—
Securely revel, or securely rest—
With wonted skill construct their curious nest—
Their tender younglings hatch, and nurse, and rear,
To populate the sprays each future year;
Nor dread the rabble, who, for fun or food,
Might pillage all their eggs, or harmless brood.
In these calm regions of content and joy,
The sportive Squirrel meets with no annoy—
No clamorous instruments of savage hord,
By suffering Sensibility abhorr'd—
No shouts obstreporous, or stoney show'rs,
Drive the defenceless tribe thro' leafless bow'rs,
Till heightening terror stop their labouring breath,
And down they drop, as prey, or sink in death;
Here, privileg'd, they ramble, safe and free—
Search every shrub, or leap from tree to tree—
The pregnant nut, or pine-cone's scales, explore,
For present forage, or for future store—
Skip o'er the turf, with quick-repeated bound,
Or, rear'd erect, look wildly listening round—
173

Climb the tall tree, and peep behind each spray,
With chattering grin to fright each foe away—
Run round the rugged rind, with rapid race,
In amorous dalliance, or in hostile chace—
From puny paws, in upright posture feed,
Or frame warm hammocks for their furry breed.
Vengeance pursues, in this pacific place,
With deadly hate, alone the Rabbit race,
Whose deleterious multitudes invade
The polish'd landscape, or embowering shade,
With mounds and dens deforming the champagne,
While woods lament their infant offspring slain;
Beheaded in their tender, youthful state,
Or flay'd, like martyrs, meet untimely fate.
Goodness prepares some privilege for all
That in the circle of its influence fall;
For all that trace the stream, or haunt the bow'r,
That sip the dew, or suck the saccharine flow'r;
That sheer the turf, or animate the spray,
Or pierce the skies to pour their sprightly lay—
But how much more, Philanthropy, refin'd,
That spends its pow'rs to benefit Mankind!
Whose heavenly emanations, gracious, give
True bosom bliss to Friend, and Relative—
Whose energy, celestial, darting down,
Charm pleas'd Acquaintance, and the poorest Clown;
While its remotest rays of kindness tend
To stir remorse, and make a foe a Friend!
Speak Ye, who Norbury's fostering Sunshine feel,
Doth not its influence wake your grateful zeal?
Ye Foes, if Norbury ever Foes can find,
Are not its beams beneficent and kind?
Doth not your Hate, or Envy, fully prove
That real Merits your base bosoms move?
Ye Prodigals reduc'd! Ye hapless Poor!
Doth not its radiance reach your dreary door?
Doth not the sluggard its awakenings know?
Or Industry enjoy its gladdening glow?
Speak Ye, who sparkle in its kindling rays—
Ye Satellites that bask in clearer blaze—
Ye that run round in planetary form—
Friends, comet like, in far aphelion, warm—
But, chiefly, You, in full effulgence, near,
That constitute the fervid atmosphere,
And, like your parent Orbs, benignly bright!
Communicate your heat, and lend your light;
Compounds of Matron Moon, and solar Sire
Shedding mild radiance, and diffusing fire!
Such is the salutary influence found,
Beam'd on all breasts the whole horizon round—
Far distant objects never can behold
Such clear resplendence, and experience cold;
But all who occupy the nearer parts,
Must feel its fervour penetrate their hearts.
Beneath that hospitable tranquil roof
No modest Mind e'er shrinks with sharp reproof.
No frown is felt from any household God—
The female Genii alway smile—or nod—
No haughty shyness, or affected air,
Conceited Coxcomb, or Coquette declare;
Nor supercilious look, or mien, proclaim,
The letter'd Pedant, or the lofty Dame.
No ostentatious Pomp, or vain Parade,
Impeach pure Judgment, or good Sense degrade;
Nor prompt displays, in diet, or in dress,
Exhibit boasting Pride—or Littleness.
Were all such Females, and primeval Men,
The golden Æra would return again—
No longer would Ambition brood in State,
And press down Penury with unwieldy weight—
Nor courtly insolence low Peasant spurn,
But pure Politeness liberal conduct learn;
While fair Philanthropy with Wisdom join'd,
Built on Religion, would embrace mankind;
And making Love, like air and sunshine, flow,
Revive once more primeval bliss below.
The Manners with the Mansion well agree;
All elegance, yet all simplicity!
The useful, fine, sublime, and curious, Arts,
There spread attractions thro' the various parts;
And Science, like the vivifying Soul,
Connects, arranges, and pervades the Whole.
Here breathing Busts with animated grace,
At judgment's mandate fill the properest place;
Expressive Passions' ever-varying shade,
Complex, or simple, o'er each face pourtray'd—
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There Statues stand, with Nature's pow'rs at strife
Spontaneous waking into actual Life;
Each part, apparent, warm'd with kindling heat—
The breast expands! the bounding arteries beat!
Each muscle swells with intellectual sway,
And every limb looks ready to obey:
The stoney lids dilate before the eye—
The deep-deluded ear perceives a sigh,
While Fancy hears, distinct, the marble tongue
Break the dead silence that had reign'd so long—
The whole, obedient to Will's pow'rful call,
Seems instant starting from its pedestal.
But how shall number'd syllables and rhyme,
With tuneful accent, and with measur'd chime,
The magic miracles of colouring shew,
That forth from pallet and from pencil flow;
While Barrett, jointly leagu'd with skill'd Compeers,
Like necromantic art, the landscape rears,
And, spreading all the spells of light and shade,
Makes Fancy sway while Reason sleeps betray'd—
For, as the eyes, at one devouring view,
Drink in deception, dress'd in shape and hue,
The wiley witchcraft every sense confounds,
Creating action—scents—and living sounds:
The hillock heaves—deep sinks the hollow dell—
The bold blue mountains round th' horizon swell—
The woodland waves—the limpid, sparkling, rills
Laugh thro' the glades, and gabble down the hills—
Calm ocean smiles, or broken billows play,
Wafting swift vessels o'er the watery way—
Nectareous vines pellucid clusters bend—
The rose and lily's rival charms contend—
Thick-starr'd with silver flow'rs, the jasmine meets
Loose rambling wreaths of woodbine, blending sweets;
While plumey minstrels pour, from shrub and tree,
Confused floods of mingled melody.
The trooping deer, on dewy herbage, browze—
The bullock bellows, and the heifer lows—
O'er close-cropp'd verdure bleat the nibbling flocks;
And goats, undaunted, scale the slippery rocks:
Here slow-pac'd plough-teams turn the sever'd sods,
Or drag arm'd harrows thro' the crumbling clods—
There snorting stallions punch the spurn'd champagne,
Or pannier'd asses creep across the plain—
In dusky glens recline the rural crowd,
And sleep, or smile, or sing, or laugh aloud;
While separate pairs, behind sequester'd bush,
Stammering their artless tales, look love, and blush.
High, in the zenith of the sapphire cove,
In silent march the solemn meteors rove,
And, borne by whispering winds, shed shadows round,
Or sigh and weep along the vast profound.
Here sun-beams doze on mattrasses of flow'rs—
There dance convivial in the piping bow'rs—
Blaze on the streams, intolerably bright!
Or deluge plains and hills, with seas of light:
A new Creation, bursting o'er the eye,
Fills Earth, and Heav'n, with light, life, love, and joy!
To give the deep deception fuller force,
Some Sylph, unseen, from undiscover'd source,
Strikes dulcet symphonies on warbling wires,
Mocking the minstrelsy of sylvan choirs;
And, while the eyes are fix'd in eager gaze,
Enchantment steals the ears with wild amaze;
All Spirit's active pow'rs absorb'd by Sense,
Deliriums wrap the Soul in strange suspense:
Fix'd like a statue, all the Frame's at rest—
The breath no more expands the passive breast—
The heart reposes—every pulse stands still—
The torpid Passions cease to wake the Will—
Nature no longer executes her laws;
Ev'n Time's impetuous steps appear to pause!
Here might the Muse on fresh discoveries dwell;
Of richer charms, and higher transports tell—
Still of amenities, and merits, treat,
That glad the Vicinage, and grace the Seat—
Dilate on Beauty—Happiness—and Ease,
In such societies, and Scenes, as these!
Might speak of personal charms, and mental worth,
Resembling Heav'n, and rarely shown on Earth—
Such charms as might command the noblest Muse,
And modest worth, that would such fame refuse.
Might speak of tomes, amass'd with cautious care;
In value high—in estimation rare—
Where Science—Wisdom—Genius—Taste—combin'd,
Present a picture of the Master's Mind;
And, with pure Sense, and Sentiments, declare
The Matron, modest Youth, and gentle Fair!
Not books with blasphemy and folly fraught,
That spread their poison thro' the springs of thought;
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Whose deleterious principles, impart
Impiety and pride, to head and heart,
Suborning both, by Sophistry and Wit,
In ridiculing Codes of sacred Writ.
With misty trope, and metaphoric cloud,
The blazing beams of heavenly Truth to shrowd;
To dazzle Reason with delusive light,
Or spread o'er purest Faith foul glooms of night;
Celestial Hope still hoping to destroy,
And banish from the breast both Love and Joy!
Not volumes, vending, thro' polluted page,
The Novel-nonsense that corrupts the Age;
That venom'd Nature's carnal current join,
And all remaining Virtue undermine;
Leaving the Mind, amidst incessant wars,
Like Towns devoid of walls, or gates, or bars:
Or like a Vessel on the stormy deep,
Whose Pilot, lull'd with opiates, lies asleep;
While waking Inclination's rebel bands,
Snatch every weapon from the Master's hands,
And mixing with a mob of Mutineers,
Make Appetite supreme, while Passion steers.
Such tracts are rarely read, nor frequent found,
In moral regions, or religious ground.
They utter treason in a Christian state,
Where Deity presides as Potentate.
With spurious wit, and sentiments, profane,
They tend to overturn His regal reign;
Offering fall'n Nature more forbidden fruits,
To make debas'd Mankind rebellious Brutes.
No treacherous Tales, or mischievous Memoirs,
In such pure circles, with undue devoirs,
In shining shapes, like profligates appear,
To spread their specious nets, and lime-twigs there;
With dangerous jokes, in tawdry dress, to tice
Prompt Youth to construe in such Schools of Vice,
Or half-instructed Fair-ones hearts beguile,
By easy air, and ever-simpering smile;
Winning, by wiley look, and wanton laugh,
To taste their philter'd food, or drink their filthy draff.
No heavy Essays, rang'd in gaudy groups,
Like lumbering Yeomen's ornamented troops,
Plac'd round a Palace for their shine and shew
Affording small defence against a Foe—
Nor tomes compil'd by plodding, pilfering, Elves,
Shine in huge columns on a Coxcomb's shelves;
Elaborate nothings! whose full value lies
In abstract nonsense, and enormous size—
Procur'd by Vanity, at vast expence,
To look like Learning, and to sound like Sense;
But, grossly swallow'd, by a bolting Mind,
Leave nought but crudities, and dregs, behind.
No infidel productions cram the case,
Adoring Reason while abjuring Grace;
That fain would execute their fictious plan,
Dethroning God while deifying Man.
Or, like Religion mask'd, in deep disguise,
For sacred truths dispense preposterous lies.
Wield impious arms, and sceptic standards hoist,
To thrust, from heavenly throne, the conqueror Christ,
Would place their rebel bands at every post,
To rout the records of the Holy Ghost;
Or, while Hypocrisy admits a part,
Deny his influence o'er the human heart.
With pride imperious, and with scornful flout,
Would turn both Prophets and Apostles out;
Or, where they counteract their devious view,
Deem arguments defective—truths untrue.
Propose to make Mankind supremely wise
By eating off the films from Folly's eyes;
Or couch the crystalline of mental sight,
To let in rays of intellectual light.
Providing spectacles for Age and Youth,
To shew what once was construed sacred Truth
A system of mistakes—mere monkish rules—
Imbib'd in Nurseries, and enforc'd in Schools.
With kind catholicons, and nostrums, nice,
To purge off Prejudice, and vomit Vice;
Like Quacks, professing present ills to cure,
And future years of sanity ensure;
But, while their patients hope for perfect ease,
Impoverish health, and propagate disease.
Such sacrilegious tracts, such systems, wild!
By which each view's perplex'd, each virtue spoil'd—
That would with reasonings rash, or visions vain,
Harden each Youth, or trap the Virgin train,
Within these walls no Soul of Youth ensnare,
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Or fascinate the fancies of the Fair—
But Books that strengthen all their mental pow'rs,
Diffusing true delight o'er leisure hours;
And strongly tend to fortify the Soul,
Against infatuating Lust's controul—
With moral tactics, well the heart inform,
To guard against designs of sap and storm—
To barricade the breast at each approach,
Where Passion may assail, or Pride encroach—
At every avenue Affections arm,
Lest Fondness should enchant, or Flattery charm—
Books that may banish Sophistry's surmise,
Abortions base, and progenies of Lies—
Tear off false Wit's, and Fancy's, flow'ry wreath,
Exposing Vice's brazen front beneath:
Which, both by maxims, and experience, shew,
Religion only yields true bliss below;
While Piety alone can hearts prepare,
To relish, fully, all that's good and fair.
For tho' unnumber'd truths, by Books, are taught,
They operate feebly on the force of thought—
Their eloquence and knowledge ne'er inspire
One single spark of pure poetic fire,
Much less mere letters, Fath, Hope, Love, infuse,
Earth's Folly to eschew, Heav'n's Wisdom chuse;
These from celestial Pow'r, alone, can spring,
To graft true Grace, and plume the Spirit's wing,
With Faith, o'er earthly thoughts, and things, to soar,
While urging Hope to pant for better store;
And Love, thro' Life, producing Peace and Joy,
Assur'd of perfect bliss when borne on high!
Let not fond Youth, or philosophic Age,
Despise or spurn the Bible's awful page,
Where human Minds can only clearly scan
The Nature—Ills—and Destinies—of Man—
Nor let Man's natural talents idly hope
To search the sacred Spirit's utmost scope,
Or fully trace its truths, tho' clear and bright,
Without the added help of heavenly Light—
Nor must mere graceful Manners hope to gain
The smiles of Heav'n, while ting'd with peccant stain;
Nor ev'n proud Morals aim that Heav'n to win,
Contracting still fresh foulnesses of Sin,
But seek that Sacrifice, which, constant, pleads,
And pays the penalty of past misdeeds—
That Fountain clean to wash all crimes away,
Which rise within the heart from day to day;
And that pure Spirit, which will bring to birth
Each Gift, and Grace, that yields delights on Earth,
While, purging from the Heart all fleshly leav'n,
It fits the Soul to feast on joys in Heav'n.
But slumbering Duty, wak'd by whispering Sense,
And Conscience, echoing calls of Providence,
Proclaim, with Prudence, Fancy's flights too long,
Arraign my Conduct, and arrest my Song;
While Time extends his scythe, and turns his glass.
To tell me, All things perish!—all things pass!
That this Elysian scene must soon decay!
Books—Pictures—Busts—and Statues—wear away!
To tell me—pointing with an awful frown,
My favourite Yew must drop its honours down!
Its Brethren, bold, and proud Companions, fail—
The peerless landscapes of the pictur'd Vale—
Hills, Woods, and Plains—embellish'd Bow'rs and Groves,
Where Wealth now riots, or Indifference roves—
With all that constitutes the World's wide robe,
And moving myriads round the swarming Globe
In Earth—in Water—and in Air—expire—
One general sacrifice!—One funeral fire!
Nor these, alone—their procreant Parent, Earth,
Who, every moment, Millions bring to birth,
Fierce flame shall melt—shall swallow up the Soil—
Sad scene of tumult! Source of Sin, and Toil!
Devour the Rocks—Consume the solid Orb—
Lick up the Rivers—Lakes and Seas absorb—
While Sun, and Satellites, confus'dly fly,
And leave one barren blank thro' all the Sky!
Then shall all Works of Art, of blame, or praise;
Like visions vanish in the boundless blaze!
All Wisdom wrought to make God's glory known,
Or Folly fashion'd to exalt her own—
All Wealth, or Wit, could compass, or contrive,
To spread Christ's praise, or keep Man's claims alive.
The sacred Fanes, by pious Patrons rear'd,
Where His Name's worshipp'd, and His Word rever'd—
Where Spirit's perfect happiness was sought,
And glimpses of celestial triumphs caught—
Or more magnificent, and sumptuous Domes,
Pride's—Passion's—Appetite's, unholy homes;
Where Idol Ostentation sat enshrin'd
By Phantoms worshipp'd, and full fed with Wind!
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Where Sycophanta admir'd a mouldering Clod,
Flattering the Creature, but forgetting God!
All frail atchievements plastic Skill supplied,
To glut vile Lust, or gratify vain Pride—
The decorations round each Dome display'd,
For vicious Vanity, or proud Parade—
Trappings and Toys that constitute Attire,
To heighten beauty and suborn desire—
All the creative pencil's pow'r brought forth,
To pleasure Weakness or to picture Worth;
With all that Learning—Sense—or Genius—penn'd,
To trace out Truth—to flatter—or offend—
Full, in effects, or friendly in designs;
Homer's proud Epics, and my lowly lines,
All—all shall perish in one common grave,
Envelop'd in the vengeful, fiery wave!
Yet when Heav'n's trumpet speaks God's plan complete,
And calls Mankind before Christ's Judgment-seat,
Then shall each product, and design, appear,
To plead their merits, or demerits there;
In his remembrance perfectly pourtray'd,
With all their attributes of light and shade—
All human Treasure, Time, or Talents, wrought;
That grew to practice, or expir'd in thought—
All that the skilful, active, Hand, atchiev'd,
The Voice e'er vended, or the Soul conceiv'd—
Each view of Virtue—Wit—or Wantonness,
Shall heighten punishment, or help to bless;
And every sentiment of fire, or phlegm,
Contribute to exculpate, or condemn—
The multifarious progeny, that sprung,
From thought's close matrix, through the teeming tongue,
And all external instruments produce,
For selfish, social, or religious, use;
Before that Bar, as Witnesses, shall rise,
Stripp'd of all artifice, and dark disguise,
To bid the fears of faithful Souls depart,
Or flash conviction thro' each impious Heart:
For Man's immortal, renovated Frame,
Shall 'scape the conflict, and defy the flame,
Conven'd before the great Redeemer-God,
To find His favour, or to feel His rod—
To reign with Angels, ever-bless'd, above,
Safe in that Saviour's everlasting Love;
Or, banish'd from His face, with Fiends, below,
To share their endless Shame—and Pain—and Woe!
178

EPISTLE TO A YOUNG LADY OF TITLE, ON SEEING HER, OFTEN, AT DIVINE ORDINANCES.

Written 1785.
Accept, fair Nymph! the strains thy merits claim
Nor spurn a Bardling, little known to fame;
Who, tho' ne'er nurs'd in Courts, or Camps, can see,
With warmth, Attractions, which distinguish Thee!
For dull's the visual nerve, that ne'er discerns,
How bright, o'er twinkling tapers, Phœbus burns;
And dull the Soul which piety inspires
With no kind feelings, no congenial fires.
No views of interest tempt a sordid lay—
No traitorous Passion tracks so sweet a prey—
No specious Flattery forms insidious lure,
To trap a form so fair, a heart so pure;
Nor proud Ambition stalks its way to fame,
Seduc'd by visions hovering round a Name.
A simple Swain presumes to touch the string,
Of obvious virtues, vivid charms, to sing,
Yet scorns to chaunt one note before the shrine,
Of fading forms, alone, ev'n one like Thine.
The subtlest mischiefs often lurking lie,
In leaves, and flow'rs, and fruits, of richest dye;
The fairest features, like the Laurel's shine,
May lucid looks with venom'd Vice combine—
The roseate cheek, and bosom's snow-drop veil,
May Envy's shades, and sharpest Hate conceal,
And sable eyes that beam perpetual smile,
May, like the Nightshade's berries, oft beguile;
But figs, and grapes, of Piety, adorn
No thriftless Thistle, and no thankless Thorn.
What eye, unflush'd with rapture, could behold
Bright Murray, form'd in Nature's finish'd mould,
Recline that finish'd Form towards humble Earth,
To thank the God that gave those beauties birth.
While other Fair, with far inferior charms,
Whose wayward bosoms wild ambition warms,
In weak pursuits the sacred moments waste,
To deck external charms that cannot last;
Or vex intention, with uncertain aim,
To chace a shadow, or to purchase shame;
But banefully neglect the better parts,
Well-regulated heads, and gracious hearts.
By futile tricks of Art they strive to gain,
What Providence, in Thee, has render'd vain,
Has built a structure Art can ne'er assume,
And spread around the rose and lily's bloom;
And shewn the path where Peace, and Pleasure stray,
By proving pious Love must lead the way.
Then, peerless Nymph! with wonted smiles, attend
The heartfelt dictates of a humble Friend;
Who aims not, thus, to win thy gentle ear,
179

By whispering baneful Vice, or Folly, there;
But fain would fix Thee in thy virtuous track,
Lest Flattery, Fame, or Fortune, turn Thee back.
Would'st Thou preserve thy native charms, divine?
Still let their splendour, unaffected shine—
Still unsophisticated Form, and Face,
Avouch their origin of heavenly race.
Who e'er attempts to raise the Rose's glow?
Or add a whiteness to the virgin Snow?
Tells the straight Poplar to erect its head?
Or sprinkles perfumes on the Violet's bed?
Who can prefer clipp'd Yews, or formal Box
To waving Woods or Willow's dangling locks?
The mimic phrases of the chattering Jay,
To tuneful warblings from the vernal spray?
Or think the Turkey struts, with finer mien,
Than Swan, smooth sailing o'er the watery scene.
If this short Life such energies requires,
To catch its shadows, fill its fond desires—
Such constant labour, and such care, deserves,
To climb its mountains, and to trace its curves;
While copying Fashion's, following Custom's laws,
To gain Man's graceless smiles, and frail applause—
Perform whate'er its fickle Friendship asks,
Its idle studies, and its endless tasks;
Endeavouring, daily, its rewards to win,
With Virtue's loss, and hourly loads of Sin.
To please the Body, pamper every Sense,
The price of health and peace and Soul's expence,
Incurring every curse by every crime,
For transient pleasures scatter'd round by Time.
If hopes, like these, provoke thy prompt, pursuits,
Earth's deleterious flow'rs, and deadly fruits—
If such vain objects thy exertions claim,
In giddy quest to seek precarious game—
Such weak amusements captivate thy Will,
The World's mad maxims fondly to fulfil;
How much more anxious diligence is due,
To practise duties this short journey through;
And, when its trials, and its troubles, end,
Find Heav'n a safe retreat, and God a Friend.
Such deathless objects claim intenser care,
Too lightly valued by the Young and Fair!
If days of shadowy joy demand a thought,
How much immortal, boundless, blessings ought!
If dying charms impose half Life's employ,
Then what is due to those that never die!
If earthly Station stamps its owner Great,
How far superior ranks celestial State!
If transitory Wealth yields high Renown,
How nobler shines a never-fading Crown!
If titled Names are thought such valued things
How great's the Bride of Heav'n's King of Kings!
Fear not such pure pursuits, thou matchless Maid!
Thy face can tarnish, or thy form degrade,
The Candidate for Heav'n will stand erect,
Nor Body's beauties more than Soul's neglect,
Considering both bestow'd by Heav'n, in trust,
To keep from all Impurity, and Lust,
Till the bless'd Lender summons back the Loan,
To shine in bliss before th' eternal throne.
Meanwhile pure Morals with Religion join,
To make the frame, and every feature, shine—
Wisdom adds Lustre to the brightest eyes—
The best cosmetics Purity supplies;
While Piety diffuses fuller light,
To charm each Soul, and ravish every Sight!
But Pride and Passion spoil the fairest face,
Distort the Body, and the Soul debase;
While Vice and Folly more the Mind degrade,
And give complexions pure the grossest shade.
Did Reynolds paint a Cherub, he would chuse
The lovely Subject of my rustic Muse,
When her exalted eyes so meekly swam,
Before the altar of the bleeding Lamb;
Or her seraphic soul, and tuneful tongue,
Sigh'd the soft prayer, or swell'd the solemn song;
Demonstrating the mental pow'rs imbued
With pious Love, and holy Gratitude!
Let Libertines, or envious Vestals, blame—
Their praise is satire; their detraction fame:
Sublimer spirits must such acts admire;
And whilst their influence checks impure desire,
The pious pattern gentler Minds will move,
Virgins to imitate, and Youths to love!
180

Pursue, distinguish'd Nymph! the narrow path,
Nor let Earth's phantoms lead thy steps to wrath,
Then all is thine that, here, deserves regard,
In Heav'n thy God's ineffable reward!
For, maugre all that Fools and Madmen say,
Pain—sickness—misery—mark the wider way;
While holy Faith and Hope, and heavenly Love,
Yield constant comforts here, and endless bliss above.
Long may thy charms enchant each wondering eye
Ere hymning Angels hail Thee to the sky,
Ere Thou, prepar'd by every gift and grace,
Beside thy Sister find thy blissful place—
And may those charms oft bless thy Bard the while,
And over-pay his Song with one approving Smile.
But ere the Muse her thrilling theme can quit,
So void of learning, elegance, or wit!
Let her, for all her bold, obtrusive, lays,
Expect thy pardon, tho' not hope thy praise—
Yet should she for forgiveness hope in vain,
She never can repent her pious strain,
While with her lays she labours to controul,
The follies that so strongly sway the Soul—
To counteract the Passions, and the Pride,
That make Religion vain, and Morals void—
That fix base views on vanities below,
The source of every want, and every woe:
Nor can my Soul forego the glorious cause,
Of Christ's redeeming Love, and righteous Laws;
Nor feel, nor fear, male scoff, or female scorn,
To highest earthly hopes, and noblest birth-right born.
181

EPISTLE to the Rev. Mr. SELLON, ON HIS WEEPING IN AN ADDRESS TO YOUTH.

Written 1787.
Bless'd be that Heart which felt a Father's care,
While warning Youth to shun Sin's fatal snare!
Bless'd be that Eye which dropp'd the friendly tear,
That sign'd each truth, and stamp'd the Soul sincere!
Bless'd be that Tongue whose broken pathos prov'd
How much was felt, and fear'd, and hop'd, and lov'd!
Thrice happy Youth! would they those truths attend,
That mark'd Thee Pastor—Parent—Guardian—Friend!
'Twas god-like Love that urg'd thy pious plan,
Those Angel-sentiments, and tears of Man!
Like Heav'n's wing'd fires thy warm affections flew,
And forc'd each eye to drop celestial dew,
While spreading kerchiefs caught the silent show'r,
And, like bright banners, prov'd thy conqu'ring pow'r—
All drooping heads, and streaming eyes, confess'd
The inward workings of each labouring breast;
Except a few fantastic Apes alone,
Whose heads were feather, and whose hearts were stone.
Oh! would all Pastors copy Christ, and Thee!
Inform their Flocks, and let their Lives agree.
From Wolves and Foxes guard their Lambs and Sheep—
O'er Salem's Sons and Daughters watch and weep—
Secure their own, while seeking others', joy,
And colonize, with crowds, the shouting Sky!
And, oh! to answer this extatic end,
Were each, like Thee, their Father and their Friend;
In sacred Truth to feel efficient shares,
While issuing from the heart, 'twould actuate theirs.
Not smooth-ton'd Orators with silvery tongue,
Whose warbled tinklings tice a thoughtless throng;
That, pleas'd behold how well they act their parts,
And hear soft notes that never reach their hearts,
But charm their eyes, and soothe their itching ears,
And silence all their doubts, and all their fears,
Lulling their nerves and intellects to rest,
By emphasis and acts that look like jest—
Not the dull Drone, who, stock'd with opiate stores—
Half sleeps Himself while half his Audience snores;
Who, unconcern'd, 'mid ignorance and mistake,
Heeds not how Souls, immortal, sleep or wake,
So he can thrum his heavy half-hour through,
And gain a title to his dole and due:
Like a slow River, rank with muck and mud,
With little rivulets fed, ne'er knows a flood;
Disturbs no Neighbour, plays no desperate pranks,
But Man and Beast may slumber on its banks—
Not the wild Maniac who in rostrum raves,
With noise and nonsense frights poor Souls, not saves,
But pours forth foaming floods of eloquence
To gain applauses, or to grapple pence;
Like a strong Torrent, which, with thundering sounds,
Tearing up roads and landmarks, rights confounds;
But while the waters roar, and surges chafe,
182

None can be sure that Soul or Body's safe—
But pure, persuasive eloquence, like Thine,
That wins the Soul with sentiments divine,
And fills with flowing thoughts each heavenly theme,
Like the clear waves of Thames's fruitful stream;
Or like the still small Voice, in burning bush,
That sav'd the Thorn, and yet a World could crush,
That all, like Moses, from their God might learn,
Those Truths, and Duties that their Souls concern.
Ah! would Mankind such Ministers attend,
And watch their hearts, how soon the World would mend!
Not following Hypocrites who seek their purse,
And by their silly lectures make it worse;
Tho' none can change the heart, or wake the will,
Till Christ the conscience purge, and Grace instil.
Hear, inexperienc'd Youth! hear, tender Fair!
Oh! shun each shining bait—each silken snare—
'Tis God that dictates, while his Servant tells
What nets, and traps; what whirlpools, wiles, and spells,
Beset the simple Wanderer's dangerous way,
To catch, to whelm, to lull, or lead astray,
Shrowded by Satan's art, with specious shew,
While treacherous Nature fondly helps the Foe.
Put on the heavenly armour! Wait the fight!
Suffer no sloth, nor drudge for false delight!
Attend such Herald's calls! Flee that sad fate
Which smarts and moans, repents and pines too late!
Join pure resolves to such paternal love,
And strive to soar—to climb—to cling—above!
Repose on Christ, your spirits pure and meek,
While tears, like His, adorn your modest cheek.
Let not your Paul so strive to plant, in vain—
Your kind Apollos pour an useless rain—
Let not the seed be dropp'd on harden'd way,
To Fancy's prowling birds a constant prey;
Nor spring, on steril rocks, in Passion's noon,
By Pride's and Lust's hot sunshine wither'd soon:
Nor grow thro' thorns where prickly, anxious, Care
Choaks the poor plants that shot, at first, so fair,
But on good ground, where Heav'n's warm suns, and show'rs
May feed rich fruits and amaranthine flow'rs!
183

EPISTLE TO A FRIEND, In Answer to this Question—
Why do Trees Shoot Strongest Upwards?

[_]

Printed, lately, in the Evangelical Magazine, without leave. A CORRECTED COPY.

Written 1788.
You ask, why Trees with weak extension spread,
But stretch, with vigour, each aspiring head?
The cause is clear; their great Creator's law
Ordain'd, their roots from mother Earth should draw
Their grosser nourishment; but urge their might
To drink pure air, and suck the solar light;
Their lateral branches, robb'd by rival trees,
Which breathe, like them, the prone, impoverish'd breeze,
Spread every leaf, and every spray protrude,
Till mutual strife Heav'n's light and life exclude;
But lift their soaring heads to clearer skies,
No sordid shrub, or creeping plant, enjoys:
Like true Ambition, leaving Earth behind,
Dull nether clime! To all the abject kind.
On every side some strenuous Neighbour's found,
Disputing, greedily, each inch of ground—
None can their strength extend with proper grace,
Elbow'd, and push'd, thro' all the lower space;
Yet, tho' thus circumscrib'd in parts below,
Each upright shoot unbounded heights may grow;
And while, from Earth, their towering tops they rear,
May more and more enlarge their widening sphere:
Ev'n each inferior race, with strange desire,
Like them with weak propensity aspire;
Except the grovelling tribes of baser birth,
Which constant clasp the paps, and cling to, parent Earth.
Let us, my Friend! endu'd with pow'rs sublime,
Strive to improve our little span of time;
And, reasoning on each object shewn by Sense,
Deduce some useful argument from thence—
Some moral inference from all we see—
Some pious lesson from each Plant and Tree.
Shall we, my Friend! abuse those nobler pow'rs,
And dedicate to Sense our sacred hours?
Bestow our mental strength, on dull delights,
That spring and perish like frail Appetites?
On Passion's billows, fluctuating, ride,
Or base, tho' permanent, pursuits of Pride?
Through Life still cater for the calls of Lust,
Nor ever raise reflection from the dust?
Let Mind, immortal, round Earth's surface run,
By vegetable instinct, thus outdone?
Like herbs, amphibious, or procumbent weeds,
Marsh pennywort, base nummularian breeds,
Or gross ground-ivy, unambitious, creep,
Nor lift our heads, at heavenly light to peep;
But spend those pow'rs with horizontal force,
184

Or dive, still downward, with infernal course?
No! let our mental energies prevail,
Enlarging still our intellectual scale,
And still exert each faculty of Soul,
To root out Pride, and Passion's pow'r controul,
To regulate each Lust, and make them tend
To answer only their Creator's end—
Not negligent of Piety's employs,
The founts of holy peace, and heartfelt joys,
To bless the Saviour—beg the Spirit's aid—
Which Reason ne'er disgrace, or Sense degrade;
But guide the Mind thro' Nature's misty road,
And help it on to reach Heav'n's bless'd abode—
While Souls their heavenly origin assert,
And soar above Earth's abject dung, and dirt—
Love every Creature on this temporal clod,
Muse on Eternity, and mount to God!
Like regal Oaks, tho' fed from terrene root,
Our heads and hearts should always upward shoot;
Or spirey crest of heaven-piercing Pine;
But more like branches of the blessed Vine,
Whose tendrils twine round each aspiring spray,
Feed on their parent Stock, and climb to endless day!
185

ODE TO A FRIEND, On his Marriage.

1784
What! shall scepter'd Pride alone,
Beckon Phœbus from his throne?
Bloody Hero's, only, fire
Patriot's voice, or Poet's lyre?
None but titled Peer, or Dame,
Honour's noisy clarion claim?
Let each venal Bard invade,
With false vows, th' Aonian shade;
Wooe each Nymph to strike the string—
Lucre moves no Muse to sing.
Pray'rs that influence Pow'rs above,
Flow from Virtue, Truth, and Love!
Pegasus no plume supplies,
So to soar thro' sacred skies—
Scorns to trace Parnassus' plains
Guided round by golden reins.
Ne'er doth Aganippe flow,
With Pactolian sands below;
Chill'd by Interest's frigid breath
Bathing Muses freeze to death.
Hope's frail, gilded, bubbles break
While, with Midas' wishes, weak,
Eager thirst, and hunger, burn,
Tho' to gold each touch could turn—
Every venal, stupid strain,
Meant for pleasure, mocks with pain;
All they quaff, and all they carve,
Greedy Bard, and Patron, starve.
Go! Ye that bask in selfish flame
Who pant for pelf, and pine for fame;
'Tis Friendship wakes my simple Song,
My Lyre to Truth shall still be strung—
Thy genuine Life and actions, tell,
Where Worth and Wisdom ever dwell!
Are those Monsters Kings, alone,
Whose dread sway makes millions groan?
Can they claim the Hero's meed
Whose behests make millions bleed?
He the fair—the good—the great—
Who builds his fame on others' fate?
No! He deserves the Noble's name,
Who pants for freedom, not for fame!
He merits most the Patriot's dow'r,
Whose aims are Happiness, not Pow'r!
He's most a King whom Virtue awes,
And guides his Will by heavenly Laws;
Whose Passions feeling pious sway,
Make subject Appetites obey—
Who suffers neither Pow'r, or Pride,
To turn the sword on either side
Till Justice deals the fair decree,
And Virtue finds her verdict free!
The Hero, He, who ne'er destroys,
But joins his own with others' joys—
Who combats but to purchase Peace,
And wishes War might ever cease.
And He's the great—the good—the fair—
While Folly's rife, and Wisdom's rare,
Who fills Religion's ample plan,
And makes the Christian crown the Man!
Such is my valued Friend—oh! may the same
Characterize, as well, the worthy Dame,
Whom Reason and Religion's firmly join'd,
To such a Man, with such a noble Mind;
Then will no faithful, friendly, Wish be cross'd—
No Prayer be hinder'd—no pure Hope be lost—
This must the fondest, humble heart, suffice,
And throne pure Love, in bliss, below the Skies!
186

EPISTLE TO THE SAME, On his desiring the Author to point out the striking Passages in Cowper's poems.

Written 1784.
What means the caution of my valued Friend!
It aims at none, or some unmeaning, end.
You ne'er could thus impose the needless task,
Had Taste and Judgment tried the thing you ask.
To note all beauties that in Cowper shine,
Must comment every poem, page, and line.
What would the Naturalist, or Florist, say,
When Earth was deck'd in all delights of May,
Should You enjoin them, as they trac'd the Globe,
And view'd the objects round its vernal robe,
To mark each subject that engag'd the sight,
And place its beauties in impressive light;
Would they not hear the summon with surprise?
And obvious arguments, like these, devise.
One may prefer the Wood's majestic shade,
And foaming Flood that irrigates the glade—
One praise the Rill that glides in passive state,
And scented Shrubs that on its levee wait—
The cloud-girt Mountain cloath'd in lasting snow,
Or flow'ry slope that, fondly, laughs below—
The frowning Rock which threats each wanderer nigh,
Or smiling Lawns that round its footstool lie.
Some may admire the simple grassy plain,
Or bright-rob'd Nymphs that flaunt in Flora's train—
Some most esteem the Cowslip's golden crest,
Or lovely Ladysmock, in silver dress'd—
This choose the Campion with its crimson pips;
That wooe the sapphire Violet's odorous lips;
In all, the feeling heart, and tasteful eye,
Distinguish beauty, and experience joy.
So the well-taught Astronomer descries
Both charms and rapture in the pregnant skies—
In Day's blue cove—In Sol's resplendent light—
Phebe's meek face, and star-dropp'd stole of Night—
In glimmering groups, o'er Heav'n's rich concave spread,
Or titled stars which steadier lustre shed;
In twinkling sparks that spread their scatter'd race,
Or telescope explores in much remoter space.
But You, my pamper'd Friend! fastidious grown
With others' treats, will scarcely taste your own;
But still extending your unwieldy wish,
Ask for another, and another, dish—
With plenty pall'd, o'er dainties listless look,
And Appetite, so cloy'd, must doubt the Cook.
187

EPISTLE TO SHENSTONE, In the Shades; .

On reading his Rural Elegance

Written 1784.
Know, boasting Bard! a Rustic may be found,
Who never trod on Learning's labour'd ground—
Ne'er studied Nature's charms, in classic school,
Yet tries her beauties, not by line and rule,
But inbred taste and feeling, which decide,
With more precision than pedantic pride.
Views not the Oak with mercenary eyes
To guess what value boughs and bole comprize;
Nor tries contents with geometric skill,
To note what items might enlarge a bill;
But marks its foliage, form, and noble air,
Nor “Spans the massy trunk, before he cries, 'Tis fair!”
What! cannot He who form'd the fount of light,
And shining orbs that ornament the night!—
Who hangs his silken curtains round the sky,
And trims their skirts with fringe of every dye!—
In sheets of radiance spreads the solar beams,
With soften'd lustre, o'er the tranquil streams;
Or, o'er the glittering surface, softly flings
The whispering winds with gently waving wings,
While every kindled curl's resplendent rays
Quick dart and drown in bright successive blaze!—
Who dipp'd in countless greens the lawns and bow'rs,
And touch'd, with every tint the faultless flow'rs!—
With beauty clothes each beast that roams the plain,
And bird's rich plume with ever-varied stain!
Each fair-scal'd fish in watery regions known,
And insect's robe that mocks the colour'd stone!
Doth He not form the Peasant's visual sphere,
To catch each charm that crown, the chequer'd year?
Construct his ear to seize each passing sound,
From wind, or wave, or wing, or whistle, round?
From breathing breeze, or tempest's awful roar,
Soft lisping rills, or ocean's thundering shore?
Unnumber'd notes that fill the echoing field,
Or mingled minstrelsy the woodlands yield?
The melting strains, and melodies of song,
That float, impassion'd, from the human tongue—
Or, fondly feels each sound, that sweetly slips,
Thro' ear to heart, from favourite Lovers' lips.
Can trace the nicer harmony, that springs
From puny gnats' shrill-sounding treble wings;
Light fly's sharp counter; bees' strong tenor tone;
Huge hornet's bass, and beetle's drowsy drone—
Grasshopper's open shake, quick twittering all the day,
Or cricket's broken chirp, that chimes the night away.
Can He not native Taste, and Sense, impart,
The clear-conceiving head, and feeling heart,
Whose pow'r created, form'd, and fitted, all
That deck the Skies, or grace this garnish'd ball,
188

Ev'n where his Wisdom and his Love withhold
The gifts of Honour—Knowledge—Pow'r—and Gold?
In Paradise He gave all Beauty birth,
Diffus'd o'er other parts of procreant Earth—
What weak profusion! what imprudent waste!
Had not primeval Man been form'd to taste?
And tho' his Spirit lost its pristine dow'r,
His eye and ear possess their natal pow'r.
No vegetable's cloth'd in leaves of Greek;
No insects, birds, or beasts, in Hebrew speak,
Yet these use signs and sounds, tho' quite unknown
To other species, obvious to their own.
Beast can with beast converse in kindred voice,
And filial choirs in filial songs rejoice;
But harmony and beauty, thro' the whole,
Was only meant for Man's transcendent soul;
No other eye, no other ear, can trace
The charms and melody of every race.
Nor needs he skill Horatian verse to scan,
Or analize old Homer's epic plan—
To fathom Plato's philosophic sense,
Or try the pow'rs of Tully's eloquence—
To prowl with Newton thro' the peopled Skies,
Or learn with Lock whence all ideas rise—
He only needs that feeling, undefin'd,
Which Heaven transmits alone to human Mind;
That Sense which sees, feels, tastes, the charms of all
We beauty, music, love, or language, call.
But this, tho' not a common gift, or grace,
Bestow'd alike, on all the human race;
Nor yet conferr'd, as Heav'n's peculiar meed,
On Wealth, or Pow'r, or Learning's pedant breed;
Kings claim it not, a separate right, divine—
Prelate, or Pope, exclusive, cries, 'tis mine—
Peers cannot call the privilege only theirs,
Or, if possess'd, transfer it to their Heirs—
Rich Commons, seiz'd of thousands every year,
May search their souls and never find it there—
Nor with all studious Adepts rest, or rove,
In volum'd room, or Academic grove:
Thus, tho' it often flies the cloister'd cell,
Nor will with Birth or Honour always dwell;
On Mitres and Tiaras frequent frowns—
Oft, with supreme indifference mocks at Crowns—
Yet will the nameless Nymph, sometimes, descend,
To grace the Farm—become the Artist's friend
From College, and from Court, to Hamlets flee,
And, peradventure, bless a Boor, like Me.
189

TO MY WIFE AND CHILDREN, Under a severe affliction in my Eyes.

June 1787.
Oh! dire disease! why would'st thou come,
To vex a wanderer far from home?
No place is home, no home is dear,
Unless my gentle Hannah's there.
Why haunt me here in lonely cell,
Where neither Friends or Lovers dwell.
Had you been here, with wonted smiles,
To soothe my pains and ease my toils,
My heart had felt from troubles free
While blessing Thine embracing Thee—
My eyes had found far happier lot,
Their pain, not known, or soon forgot,
My youthful Friends, had fondly spread
Soft blandishments about my head;
My love had fill'd a fuller part
By pouring balm thro' eye and heart.
Tho' sallow Sickness leagu'd with Pain,
They'd shoot their leaden shafts in vain;
My tender Girls, my worthy Boy,
Would fan me with incessant sigh—
Would watch, should burning pains appear,
And shed their cooling dew-drops there:
My veteran Mate would take the field,
With fortitude which ne'er would yield,
And courage, which no fears appall,
Resolv'd to triumph, or to fall!
Should venom'd point transpierce my heart
She'd eager suck the poison'd part,
And rather fall of life bereft,
Than be by her lov'd Comrade left—
Amid the world's mad wars and woes,
Would smile and sigh o'er slighter blows;
Would smile that now I far'd no worse,
Yet sigh for fear of future curse;
And, when she found fell mischiefs miss,
Would seal the scape with ardent kiss.
But should I feel the fatal wound,
With you my Wife and Offspring round,
My mourning Spouse would speed her pray'r,
My lot in Death, as Life, to share;
Nor covet longer grief and toil,
To work, and weep, and pine a while,
But wish with him her Soul might go,
And meet like boon as here below.
But, ere our Spirits pass'd away,
And fix'd our faith, and mix'd our clay;
We'd urge you, Friends, our rising race,
With melting look and warm embrace,
To cherish, here, your mutual love,
And strive to join our Souls above—
To take the cross and kiss the rod,
Of Saviour—Sanctifier—God—
And, when we dropp'd our last adieu,
Leave living epitaphs in you!
190

TO MY WIFE, ON HER WISHING TO SEE ME HALF AN HOUR.

June 1787.

Dear Hannah!

Half an hour suffice
To feast thy longing lips and eyes!
Suffice to feast thy eager ear,
With all my love would whisper there!
Suffice thy longing arms to fill,
And free thy heart from fearful chill!
Not half an Hour, not half an Age,
My sateless Soul would half asswage:
Half satisfy my craving arms—
Half serve to worship half thy charms!
My ear would still impatient long
To hear again, thy gladdening song,
To hear again thy plighted will,
And glowing passion, growing still—
At every half-hour's famish'd end,
My lips, with thine, would long to blend,
Again to taste the balmy bliss,
Of never-satisfying kiss!
My first half-century, now, gone by,
Still, still I view, with raptur'd eye,
Thy simple garb—Thy tresses sleek—
Thy tintless brow—thy eye, so meek—
Thy cheeks—thy lips, so bright, and clear,
That Love might feast for ever there!
There heavenly Venus keeps her court—
There still the youthful Graces sport—
And when love claims accustom'd rites,
Thy modest manner adds delights.
Thy thrilling arms, and thrifty hands,
So form'd for skill, and lovers' bands,
With snowy fingers' waxen shine,
So apt, so willing, soft and fine;
All ready to atchieve the tasks
That fondness hints, or duty asks.
And then, thy active, well-form'd feet,
So shy, yet shapely, nice, and neat;
Tho' never taught to move by rule,
Far better skill'd in Nature's school;
Whose motions give still higher grace
To every charm of form and face!
Could e'er my amorous ardour tire,
Thy neck would wake a new desire;
So lightly pois'd on polish'd breast,
In concert sweet with all the rest—
To tell how fragrant, fair, and round,
And small, and smooth, would faith confound;
Would rouze Man's love, and Woman's spleen,
And make each King despise his Queen.
Thy breast, like Etna's veil'd in snows,
With milk-warm kindness ever flows;
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And while fond love dissolves thy frame,
Pure friendship feeds the heavenly flame.
There, unconsum'd, my image dwells,
With fervour more than fable tells—
There let it dwell—still think it fair—
While thine, with me, the like shall share;
Still view thee virtuous, fair and young,
Nor let thy fondness feel a wrong.
May each, like faithful mirror, shine,
Reflecting, mutual, mine and thine;
Each heart content with plighted lot,
Till Death unties the sacred knot—
But while, in each entender'd Heart,
Our Saviour fills the central part,
Our happy portraits smiling by,
Admit no mortal rivals nigh;
Yet may our offspring circled round,
Like brilliant miniatures be found,
With every grace and Virtue deck'd,
That Heav'n may please, or Earth respect:
While pleas'd, within, their proper place,
Relations find, their ample space
Leaves room above, and room below,
To feast a friend, or feed a foe;
Resembling that almighty mind,
Whose bounty blesses all Mankind:
Still holding active patterns forth
Of christian love, and moral worth—
With Vice subdu'd, and Virtue high,
Tho' fond to live, not loth to die;
Yet, dying soon, or living late,
The World may wish to imitate;
Till train'd, alike, by Faith and Love,
We all embrace in bliss above!
192

THE BOY AND BUTTERFLY.

A FABLE.

Wak'd by the summer sun's enlivening ray,
A splendid Moth emerg'd to share the day,
Rang'd round the lawns, and flutter'd thro' the bow'rs—
Sipp'd the clear streams, and suck'd the honey'd flow'rs—
Till, tir'd with wanton sport, she stoop'd to rest
Upon a downy Nettle's traitorous breast.
The gay Coquette a giddy Stripling view'd,
And, ardently, from flow'r to flow'r pursued—
With transport saw the prostrate Beauty lie,
In radiant charms, before his ravish'd eye;
When, rushing, eager, the glad prize to gain,
Mid fancied pleasure found a lasting pain.
Thus Vice displays her fascinating charms,
Fond Youth deluding to her fatal arms—
Leads on, a while, the tantalizing race,
Still offering rapture in the bold embrace;
Concealing, like the Moth's embroider'd wing,
The poisonous Nettle's deleterious sting.
193

AUTUMN AND THE REDBREAST.

AN ODE, Written from the Country, 1787; Inscribed to my Wife.

Let happy Poets strike the string,
And chaunt the matchless charms of Spring;
The Spring, to me, displays no charms—
It calls me from my Hannah's arms!
'Tis thou mak'st Nature still appear
Array'd with charms throughout the Year.
Mak'st all her beauties blissful shine,
Her looks, her laughs, her lays, divine.
Can Miser's eye, with bliss, behold
Memento'd marks like grasps of gold—
Prompt payment spurn, and feel more fond
Of ledger's leaf, or bankrupt's bond?
The Sun may smile with genial pow'r—
May range the east at earlier hour—
In lustrous light go later down—
Smile sixteen hours without a frown—
I feel no warmth! No charms behold!
Thro' hazey eye, and bosom cold!
I greet him more, in murkey state,
When down at four, not up at eight.
His frowning face, and haggard eye,
Give no disgust when thou art by;
Nor can his smile, or colour, clear,
Infuse delight when Thou'rt not near!
I like not April's warm caress,
Lascivious leer, and wanton dress—
I loathe the Harlot laugh of May,
That lures from wedded love away!
I hate the jilting tricks of June,
Circean wreath, and Syren tune—
The garb unclasp'd, and glowing kiss,
That prompt me far from purer bliss!
To me bright Summer brings a curse,
While Winter forms the full reverse;
Keen Boreas blows the blandest breeze,
Sharp frosts can melt, and sunshine freeze;
For suns dissolve each dear delight,
While knitting frosts our joys unite.
Tho' Zephyr flies with fairy plumes,
To wake and waft Spring's rich perfumes;
Each Leaf, and flow'r, with kisses greets,
And lends, and borrows, all their sweets—
Would fain with all those treasures flee,
And offer up the spoils to Thee—
Would gladly fan thy fragrant breast,
And with soft airs thy limbs invest—
With woodland foliage fondly play,
To fence thy face from yellowing ray—
But can I love those fragrant gales,
While Absence all my soul assails;
Or whispering winds affection win,
While storms and tempests rage within?
Delighted most I scan the sky,
When Autumn's sable banners fly;
While rushing rains, and bellowing wind,
194

Proclaim the brumal host behind.
I, raptur'd, hear the whirlwinds blow—
Transported see the first-born snow—
With joy behold the walls emboss'd,
And windows glaz'd with figur'd frost,
While every eave's with lustres hung,
Like cones inverted, large and long.
I view the snows but feel no cold
While thy fair arms and breasts infold;
And storms and frosts are doubly dear,
Which waft me in and shut me there.
Did ever Sailor love the breeze
That push'd him off to hostile seas;
His heart of all Earth's bliss bereft,
In every Friend, and Lover, left?
Would rather furious billows brave,
And gladly go where whirlwinds rave;
All drudgery—danger—death deride,
To gain Love's grasp at Friendship's side—
On Cyprian sands, tho' naked, cast,
He'd kiss the coast, and bless the blast;
Nor wish, for wealth, again to roam,
But live with Toil and Love at home!
The heart, at ease, may feel a joy
When jocund Spring approaches nigh—
The eye, with fascination, see
The sprouting plant and teeming tree—
Enchanted, note in glebe or bow'r,
The rising blade, or budding flow'r—
May mark the garden's gay attire;
May all its early sweets inspire,
And feast to surfeit on each scent,
Amid the smiles of calm content:
My Mind recedes, and makes each Sense
Conceive dislike, and frame offence—
All—all—remorse and misery bring,
They speak of absence while they spring!
Can School-boy e'er with raptures roam,
Who leaves each fondling Friend at home?
Submit to captious Churl's controul,
His feeling Frame, and simple soul—
To stand each stripe, confront each frown,
No Friend at hand his woes to drown,
And pour Love's balms in every sore,
While soothing sounds his pains deplore—
To still the sob, and stop the sigh,
And wipe the tears from either eye—
Meet Master's taunts, and Joulter's jibes
For vagrants' scraps and beggars' bribes—
In school-roam cag'd, hear warblers blythe,
But feels his frame with misery writhe—
See squirrel skip from spray to spray,
But he himself confin'd all day—
May trace parterres, at stated hours,
To see, and scent, but touch no flow'rs;
Eye walks, and walls, with fruitage full;
And look—and long—but dares not pull.
If any fruit my fancy warm,
The bramble-berry boasts that charm;
A two-fold charm! 'Tis Freedom's pledge,
It hangs, at large, on every hedge;
To Boors, as well, as Barons, free,
And, speaking Autumn, points to Thee!
If I, with bliss, one bloom behold,
'Tis furze-bush sprigg'd with spangled gold;
Or backward bush of blooming heath,
Prank'd thick with purple bells beneath,
Ordain'd to soothe the visual sense,
And, gather'd, give not Foes offence—
For tho' they yield no savoury smell,
Of better times their blossoms tell;
They tell, O Autumn, ever dear!
Thy happier hours of Love are near;
Whose beams ambrosial fruits afford,
Which seldom bless a Sovereign's board,
Supplying Heav'n's most rich desert,
Of fruitage fair, no health can hurt,
But help to strengthen, and supply,
The mental pow'rs with peace and joy.
I love beside those blooms to stop,
And prophesy that future crop,
When spiders spread their deep decoys
To net the numb'd October flies—
To mark their meshes, tense, and strong,
With dew-drops glittering all day long;
Contriv'd, with skill, in every part,
By geometric rules of art;
195

And all my Soul with wonder glows,
While noting instincts Heav'n bestows!
Entranc'd, I feel enchantment all,
Beholding frost-nipp'd foliage fall;
Continual shook from shivering trees,
The sport of every passing breeze—
Descending round in rustling show'rs,
To shrowd the grass, or tomb the flow'rs:
Or floating wide on watery biers,
Bemoan'd in woods, with constant tears.
Some, rouz'd, awhile, to wandering life,
In speed contend, with friendly strife—
On breezes' pinions gently play,
Or wing'd by storms whirl wild away—
Then instant stop; then, sudden, start,
As loth from light and life to part;
Again Earth's chilly breast embrace,
Then, quick, repeat the rapid race—
In antic dance, or sportive bound,
Frisk, skip, and prance in morrice round;
Till, as vain Man, depriv'd of breath,
Reposes in the lap of Death,
Their beauties gone, their strength decay'd,
Their gambols, and their pranks, all play'd,
They sink to rest in every shade.
When all the wintry storms were hush'd,
And woods and fields with beauty flush'd,
I, sorrowing, smelt each pure perfume,
And grudg'd, and griev'd, o'er blushing bloom—
Now, snuff, delighted, sordid smells,
In musty woods, or muddy dells;
From putrid plant, or faded flow'r,
In garden ground, or blasted bow'r.
Tho' thy rude rain, and frost, and storm,
Frail Summer's laughing face deform,
Thy rugged cheeks, and rheumy eyes,
Rejoice my heart with higher joys—
Thy russet cloak's a comelier sight,
Than her green gown embroider'd bright;
And lovelier far, than vernal flow'rs,
Thy mushrooms shooting after show'rs;
That fear no more the fatal scythe,
But proudly spread their bonnets blythe,
With coverings form'd of silk and snow,
And lin'd with brightening pink below.
Like banners, bless'd, they speak of peace,
And tell me trouble soon shall cease;
Still auguring, glad, with aspect bland,
Love's rapturing vintage just at hand:
But more the later fungus race,
Begot by Phebus' warm embrace,
In Summer's months, on procreant Earth,
By damp September brought to birth;
That, just like Jove, produce their seed,
From teeming brain, for future breed:
Their forms and hues some solace yield,
In wood, or wild, or humid field;
Whose tapering stems, robust, or light,
Like columns catch the searching sight,
To claim remark where e'er I roam;
Supporting each a shapely dome;
Like fair umbrellas, furl'd, or spread,
Display their many-colour'd head;
Grey, purple, yellow, white, or brown,
Shap'd like War's shield, or Prelate's crown—
Like Freedom's cap, or Friar's cowl,
Or China's bright inverted bowl—
And while their broadening disks unfold
Gay silvery gills, or nets of gold,
Beneath their shady, curtain'd cove,
Perform all offices of love.
In beauty, chief, the eye to chain,
'Mong whispering pines, on arid plain,
A glittering group, assembled, stands,
Like Elfs or Fays embattled bands—
Where every arm appears to wield,
With pigmy strength, a giant shield;
All deeply dyed in sanguine gore,
With brazen bosses studded o'er;
While magic Fancy's ear confounds
The whistling winds with hostile sounds—
But to a Lover's ear, like mine,
They kindly speak the Year's decline;
Yet warm Imagination's wont,
To trace on every figur'd front,
Inscrib'd in hieroglyphics, clear,
Thy joyful Jubilee draws near.
O Autumn, Matron most sublime!
Now reigning round each arctic clime;
196

Enthron'd as Nature's northern Queen,
With solemn air, and sober mien;
Enwrapping woodland, hill, and plain,
In chastest robes of russet stain—
Not with vain vesture, wide unfurl'd,
Flaunting and fluttering round the World;
Profusely scattering transient flow'rs,
O'er fields and meads, and woods, and bow'rs;
For sight and smell frail, transient, feasts,
Soon pluck'd by Man, or spoil'd by Beasts;
If spar'd scarce boast a moment's prime,
Ere stain'd, or smitten down by Time—
So soon they lose their loveliest charms,
And perish in their parents' arms.
Thou, from thy stores, with bounteous hand,
Pour'st plenteous fruits o'er all the Land;
To feast the Rich, and feed the Poor,
When flow'rs and verdure charm no more;
And oft thy motley mantle shines,
With beauties, more than Spring combines—
But whether Thou in brown be dress'd,
Or varied hues, my bosom's bless'd,
More, when my Hannah's beauty's join'd,
Than all in sprightly Spring I find,
Or Summer's suit most gay and green,
While Absence blights the blooming scene.
Tho' Thou appear with sallow look,
By blushing smiles, and songs, forsook,
Thy languid eye, thy tuneless voice,
Thy faded cheek is more my choice,
Than purest white, and richest red,
On Summer's clear complexion spread;
Than all blythe Spring's bewitching wiles,
Of melting tears, and amorous smiles;
Than fullest tone, and finest trill,
Her orchestra, triumphant, fill.
My heart abhors thy mingling lay,
Thou melancholy month of May!
Thy Cuckoo calls, detested strains!
With clarion curs'd, to pensive plains!
I hate the Lark's enamour'd note,
As o'er these plains her pinions float;
Ev'n Philomela's warblings, here,
Excite the sign, extort the tear—
For every summon, every song,
That courts a mate, convenes a throng,
Recals my ruminating mind
To plighted pleasures left behind!
Where valued treasures most abound
The hovering heart's in fetters found,
Enraptur'd with its present prize,
Or beating strong for future joys—
While mutual Love will most asswage,
The pains of Earth's poor pilgrimage,
And, next to Heav'n, my Hannah's breast,
Gives present pleasure's highest zest.
Forc'd far away from Thine and Thee,
Mellifluent lays amuse not Me,
The choral songs of sylvan Choirs
But vex my Soul with vain desires;
They boast a flame, or faithful bride,
Bright hopes at hand, or joys enjoy'd,
While I lament a Consort left,
Dull hopes delay'd, or bliss bereft.
My mawkish ear draws more delight
From Screech-owl, screaming thro' the night;
Wood pigeons, prowling round for prey,
With Stock-doves, murmuring all the day,
While Ravens, Rooks, and Crows complain,
Of hungry Autumn's dreary reign;
Or Swallows, gather'd in a crowd,
With consultation chattering loud,
Thick-perch'd on leafless willow-sprays,
How, when, and where, to point their ways,
To find their food, or sleep in peace,
Till frost and wintry famine cease:
These make my heart with rapture swell:
Of Love's true holiday they tell!
But Thee, dear Minstrel! most I love,
Soft warbling thro' the wasted grove;
Thee, Red-breast blythe! I fondly hail,
Whose sweetest sonnets now prevail!
For, tho' thy rhythmus flow, forlorn,
From naked bush, both night and morn,
With twittering tones, in solo shrill,
O'er echoing wood, or whispering hill,
And oft, in solitary song,
Chaunts't o'er my chamber all day long;
Yet more I love thy lonely lyre
197

Than fullest fugues of vernal Choir.
Thy measur'd madrigals, at eve,
My Mind's low murmuring oft relieve;
Oft put my pensive Muse to flight,
With sprightly lays at earliest light.
Thou, first of all the feathered bards!
Art highest in my heart's regards.
In childhood, mid amusements gay,
While other broods became a prey,
Whene'er I heard thy younglings cry,
I pass'd with superstition, by—
Thy milk-white eggs, with crimson stain'd,
Each sacrilegious wish restrain'd;
Or, if thy empty house I knew,
My hand, with sacred awe, withdrew.
Thus, early, I rever'd thy nest:
Thy portrait, now, become my crest,
Shall, on my 'scutcheon, keep its place,
Till Time my tuneful fame crase—
For thou, of all the feathered host,
Thy rustic bard resemblest most;
Like him thou pour'st thy purest strain
When much distress, and misery, reign—
When clouds obscure autumnal skies,
And dreary Earth a desart lies,
Foreboding miseries more austere,
Thy choisest lays the landscape chear;
While vernal choirs in silence mourn,
Till plenty with the Spring return,
And light, and love, their pow'rs awake,
In every vocal bow'r and brake.
Oh! what melodious music, now
He breathes from yonder barren bough!
His bill expands, his bosom swells,
While clearest cadence thrills the dells!
How sweet the sounds! how soft the slurs!
They soothe my Soul while Woe demurs!
My mournful musings now He breaks,
And, thus, the plumey prophet speaks.
“O Lyrist! lift thy pensive eyes—
Survey the Earth—survey the Skies—
Behold the Welkin's gloomy frown!
Hear Boreas' trumpet call to Town!
While pillag'd plain, and leafless tree,
Proclaim a Harvest-home to Thee!
No longer press thy piteous theme—
Nor nurse thy dreary morning-dream—
Heav'n soon from suffering will release,
And fill thy panting heart with peace—
Will waft Thee, where, in warmer zone,
The fondest Friendship rules alone—
Transport Thee back from frowning plains,
To where true Love extatic reigns!
Kind Heav'n still every pray'r attends,
From harmless Lovers—faithful Friends—
And still, in every age, and clime,
Fulfils, in properest place and time,
What Hope desires, and Faith endures,
While Absence bears like loads with yours—
In every pain, and every woe,
Still blesses pious Souls, below;
At Death, by Angels borne above,
Unites in everlasting Love!”
O blessed Bird! from neighbouring bow'r,
Still, morn, and eve, such preaching pour;
Still, with such prompt prophetic art,
Salute my ear, to ease my heart,
Till parent Heav'n's bless'd Providence,
In loving-kindness call me hence,
To taste that peace, that love, that joy,
Found, only, where my Hannah's by!
And let me, still, from day to day,
With Her, enjoy thy friendly lay,
Till Heav'n in mercy, love, and grace,
Transport us both to that bless'd place,
Where, Faith and Hope absorb'd in sight,
Love fills the Soul with full delight;
Delight, unmix'd with woe, or pain,
Where Lovers, met, ne'er part again!
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