The Poetical Works of Percival Stockdale In two volumes |
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VERSES TO A ROBIN-RED-BREAST, WHO SINGS EVERY MORNING, NEAR MY BED-CHAMBER. |
| II. |
 | The Poetical Works of Percival Stockdale |  |
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VERSES TO A ROBIN-RED-BREAST, WHO SINGS EVERY MORNING, NEAR MY BED-CHAMBER.
SWEET bird; thy music charms my rest;
It's warbling soothes my pensive breast.
Delighted fancy hears thy song
It's artless melody prolong;
For oh! when nature strikes the heart,
She leaves no trace of Cramer's art.
It's warbling soothes my pensive breast.
Delighted fancy hears thy song
It's artless melody prolong;
For oh! when nature strikes the heart,
She leaves no trace of Cramer's art.
Care, pain, and dire misfortune flee
The powers of Morpheus, and of thee;
Those powers combined, with soft controul
Diffuse Elysium o'er my soul;
The sails of persecution furled,
I steer to some ideal world;
Some finer world, where Zephyr's breeze
Panting on aromatick trees,
Descends from æther ne'er o'ercast
With clouds that hurl the wintry blast.
There I repose in fragrant bowers,
Where Flora crowns the glowing flowers;
Where a meandring, murmuring stream
Prompts, and improves the muse's theme:
Through shades imagination roves,
Which far exceed St. Dial's groves;
Where a majestick river flows,
Disdaining all descriptive prose;
His deep, clear floods, the Thames outvie;
His playful beauties, even the Wye.
The powers of Morpheus, and of thee;
Those powers combined, with soft controul
Diffuse Elysium o'er my soul;
The sails of persecution furled,
I steer to some ideal world;
Some finer world, where Zephyr's breeze
Panting on aromatick trees,
Descends from æther ne'er o'ercast
With clouds that hurl the wintry blast.
There I repose in fragrant bowers,
Where Flora crowns the glowing flowers;
379
Prompts, and improves the muse's theme:
Through shades imagination roves,
Which far exceed St. Dial's groves;
Where a majestick river flows,
Disdaining all descriptive prose;
His deep, clear floods, the Thames outvie;
His playful beauties, even the Wye.
In this bright, visionary scene,
Our species with angelick mien,
And friendly voice, the stranger greet;
Their virtues, as their forms, complete:
Illusive dream! in which I find
That generous actions mark mankind!
Our species with angelick mien,
And friendly voice, the stranger greet;
Their virtues, as their forms, complete:
Illusive dream! in which I find
That generous actions mark mankind!
Since, then, sweet songster of the town,
Whose accents bid me sleep on down,
With numerous ills thy tuneful strife
Dispels their gloom, and gilds my life;
When Boreas heaps our world with snow,
Come to a heart inured to woe;
Hence, quick, when miseries are displayed,
To recollect;—to feel;—to aid;
With safe, and timely pinion, fly
The wild oppression of the sky;
Fly to protectors, mild, like thee;
Compassion, and tranquillity;
Each ruffled, and each flagging plume,
With me, their health shall soon resume;
Restored from cold, from famine's pain,
Shall soon their equal gloss regain:
Thy genius we shall soon descry
In the new lustre of thine eye:
And soon shall thy harmonious throat
Pour forth, again, it's liquid note!
Who can with hold the generous deed,
When innocence, and beauty plead?
Then, surely, for thy life, thy weal,
A poet ardently must feel!
Yes;—he will give thee all thy claim;
Present relief; and future fame!
Whose accents bid me sleep on down,
With numerous ills thy tuneful strife
Dispels their gloom, and gilds my life;
When Boreas heaps our world with snow,
Come to a heart inured to woe;
380
To recollect;—to feel;—to aid;
With safe, and timely pinion, fly
The wild oppression of the sky;
Fly to protectors, mild, like thee;
Compassion, and tranquillity;
Each ruffled, and each flagging plume,
With me, their health shall soon resume;
Restored from cold, from famine's pain,
Shall soon their equal gloss regain:
Thy genius we shall soon descry
In the new lustre of thine eye:
And soon shall thy harmonious throat
Pour forth, again, it's liquid note!
Who can with hold the generous deed,
When innocence, and beauty plead?
Then, surely, for thy life, thy weal,
A poet ardently must feel!
Yes;—he will give thee all thy claim;
Present relief; and future fame!
Monmouth, Sept. 13th, 1794.
| The Poetical Works of Percival Stockdale | |