ODE TO JAMES BRUCE, ESQ.[_]
As the confessed Superiority of Mr. Bruce to Mr.
Boswell entitles him to a more eminent Mark
of Distinction, I have added an Ode, in my
best Manner, to this Complimentary Epistle,
which the Congratulatory Epistle to Mr. Boswell
cannot boast.
O Bruce, for this his short and sweet epistle,
Thou biddest p'rhaps the gentle bard ‘go whistle;’
Or somewhat worse, perchaunce, that rhimes to knight;
That is to say, knights of the blade,
One time so busy in the dubbing trade,
That, like to silver, it was shoulder'd bright.
Pity by hungry critics thou shouldst fall,
So clever, and so form'd to please us all!
Again!—by royal favour all-surrounded,
A balm so rich, like cloves and nutmegs pounded!
Thus the bag fox, (how cruelly, alack!)
Turn'd out with turpentine upon his back,
Amidst the war of hounds and hunters flies;
Shows sport; but, luckless, by his fragrance dies!
Safe from the fury of the critic hounds,
O Bruce, thou treadest Abyssinian grounds;
Nor can our British noses hunt thy foil:
Indeed, thou need'st not dread th' event;
Surrounding clouds destroy the scent,
And mock their most sagacious toil:
Yes, in thy darkness thou shalt leave the dogs;
For hares, the hunters say, run best in fogs.
Of thee and me, two great physicians,
How diff'rent are the dispositions!
Thy soul delights in wonder, pomp, and bustle;
Mine in th' unmarvellous and placid scene,
Plain as the hut
of our good king and queen;—
I imitate the stationary muscle.
Yet, boldly thou, O Bruce, again proceed;
Of wonder ope the fountain head;
Deluge the land with Abyssinian ware;
Whilst I, a simple son of peace,
The world of bagatelle increase,
By love-sick sonnets to the fair.
Now to Sir Joseph, now a duke, now wren,
Now robin red-breast, dedicate the pen;
Now glow-worm, child of shade and light, not flame;
To whom, of wicked wits the tuneful art,
So very apt, indeed, from truth to start,
Compares the nightly street-meand'ring dame.
Mild insect, harmless as myself, I ween:
Thou little planet of the rural scene,
When summer warms the valleys with her rays,
Accept a trifling sonnet to thy praise.
ODE TO THE GLOW-WORM.
Bright stranger, welcome to my field,
Here feed in safety, here thy radiance yield;
To me, O nightly be thy splendor giv'n;
Oh, could a wish of mine the skies command,
How would I gem thy leaf with lib'ral hand,
With ev'ry sweetest dew of Heav'n!
Say, dost shou kindly light the fairy train,
Amidst their gambols on the stilly plain,
Hanging thy lamp upon the moisten'd blade?
What lamp so fit, so pure as thine,
Amidst the gentle elfin band to shine,
And chase the horrors of the midnight shade.
Oh! may no feather'd foe disturb thy bow'r,
And with barbarian beak thy life devour:
Oh! may no ruthless torrent of the sky,
O'erwhelming, force thee from thy dewy seat;
Nor tempests tear thee from thy green retreat,
And bid thee 'midst the humming myriads die!
Queen of the insect world, what leaves delight?
Of such these willing hands a bow'r shall form,
To guard thee from the rushing rains of night,
And hide thee from the wild wing of the storm.
Sweet child of stillness, 'midst the awful calm
Of pausing Nature thou art pleas'd to dwell;
In happy silence to enjoy thy balm,
And shed through life a lustre round thy cell.
How diff'rent man, the imp of noise and strife,
Who courts the storm that tears and darkens life!
Blest when the passions wild the soul invade!
How nobler far to bid those whirlwinds cease;
To taste, like thee, the luxury of peace,
And shine in solitude and shade!
