The Poetical Works of John Scott

At secura quies, et nescia fallere vita,
Dives opum variarum; at latis otia fundis,
Speluncæ, vivique lacus; at frigida Tempe,
Mugitusque boum, mollesque sub arbore somni
Non absunt. Illic saltus, ac lustra ferarum,
Et patiens operum parvoque assueta juventus,
Sacra deûm, sanctique patres: extrema per illos
Justitia excedens terris vestigia fecit.
Virg. Georg. II. 1. 467.

ECLOGUE I. THERON;

or, the Praise of Rural Life.

SCENE, a Heath: Season, Spring; Time, Morning.
Fair Spring o'er Nature held her gentlest sway;
Fair Morn diffus'd around her brightest ray;
Thin mists hung hovering on the distant trees,
Or roll'd from off the fields before the breeze.
The Shepherd Theron watch'd his fleecy train,
Beneath a broad oak, on the grassy plain.
A heath's green wild lay pleasant to his view,
With shrubs and field-flowers deck'd of varied hue:

There hawthorns tall their silver bloom disclos'd,
Here flexile broom's bright yellow interpos'd;
There purple orchis, here pale daisies spread,
And sweet May-lilies richest odour shed.
From many a copse and blossom'd orchard near,
The voice of birds melodious charm'd the ear;
There shrill the lark and soft the linnet sung,
And loud through air the throstle's musick rung.
The gentle Swain the chearful scene admir'd;
The chearful scene the song of joy inspir'd.
‘Chant on,’ he cry'd, ‘ye warblers on the spray!
‘Bleat on, ye flocks, that in the pastures play!
‘Low on, ye herds, that range the dewy vales!
‘Murmur, ye rills! and whisper soft, ye gales!
‘How blest my lot, in these sweet fields assign'd,
‘Where Peace and Leisure sooth the tuneful mind;
‘Where yet some pleasing vestiges remain
‘Of unperverted Nature's golden reign,
‘When Love and Virtue rang'd Arcadian shades,
‘With undesigning youths and artless maids!

‘For us, though destin'd to a later time,
‘A less luxuriant soil, less genial clime,
‘For us the country boasts enough to charm,
‘In the wild woodland or the cultur'd farm.
‘Come, Cynthio, come! in town no longer stay;
‘From crouds, and noise, and folly, haste away!
‘The fields, the meads, the trees, are all in bloom,
‘The vernal show'rs awake a rich perfume.
‘Where Damon's mansion, by the glassy stream,
‘Rears its white walls that thro' green willows gleam,
‘Annual the neighbours hold their shearing-day;
‘And blithe youths come, and nymphs in neat array:
‘Those shear their sheep, upon the smooth turf laid,
‘In the broad plane's or trembling poplar's shade;
‘These for their friends th'expected feast provide,
‘Beneath cool bowers along th' inclosure's side.
‘To view the toil, the glad repast to share,
‘Thy Delia, my Melania, shall be there;
‘Each, kind and faithful to her faithful swain,
‘Loves the calm pleasures of the pastoral plain.

‘Come, Cynthio, come! If towns and crouds invite,
‘And noise and folly promise high delight;
‘Soon the tir'd soul disgusted turns from these—
‘The rural prospect, only, long can please!’

ECLOGUE II. PALEMON;

or, Benevolence.

SCENE, a Wood-side on the Brow of a Hill: Season, Summer; Time, Forenoon.

Bright fleecy clouds flew scattering o'er the sky,
And shorten'd shadows shew'd that noon was nigh;
When two young Shepherds, in the upland shade,
Their listless limbs upon the greensward laid.
Surrounding groves the wandering sight confin'd—
All, save where, westward, one wide landscape shin'd.
Down in the dale were neat inclosures seen,
The winding hedge-row, and the thicket green;
Rich marshland next a glossy level show'd,
And thro' grey willows silver rivers flow'd:
Beyond, high hills with towers and villas crown'd,
And waving forests, form'd the prospect's bound.

Sweet was the covert where the Swains reclin'd!
There spread the wild rose, there the woodbine twin'd;
There stood green fern; there, o'er the grassy ground,
Sweet camomile and alehoof crept around;
And centaury red and yellow cinquefoil grew,
And scarlet campion, and cyanus blue;
And tufted thyme, and marjoram's purple bloom,
And ruddy strawberries yielding rich perfume.
Gay flies their wings on each fair flower display'd,
And labouring bees a lulling murmur made.
Along the brow a path delightful lay;
Slow by the youths Palemon chanc'd to stray,
A Bard, who often to the rural throng,
At vacant hours rehears'd the moral song!
The song the Shepherds crav'd; the Sage reply'd:
‘As late my steps forsook the fountain side,
‘Adown the green lane by the beechen grove,
‘Their flocks young Pironel and Larvon drove;

‘With us perchance they'll rest awhile’—The Swains
Approach'd the shade; their sheep spread o'er the plains:
Silent they view'd the venerable man,
Whose voice melodious thus the lay began.
‘What Alcon sung where Evesham's vales extend,
‘I sing; ye Swains, your pleas'd attention lend!
‘There long with him the rural life I led,
‘His fields I cultur'd, and his flocks I fed.
‘Where, by the hamlet road upon the green,
‘Stood pleasant cots with trees dispers'd between,
‘Beside his door, as waving o'er his head
‘A lofty elm its rustling foliage spread,
‘Frequent he sat; while all the village train
‘Press'd round his seat, and listen'd to his strain.
‘And once of fair Benevolence he sung,
‘And thus the tuneful numbers left his tongue:
“Ye youth of Avon's banks, of Bredon's groves,
“Sweet scenes, where Plenty reigns, and Pleasure roves!

“Woo to your bowers Benevolence the fair,
“Kind as your soil, and gentle as your air.
“She comes! her tranquil step, and placid eye,
“Fierce Rage, fell Hate, and ruthless Avarice fly.
“She comes! her heav'nly smiles, with powerful charm,
“Smooth Care's rough brow, and rest Toil's weary arm.
“She comes! ye Shepherds, importune her stay!
“While your fair farms exuberant wealth display,
“While herds and flocks their annual increase yield,
“And yellow harvests load the fruitful field;
“Beneath grim Want's inexorable reign,
“Pale Sickness, oft, and feeble Age complain!
“Why this unlike allotment, save to show,
“That who possess, possess but to bestow?”

Palemon ceas'd.—‘Sweet is the sound of gales
‘Amid green osiers in the winding vales;
‘Sweet is the lark's loud note on sunny hills,
‘What time fair Morn the sky with fragrance fills;

‘Sweet is the nightingale's love-soothing strain,
‘Heard by still waters on the moonlight plain!
‘But not the gales that thro' green osiers play,
‘Nor lark's nor nightingale's melodious lay,
‘Please like smooth numbers by the Muse inspir'd!’—
Larvon reply'd, and homeward all retir'd.

ECLOGUE III. ARMYN;

or, The Discontented.

SCENE, a Valley: Season, Summer; Time, Afternoon.

Summer o'er heav'n diffus'd serenest blue,
And painted earth with many a pleasing hue;
When Armyn mus'd the vacant hour away,
Where willows o'er him wav'd their pendent spray.
Cool was the shade, and cool the passing gale,
And sweet the prospect of the adjacent vale:
The fertile soil, profuse of plants, bestow'd
The crowfoot's gold, the trefoil's purple show'd,
And spiky mint rich fragrance breathing round,
And meadsweet tall with tufts of flowrets crown'd,
And comfry white, and hoary silver-weed,
The bending osier, and the rustling reed.

There, where clear streams about green islands spread,
Fair flocks and herds, the wealth of Armyn, fed;
There, on the hill's soft slope, delightful view!
Fair fields of corn, the wealth of Armyn, grew.
His sturdy hinds, a slow laborious band,
Swept their bright scythes along the level land:
Blithe youths and maidens nimbly near them past,
And the thick swarth in careless wind-rows cast.
Full on the landscape shone the westering sun,
When thus the Swain's soliloquy begun:

‘Haste down, O Sun! and close the tedious day:
‘Time, to the unhappy, slowly moves away.
‘Not so, to me, in Roden's sylvan bowers,
‘Pass'd Youth's short blissful reign of careless hours;
‘When to my view the fancy'd future lay,
‘A region ever tranquil, ever gay.
‘O then, what ardors did my breast inflame!
‘What thoughts were mine, of friendship, love, and fame!

‘How tasteless life, now all its joys are try'd,
‘And warm pursuits in dull repose subside!’
He paus'd: his closing words Albino heard,
As down the stream his little boat he steer'd;
His hand releas'd the sail, and dropt the oar,
And moor'd the light skiff on the sedgy shore.
‘Cease, gentle Swain,’ he said; ‘no more, in vain,
‘Thus make past pleasure cause of present pain!
‘Cease, gentle Swain,’ he said; ‘from thee, alone,
‘Are youth's blest hours and fancy'd prospects flown?
‘Ah, no!—remembrance to my view restores
‘Dear native fields, which now my soul deplores;
‘Rich hills and vales, and pleasant village scenes
‘Of oaks whose wide arms stretch'd o'er daisied greens,
‘And wind-mill's sails slow-circling in the breeze,
‘And cottage-walls envelop'd half with trees—
‘Sweet scenes, where Beauty met the ravish'd sight,
‘And Music often gave the ear delight;

‘Where Delia's smile, and Mira's tuneful song,
‘And Damon's converse, charm'd the youthful throng!
‘How chang'd, alas, how chang'd!—O'er all our plains,
‘Proud Norval, now, in lonely grandeur reigns;
‘His wide-spread park a waste of verdure lies,
‘And his vast villa's glittering roofs arise.
‘For me, hard fate!—But say, shall I complain?
‘These limbs yet active Life's support obtain.
‘Let us, or good or evil as we share,
‘That thankful prize, and this with patience bear.’
The soft reproach touch'd Armyn's gentle breast;
His alter'd brow a placid smile exprest.
‘Calm as clear ev'nings after vernal rains,
‘When all the air a rich perfume retains,
‘My mind,’ said he, ‘its murmurs driv'n away,
‘Feels Truth's full force, and bows to Reason's sway!’
He ceas'd: the sun, with horizontal beams,
Gilt the green mountains, and the glittering streams.

Slow down the tide before the sinking breeze,
Albino's white sail gleam'd among the trees;
Slow down the tide his winding course he bore
To watry Talgar's aspin-shaded shore.
Slow cross the valley, to the southern hill,
The steps of Armyn sought the distant vill,
Where thro' tall elms the moss-grown turret rose;
And his fair mansion offer'd sweet repose.

ECLOGUE IV. LYCORON;

or, The Unhappy.

SCENE, a Valley: Season, Autumn; Time, Evening.

The matron, Autumn, held her sober reign
O'er fading foliage on the russet plain:
Mild Evening came; the moon began to rise,
And spread pale lustre o'er unclouded skies.
'Twas silence all—save, where along the road
The slow wain grating bore its cumb'rous load;
Save, where broad rivers roll'd their waves away,
And screaming herons sought their watry prey—
When hapless Damon, in Algorno's vale,
Pour'd his soft sorrows on the passing gale.

‘That grace of shape, that elegance of air,
‘That blooming face so exquisitely fair;

‘That eye of brightness bright as morning's ray,
‘That smile of softness soft as closing day,
‘Which bound my soul to thee; all, all are fled—
‘All lost in dreary mansions of the dead!
‘Ev'n him, whom distance from his Love divides,
‘Toil'd on scorch'd sands, or tost on rolling tides,
‘Kind Hope still chears, still paints, to sooth his pain,
‘The happy moment when they meet again.
‘Far worse my lot! of Hope bereft, I mourn!—
‘The parted spirit never can return!’

Thus Damon spoke, as in the cypress gloom
He hung lamenting o'er his Delia's tomb.
In the still valley where they wander'd near,
Two gentle Shepherds chanc'd his voice to hear:
Lycoron's head Time's hand had silver'd o'er,
And Milo's cheek Youth's rosy blushes bore.

‘How mournful,’ said Lycoron, ‘flows that strain!
‘It brings past miseries to my mind again.
‘When the blithe Village, on the vernal green,
‘Sees its fair Daughters in the dance convene;

‘And Youth's light step in search of Pleasure strays,
‘And his fond eyes on Beauty fix their gaze;
‘Shouldst thou then, lingering midst the lovely train,
‘Wish some young Charmer's easy heart to gain,
‘Mark well, that Reason Love's pursuit approve,
‘Ere thy soft arts her tender passions move:
‘Else, tho' thy thoughts in Summer regions range,
‘Calm sunny climes that seem to fear no change;
‘Rude Winter's rage will soon the scene deform,
‘Dark with thick cloud, and rough with battering storm!’
‘When parents interdict, and friends dissuade,
‘The prudent censure, and the proud upbraid;
‘Think! all their efforts then shalt thou disdain,
‘Thy faith, thy constancy, unmov'd, maintain?
‘To Isca's fields, me once Ill-fortune led;
‘In Isca's fields, her flocks Zelinda fed:
‘There oft, when Ev'ning, on the silent plain,
‘Commenc'd with sweet serenity her reign,

‘Along green groves, or down the winding dales,
‘The Fair-one listen'd to my tender tales;
‘Then when her mind, or doubt, or fear, distrest,
‘And doubt, or fear, her anxious eyes exprest,
“O no!” said I, “let oxen quit the mead,
“With climbing goats on craggy cliffs to feed;
“Before the hare the hound affrighted fly,
“And larks pursue the falcon through the sky;
“Streams cease to flow, and winds to stir the lake,
“If I, unfaithful, ever thee forsake!—”
‘What my tongue utter'd then, my heart believ'd:
‘O wretched heart, self-flatter'd and deceiv'd!
‘Fell Slander's arts the Virgin's fame accus'd;
‘And whom my love had chose, my pride refus'd.
‘For me, that cheek did tears of grief distain?
‘To me, that voice in anguish plead in vain?
‘What fiend relentless then my soul possest?
‘Oblivion hide! for ever hide the rest!
‘Too well her innocence and truth were prov'd;
‘Too late my pity and my justice mov'd!

He ceas'd, with groans that more than words exprest;
And smote in agony his aged breast.
His friend reply'd not; but, with soothing strains
Of solemn music, sought to ease his pains:
Soft flow'd the notes, as gales that waft perfume
From cowslip meads, or linden boughs in bloom.
Peace o'er their minds a calm composure cast;
And slowly down the shadowy vale in pensive mood they past.

ELEGY I. Written at the Approach of Spring.

Stern Winter hence with all his train removes,
And cheerful skies and limpid streams are seen;
Thick-sprouting foliage decorates the groves;
Reviving herbage clothes the fields with green.

Yet lovelier scenes th' approaching months prepare;
Kind Spring's full bounty soon will be display'd;
The smile of beauty ev'ry vale shall wear;
The voice of song enliven ev'ry shade.

O Fancy, paint not coming days too fair!
Oft for the prospects sprightly May should yield,
Rain-pouring clouds have darken'd all the air,
Or snows untimely whiten'd o'er the field:

But should kind Spring her wonted bounty show'r,
The smile of beauty, and the voice of song;
If gloomy thought the human mind o'erpow'r,
Ev'n vernal hours glide unenjoy'd along.

I shun the scenes where madd'ning passion raves,
Where Pride and Folly high dominion hold,
And unrelenting Avarice drives her slaves
O'er prostrate Virtue in pursuit of gold.

The grassy lane, the wood-surrounded field,
The rude stone fence with fragrant wall-flow'rs gay,
The clay-built cot, to me more pleasure yield
Than all the pomp imperial domes display:

And yet even here, amid these secret shades,
These simple scenes of unreprov'd delight,
Affliction's iron hand my breast invades,
And Death's dread dart is ever in my sight.

While genial suns to genial show'rs succeed,
(The air all mildness, and the earth all bloom);
While herds and flocks range sportive o'er the mead,
Crop the sweet herb, and snuff the rich perfume;

O why alone to hapless man deny'd
To taste the bliss inferior beings boast?
O why this fate, that fear and pain divide
His few short hours on earth's delightful coast?

Ah cease—no more of Providence complain!
'Tis sense of guilt that wakes the mind to woe,
Gives force to fear, adds energy to pain,
And palls each joy by Heav'n indulg'd below:

Why else the smiling infant-train so blest,
Ere ill propension ripens into sin,
Ere wild desire inflames the youthful breast,
And dear-bought knowledge ends the peace within?

As to the bleating tenants of the field,
As to the sportive warblers on the trees,
To them their joys sincere the seasons yield,
And all their days and all their prospects please;

Such mine, when first, from London's crowded streets,
Rov'd my young steps to Surry's wood-crown'd hills,
O'er new-blown meads that breath'd a thousand sweets,
By shady coverts and by chrystal rills.

O happy hours, beyond recov'ry fled!
What share I now that can your loss repay,
While o'er my mind these glooms of thought are spread,
And veil the light of life's meridian ray?

Is there no Power this darkness to remove?
The long-lost joys of Eden to restore?
Or raise our views to happier seats above,
Where fear and pain and death shall be no more?

Yes, those there are who know a Saviour's love
The long-lost joys of Eden can restore,
And raise their views to happier seats above,
Where fear and pain and death shall be no more:

These grateful share the gifts of Nature's hand;
And in the varied scenes that round them shine
(Minute and beautiful, or rude and grand),
Admire th' amazing workmanship divine.

Blows not a flow'ret in th' enamel'd vale,
Shines not a pebble where the riv'let strays,
Sports not an insect on the spicy gale,
But claims their wonder and excites their praise.

For them ev'n vernal Nature looks more gay,
For them more lively hues the fields adorn;
To them more fair the fairest smile of Day,
To them more sweet the sweetest breath of Morn.

They feel the bliss that Hope and Faith supply;
They pass serene th' appointed hours that bring
The Day that wafts them to the realms on high,
The Day that centers in Eternal Spring.

ELEGY II. Written in the Hot Weather, July, 1757.

Three hours from noon the passing shadow shows,
The sultry breeze glides faintly o'er the plains,
The dazzling Ether fierce and fiercer glows,
And human nature scarce its rage sustains.

Now still and vacant is the dusty street,
And still and vacant all yon fields extend,
Save where those swains, oppress'd with toil and heat,
The grassy harvest of the mead attend.

Lost is the lively aspect of the ground,
Low are the springs, the reedy ditches dry;
No verdant spot in all the vale is found,
Save what yon stream's unfailing stores supply.

Where are the flow'rs, the garden's rich array?
Where is their beauty, where their fragrance fled?
Their stems relax, fast fall their leaves away,
They fade and mingle with their dusty bed:

All but the natives of the torrid zone,
What Afric's wilds, or Peru's fields display,
Pleas'd with a clime that imitates their own,
They lovelier bloom beneath the parching ray.

Where is wild Nature's heart-reviving song,
That fill'd in genial spring the verdant bow'rs?
Silent in gloomy woods the feather'd throng
Pine thro' this long, long course of sultry hours.

Where is the dream of bliss by Summer brought?
The walk along the riv'let-water'd vale?
The field with verdure clad, with fragrance fraught?
The sun mild-beaming, and the fanning gale?

The weary soul Imagination chears,
Her pleasing colours paint the future gay:
Time passes on, the truth itself appears,
The pleasing colours instant fade away.

In diff'rent seasons diff'rent joys we place,
And these will Spring supply, and Summer these;
Yet frequent storms the bloom of Spring deface,
And Summer scarcely brings a day to please.

O for some secret shady cool recess,
Some Gothic dome o'erhung with darksome trees,
Where thick damp walls this raging heat repress,
Where the long aisle invites the lazy breeze!

But why these plaints?—reflect, nor murmur more—
Far worse their fate in many a foreign land,
The Indian tribes on Darien's swampy shore
The Arabs wand'ring over Mecca's sand.

Far worse, alas! the feeling mind sustains,
Rack'd with the poignant pangs of fear or shame;
The hopeless lover bound in Beauty's chains,
The bard whom Envy robs of hard-earn'd fame;

He, who a father or a mother mourns,
Or lovely consort lost in early bloom;
He, whom fell Febris, rapid Fury! burns,
Or Phthisis flow leads ling'ring to the tomb—

Lest Man should sink beneath the present pain;
Lest Man should triumph in the present joy;
For him th' unvarying laws of Heav'n ordain,
Hope in his ills, and to his bliss alloy.

Fierce and oppressive is the heat we bear,
Yet not unuseful to our humid soil;
Thence shall our fruits a richer flavour share,
Thence shall our plains with riper harvests smile.

Reflect, nor murmur more—for, good in all,
Heaven gives the due degrees of drought or rain;
Perhaps ere morn refreshing show'rs may fall,
Nor soon yon sun rise blazing fierce again:

Ev'n now behold the grateful change at hand!
Hark, in the East loud blust'ring gales arise;
Wide and more wide the dark'ning clouds expand,
And distant lightnings flash along the skies!

O, in the awful concert of the storm,
While hail and rain and wind and thunder join;
May deep-felt gratitude my soul inform,
May joyful songs of rev'rent praise be mine!

ELEGY III. Written in Harvest.

Farewell the pleasant violet-scented shade,
The primros'd hill, and daisy-mantled mead;
The furrow'd land, with springing corn array'd;
The sunny wall, with bloomy branches spread:

Farewell the bow'r with blushing roses gay;
Farewell the fragrant trefoil-purpled field;
Farewell the walk through rows of new-mown hay,
When ev'ning breezes mingled odours yield:

Of these no more—now round the lonely farms,
Where jocund Plenty deigns to fix her seat;
Th' autumnal landscape op'ning all its charms,
Declares kind Nature's annual work complete.

In diff'rent parts what diff'rent views delight,
Where on neat ridges waves the golden grain;
Or where the bearded barley dazzling white,
Spreads o'er the steepy slope or wide champaign.

The smile of Morning gleams along the hills,
And wakeful Labour calls her sons abroad;
They leave with chearful look their lowly vills,
And bid the fields resign their ripen'd load.

In various tasks engage the rustic bands,
And here the scythe, and there the sickle wield;
Or rear the new-bound sheaves along the lands,
Or range in heaps the swarths upon the field.

Some build the shocks, some load the spacious wains,
Some lead to shelt'ring barns the fragrant corn;
Some form tall ricks, that tow'ring o'er the plains
For many a mile, the homestead yards adorn.—

The rattling car with verdant branches crown'd,
The joyful swains that raise the clam'rous song,
Th' inclosure gates thrown open all around,
The stubble peopled by the gleaning throng,

Soon mark glad harvest o'er—Ye rural Lords,
Whose wide domains o'er Albion's isle extend;
Think whose kind hand your annual wealth affords,
And bid to Heaven your grateful praise ascend!

For tho' no gift spontaneous of the ground
Rose these fair crops that made your vallies smile,
Tho' the blithe youth of every hamlet round
Pursued for these thro' many a day their toil;

Yet what avail your labours or your cares?
Can all your labours, all your cares, supply
Bright suns, or soft'ning show'rs, or tepid airs,
Or one indulgent influence of the sky?

For Providence decrees, that we obtain
With toil each blessing destin'd to our use;
But means to teach us, that our toil is vain
If He the bounty of his hand refuse.

Yet, Albion, blame not what thy crime demands,
While this sad truth the blushing Muse betrays—
More frequent echoes o'er thy harvest lands,
The voice of Riot than the voice of Praise.

Prolific tho' thy fields, and mild thy clime,
Realms fam'd for fields as rich, for climes as fair,
Have fall'n the prey of Famine, War, and Time,
And now no semblance of their glory bear.

Ask Palestine, proud Asia's early boast,
Where now the groves that pour'd her wine and oil;
Where the fair towns that crown'd her wealthy coast;
Where the glad swains that till'd her fertile soil:

Ask, and behold, and mourn her hapless fall!
Where rose fair towns, where toil'd the jocund swain,
Thron'd on the naked rock and mould'ring wall,
Pale Want and Ruin hold their dreary reign.

Where Jordan's vallies smil'd in living green,
Where Sharon's flow'rs disclos'd their varied hues,
The wand'ring pilgrim views the alter'd scene,
And drops the tear of pity as he views.

Ask Grecia, mourning o'er her ruin'd tow'rs;
Where now the prospects charm'd her bards of old,
Her corn-clad mountains and Elysian bow'rs,
And silver streams thro' fragrant meadows roll'd.

Where Freedom's praise along the vale was heard,
And town to town return'd the fav'rite sound;
Where Patriot War her awful standard rear'd,
And brav'd the millions Persia pour'd around:

There Freedom's praise no more the valley chears,
There Patriot War no more her banner waves;
Nor bard, nor sage, nor martial chief appears,
But stern barbarians rule a land of slaves.

Of mighty realms are such the poor remains?
Of mighty realms that fell, when mad with pow'r,
They call'd for Vice to revel on their plains;
The monster doom'd their offspring to devour!

O Albion! wouldst thou shun their mournful fate,
To shun their follies and their crimes be thine;
And woo to linger in thy fair retreat,
The radiant Virtues, progeny divine!

Fair Truth, with dauntless eye and aspect bland;
Sweet Peace, whose brow no angry frown deforms;
Soft Charity, with ever-open hand;
And Courage, calm amid surrounding storms.

O lovely Train! O haste to grace our Isle!
So may the Pow'r who ev'ry blessing yields,
Bid on her clime serenest seasons smile,
And crown with annual wealth her far-fam'd fields.

ELEGY IV. Written at the Approach of Winter.

The Sun far southward bends his annual way,
The bleak North-east Wind lays the forests bare,
The fruit ungather'd quits the naked spray,
And dreary Winter reigns o'er earth and air.

No mark of vegetable life is seen,
No bird to bird repeats his tuneful call;
Save the dark leaves of some rude evergreen,
Save the lone red-breast on the moss-grown wall.

Where are the sprightly prospects Spring supply'd,
The may-flower'd hedges scenting every breeze;
The white flocks scatt'ring o'er the mountain's side,
The woodlarks warbling on the blooming trees?

Where is gay Summer's sportive insect train,
That in green fields on painted pinions play'd?
The herd at morn wide-pasturing o'er the plain,
Or throng'd at noon-tide in the willow shade?

Where is brown Autumn's ev'ning mild and still,
What time the ripen'd corn fresh fragrance yields,
What time the village peoples all the hill,
And loud shouts echo o'er the harvest fields?

To former scenes our fancy thus returns,
To former scenes that little pleas'd when here!
Our Winter chills us, and our Summer burns,
Yet we dislike the changes of the year.

To happier lands then restless Fancy flies,
Where Indian streams thro' green Savannahs flow;
Where brighter suns and ever tranquil skies
Bid new fruits ripen, and new flow'rets blow.

Let Truth these fairer happier lands survey—
There frowning Months descend in wat'ry storms;
Or Nature saints amid the blaze of day,
And one brown hue the sun-burnt plain deforms.

There oft, as toiling in the sultry fields,
Or homeward passing on the shadeless way,
His joyless life the weary lab'rer yields,
And instant drops beneath the deathful ray.

Who dreams of Nature, free from Nature's strife?
Who dreams of constant happiness below?
The hope-flush'd ent'rer on the stage of life;
The youth to knowledge unchastis'd by woe.

For me, long toil'd on many a weary road,
Led by false Hope in search of many a joy;
I find in Earth's bleak clime no blest abode,
No place, no season, sacred from annoy:

For me, while Winter rages round the plains,
With his dark days I human life compare;
Not those more fraught with clouds and winds and rains
Than this with pining pain and anxious care.

O! whence this wond'rous turn of mind our fate—
Whate'er the season or the place possest,
We ever murmur at our present state;
And yet the thought of parting breaks our rest?

Why else, when heard in Ev'ning's solemn gloom,
Does the sad knell, that sounding o'er the plain
Tolls some poor lifeless body to the tomb,
Thus thrill my breast with melancholy pain?

The voice of Reason thunders in my ear:
‘Thus thou, ere long, must join thy kindred clay;
‘No more those nostrils breathe the vital air,
‘No more those eyelids open on the day!’—

O Winter, o'er me hold thy dreary reign!
Spread wide thy skies in darkest horrors drest!
Of their dread rage no longer I'll complain,
Nor ask an Eden for a transient guest.

Enough has Heaven indulg'd of joy below,
To tempt our tarriance in this lov'd retreat;
Enough has Heaven ordain'd of useful woe,
To make us languish for a happier seat.

There is, who deems all climes, all seasons fair;
There is, who knows no restless passion's strife;
Contentment, smiling at each idle care;
Contentment, thankful for the gift of life!

She finds in Winter many a view to please;
The morning landscape fring'd with frost-work gay,
The sun at noon seen thro' the leafless trees,
The clear calm ether at the close of day:

She marks th' advantage storms and clouds bestow,
When blust'ring Caurus purifies the air;
When moist Aquarius pours the fleecy snow,
That makes th' impregnate glebe a richer harvest bear:

She bids, for all, our grateful praise arise,
To Him whose mandate spake the world to form;
Gave Spring's gay bloom, and Summer's chearful skies,
And Autumn's corn-clad field, and Winter's sounding storm.

ELEGY;

WRITTEN AT AMWELL IN HERTFORDSHIRE, MDCCLXVIII.

O friend! though silent thus thy tongue remains,
I read enquiry in thy anxious eye,
Why my pale cheek the frequent tear distains,
Why from my bosom bursts the frequent sigh.

Long from these scenes detain'd in distant fields,
My mournful tale perchance escap'd thy ear:
Fresh grief to me the repetition yields;
Thy kind attention gives thee right to hear!

Foe to the world's pursuit of wealth and fame,
Thy Theron early from the world retir'd,
Left to the busy throng each boasted aim,
Nor aught, save peace in solitude, desir'd.

A few choice volumes there could oft engage,
A few choice friends there oft amus'd the day;
There his lov'd Parents' slow-declining age,
Life's calm unvary'd ev'ning, wore away.

Foe to the futile manners of the proud,
He chose an humble Virgin for his own;
A form with Nature's fairest gifts endow'd,
And pure as vernal blossoms newly blown:

Her hand she gave, and with it gave a heart
By love engag'd, with gratitude imprest,
Free without folly, prudent without art,
With wit accomplish'd, and with virtue blest.

Swift pass'd the hours; alas, to pass no more!
Flown like the light clouds of a summer's day!
One beauteous pledge the beauteous consort bore;
The fatal gift forbad the giver's stay.

Ere twice the Sun perform'd his annual round,
In one sad spot where kindred ashes lie,
O'er wife, and child, and parents, clos'd the ground;
The final home of Man ordain'd to die!

O cease at length, obtrusive Mem'ry! cease,
Nor in my view the wretched hours retain,
That saw Disease on her dear life increase,
And Med'cine's lenient arts essay'd in vain.

O the dread scene! (in misery how sublime!)
Of Love's vain pray'rs to stay her fleeting breath!
Suspense that restless watch'd the flight of Time,
And helpless dumb Despair awaiting Death!

O the dread scene!—'Tis agony to tell,
How o'er the couch of pain declin'd my head;
And took from dying lips the long farewel,
The last, last parting, ere her spirit fled.

‘Restore her, Heaven, as from the grave retrieve—
‘In each calm moment all things else resign'd,
‘Her looks, her language, show how hard to leave
‘The lov'd companion she must leave behind.

‘Restore her, Heaven! for once in mercy spare—’
Thus Love's vain prayer in anguish interpos'd:
And soon Suspense gave place to dumb Despair,
And o'er the past, Death's sable curtain clos'd—’

In silence clos'd—My thoughts rov'd frantic round,
No hope, no wish, beneath the sun remain'd;
Earth, air, and skies one dismal waste I found,
One pale, dead, dreary blank, with horror stain'd.

O lovely flow'r, too fair for this rude clime!
O lovely morn, too prodigal of light!
O transient beauties, blasted in their prime!
O transient glories, sunk in sudden night!

Sweet Excellence, by all who knew thee mourn'd!
Where is that form, that mind, my soul admir'd;
That form, with every pleasing charm adorn'd;
That mind, with every gentle thought inspir'd?

The face with rapture view'd, I view no more;
The voice with rapture heard, no more I hear:
Yet the lov'd features Mem'ry's eyes explore;
Yet the lov'd accents fall on Mem'ry's ear.

Ah sad, sad change! (sad source of daily pain)
That sense of loss ineffable renews;
While my rack'd bosom heaves the sigh in vain,
While my pale cheek the tear in vain bedews.

Still o'er the grave that holds the dear remains,
The mould'ring veil her spirit left below,
Fond Fancy dwells, and pours funereal strains,
The soul-dissolving melody of woe.

Nor mine alone to bear this painful doom,
Nor she alone the tear of Song obtains;
The Muse of Blagdon , o'er Constantia's tomb,
In all the eloquence of grief complains.

My friend's fair hope, like mine, so lately gain'd;
His heart, like mine, in its true partner blest;
Both from one cause the same distress sustain'd,
The same sad hours beheld us both distrest.

O Human Life! how mutable, how vain!
How thy wide sorrows circumscribe thy joy—
A sunny island in a stormy main,
A spot of azure in a cloudy sky!

All-gracious Heaven! since Man, infatuate Man,
Rests in thy works, too negligent of thee,
Lays for himself on earth his little plan,
Dreads not, or distant views mortality;

'Tis but to wake to nobler thought the soul,
To rouse us ling'ring on earth's flowery plain,
To Virtue's path our wand'rings to controul,
Affliction frowning comes, thy minister of pain!

See Verses written at Sandgate Castle, in memory of a Lady, by the late ingenious Dr. Langhorne.

AMWELL:

A DESCRIPTIVE POEM.

There dwells a fond desire in human minds,
When pleas'd, their pleasure to extend to those
Of kindred taste; and thence th' inchanting arts
Of Picture and of Song, the semblance fair
Of Nature's forms produce. This fond desire

Prompts me to sing the lonely sylvan scenes
Of Amwell; which, so oft in early youth,
While novelty enhanc'd their native charms,
Gave rapture to my soul; and often, still,
On life's calm moments shed serener joy.

Descriptive Muse! whose hand along the stream
Of ancient Thames, thro' Richmond's shady groves,
And Sheen's fair vallies, once thy Thomson led ;
And once o'er green Carmarthen's woody dales,
And sunny landscapes of Campania's plain,
Thy other favour'd bard ; thou, who so late,
In bowers by Clent's wild peaks , to Shenstone's ear
Didst bring sweet strains of rural melody,
(Alas no longer heard!)—vouchsafe thine aid:

From all our rich varieties of view,
What best may please, assist me to select,
With art dispose, with energy describe,
And its full image on the mind impress.

And ye, who e'er in these delightful fields
Consum'd with me the social hour, while I
Your walk conducted o'er their loveliest spots,
And on their fairest objects fix'd your sight;
Accept this verse, which may to memory call
That social hour, and sweetly varied walk!

And Thou, by strong connubial union mine;
Mine, by the stronger union of the heart;
In whom the loss of parents and of friends,
And Her, the first fair partner of my joys,
All recompens'd I find; whose presence chears
The soft domestic scene; Maria, come!
The Country calls us forth; blithe Summer's hand

Sheds sweetest flowers, and Morning's brightest smile
Illumines earth and air; Maria, come!
By winding pathways thro' the waving corn,
We reach the airy point that prospect yields,
Not vast and awful, but confin'd and fair;
Not the black mountain and the foamy main;
Not the throng'd city and the busy port;
But pleasant interchange of soft ascent,
And level plain, and growth of shady woods,
And twining course of rivers clear, and sight
Of rural towns and rural cots, whose roofs
Rise scattering round, and animate the whole.

Far tow'rds the west, close under sheltering hills,
In verdant meads, by Lee's cerulean stream,
Hertford's grey towers ascend; the rude remains

Of high antiquity, from waste escap'd
Of envious Time, and violence of War.
For War there once, so tells th' historic page,
Led Desolation's steps: the hardy Dane,
By Avarice lur'd, o'er Ocean's stormy wave,
To ravage Albion's plains, his favourite seat,
There fix'd awhile; and there his castles rear'd
Among the trees; and there, beneath yon ridge
Of piny rocks, his conquering navy moor'd,
With idle sails furl'd on the yard, and oars
Recumbent on the flood, and streamers gay
Triumphant fluttering on the passing winds.
In fear, the shepherd on the lonely heath
Tended his scanty flock; the ploughman turn'd,
In fear, his hasty furrow: oft the din
Of hostile arms alarm'd the ear, and flames
Of plunder'd towns thro' night's thick gloom from far
Gleam'd dismal on the sight: till Alfred came,
Till Alfred, father of his people, came,

Lee's rapid tide into new channels turn'd,
And left a-ground the Danian fleet, and forc'd
The foe to speedy flight . Then Freedom's voice
Reviv'd the drooping swain; then Plenty's hand
Recloth'd the desart fields, and Peace and Love
Sat smiling by; as now they smiling sit,
Obvious to Fancy's eye, upon the side
Of yon bright sunny theatre of hills,
Where Bengeo's villas rise, and Ware-park's lawns
Spread their green surface, interpers'd with groves
Of broad umbrageous oak, and spiry pine,
Tall elm, and linden pale, and blossom'd thorn,

Breathing mild fragrance, like the spicy gales
Of Indian islands. On the ample brow,
Where that white temple rears its pillar'd front
Half hid with glossy foliage, many a chief
Renown'd for martial deeds, and many a bard
Renown'd for song, have pass'd the rural hour.
The gentle Fanshaw there, from “noise of camps,
“From courts disease retir'd ,” delighted view'd
The gaudy garden fam'd in Wotton's page ;

Or in the verdant maze, or cool arcade,
Sat musing, and from smooth Italian strains
The soft Guarini's amorous lore transfus'd
Into rude British verse. The warrior's arm
Now rests from toil; the poet's tuneful tongue
In silence lies; frail Man his lov'd domains
Soon quits for ever! they themselves, by course
Of Nature often, or caprice of Art,
Experience change: even here, 'tis said of old
Steep rocky cliffs rose where yon gentle slopes
Mix with the vale; and fluctuating waves
Spread wide, where that rich vale with golden flowers
Shines; and where yonder winding chrystal rill
Slides thro' its smooth shorn margin, to the brink
Of Chadwell's azure pool. From Chadwell's pool
To London's plains, the Cambrian artist brought
His ample aqueduct ; suppos'd a work

Of matchless skill, by those who ne'er had heard
How, from Prenesto's heights and Anio's banks,
By Tivoli, to Rome's imperial walls,
On marble arches came the limpid store,
And out of jasper rocks in bright cascades
With never-ceasing murmur gush'd; or how,
To Lusitanian Ulysippo's towers ,
The silver current o'er Alcant'ra's vale
Roll'd high in air, as ancient poets feign'd
Eridanus to roll thro' Heaven: to these
Not sordid lucre, but the honest wish
Of future fame, or care for public weal,
Existence gave; and unconfin'd, as dew
Falls from the hand of Evening on the fields,
They flow'd for all. Our mercenary stream,
No grandeur boasting, here obscurely glides
O'er grassy lawns or under willow shades.
As, thro' the human form, arterial tubes

Branch'd every way, minute and more minute,
The circulating sanguine fluid extend;
So, pipes innumerable to peopled streets
Transmit the purchas'd wave. Old Lee, meanwhile,
Beneath his mossy grot o'erhung with boughs
Of poplar quivering in the breeze, surveys
With eye indignant his diminish'd tide
That laves yon ancient priory's wall

“About the 18th of Henry III. Margaret, Countess of Leicester, and Lady of the Manor, founded a priory for friers in the north part of this town of Ware, and dedicated the same to St. Francis.” Chauncy's Hertfordshire.

, and shows
In its clear mirrour Ware's inverted roofs.

Ware once was known to Fame; to her fair fields
Whilom the Gothic tournament's proud pomp
Brought Albion's valiant youth and blooming maids:
Pleas'd with ideas of the past, the Muse

Bids Fancy's pencil paint the scene, where they
In gilded barges on the glassy stream
Circled the reedy isles, the sportive dance
Along the smooth lawn led, or in the groves
Wander'd conversing, or reclin'd at ease
To harmony of lutes and voices sweet
Resign'd the enchanted ear; till sudden heard
The silver trumpet's animating sound
Summon'd the champions forth; on stately steeds,
In splendid armour clad, the ponderous lance
With strenuous hand sustaining, forth they came.

Where gay pavilions rose upon the plain,
Or azure awnings stretch'd from tree to tree,
Mix'd with thick foliage, form'd a mimic sky
Of grateful shade (as oft in Agra's streets
The silken canopy from side to side
Extends to break the sun's impetuous ray,
While monarchs pass beneath); there sat the Fair,
A glittering train on costly carpets rang'd,

A group of beauties all in youthful prime,
Of various feature and of various grace!
The pensive languish, and the sprightly air,
The engaging smile, and all the nameless charms
Which transient hope, or fear, or grief, or joy,
Wak'd in th' expressive eye, th' enamour'd heart
Of each young hero rous'd to daring deeds.
Nor this aught strange, that those whom love inspir'd
Prov'd ev'ry means the lovely sex to please:
This strange, indeed, how custom thus could teach
The tender breast complacence in the sight
Of barb'rous sport, where friend from hand of friend
The fatal wound full oft receiv'd, and fell
A victim to false glory; as that day
Fell gallant Pembroke, while his pompous show
Ended in silent gloom . One pitying tear

To human frailty paid; my roving sight
Pursues its pleasing course o'er neighb'ring hills,
Where frequent hedge-rows intersect rich fields
Of many a different form and different hue,
Bright with ripe corn, or green with grass, or dark
With clover's purple bloom; o'er Widbury's mount
With that fair crescent crown'd of lofty elms,
Its own peculiar boast; and o'er the woods
That round immure the deep sequester'd dale
Of Langley , down whose flow'r-embroider'd meads

Swift Ash thro' pebbly shores meandering rolls.
Elysian scene! as from the living world
Secluded quite; for of that world, to him
Whose wanderings trace thy winding length, appears
No mark, save one white solitary spire
At distance rising thro' the tufted trees—
Elysian scene! recluse as that, so fam'd
For solitude, by Warwick's ancient walls,
Where under umbrage of the mossy cliff
Victorious Guy, so legends say, reclin'd
His hoary head beside the silver stream,
In meditation rapt——Elysian scene!
At evening often, while the setting sun
On the green summit of thy eastern groves
Pour'd full his yellow radiance; while the voice
Of Zephyr whispering midst the rustling leaves,
The sound of water murmuring thro' the sedge,
The turtle's plaintive call, and music soft
Of distant bells, whose ever varying notes

In slow sad measure mov'd, combin'd to sooth
The soul to sweet solemnity of thought;
Beneath thy branchy bowers of thickest gloom,
Much on the imperfect state of Man I have mus'd:
How Pain o'er half his hours her iron reign
Ruthless extends; how Pleasure from the path
Of Innocence allures his steps; how Hope
Directs his eye to distant Joy, that flies
His fond pursuit; how Fear his shuddering heart
Alarms with fancy'd ill; how Doubt and Care
Perplex his thought; how soon the tender rose
Of Beauty fades, the sturdy oak of Strength
Declines to earth, and over all our pride
Stern Time triumphant stands. From general fate
To private woes then oft has Memory pass'd,
And mourn'd the loss of many a friend belov'd;
Of thee, De Horne, kind, generous, wise, and good!
And thee, my Turner, who in vacant youth,
Here oft in converse free, or studious search

Of classic lore, accompanied my walk!
From Ware's green bowers, to Devon's myrtle vales,
Remov'd a while, with prospect opening fair
Of useful life and honour in his view;
As falls the vernal bloom before the breath
Of blasting Eurus, immature he fell!
The tidings reach'd my ear, and in my breast,
Aching with recent wounds , new anguish wak'd.

When melancholy thus has chang'd to grief,
That grief in soft forgetfulness to lose,
I have left the gloom for gayer scenes, and sought
Thro' winding paths of venerable shade,
The airy brow where that tall spreading beech
O'er-tops surrounding groves, up rocky steeps,
Tree over tree dispos'd; or stretching far
Their shadowy coverts down th' indented side
Of fair corn-fields; or pierc'd with sunny glades,
That yield the casual glimpse of flowery meads
And shining silver rills; on these the eye

Then wont to expatiate pleas'd; or more remote
Survey'd yon vale of Lee, in verdant length
Of level lawn spread out to Kent's blue hills,
And the proud range of glitt'ring spires that rise
In misty air on Thames's crowded shores.

How beautiful, how various, is the view
Of these sweet pastoral landscapes! fair, perhaps,
As those renown'd of old, from Tabor's height,
Or Carmel seen; or those, the pride of Greece,
Tempè or Arcady; or those that grac'd
The banks of clear Elorus, or the skirts
Of thymy Hybla, where Sicilia's isle
Smiles on the azure main; there once was heard
The Muse's lofty lay.—How beautiful,
How various is yon view! delicious hills
Bounding smooth vales, smooth vales by winding streams
Divided, that here glide thro' grassy banks

In open sun, there wander under shade
Of aspen tall, or ancient elm, whose boughs
O'erhang grey castles, and romantic farms,
And humble cots of happy shepherd swains.
Delightful habitations! with the song
Of birds melodious charm'd, and bleat of flocks
From upland pastures heard, and low of kine
Grazing the rushy mead, and mingled sounds
Of falling waters and of whisp'ring winds—
Delightful habitations! o'er the land
Dispers'd around, from Waltham's osier'd isles
To where bleak Nasing's lonely tower o'erlooks
Her verdant fields; from Raydon's pleasant groves
And Hunsdon's bowers on Stort's irriguous marge,
By Rhye's old walls, to Hodsdon's airy street;
From Haly's woodland to the flow'ry meads
Of willow-shaded Stansted, and the slope
Of Amwell's Mount, that crown'd with yellow corn
There from the green flat, softly swelling, shows

Like some bright vernal cloud by Zephyr's breath
Just rais'd above the horizon's azure bound.

As one long travell'd on Italia's plains,
The land of pomp and beauty, still his feet
On his own Albion joys to fix again;
So my pleas'd eye, which o'er the prospect wide
Has wander'd round, and various objects mark'd,
On Amwell rests at last, its favourite scene!
How picturesque the view! where up the side
Of that steep bank, her roofs of russet thatch
Rise mix'd with trees, above whose swelling tops
Ascends the tall church tow'r, and loftier still
The hill's extended ridge. How picturesque!
Where slow beneath that bank the silver stream
Glides by the flowery isle, and willow groves
Wave on its northern verge, with trembling tufts
Of osier intermix'd. How picturesque
The slender group of airy elm, the clump

Of pollard oak, or ash, with ivy brown
Entwin'd; the walnut's gloomy breadth of boughs,
The orchard's ancient fence of rugged pales,
The haystack's dusky cone, the moss-grown shed,
The clay-built barn; the elder-shaded cot,
Whose white-wash'd gable prominent thro' green
Of waving branches shows, perchance inscrib'd
With some past owner's name, or rudely grac'd
With rustic dial, that scarcely serves to mark
Time's ceaseless flight; the wall with mantling vines
O'erspread, the porch with climbing woodbine wreath'd,
And under sheltering eves the sunny bench
Where brown hives range, whose busy tenants fill,
With drowsy hum, the little garden gay,
Whence blooming beans, and spicy herbs, and flowers,
Exhale around a rich perfume! Here rests
The empty wain; there idle lies the plough:
By Summer's hand unharness'd, here the steed,

Short ease enjoying, crops the daisied lawn;
Here bleats the nursling lamb, the heifer there
Waits at the yard-gate lowing. By the road,
Where the neat ale-house stands (so once stood thine,
Deserted Auburn! in immortal song
Consign'd to Fame ), the cottage sire recounts
The praise he earn'd, when cross the field he drew
The straightest furrow, or neatest built the rick,
Or led the reaper band in sultry noons
With unabating strength, or won the prize
At many a crowded wake. Beside her door,
The cottage matron whirls her circling wheel,
And jocund chants her lay. The cottage maid
Feeds from her loaded lap her mingled train
Of clamorous hungry fowls; or o'er the style
Leaning with downcast look, the artless tale
Of evening courtship hears. The sportive troop

Of cottage children on the grassy waste
Mix in rude gambols, or the bounding ball
Circle from hand to hand, or rustic notes
Wake on their pipes of jointed reed: while near
The careful shepherd's frequent-falling strokes
Fix on the fallow lea his hurdled fold.

Such rural life! so calm, it little yields
Of interesting act, to swell the page
Of history or song; yet much the soul
Its sweet simplicity delights, and oft
From noise of busy towns, to fields and groves,
The Muse's sons have fled to find repose.
Fam'd Walton , erst, the ingenious fisher swain,
Oft our fair haunts explor'd; upon Lee's shore,

Beneath some green tree oft his angle laid,
His sport suspending to admire their charms.
He, who in verse his Country's story told ,

Here dwelt awhile; perchance here sketch'd the scene,
Where his fair Argentile, from crowded courts
For pride self-banish'd, in sequester'd shades
Sojourn'd disguis'd, and met the slighted youth
Who long had sought her love—the gentle bard
Sleeps here, by Fame forgotten; (fickle Fame
Too oft forgets her favourites!) By his side
Sleeps gentle Hassal , who with tenderest care

Here watch'd his village charge; in nuptial bonds
Their hands oft join'd; oft heard, and oft reliev'd
Their little wants; oft heard and oft compos'd,
Sole arbiter, their little broils; oft urg'd

Their flight from folly and from vice; and oft
Dropt on their graves the tear, to early worth
Or ancient friendship due. In dangerous days,
When Death's fell Fury, pale-eyed Pestilence,
Glar'd horror round, his duty he discharg'd
Unterrified, unhurt; and here, at length,
Clos'd his calm inoffensive useful life
In venerable age: her life with him
His faithful consort clos'd; on earth's cold breast
Both sunk to rest together.—On the turf,
Whence Time's rude grasp has torn their rustic tombs,
I strew fresh flowers, and make a moment's pause
Of solemn thought; then seek th' adjacent spot,
From which, thro' these broad lindens' verdant arch,
The steeple's Gothic wall and window dim
In perspective appear; then homeward turn
By where the Muse, enamour'd of our shades,
Deigns still her favouring presence; where my friend,

The British Tasso , oft from busy scenes
To rural calm and letter'd ease retires.

As some fond lover leaves his favourite nymph,
Oft looking back, and lingering in her view,
So now reluctant this retreat I leave,
Look after look indulging; on the right,
Up to yon airy battlement's broad top
Half veil'd with trees, that, from th' acclivious steep,
Jut like the pendent gardens, fam'd of old,
Beside Euphrates' bank; then, on the left,
Down to those shaded cots, and bright expanse
Of water softly sliding by: once, where
That bright expanse of water softly slides,
O'erhung with shrubs that fring'd the chalky rock,
A little fount pour'd forth its gurgling rill,
In flinty channel trickling o'er the green,
From Emma nam'd; perhaps some sainted maid,

For holy life rever'd; to such, erewhile,
Fond Superstition many a pleasant grove,
And limpid spring, was wont to consecrate.
Of Emma's story nought Tradition speaks;
Conjecture, who, behind Oblivion's veil,
Along the doubtful past delights to stray,
Boasts now, indeed, that from her well the place
Receiv'd its appellation .—Thou, sweet Vill,
Farewell! and ye, sweet fields, where Plenty's horn
Pours liberal boons, and Health propitious deigns
Her chearing smile! you not the parching air
Of arid sands, you not the vapours chill
Of humid fens, annoy; Favonius' wing,
From off your thyme-banks and your trefoil meads,

Wafts balmy redolence; robust and gay
Your swains industrious issue to their toil,
Till your rich glebe, or in your granaries store
Its generous produce: annual ye resound
The ploughman's song, as he thro' reeking soil
Guides slow his shining share; ye annual hear
The shouts of harvest, and the prattling train
Of chearful gleaners:—and th' alternate strokes
Of loud flails echoing from your loaded barns,
The pallid Morn in dark November wake.
But, happy as ye are, in marks of wealth
And population; not for these, or aught
Beside, wish I, in hyperbolic strains
Of vain applause, to elevate your fame
Above all other scenes; for scenes as fair
Have charm'd my sight, but transient was the view:
You, thro' all seasons, in each varied hour
For observation happiest, oft my steps
Have travers'd o'er; oft Fancy's eye has seen

Gay Spring trip lightly on your lovely lawns,
To wake fresh flowers at morn; and Summer spread
His listless limbs, at noon-tide, on the marge
Of smooth translucent pools, where willows green
Gave shade, and breezes from the wild mint's bloom
Brought odour exquisite; oft Fancy's ear,
Deep in the gloom of evening woods, has heard
The last sad sigh of Autumn, when his throne
To Winter he resign'd; oft Fancy's thought,
In extasy, where from the golden east,
Or dazzling south, or crimson west, the Sun
A different lustre o'er the landscape threw,
Some Paradise has form'd, the blissful seat
Of Innocence and Beauty! while I wish'd
The skill of Claude, or Rubens, or of Him
Whom now on Lavant's banks, in groves that breathe
Enthusiasm sublime, the Sister Nymphs

Inspire ; that, to the idea fair, my hand
Might permanence have lent!—Attachment strong
Springs from delight bestow'd; to me delight
Long ye have given, and I have given you praise!

Thomson, Author of the Seasons, resided part of his life near Richmond.

Dyer, Author of Grongar Hill; The Ruins of Rome; and that excellent neglected poem, The Fleece.

The Clent-hills adjoin to Hagley-park, and are not far distant from the Leasowes.

In the beginning of the Heptarchy, the town of Hertford was accounted one of the principal cities of the East Saxons, where the kings of that province often kept their courts, and a parliamentary council, or national synod, was held, Sept. 24th, 673. Chauncy's Hertfordshire, p. 237.

Towards the latter end of the year 879, the Danes advanced to the borders of Mercia, and erected two forts at Hertford on the Lee, for the security of their ships, which they had brought up that river. Here they were attacked by the Londoners, who were repulsed. But Alfred advancing with his army, and viewing the nature of their situation, turned the course of the stream, so that their vessels were left on dry ground; a circumstance which terrified them to such a degree, that they abandoned their forts, and, flying towards the Severn, were pursued by Alfred as far as Quatbridge. Smollet's Hist. of England, 8vo Edition, vol. i. p. 182.

Sir Richard Fanshaw, translator of Guarini's Pastor Fido, the Lusiad of Camoens, &c. He was son of Sir Henry Fanshaw of Ware-Park, and is said to have resided much there. He was ambassador to Portugal, and afterwards to Spain, and died at Madrid in 1666. His body was brought to England and interred in Ware church, where his monument is still existing. In Cibber's Lives of the Poets, it is erroneously asserted that he was buried in All-Saints church, Hertford.

The words marked with inverted commas are part of a stanza of Fanshaw's.

See Reliquiæ Wottonianæ, where the author makes a particular mention of the garden of Sir Henry Fanshaw at Warepark, “as a delicate and diligent curiosity,” remarkable for the nice arrangement of its flowers.

The New River brought from Chadwell, a spring in the meadows between Hertford and Ware, by Sir Hugh Middleton, a native of Wales.

The ancient name of Lisbon.

A considerable part of the New River water is derived from the Lee, to the disadvantage of the navigation on that stream.

“In the 25th of Henry III. on the 27th of June, Gilbert Marshall, Earl of Pembroke, a potent Peer of the Realm, proclaimed here [at Ware] a disport of running on horseback with lances, which was then called a tournament.”

Chauncy's Hist. of Hertfordshire.

“At this tournament, the said Gilbert was slain by a fall from his horse; Robert de Say, one of his knights, was killed, and several others wounded.”

Smollet's Hist. of England.

This delightful retreat, commonly called Langley-bottom, is situated about half a mile from Ware, and the same distance from Amwell. The scene is adapted to contemplation, and possesses such capabilities of improvement, that the genius of a Shenstone might easily convert it to a second Leasowes. The transition from this solitude to Widbury-Hill, is made in a walk of a few minutes, and the prospect from that hill, in a fine evening, is beautiful beyond description.

See Elegy written at Amwell, 1768, p. 49.

See The Deserted Village, a beautiful poem, by the late Dr. Goldsmith.

Isaac Walton, author of The Complete Angler, an ingenious biographer, and no despicable poet. The scene of his Anglers' Dialogues, is the Vale of Lee, between Tottenham and Ware; it seems to have been a place he much frequented: he particularly mentions Amwell-hill.

William Warner, author of Albion's England, an Historical Poem; an episode of which, intitled Argentile and Curan, has been frequently reprinted, and is much admired by the lovers of old English Poetry. The ingenious Dr. Percy, who has inserted this piece in his Collection, observes that, “though Warner's name is so seldom mentioned, his contemporaries ranked him on a level with Spenser, and called them the Homer and Virgil of their age;” that “Warner was said to have been a Warwickshire man, and to have been educated at Magdalen Hall; that, in the latter part of his life, he was retained in the service of Henry Cary, Lord Hunsdon, to whom he dedicates his poem; but that more of his history is not known.” Mrs. Cooper, in her Muses' Library, after highly applauding his poetry, adds, “What were the circumstances and accidents of his life, we have hardly light enough to conjecture; any more than, by his dedication, it appears he was in the service of the Lord Hunsdon, and acknowledges very gratefully both father and son for his patrons and benefactors.”—By the following extract from the Parish Register of Amwell, it may be reasonably concluded, that Warner resided for some time at that village; and, as his profession of an attorney is particularly mentioned, it is pretty evident, that, whatever dependence he might have on Lord Hunsdon, it could not be in the capacity of a menial servant. Though Warner's merit, as a poet, may have been too highly rated, it was really not inconsiderable; his Argentile and Curan has many beauties; but it has also the faults common to the compositions of his age, especially a most disgusting indelicacy of sentiment and expression.

“Ma. William Warner, a man of good yeares and honest reputation, by his profession an Atturney at the Common Please, Author of Albion's England; dying soddenly in the night in his bedde, without any former complaynt or sicknesse, on Thursday night beeing the 9th of March, was buried the Saturday following, and lieth in the church at the upper end, under the stone of Gwalter Fader.”

Parish Register of Amwell, 1608-9.

Thomas Hassal, vicar of Amwell; he kept the above-mentioned Parish Register with uncommon care and precision, enriching it with many entertaining anecdotes of the parties registered. He performed his duty in the most hazardous circumstances, it appearing that the plague twice raged in the village during his residence there; in 1603 when 26 persons, and in 1625 when 22 persons died of it, and were buried in his church-yard. The character here given of him must be allowed, strictly speaking, to be imaginary; but his composition, in the said register, appeared to me to breathe such a spirit of piety, simplicity, and benevolence, that I almost think myself authorised to assert that it was his real one. He himself is registered by his son Edmund Hassal, as follows:

“Thomas Hassal, Vicar of this parish, where he had continued resident 57 years 7 months and 16 days, in the reigns of Queen Elizabeth, King James, and King Charles, departed this life September 24th, Thursday, and was buried September 26th, Saturday. His body was laid in the chancel of this church, under the priests or marble stone. Ætatis 84. Non erat ante, nec erit post te similis.

Edmund Hassal.” Register of Amwell, 1657.

Elizabeth Hassal, wife of the said Thomas Hassal, died about the same time, aged 78 years 8 months, married 46 years and 4 months.

Mr. Hoole, Translator of Tasso's Jerusalem Delivered.

In Doomsday-book, this village of Amwell is written Emmevelle, perhaps originally Emma's well. When the New River was opened, there was a spring here which was taken into that aqueduct. Chadwell, the other source of that river, evidently received its denomination from the tutelar Saint, St. Chad, who seems to have given name to springs and wells in different parts of England.

Painting and Poetry.

Mr. George Smith of Chichester, a justly celebrated Landscape Painter, and also a Poet. Lavant is the name of the river at Chichester, which city gave birth to the sublime Collins.

AMOEBAEAN ECLOGUES.

ECLOGUE I. RURAL SCENERY;

or, The Describers.

December's frost had bound the fields and streams,
And Noon's bright sun effus'd its chearful beams:
Where woodland, northward, screen'd a pleasant plain,
And on dry fern-banks brouz'd the fleecy train,
Two gentle youths, whom rural scenes could please,
Both skill'd to frame the tuneful rhyme with ease,
Charm'd with the prospect, slowly stray'd along,
Themselves amusing with alternate song.

FIRST.
These pollard oaks their tawny leaves retain,
These hardy hornbeams yet unstripp'd remain;
The wintry groves all else admit the view
Thro' naked stems of many a varied hue.

SECOND.
Yon shrubby slopes a pleasing mixture show;
There the rough elm and smooth white privet grow,
Straight shoots of ash with bark of glossy grey,
Red cornel twigs, and maple's russet spray.

FIRST.
These stony steeps with spreading moss abound,
Grey on the trees, and green upon the ground;
With tangling brambles ivy interweaves,
And bright mezerion spreads its clust'ring leaves.

SECOND.
Old oaken stubs tough saplings there adorn,
There hedge-row plashes yield the knotty thorn;
The swain for different uses these avail,
And form the traveller's staff, the thresher's flail.

FIRST.
Where yon brown hazels pendent catkins bear,
And prickly furze unfolds its blossoms fair,
The vagrant artist oft at ease reclines,
And broom's green shoots in besoms neat combines.

SECOND.
See, down the hill, along the ample glade,
The new-fallen wood in even ranges laid!
There his keen bill the busy workman plies,
And bids in heaps his well-bound faggots rise.

FIRST.
Soon shall kind Spring her flowery gifts bestow,
On sunny banks when silver snowdrops blow,
And tufts of primrose all around are spread,
And purple violets all their fragrance shed.

SECOND.
The woods then white anemonies array,
And lofty sallows their sweet bloom display,
And spicy hyacinths azure bells unfold,
And crowfoot clothes the mead with shining gold.

FIRST.
Then soon gay Summer brings his gaudy train,
His crimson poppies deck the corn-clad plain;
There scabious blue , and purple knapweed rise,
And weld and yarrow show their various dyes.

SECOND.
In shady lanes red foxglove bells appear,
And golden spikes the downy mulleins rear ;
Th' inclosure ditch luxuriant mallows hide,
And branchy succory crowds the pathway side.

FIRST.
Th' autumnal fields few pleasing plants supply,
Save where pale eyebright grows in pastures dry,
Or vervain blue, for magic rites renown'd,
And in the village precincts only found .

SECOND.
Th' autumnal hedges withering leaves embrown,
Save where wild climbers spread their silvery down ,
And rugged blackthorns bend with purple sloes,
And the green skewerwood seeds of scarlet shows .

FIRST.
When healthful sallads crown the board in spring,
And nymphs green parsley from the gardens bring,
Mark well lest hemlock mix its poisonous leaves—
Their semblance oft th' incautious eye deceives.

SECOND.
Warn, O ye Shepherds! warn the youth who play
On hamlet wastes, beside the public way;
There oft rank soils pernicious plants produce,
There nightshade's berry swells with deadly juice.

FIRST.
What varied scenes this pleasant country yields,
Form'd by th' arrangement fair of woods and fields!
On a green hillock, by the shady road,
My dwelling stands—a sweet recluse abode!
And o'er my darken'd casement intertwine
The fragrant briar, the woodbine, and the vine.

SECOND.
How different scenes our different tastes delight!
Some seek the hills, and some the vales invite.
Where o'er the brook's moist margin hazels meet,
Stands my lone home—a pleasant, cool retreat!

100

Gay loosestrife there and pale valerian spring ,
And tuneful reed-birds midst the sedges sing.

FIRST.
Before my door the box-edg'd border lies,
Where flowers of mint and thyme and tansy rise;
Along my wall the yellow stonecrop grows,
And the red houseleek on my brown thatch blows.

SECOND.
Among green osiers winds my stream away,
Where the blue halcyon skims from spray to spray,
Where waves the bulrush as the waters glide,
And yellow flag-flow'rs deck the sunny side.

101

FIRST.
Spread o'er the slope of yon steep western hill,
My fruitful orchard shelters all the vill;
There pear-trees tall their tops aspiring show,
And apple-boughs their branches mix below.

SECOND.
East from my cottage stretch delightful meads,
Where rows of willows rise, and banks of reeds;
There roll clear rivers; there, old elms between,
The mill's white roof and circling wheels are seen.

FIRST.
Palemon's garden hawthorn hedges bound,
With flow'rs of white, or fruit of crimson, crown'd;
There vernal lilacs show their purple bloom,
And sweet syringas all the air perfume;
The fruitful mulberry spreads its umbrage cool,
And the rough quince o'erhangs the little pool.

102

SECOND.
Albino's fence green currants hide from view,
With bunches hung of red or amber hue;
Beside his arbour blows the jasmine fair,
And scarlet beans their gaudy blossoms bear;
The lofty hollyhock there its spike displays,
And the broad sunflow'r shows its golden rays.

FIRST.
Where moss-grown pales a sunny spot inclos'd,
And pinks and lilies all their hues expos'd,
Beneath a porch, with mantling vines enwreath'd,
The morning breeze the charming Sylvia breath'd:
Not pink nor lily with her face could vie,
And, O how soft the languish of her eye!
I saw and lov'd; but lov'd, alas, in vain!
She check'd my passion with severe disdain.

103

SECOND.
When o'er the meads with vernal verdure gay
The village children wont at eve to stray,
I pluck'd fresh flowrets from the grassy ground,
And their green stalks with bending rushes bound;
My wreaths, my nosegays, then my Delia drest,
Crown'd her fair brow, or bloom'd upon her breast.
Young as I was, the pleasing thought was mine,
One day, fond boy, that beauty will be thine!

FIRST.
Beside his gate, beneath the lofty tree,
Old Thyrsis' well-known seat I vacant see;
There, while his prattling offspring round him play'd,
He oft to please them toys of osiers made:
That seat his weight shall never more sustain,
That offspring round him ne'er shall sport again.

104

SECOND.
Yon lone church tow'r that overlooks the hills!—
The sight my soul full oft with sorrow fills:
There Damon lies;—in prime of youth he died!—
A ford unknown, by night he vent'rous tried:
In vain he struggled with the foaming wave;
No friendly arm, alas, was near to save!

FIRST.
Cease, friend! and, homeward as we bend our way,
Remark the beauties of the closing day;
See, tow'rds the west, the redd'ning Sun declines,
And o'er the fields his level lustre shines.

SECOND.
How that bright landscape lures the eye to gaze,
Where with his beams the distant windows blaze!
And the gilt vane, high on the steeple spire,
Glows in the air—a dazzling spot of fire!

105

FIRST.
Behind yon hill he now forsakes our sight,
And yon tall beeches catch his latest light;
The hamlet smokes in amber wreaths arise;
White mist, like water, on the valley lies.

SECOND.
Where yon chalk cliffs th' horizon eastward bound,
And spreading elms the ancient hall surround,
The moon's bright orb arises from the main,
And Night in silence holds her solemn reign.

Mezerion, Laureola Sempervirens: vulg. Spurge-Laurel. This beautiful little evergreen is frequent among our woods and coppices. Its smooth shining leaves are placed on the top of the stems in circular tufts or clusters. Its flowers are small, of a lightgreen, and perfume the air at a distance in an agreeable manner. It blows very early in mild seasons and warm situations. The common deciduous Mezerion, frequently planted in gardens, though very different in appearance, is another species of this genus.

Scabious: Scabiosa Vulgaris.

Knapweed: Jacea Vulgaris.

Weld: Luteola Vulgaris, or Dyers' Weed.—These plants, with many others not inferior in beauty, are frequent on the balks, or ridges, which separate different kinds of corn in our common fields.

The Digitalis, or Foxglove, is a very beautiful plant; there are several varieties of it which are honoured with a place in our gardens. The Mullein is not inferior in beauty, consequently merits equal notice.

It is a vulgar opinion, that Vervain never grows in any place more than a quarter of a mile distant from a house.—Vide Miller's Gardener's Dictionary, article Verbena.

Wild Climbers: Clematis, Viorna, or, Traveller's Joy. The white downy seeds of this plant make a very conspicuous figure on our hedges in autumn.

Skewerwood: Evonymus; or, Spindle-tree. The twigs of this shrub are of a fine green; the capsules, or seed-vessels, of a fine purple; and the seeds of a rich scarlet. In autumn, when the capsules open and shew the seeds, the plant has a most beautiful appearance.

Loosestrife: Lysimachia Lutea Vulgaris. Dr. Hill observes, that it is so beautiful a plant, in its erect stature, regular growth, and elegant flowers, that it is every way worthy to be taken into our gardens. It is frequent in moist places. The flowers are of a bright gold colour.

106

ECLOGUE II. RURAL BUSINESS;

or, The Agriculturists.

May's lib'ral hand her fragrant bloom disclos'd,
And herds and flocks on grassy banks repos'd;
Soft Evening gave to ease the tranquil hour,
And Philomel's wild warblings fill'd the bow'r.
Where near the village rose the elm-crown'd hill,
And white-leav'd aspins trembled o'er the rill,
Three rural Bards, the village youth among,
The pleasing lore of rural business sung.

FIRST.

The care of farms we sing—attend the strain—
What skill, what toil, shall best procure you gain;

107

How different culture different ground requires;
While Wealth rewards whom Industry inspires.

SECOND.

When thy light land on scorching gravel lies,
And to the springing blade support denies;
Fix on the wintry tilth the frequent fold,
And mend with cooling marl or untried mould.

THIRD.

If thy strong loam superfluous wet retain,
Lead thro' thy fields the subterraneous drain,
And o'er the surface mellowing stores expand
Of fiery lime, or incoherent sand.

FIRST.

In vacant corners, on the hamlet waste,
The ample dunghill's steaming heap be plac'd;
There many a month fermenting to remain,
Ere thy slow team disperse it o'er the plain.

108

SECOND.

The prudent farmer all manure provides,
The mire of roads, the mould of hedge-row sides;
For him their mud the stagnant ponds supply;
For him their soil, the stable and the sty.

THIRD.

For this the swain, on Kennet's winding shore,
Digs sulphurous peat along the sable moor;
For this, where Ocean bounds the stormy strand,
They fetch dank sea-weed to the neighb'ring land.

FIRST.

Who barren heaths to tillage means to turn,
Must, ere he plough, the greensward pare and burn;
Where rise the smoking hillocks o'er the field,
The saline ashes useful compost yield.

SECOND.

Where sedge or rushes rise on spongy soils,
Or rampant moss th' impoverish'd herbage spoils,

109

Corrosive soot with liberal hand bestow;
Th' improving pasture soon its use will show.

THIRD.

Hertfordian swains on airy hills explore
The chalk's white vein, a fertilizing store;
This, from deep pits in copious baskets drawn,
Amends alike the arable and lawn.

FIRST.

Who spends too oft in indolence the day,
Soon sees his farm his base neglect betray;
His useless hedge-greens docks and nettles bear,
And the tough cammock clogs his shining share .

SECOND.

Thy weedy fallows let the plough pervade,
Till on the top th' inverted roots are laid;

110

There left to wither in the noon-tide ray,
Or by the spiky harrow clear'd away.

THIRD.

When wheat's green stem the ridge begins to hide,
Let the sharp weedhook's frequent aid be tried,
Lest thy spoil'd crop at harvest thou bemoan,
With twitch and twining bindweed overgrown.

FIRST.

Much will rank melilot thy grain disgrace,
And darnel, fellest of the weedy race:
T' extirpate these might care or cost avail,
T' extirpate these nor care nor cost should fail.

SECOND.

When the foul furrow fetid mayweed fills,
The weary reaper oft complains of ills;
As his keen sickle grides along the lands,
The acrid herbage oft corrodes his hands.

111

THIRD.

Wield oft thy scythe along the grassy layes,
Ere the rude thistle its light down displays;
Else that light down upon the breeze will fly,
And a new store of noxious plants supply.

FIRST.

Would ye from tillage ample gains receive,
With change of crops th' exhausted soil relieve;
Next purple clover let brown wheat be seen,
And bearded barley after turnips green.

SECOND.

Bid here dark peas or tangled vetches spread,
There buckwheat's white flow'r faintly ting'd with red;
Bid here potatoes deep green stems be born,
And yellow cole th' inclosure there adorn.

THIRD.

Here let tall rye or fragrant beans ascend,
Or oats their ample panicles extend;

112

There rest thy glebe, left fallow not in vain,
To feel the summer's sun and winter's rain.

FIRST.

The skill'd in culture oft repay their toil
By choice of plants adapted to their soil;
The spiky saintfoin best on chalk succeeds,
The lucern hates cold clays and moory meads.

SECOND.

Best on loose sands, where brakes and briars once rose,
Its deep-fring'd leaves the yellow carrot shows;
Best on stiff loam rough teasels rear their heads,
And brown coriander's odorous umbel spreads.

THIRD.

On barren mountains, bleak with chilly air,
Forbidding pasturage or the ploughman's care,
Laburnum's boughs a beauteous bloom disclose,
Or spiry pines a gloomy grove compose.

113

FIRST.

On rushy marshes, rank with watry weeds,
Clothe the clear'd soil with groves of waving reeds;
Of them the gard'ner annual fences forms,
To shield his tender plants from vernal storms.

SECOND.

Cantabrian hills the purple saffron show;
Blue fields of flax in Lincoln's fenland blow;
On Kent's rich plains, green hop-grounds scent the gales;
And apple-groves deck Hereford's golden vales .

THIRD.

Shelter'd by woods the weald of Sussex lies;
Her smooth green downs sublime from Ocean rise:
That, fittest soil supplies for growth of grain;
These, yield best pasture for the fleecy train.

114

FIRST.

Say, friends! whoe'er his residence might chuse,
Would these sweet scenes of sylvan shade refuse,
And seek the black waste of the barren wold,
That yields no shelter from the heat or cold?

SECOND.

Dull are slow Ousa's mist-exhaling plains,
Where long rank grass the morning dew retains:
Who pastures there in Autumn's humid reign,
His flock from sickness hopes to save in vain.

THIRD.

The bleak, flat, sedgy shores of Essex shun,
Where fog perpetual veils the winter sun;
Though flattering Fortune there invite thy stay,
Thy health the purchase of her smiles must pay.

FIRST.

When, harvest past, thy ricks of yellow corn
Rise round the yard, and scent the breeze of morn;

115

Rude Winter's rage with timely care to avert,
Let the skill'd thatcher ply his useful art.

SECOND.

When thy ripe walnuts deck the glossy spray,
Ere pilfering rooks purloin them fast away,
Wield thy tough pole, and lash the trees amain,
Till leaves and husks the lawn beneath distain.

THIRD.

When thy green orchards fraught with fruit appear,
Thy lofty ladder 'midst the boughs uprear;
Thy basket's hook upon the branch suspend,
And with the fragrant burden oft descend.

FIRST.

Spread on the grass, or pil'd in heaps, behold
The pearmain's red, the pippin's speckled gold;
There shall the russet's auburn rind be seen,
The redstreak's stripes, and nonpareil's bright green.

116

SECOND.

These on dry straw, in airy chambers, lay,
Where windows clear admit the noon-tide ray;
They, safe from frosts, thy table shall supply,
Fresh to the taste, and pleasing to the eye.

THIRD.

When favouring seasons yield thee store to spare,
The circling mill and cumbrous press prepare;
From copious vats, the well-fermented juice
Will sparkling beverage for thy board produce.

FIRST.

From red to black when bramble-berries change,
And boys for nuts the hazel copses range,
On new-reap'd fields the thick strong stubble mow,
And safe in stacks about thy homestead stow.

117

SECOND.

With purple fruit when elder-branches bend,
And their bright hues the hips and cornels blend,
Ere yet chill hoar frost comes, or sleety rain,
Sow with choice wheat the neatly furrow'd plain.

THIRD.

When clamorous fieldfares seek the frozen mead,
And lurking snipes by gurgling runnels feed;
Then 'midst dry fodder let thy herds be found,
Where sheltering sheds the well-stor'd crib surround.

FIRST.

Though Winter reigns, our labours never fail:
Then all day long we hear the sounding flail;
And oft the beetle's strenuous stroke descends,
That knotty block-wood into billets rends.

118

SECOND.

Then in the barns in motion oft are seen
The rustling corn-fan, and the wiry screen:
In sacks the tasker measures up his grain,
And loads for market on the spacious wain.

THIRD.

Th' inclosure fence then claims our timely care,
The ditch to deepen, and the bank repair;
The well-plash'd hedge with frequent stakes confine,
And o'er its top tough wyths of hazel twine.

FIRST.

Where in the croft the russet hayrick stands,
The dextrous binder twists his sedgy bands,
Across the stack his sharp-edg'd engine guides,
And the hard mass in many a truss divides .

119

SECOND.

When frost thy turnips fixes in the ground,
And hungry flocks for food stand bleating round,
Let sturdy youths their pointed peckers ply,
Till the rais'd roots loose on the surface lie.

THIRD.

When stormy days constrain to quit the field,
The house or barn may useful business yield;
There crooked snaths of flexile sallow make,
Or of tough ash the fork-stale and the rake.

FIRST.

Full many a chance defeats the farmer's pains,
Full many a loss diminishes his gains;
Wet spoils the seed, or frosts its growth o'erpower,
Beasts break the stalk, and birds the grain devour.

120

SECOND.

While plenteous crops reward thy toil and care,
Thy liberal aid may Age and Sickness share!
Nor let the widow'd cottager deplore
Her fireless hearth, her cupboard's scanty store.

THIRD.

The haughty lord, whom lust of gain inspires,
From man and beast excessive toil requires:
The generous master views with pitying eyes
Their lot severe, and food and rest supplies.

FIRST.

Amid Achaia's streamy vales of old,
Of works and days th' Ascrean Pastor told:
Around him, curious, came the rustic throng,
And wondering listen'd to th' informing song.

SECOND.

Where fam'd Anapus' limpid waters stray,
Sicilia's Poet tun'd his Doric lay;

121

While o'er his head the pine's dark foliage hung,
And at his feet the bubbling fountain sprung.

THIRD.

The Latian Maro sung, where Mincio's stream
Through groves of ilex cast a silvery gleam;
While down green vallies stray'd his fleecy flocks,
Or slept in shadow of the mossy rocks.

FIRST.

Fair fame to him, the bard whose song displays
Of rural arts the knowledge and the praise!
Rich as the field with ripen'd harvest white—
A scene of profit mingled with delight!

SECOND.

As dewy cherries to the taste in June,
As shady lanes to travellers at noon,
To me so welcome is the Shepherd's strain;
To kindred spirits never sung in vain!

122

THIRD.

While lindens sweet and spiky chesnuts blow,
While beech bears mast, on oaks while acorns grow;
So long shall last the Shepherd's tuneful rhyme,
And please in every age and every clime!

Cammock: Ononis, or Restharrow. The roots of this troublesome plant are so strong, that it is credibly asserted they will stop a plough drawn by several horses.

Teasel: Dipsacus Sativus. This plant is cultivated, in many places, for the use of the woollen manufacture. There are large fields of it in Essex; where the Coriander is also grown.

There is a part of Herefordshire, from its extraordinary fertility and pleasantness, usually denominated The Golden Vale.

Hay is usually cut with an oblong, triangular instrument, called a Cutting-knife.

Snath, is the technical term for the handle of a scythe.

123

ORIENTAL ECLOGUES.

125

ZERAD;

OR, THE ABSENT LOVER:

AN ARABIAN ECLOGUE.

126

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THE learned and ingenious Mr. Jones, in his elegant and judicious Essay on the Poetry of Eastern Nations, speaking of the Arabians, has the following passage: “It sometimes happens,” says he, “that the young men of one tribe are in love with the damsels of another; and, as the tents are frequently removed on a sudden, the lovers are often separated in the progress of the courtship. Hence, almost all the Arabic poems open in this manner: The author bewails the sudden departure of his mistress, Hinda, Maia, Zeineb, or Azza, and describes her beauty; comparing her to a wanton fawn that plays among the aromatic shrubs. His friends endeavour to comfort him; but he refuses consolation; he declares his resolution of visiting his beloved, though the way to her tribe lie through a dreadful wilderness, or even through a den of lions.”—The Author of the following Eclogue was struck with this outline, and has attempted to fill it up. An apology for expatiating on the pleasing subjects of Love and Beauty, when nothing is said to offend the ear of Chastity, he supposes needless. If any, however, there be, who question the utility of at all describing those subjects; such may remember, that there is an Eastern Poem, generally esteemed sacred, which abounds with the most ardent expressions of the one, and luxuriant pictures of the other.

127

Korasa's Tribe, a frequent-wandering train,
From Zenan's pastures sought Negiran's plain.
With them Semira left her favourite shades,
The loveliest nymph of Yemen's sportive maids!
Her parting hand her fair companions prest;
A transient sorrow touch'd each tender breast;
As some thin cloud across the morning ray
Casts one short moment's gloom, and glides away:
Their cares, their sports, they hasted soon to tend,
And lost in them the memory of their friend.

128

But gallant Zerad ill her absence bore,—
A wealthy Emir from Katara's shore;
A warrior he, the bravest of his race;
A bard high-honoured in his native place;
Age oft learn'd knowledge from his tuneful tongue,
And listening Beauty languish'd while he sung.
What time the tribes in camp contiguous lay,
Oft with the Fair-one he was wont to stray;
There oft for her fresh fruits and flow'rs he sought,
And oft her flocks to chrystal fountains brought.

Where the tall palm-grove grac'd Alzobah's green,
And sable tents in many a rank were seen ;
While Evening's steps the setting Sun pursued,
And the still fields her balmy tears bedew'd;
The pensive Lover, there reclin'd apart,
Indulg'd the sorrows of his anxious heart.

129

His graceful head the costly turban drest;
The crimson sash confin'd his azure vest;
His hand the sounding arabeb sustain'd;
And thus his voice in melody complain'd—
Soft as the night-bird's amorous music flows,
In Zibet's gardens, when she woos the rose :

‘Bright star of Sora's sky, whose matchless blaze
‘Gilds thy proud tribe with mild, benignant rays!
‘Sweet flow'r of Azem's vale, whose matchless bloom
‘O'er thy fam'd house spreads exquisite perfume!
‘Blithe fawn of Kosa, at the break of dawn,
‘Midst groves of cassia, sporting on the lawn!

130

‘Too charming Beauty! why must I bemoan
‘Thee from my presence thus abruptly flown?
‘Ere the shrill trump to march the signal gave,
‘And banners high in air began to wave;
‘Ere the tall camel felt his wonted load,
‘And herds and flocks slow mov'd along the road;
‘Ere slow behind them march'd the warrior train,
‘And the struck tents left vacant all the plain;
‘Could no fond plea obtain a longer stay?
‘Would no kind hand th' intelligence convey?
‘Ah, hapless me! to Aden's port I stray'd,
‘Sought gold and gems, but lost my lovely maid!

‘My friends, they come my sorrows to allay—
‘Azor the wise, and Soliman the gay—
‘One cries, “Let Reason hold her sober reign,
“Nor Love's light trifles give thy bosom pain!
“For thee kind Science all her lore displays,
“And Fame awaits thee with the wreath of praise.”

131

“O why,” cries one, “is she alone thy care?
“She's fair, indeed, but other maids are fair:
“Negima's eyes with dazzling lustre shine,
“And her black tresses curl like Zebid's vine;
“On Hinda's brow Kushemon's lily blows,
“And on her cheek unfolds Nishapor's rose!
“With them, the tale, the song, the dance shall please,
“When Mirth's free banquet fills the bow'r of ease.”
‘Ah cease, said I; of love he little knows,
‘Who with sage counsel hopes to cure its woes!
‘Go, bid in air Yamama's lightnings stay,
‘Or Perath's lion quit his trembling prey:
‘Kind Science' lore with Beauty best we share,
‘And Beauty's hands Fame's fairest wreaths prepare.
‘I praise Negima's lovely hair and eyes;
‘Nor Hinda's lily, nor her rose despise:

132

‘But Omman's pearls diffuse a brighter beam
‘Than the gay pebbles of Kalafa's stream.—

‘O lov'd Semira! whither dost thou rove?
‘Tread thy soft steps by Sada's jasmine grove?
‘Dost thou thy flocks on Ocah's mountain keep?
‘Do Ared's olives whisper o'er thy sleep?—
‘Ah, no!—the maid, perhaps, remote from these,
‘Some hostile troop, in ambush laid, may seize:
‘Too lovely captive! she, in triumph borne,
‘The proud Pacha's throng'd haram shall adorn.
‘Vain fear! around her march her valiant friends;
‘Brave Omar's hand the bow of Ishmael bends;
‘Strong Hassan's arm Kaaba's spear can wield,
‘And rear on high El-makin's ponderous shield!
‘Ah, shame to me! shall Sloth's dishonouring chain
‘From love, from glory, Zerad here detain,

133

‘Till grief my cheek with sickly saffron spread,
‘And my eyes, weeping, match th' Argavan's red ?
‘Haste, bring my steed, supreme in strength and grace,
‘First in the fight, and fleetest in the chace;
‘His sire renown'd on Gebel's hills was bred,
‘His beauteous dam in Derar's pastures fed:
‘Bring my strong lance that, ne'er impell'd in vain,
‘Pierc'd the fierce tyger on Hegasa's plain.
‘Across the Desart I her steps pursue;
‘Toil at my side, and Danger in my view!
‘There Thirst, fell dæmon! haunts the sultry air,
‘And his wild eye-balls roll with horrid glare;

134

‘There deadly Sumiel , striding o'er the land,
‘Sweeps his red wing, and whirls the burning sand;
‘As winds the weary caravan along,
‘The fiery storm involves the hapless throng.
‘I go, I go, nor Toil nor Danger heed;
‘The faithful lover Safety's hand shall lead.
‘The heart that fosters Virtue's generous flames,
‘Our Holy Prophet's sure protection claims.

‘Delightful Irem (midst the lonely waste
‘By Shedad's hand the paradise was plac'd)
‘Each shady tree of varied foliage shows,
‘And every flower and every fruit bestows;

135

‘There drop rich gums of every high perfume;
‘There sing sweet birds of every gaudy plume;
‘There soft-eyed Houries tread th' enamell'd green—
‘Once, and no more, the happy seat was seen;
‘As his stray'd camel midst the wild he sought,
‘Chance to the spot the wandering Esar brought;
‘A blissful Irem, 'midst the Desart drear,
Semira's tent my love-sick sight shall chear.

‘What palm of beauty tow'rs on Keran's hills?
‘What myrrh with fragrance Sala's valley fills?
‘'Tis she, who left so late her favourite shades,
‘The loveliest nymph of Yemen's sportive maids!
‘Look from thy tent, the curtains fair unfold,
‘Give to my view thy veil of silk and gold;
‘O lift that veil! thy radiant eyes display—
‘Those radiant eyes shall light me on my way!
‘On Hejar's wild rocks from the Persian main,
‘Thus the Moon rising lights the wilder'd swain.

136

‘O raise thy voice! the sound shall give delight,
‘Like songs of pilgrims distant heard by night!
‘I come, I come!’—He spoke, and seiz'd the rein,
And his fleet courser spurn'd the sandy plain.

The Arabian Tents are black. Vide Canticles, i. 5.

Arabebbah, an Arabian and Moorish instrument of music. Vide Shaw's Travels, and Russell's History of Aleppo.

Alluding to an Eastern fable of the Nightingale courting the Rose.

D' Herbelot informs us, that Saffron Faces, and Argavan Eyes, are expressions commonly used in the East, to describe passionate lovers, whose melancholy appears in their countenances, and whose eyes become red with weeping. The Argavan is supposed to be the Arbor Judæ; whose blossoms are of a bright purple. Vide Harmer's Commentary on Solomon's Song, page 162.

Sumiel: The fiery blasting wind of the Desart.

“Mahommed, in his Alcoran, in the Chapter of the Morning, mentions a garden, called Irem, which is no less celebrated by the Asiatic poets, than that of the Hesperides by the Greeks. It was planted, as the Commentators say, by a king, named Shedad; and was once seen by an Arabian, who wandered far into the Desart, in search of a lost camel.” Jones's Essay on the Poetry of Eastern Nations.

137

SERIM;

OR, THE ARTIFICIAL FAMINE.

AN EAST-INDIAN ECLOGUE.

‘O Guardian Genius of this sacred wave !
‘O save thy sons, if thine the power to save!’
So Serim spoke, as sad on Ganges' shore
He sat, his country's miseries to deplore—
‘O Guardian Genius of this sacred wave!
‘O save thy sons, if thine the power to save!
‘From Agra's tow'rs to Muxadabat's walls,
‘On thee for aid the suffering Hindoo calls:

140

‘Europe's fell race controul the wide domain,
‘Engross the harvest, and enslave the swain.
‘Why rise these cumbrous piles along thy tide?
‘They hold the plenty to our prayers denied!
‘Guards at their gates perpetual watch maintain,
‘Where Want in anguish craves relief in vain.
“Bring gold, bring gems,” the insatiate plunderers cry;
“Who hoards his wealth by Hunger's rage shall die.”
‘Ye Fiends! ye have ravish'd all our little store;
‘Ye see we perish, yet ye ask for more!
‘Go ye yourselves, and search for gold the mine;
‘Go, dive where pearls beneath the ocean shine!
‘What right have ye to plague our peaceful land?
‘No ships of ours e'er sought your western strand:
‘Ne'er from your fields we snatch'd their crops away,
‘Nor made your daughters or your sons our prey.

141

‘Not ev'n in thought we quit our native place—
‘A calm, contented, inoffensive race!
‘By Avarice led, ye range remotest climes,
‘And every nation execrates your crimes.

‘When Timur's House renown'd, in Delhi reign'd,
‘Distress, assistance unimplor'd obtain'd:
‘When Famine o'er the afflicted region frown'd,
‘And Sickness languish'd on the barren ground,
‘The Imperial granaries wide display'd their doors,
‘And ships provision brought from distant shores;
‘The laden camels crowded Kurah's vales,
‘From Colgon's cliffs they hail'd the coming sails.

142

‘But ye!—even now, while fav'ring seasons smile,
‘And the rich glebe would recompense our toil,
‘Dearth and Disease to you alone we owe;
‘Ye cause the mischief, and enjoy the woe!

‘This beauteous clime, but late, what plenty blest!
‘What days of pleasure, and what nights of rest!
‘From Gola's streets, fam'd mart of fragrant grain!
‘Trade's chearful voice resounded o'er the plain;
‘There now sad Silence listens to the waves
‘That break in murmurs round the rocky caves.
‘Sweet were the songs o'er Jumal's level borne,
‘While busy thousands throng'd to plant the corn;
‘Now tenfold tax the farmer forc'd to yield,
‘Despairs, and leaves unoccupied the field.
‘Sweet were the songs of Burdwan's mulberry grove,
‘While the rich silk the rapid shuttle wove;

143

‘Now from the loom our costly vestments torn,
‘The insulting robbers meanest slaves adorn.
‘In Malda's shades, on Purna's palmy plain,
‘The hapless artists, urg'd to toil in vain,
‘Quit their sad homes, and mourn along the land,
‘A pensive, pallid, self-disabled band !—

‘The year revolves—“Bring choicest fruits and flowers!
‘Spread wide the board in consecrated bowers;

144

“Bring Joy, bring Sport, the song, the dance prepare!
“'Tis Drugah's Feast, and all our friends must share!”
‘The year revolves—nor fruits nor flowers are seen;
‘Nor festive board in bowers of holy green;
‘Nor Joy, nor Sport, nor dance, nor tuneful strain:
‘'Tis Drugah's feast—but Grief and Terror reign.
‘Yet there, ingrate! oft welcome guests ye came,
‘And talk'd of Honour's laws and Friendship's flame.

‘The year revolves—and Bishen's Fast invites
‘On Ganges' marge to pay the solemn rites;

145

‘All, boons of Bishen, great Preserver, crave;
‘All, in the sacred flood, their bodies lave:
‘No more, alas!—the multitude no more
‘Bathe in the tide, or kneel upon the shore;
‘No more from towns and villages they throng,
‘Wide o'er the fields, the public paths along:
‘Sad on our ways, by human foot unworn,
‘Stalks the dim form of Solitude forlorn!—
‘From Ava's mountains Morn's bright eyes survey
‘Fair Ganges' streams in many a winding stray:
‘There fleecy flocks on many an island feed;
‘There herds unnumber'd pasture many a mead;
‘(While noxious herbs our last resource supply,
‘And, dearth escaping, by disease we die)
“Take these,” ye cry, “nor more for food complain;
“Take these, and slay like us, and riot on the slain!”

146

‘Ah no! our Law the crime abhorr'd withstands;
‘We die—but blood shall ne'er pollute our hands.
‘O Guardian Genius of this sacred wave!
‘Save, save thy sons, if thine the power to save!’

So Serim spoke—while by the moon's pale beam,
The frequent corse came floating down the stream .
He sigh'd, and rising turn'd his steps to rove
Where wav'd o'er Nizim's vale the coco-grove;
There, 'midst scorch'd ruins, one lone roof remain'd,
And one forlorn inhabitant contain'd.
The sound of feet he near his threshold heard;
Slow from the ground his languid limbs he rear'd:
‘Come, Tyrant, come! perform a generous part,
‘Lift thy keen steel, and pierce this fainting heart!
‘Com'st thou for gold? my gold, alas, I gave,
‘My darling daughter in distress to save!

147

‘Thy faithless brethren took the shining store,
‘Then from my arms the trembling virgin tore!
‘Three days, three nights, I've languish'd here alone—
‘Three foodless days, three nights to sleep unknown!
‘Come, Tyrant, come! perform a generous part,
‘Lift thy keen steel, and pierce this fainting heart!’

“No hostile steps the haunt of Woe invade,”
Serim replied—and, passing where the glade
A length of prospect down the vale display'd,
Another sight of misery met his view;
Another mournful voice his notice drew!
There, near a temple's recent ruin, stood
A white-rob'd Bramin, by the sacred flood:
His wives, his children, dead beside him lay—
Of Hunger these, and those of Grief the prey!
Thrice he with dust defil'd his aged head;
Thrice o'er the stream his hands uplifted spread:

148

‘Hear, all ye Powers to whom we bend in prayer!
‘Hear, all who rule o'er water, earth, and air!
‘'Tis not for them, tho' lifeless there they lie;
‘'Tis not for me, tho' innocent I die;—
‘My Country's breast the tyger, Avarice, rends,
‘And loud to you her parting groan ascends.
‘Hear, all ye Powers to whom we bend in prayer!
‘Hear, all who rule o'er water, earth, and air!
‘Hear, and avenge!—

‘But hark! what voice, from yonder starry sphere,
‘Slides, like the breeze of Evening, o'er my ear?
‘Lo, Birmah's form! on amber clouds enthron'd;
‘His azure robe with lucid emerald zon'd;

149

‘He looks celestial dignity and grace,
‘And views with pity wretched human race!’

“Forbear, rash man! nor curse thy country's foes;
“Frail man to man forgiveness ever owes.
“When Moisasoor the fell to Earth's fair plain
“Brought his detested offspring, Strife and Pain;
“Revenge with them, relentless Fury, came,
“Her bosom burning with infernal flame!
“Her hair sheds horror, like the comet's blaze;
“Her eyes, all ghastly, blast where'er they gaze;
“Her lifted arm a poison'd crice sustains;
“Her garments drop with blood of kindred veins!
“Who asks her aid, must own her endless reign,
“Feel her keen scourge, and drag her galling chain!”

‘The strains sublime in sweetest music close,
‘And all the tumult of my soul compose.

150

‘Yet you, ye oppressors! uninvok'd on you ,
‘Your steps, the steps of Justice will pursue!
‘Go, spread your white sails on the azure main;
‘Fraught with our spoils, your native land regain;
‘Go, plant the grove, and bid the lake expand,
‘And on green hills the pompous palace stand:
‘Let Luxury's hand adorn the gaudy room,
‘Smooth the soft couch, and shed the rich perfume—
‘There Night's kind calm in vain shall sleep invite,
‘While fancied omens warn, and spectres fright:
‘Sad sounds shall issue from your guilty walls,
‘The widow'd wife's, the sonless mother's calls;
‘And infant Rajahs' bleeding forms shall rise,
‘And lift to you their supplicating eyes:

151

‘Remorse intolerable your hearts will feel,
‘And your own hands plunge deep the avenging steel .
‘(For Europe's cowards Heaven's command disdain,
‘To Death's cold arms they fly for ease in vain.)
‘For us, each painful transmigration o'er,
‘Sweet fields receive us to resign no more;
‘Where Safety's fence for ever round us grows,
‘And Peace, fair flower, with bloom unfading blows;
‘Light's Sun unsetting shines with chearing beam;
‘And Pleasure's River rolls its golden stream!’

Enrapt he spoke—then ceas'd the lofty strain,
And Orel's rocks return'd the sound again.—

152

A British ruffian, near in ambush laid,
Rush'd sudden from the cane-isle's secret shade;
‘Go to thy Gods!’ with rage infernal cried,
And headlong plung'd the hapless Sage into the foaming tide.

THE following account of British conduct and its consequences, in Bengal and the adjacent provinces, some years ago, will afford a sufficient idea of the subject of the following Eclogue. After describing the monopoly of salt, betel-nut, and tobacco, the Historian thus proceeds: “Money, in this current, came but by drops; it could not quench the thirst of those who waited in India to receive it. An expedient, such as it was, remained to quicken its pace.—The natives could live with little salt, but not without food. Some of the agents saw themselves well situated for collecting the rice into stores; they did so. They knew the Gentoos would rather die, than violate the precepts of their religion by eating flesh. The alternative would therefore be, between giving what they had, and dying. The inhabitants sunk; they that cultivated the land, and saw the harvest at the disposal of others, planted in doubt; scarcity ensued; then the monopoly was easier managed. The people took to roots, and food they had been unaccustomed to eat. Sickness ensued. In some districts, the languid Living left the bodies of their numerous Dead unburied.”

—Short History of English Transactions in the East-Indies, p. 145.

The above quotation sufficiently proves, that the general plan of the following Poem is founded on fact. And, even with regard to its particlar incidents, there can be little doubt, but that, among the varied miseries of millions, every picture of distress, which the Author has drawn, had its original.

The Hindoos worship a God or Genius of the Ganges.

Muxadabat, or Morshedabat, a large city of India, about two hundred miles above Calcutta. The name is commonly pronounced with the accent on the last syllable: Muxadabàt. I have taken the liberty to accommodate this, and some few other words, to my verse, by altering the accentuation; a matter, I apprehend, of little consequence to the English reader.

The famous Mahometan tyrant, Auranzebe, during a famine which prevailed in different parts of India, exerted himself to alleviate the distress of his subjects. “He remitted the taxes that were due; he employed those already collected in the purchase of corn, which was distributed among the poorer sort. He even expended immense sums out of the treasury, in conveying grain, by land and water, into the interior provinces, from Bengal, and the countries which lie on the five branches of the Indus.” Dow's Indostan, vol. iii. p. 340.

“Those who now made the things the English most wanted, were pressed on all sides—by their own necessities, their neighbours, and the agents employed to procure the Company's investments, as the goods sent to Europe are called. These importunities were united, and urged so much, so often, and in such ways, as to produce, among the people in the silk business, instances of their cutting off their thumbs, that the want of them might excuse them from following their trade, and the inconveniences to which they were exposed beyond the common lot of their neighbours.” History of English Transactions in the East-Indies.

Drugah; a Hindoo Goddess. “Drugah Poojah is the grand general feast of the Gentoos, usually visited by all Europeans (by invitation), who are treated by the proprietors of the feast with the fruits and flowers in season, and are entertained every evening with bands of fingers and dancers.” Vide Holwell's Indostan, vol. ii.

Bishen, Bistnoo, or Jaggernaut, is one of the principal Hindoo deities. “This fast, dedicated to him, is called the Sinan Jattra, or general washing in the Ganges; and it is almost incredible to think the immense multitude, of every age and sex, that appears on both sides the river, throughout its whole course, at one and the same time.” Vide Mr. Holwell, vol. ii. p. 124. 128.

The Hindoos frequently cast the bodies of their deceased into the Ganges; with the idea, I suppose, of committing them to the disposal of the God or Genius of the River.

Birmah is a principal Deity of the Hindoos, in whose person they worship the divine attribute of Wisdom. From the best accounts we have of India, the intelligent part of the natives do not worship “stocks and stones,” merely as such; but rather the Supreme Existence, in a variety of attributes or manifestations.

Moisasoor: the Hindoo Author of Evil, similar to our Satan.

Crice, an Indian dagger.

The Reader must readily perceive the propriety of this turn of thought, in a Poem designed to have a moral tendency. There is much difference between a person wishing evil to his enemy, and prefaging that evil will be the consequence of that enemy's crimes. The first is an immoral act of the will; the second, a neutral act of the judgment.

The Hindoo religion strongly prohibits suicide. Mr. Holwell gives us the following passage from the Shastah: “Whosoever, of the delinquent Debtah, shall dare to free himself from the mortal form wherewith I shall inclose him; thou, Sieb, shalt plunge him into the Onderah for ever: he shall not again have the benefit of the fifteen Boboons of purgation, probation, and purification.”

153

LI-PO;

OR, THE GOOD GOVERNOR:

A CHINESE ECLOGUE.

154

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THOSE who are conversant in the best accounts of China, particularly Du Halde's History, must have remarked, that the Chinese government, though arbitrary, is well regulated and mild; and that a prince, in that country, can acquire no glory, but by attention to the welfare of his subjects. On this general idea is founded the plan of the following Poem.

155

Where Honan's hills Kiansi's vale inclose,
And Xifa's lake its glassy level shows;
Li-po's fair island lay—delightful scene!—
With swelling slopes, and groves of every green:
On azure rocks his rich pavilion plac'd,
Rear'd its light front with golden columns grac'd;
High o'er the roof a weeping willow hung,
And jasmine boughs the lattice twin'd among;
In porcelain vases crested amaranth grew,
And starry after, crimson, white, and blue;
Lien-hoa flowers upon the water spread;
Bright shells and corals varied lustre shed;

156

From sparry grottos chrystal drops distill'd
On sounding brass, and air with music fill'd;
Soft thro' the bending canes the breezes play'd,
The rustling leaves continual murmur made;
Gay shoals of gold-fish glitter'd in the tide,
And gaudy birds flew sportive by its side.
The distant prospects well the sight might please,
With pointed mountains, and romantic trees:
From craggy cliffs, between the verdant shades,
The silver rills rush'd down in bright cascades;
O'er terrac'd steeps rich cotton harvests wav'd,
And smooth canals the rice-clad valley lav'd;
Long rows of cypress parted all the land,
And tall pagodas crown'd the river's strand!

157

'Twas here, from business and its pomp and pain,
The pensive master sought relief in vain.
Li-po, mild prince, a viceroy's sceptre sway'd,
And ten fair towns his gentle rule obey'd:
The morn's transactions to his memory came,
And some he found to praise, and some to blame;
Mark'd here how justice, pity there prevail'd,
And how from haste or indolence he fail'd.

Beneath a bower of sweet Ka-fa, whose bloom
Fill'd all the adjacent lawn with rich perfume,
His slaves at distance sat—a beauteous train!—
One wak'd the lute, and one the vocal strain:
They saw his brow with care all clouded o'er,
And wish'd to ease the anxiety he bore.
Amusive tales their soothing lay disclos'd,
Of heroes brave to perils strange expos'd;
Of tyrants proud, from power's high summit cast;
And lovers, long desponding, blest at last.

158

They ceas'd; the warblings softly died away,
Like zephyrs ceasing at the close of day.
‘This scene,’ said he, ‘how fair! to please the sight
‘How Nature's charms, Art's ornaments unite!
‘Those maids, what magic in the strains they sung!
‘Song sweetliest flows from Beauty's tuneful tongue.
‘Yet say, did Tien bid power and wealth be mine,
‘For me my soul to pleasure to resign?

‘What boots that annual, on our fathers' tombs,
‘We strew fair flowers, and offer choice perfumes;
‘Our veneration of their memories shew,
‘And not their steps in Virtue's path pursue?
‘When, from his province as the prince returns,
‘Rich feasts for him are spread, and incense burns,
‘And gilded barks unfold their streamers gay,
‘And following crowds their loud applauses pay;
‘Avails all this, if he from right has swerv'd,
‘And Conscience tells him all is undeserv'd?

159

‘Arise, Li-po! 'tis Duty calls, arise!
‘The sun sinks reddening in Tartarian skies.
‘Yon walls that tower o'er Xensi's neighbouring plain,
‘Yon walls unnumber'd miseries contain.
‘Think, why did Tien superior rank impart,
‘Force of the mind, or feelings of the heart.
‘Last night in sleep, to Fancy's sight display'd,
‘Lay lovelier scenes than e'er my eyes survey'd;
‘With purple shone the hills, with gold the vales,
‘And greenest foliage wav'd in gentlest gales:
‘'Midst palmy fields, with sunshine ever bright,
‘A palace rear'd its walls of silvery white;
‘The gates of pearl a shady hall disclos'd,
‘Where old Confucius' rev'rend form repos'd:
‘Loose o'er his limbs the silk's light texture flow'd,
‘His eye serene etherial lustre show'd:
“My son,” said he, as near his seat I drew,
“Cast round this wonderous spot thy dazzled view;

160

“See how, by lucid founts in myrtle bowers,
“The blest inhabitants consume their hours!
“They ne'er to War, fell Fiend! commission gave
“To murder, ravage, banish, and enslave;
“They ne'er bade Grandeur raise her gorgeous pile,
“With tribute ravish'd from the hand of Toil;
“But parents, guardians of the people reign'd,
“The weak defended, and the poor sustain'd.”
‘Smiling he ceas'd—the vision seem'd to fly,
‘Like fleecy clouds dispersing in the sky.

‘Arise, Li-po! and cast thy robes aside,
‘Disguise thy form, thy well-known features hide;
‘Go forth, yon streets, yon crowded streets pervade,
‘Mix with the throng, and mark who seeks thy aid:
‘There Avarice stern, o'er Poverty bears sway,
‘And Age and Sickness fall his easy prey;
‘There hands that Justice' sacred ensigns bear,
‘Protect the plunderer, and the plunder share;

161

‘Perhaps there Discord's desperate rage prevails,
‘And Wisdom's voice to calm the tumult fails;
‘Perhaps Revenge gives victims to the grave,
‘Perhaps they perish, ere I haste to save!’

He spoke, and rose; but now along the way
That from the city-gate fair-winding lay,
Stretch'd thro' green meads where lowing cattle graz'd,
Amid the lake's wide silver level rais'd,
Led up steep rocks by painted bridges join'd,
Or near thin trees that o'er the tide inclin'd,
Slow tow'rds his palace came a suppliant train;—
Whoe'er his presence sought ne'er sought in vain—
The ready vessel, waiting at his call,
Receiv'd, and bore him to the audience-hall.

The Chinese reduce the steep slopes of their hills into little terraces, on which they grow cotton, potatoes, &c. They plant the edges of their terraces with trees, which keep up the ground, and make a very fine appearance.

Their rice-grounds are separated by broad ditches, the sides of which are planted with cypresses. Vide Osbeck's Voyage to China.

163

ODES.

164

[_]

THE Horatian, or lesser Ode, is characterised principally by ease and correctness. The following little Pieces, attempted on that plan, were the production of very different periods, and, on revisal, were thought not undeserving a place in this Collection.

165

ODE I. TO LEISURE.

Gentle Leisure, whom of yore
To Wealth the fair Contentment bore,
When Peace with them her dwelling made,
And Health her kind attendance paid;
As wandering o'er the sunny plains
They fed their herds and fleecy trains:—
O Thou! who country scenes and air
Preferr'st to courts and crowds and care;
With Thee I've often pass'd the day,
To Thee I wake the grateful lay.

With Thee on Chadwell's thymy brow ,
Beneath the hazel's bending bough,

166

I've sat to breathe the fragrance cool
Exhaling from the glassy pool;
Where, thro' th' unsullied chrystal seen,
The bottom show'd its shining green:
As, all-attentive, these I view'd,
And many a pleasing thought pursued,
Whate'er of pleasure they bestow'd,
Still I to Thee that pleasure ow'd!

With Thee, on Mussla's corn-clad height
The landscape oft has charm'd my sight;
Delightful hills, and vales and woods,
And dusty roads, and winding floods;
And towns, that thro' thin groups of shade
Their roofs of varied form display'd:
As, all-attentive, these I view'd,
And many a pleasing thought pursued,
Whate'er of pleasure they bestow'd,
Still I to Thee that pleasure ow'd!

167

With Thee, where Easna's hornbeam-grove
Its foliage o'er me interwove,
Along the lonely path I've stray'd,
By banks in hoary moss array'd;
Where tufts of azure orpine grew,
And branchy fern of brighter hue:
As, all-attentive, these I view'd,
And many a pleasing thought pursued,
Whate'er of pleasure they bestow'd,
Still I to Thee that pleasure ow'd!

With Thee, by Stansted's farms inclos'd,
With aged elms in rows dispos'd;
Or where her chapel's walls appear,
The silver winding river near,
Beneath the broad-leav'd sycamore,
I've linger'd on the shady shore:

168

As, all-attentive, these I view'd,
And many a pleasing thought pursued,
Whate'er of pleasure they bestow'd,
Still I to Thee that pleasure ow'd!

With Thee, where Thames his waters leads
Round Poplar's Isle of verdant meads,
Along the undulating tide,
I've seen the white-sail'd vessels glide;
Or gaz'd on London's lofty towers,
Or Dulwich hills, or Greenwich bowers:
As, all-attentive, these I view'd,
And many a pleasing thought pursued,
Whate'er of pleasure they bestow'd,
Still I to Thee that pleasure ow'd!

O gentle Leisure!—absent long—
I woo thee with this tuneful song:

169

If e'er, allur'd by grateful change,
O'er scenes yet unbeheld I range,
And Albion's east or western shore
For rural solitudes explore:
As, all-attentive, these I view,
And many a pleasing thought pursue,
Whate'er of pleasure they bestow,
To Thee that pleasure I must owe!

Chadwell: The New River Head, near Ware.

Mussla: a hill on the north side of Ware.

Easna: a pleasant wood, east of Ware.

Stansted: a village in the same neighbourhood.

Poplar's Isle; commonly called The Isle of Dogs, opposite Greenwich.

170

ODE II. THE EVENING WALK.

What time fair Spring, with dewy hand,
Awakes her cowslip bloom;
And hawthorn boughs, by breezes fann'd,
Diffuse a rich perfume:

Young Theron down the valley stray'd
At evening's silent hour;
When bright the setting sunbeams play'd
On Hertford's distant tower.

He sigh'd, and cast around his eye
O'er all the pleasing scene;
Now tow'rds the golden-clouded sky,
Now on the fields of green.

171

‘Thrice has fair Spring her cowslip bloom
‘Awak'd with dewy hand;
‘And hawthorn boughs diffus'd perfume,
‘By western breezes fann'd;

‘Since here, at evening's silent hour,
‘Delighted oft I stray'd;
‘While bright on Hertford's distant tower
‘The setting sunbeams play'd:

‘'Twas then the flatterer Hope was near,
‘And sung this soothing strain:
“Where thro' the trees yon tow'rs appear
“Far o'er the level plain;

“There oft thy pleasant evening walk
“Thy favourite Maid shall join,
“And all the charms of tender talk
“And tuneful song be thine:

172

“With thee she'll hear the bleat of flocks,
“The throstle's mellow lay;
“The rills that murmur o'er the rocks,
“The whispers of the spray.”—

‘So sung false Hope—Deceiv'd I heard,
‘And set my heart at ease;
‘The future then so fair appear'd,
‘It made the present please.

‘So sung false Hope—The approaching years,
‘That distant look'd so gay,
‘With clouds of cares and storms of fears
‘All fraught, have pass'd away.

‘As glides yon sun adown the sky,
‘As rolls yon rapid stream;
‘So fast our joys and sorrows fly,
‘And flown appear a dream.

173

‘Be then the events that Time has brought,
‘To me not brought in vain;
‘By painful disappointment taught,
‘Let wisdom be my gain!’

Thus Theron spoke, and earnest eyed
The sun's departing ray;
Again he look'd, again he sigh'd,
And homeward bent his way.

174

ODE III. TO CHILDHOOD.

Childhood! happiest stage of life,
Free from care and free from strife,
Free from Memory's ruthless reign,
Fraught with scenes of former pain;
Free from Fancy's cruel skill,
Fabricating future ill;
Time, when all that meets the view,
All can charm, for all is new;
How thy long-lost hours I mourn,
Never, never, to return!

Then to toss the circling ball,
Caught rebounding from the wall;

175

Then the mimic ship to guide
Down the kennel's dirty tide;
Then the hoop's revolving pace
Thro' the dusty street to chace;
O what joy!—it once was mine,
Childhood, matchless boon of thine!—
How thy long-lost hours I mourn,
Never, never, to return!

176

ODE IV. HEARING MUSIC.

Yon organ! hark!—how soft, how sweet,
The warbling notes in concert meet!
The sound my fancy leads
To climes where Phœbus' brightest beams
Gild jasmine groves and chrystal streams
And lily-mantled meads;

Where myrtle bowers their bloom unfold
Where citrons bend with fruit of gold,
Where grapes depress the vines;
Where, on the bank with roses gay,
Love, Innocence, and Pleasure play,
And Beauty's form reclines.

177

Now different tones and measures flow,
And, gravely deep, and sadly slow,
Involve the mind in gloom;
I seem to join the mournful train,
Attendant round the couch of Pain,
Or leaning o'er the tomb:

To where the orphan'd infant sleeps,
To where the love-lorn damsel weeps,
I pitying seem to stray;
Methinks I watch his cradle near;
Methinks her drooping thoughts I chear,
And wipe her tears away.

Now loud the tuneful thunders roll,
And rouse and elevate the soul
O'er earth and all its care;
I seem to hear from heavenly plains
Angelic choirs responsive strains,
And in their raptures share.

178

ODE V. A LANDSCAPE.

On the eastern hill's steep side
Spreads the rural hamlet wide;
'Cross the vale, where willows rise,
Further still another lies;
And, beneath a steeper hill,
Lies another further still:
Near them many a field and grove—
Scenes where Health and Labour rove!

Northward swelling slopes are seen,
Clad with corn-fields neat and green;
There, thro' grassy plains below,
Broad and smooth the waters flow;
While the town, their banks along,
Bids its clustering houses throng,

179

In the sunshine glittering fair;
Haunts of Business, haunts of Care!

Westward o'er the yellow meads
Wind the rills thro' waving reeds;
From dark elms a shadow falls
On the abbey's whiten'd walls:
Wide the park's green lawns expand;
Thick its tufted lindens stand:
Fair retreat! that well might please
Wealth, and Elegance, and Ease.

Hark! amidst the distant shades
Murmuring drop the deep cascades;
Hark! amidst the rustling trees
Softly sighs the gentle breeze:
And the Eolian harp, reclin'd
Obvious to the stream of wind,
Pours its wildly-warbled strain,
Rising now, now sunk again.

180

How the view detains the sight!
How the sounds the ear delight!—
Sweet the scene! but think not there
Happiness sincere to share:
Reason still regrets the day
Passing rapidly away;
Lessening Life's too little store;
Passing, to return no more!

181

ODE VI. TO A FRIEND,

ON HIS MARRIAGE, AND REMOVAL INTO THE COUNTRY.

[Written at Stanway-Hall, in Essex.]

Whate'er of lighter strain the Muse
Essay'd, in vacant hours of ease,
At thy expence to raise a smile,
I deem thy candour will excuse;
For sure I meant not to displease,
For sure I wish'd thee well the while .

182

And now the nuptial knot is tied,
That Muse no idle flattery brings,
Nor talks of joy unmixt with care—
I trust that none who e'er has tried
The sober state of human things,
Will give thee hope such joy to share.

Domestic Life must soon be thine—
'Tis various as an April day;
'Tis pleasure now, and now 'tis pain:
Thro' storms of foul and gleams of fine
Contented hold thy steady way,
And these enjoy, and those sustain.

From London's streets to solitude,
From brilliant shops to dirty fields,
From beaux and belles to rugged hinds—
The change I own is strange and rude:
Yet scarce a place so little yields,
But he who seeks amusement finds.

183

Perchance thou'lt not disdain to hear
The ploughman's history of the plain;
Thy sight the prospect's scenes may charm:
And sure fastidious is the ear,
That slights the milkmaid's simple strain,
At evening echoing from the farm.

The market lore of artful swains;
The price of cattle and of corn,
The sportsman's feats of dogs and guns;—
To practise that will cost thee pains;
And these with patience must be born,
For he will be dislik'd who shuns.

Courage, my friend! whate'er our fate;
So versatile the human mind,
That oft, when novelty is o'er,
To objects of our former hate
Assimilated and resign'd,
We wonder they displeas'd before.

184

'Twas on the festive, social day,
Where Beauty cast her smiles around,
And Mirth the mind from care reliev'd;
What time our hands in harmless play
Thy brow with wreaths of myrtle bound,
My thoughts this grateful lay conceiv'd.

From Stanway's groves, from fields of Layer ,
To other scenes and other friends
To-morrow calls my steps away;
Yet Memory them in view shall bear;
Yet them the wish of health attends,
And many a moment calm and gay.

The Author alludes to some trifling pieces of humour, written on his Friend, for the amusement of a few intimate acquaintance.

Layer Breton: a village in Essex.

185

ODE VII. WRITTEN IN WINTER.

While in the sky black clouds impend,
And fogs arise, and rains descend,
And one brown prospect opens round
Of leafless trees and furrow'd ground;
Save where unmelted spots of snow
Upon the shaded hill-side show;
While chill winds blow, and torrents roll,
The scene disgusts the sight, depresses all the soul.

Yet worse what polar climates share—
Vast regions, dreary, bleak, and bare!—
There, on an icy mountain's height,
Seen only by the moon's pale light,

186

Stern Winter rears his giant form,
His robe a mist, his voice a storm:
His frown the shivering nations fly,
And hid for half the year in smoky caverns lie.

Yet there the lamp's perpetual blaze
Can pierce the gloom with chearing rays;
Yet there the heroic tale or song
Can urge the lingering hours along;
Yet there their hands with timely care
The kajak and the dart prepare,
On summer seas to work their way,
And wage the watry war, and make the seals their prey.

Too Delicate! reproach no more
The seasons of thy native shore—
There soon shall Spring descend the sky,
With smiling brow and placid eye;

187

A primrose wreath surrounds her hair,
Her green robe floats upon the air;
And, scatter'd from her liberal hand,
Fair blossoms deck the trees, fair flow'rs adorn the land.

Kajak: a Greenland fishing-boat.

188

ODE VIII. TO A FRIEND.

Where Grove-hill shows thy villa fair,
But late, my Lettsom, there with thee
'Twas mine the tranquil hour to share—
The social hour of converse free;
To mark the arrangement of thy ground,
And all the pleasing prospect round,
Where, while we gaz'd, new beauties still were found.

There, as the impending cloud of smoke
Fled various from the varying gale,
Full on the view fresh objects broke
Along the extensive peopled vale,

189

Beside Thamesis' bending stream,
From ancient Lambeth's west extreme,
To Limehouse glittering in the evening beam.

And now and then the glancing eye
Caught glimpse of spots remoter still,
On Hampstead's street-clad slope so high,
Or Harrow's far conspicuous hill;
Or eastward wander'd to explore
All Peckham's pleasant level o'er,
To busy Deptford's vessel-crowded shore:

Or sought that southern landscape's bound,
Those swelling mounts—one smooth and green,
And one with oaken coverts crown'd,
And one where scattering trees are seen .

190

'Twas these, with Summer's radiance bright,
That gave my earliest youth delight,
Of rural scenes the first that met my sight .

That Business, with fatiguing cares,
For this delightful seat of thine
Such scanty store of moments spares,
Say, Friend, shall I for thee repine?—
Were it the commerce of the main,
Or culture of the teeming plain,
From blame or pity I should scarce refrain.

But O! to alleviate human woes,
To banish sickness, banish pain,
To give the sleepless eye repose,
The nerveless arm its strength again;
From parent eyes to dry the tear,
The wife's distressful thought to chear,
And end the husband's and the lover's fear;

191

Where Want sits pining, faint, and ill,
To lend thy kind, unpurchas'd aid,
And hear the exertions of thy skill
With many a grateful blessing paid—
'Tis luxury to the feeling heart,
Beyond what social hours impart,
Or Nature's beauteous scenes, or curious works of Art!

At Camberwell, in Surry.

The Dulwich hills.

The Author was born in the environs of London, on the Surry side.

192

ODE IX. LEAVING BATH,

MDCCLXXVI.

Bath! ere I quit thy pleasing scene,
Thy Beachen cliff I'll climb again,
To view thy mountains vivid green,
To view thy hill-surrounded plain:
To see distinct beneath the eye,
As in a pictur'd prospect nigh,
Those Attic structures shining white,
That form thy sunny crescent's bend,
Or by thy dusty streets extend,
Or near thy winding river's site.

Did Commerce these proud piles upraise?
For thee she ne'er unfurl'd her sails—
Hygeia gave thy fountains praise,
And Pain and Languor sought thy vales:

193

But these suffic'd an humble cell,
If they with Strength and Ease might dwell.
Then Fashion call'd; his potent voice
Proud Wealth with ready step obey'd,
And Pleasure all her arts essay'd,
To fix with thee the fickle choice.

Precarious gift!—Thy mansions gay,
Where Peers and Beauties lead the ball,
Neglected, soon may feel decay;
Forsaken, moulder to their fall.—
Palmyra, once like thee renown'd,
Now lies a ruin on the ground.—
But still thy environs so fair,
Thy waters salutary aid,
Will surely always some persuade
To render thee their care.

194

ODE X. TO J. PAYNE, ESQ.

ACCOUNTANT-GENERAL OF THE BANK OF ENGLAND.

O friend! to Thee, whose liberal mind
Was form'd with taste for joys refin'd,
For all the extended country yields,
Of azure skies and verdant fields;
For all that Genius' hand displays,—
The Painter's forms, the Poet's lays:—
To Thee, restraint to that dull room,
Where sunshine never breaks the gloom;
To Thee, restraint to that dull lore
Of books, with numbers cypher'd o'er—
How hard the lot! I see with pain,
And wish it oft exchang'd in vain.

Yet not for Thee I ask the stores
Which Rapine rends from foreign shores,

195

Nor those Oppression's power procures
From ills that Poverty endures.
Far happier Thou! thy honest gain
Can life with decency sustain;
For Thee, Content, with thought serene,
Surveys the present changeful scene;
And Piety her view sublime
Extends beyond the realm of Time.

196

ODE XI. TO A FRIEND APPREHENSIVE OF DECLINING FRIENDSHIP.

Too much in Man's imperfect state
Mistake produces useless pain.—
Methinks, of Friendship's frequent fate
I hear my Frogley's voice complain.

This heart, I hope, forgives its foes;
I know it ne'er forgets its friends;
Where'er may Chance my steps dispose,
The absent oft my thought attends.

Deem not that Time's oblivious hand
From Memory's page has ras'd the days,
By Lee's green verge we wont to stand,
And on his chrystal current gaze.

197

From Chadwell's cliffs, o'erhung with shade,
From Widbury's prospect-yielding hill,
Sweet look'd the scenes we then survey'd,
While Fancy sought for sweeter still:

Then how did Learning's stores delight!
From books what pleasures then we drew!
For then their charms first met our sight,
And then their faults we little knew.

Alas! Life's Summer swiftly flies,
And few its hours of bright and fair!
Why bid Distrust's chill east-wind rise,
To blast the scanty blooms they bear?

198

ODE XII. TO A FRIEND.

No, Cockfield, no! I'll not disdain
Thy Upton's elm-divided plain;
Nor scorn the varied views it yields,
O'er Bromley's creeks and isles of reeds,
Or Ham's or Plaistow's level meads,
To Woolwich streets, or Charlton fields:
Thy hedge-row paths I'll pleasant call,
And praise the lonely lane that leads
To that old tower upon the wall.

'Twas when Misfortune's stroke severe,
And Melancholy's presence drear,

199

Had made my Amwell's groves displease,
That thine my weary steps receiv'd,
And much the change my mind reliev'd,
And much thy kindness gave me ease;
For o'er the past as thought would stray,
That thought thy voice as oft retriev'd,
To scenes which fair before us lay.

And there, in happier hours, the walk
Has frequent pleas'd with friendly talk;
From theme to theme that wander'd still—
The long detail of where we had been,
And what we had heard, and what we had seen;
And what the Poet's tuneful skill,
And what the Painter's graphic art,
Or Antiquarian's searches keen,
Of calm amusement could impart.

Then oft did Nature's works engage,
And oft we search'd Linnæus' page;

200

The Scanian Sage, whose wond'rous toil
Had class'd the vegetable race:
And curious, oft from place to place,
We rang'd, and sought each different soil,
Each different plant intent to view,
And all the marks minute to trace,
Whence he his nice distinctions drew.

O moments these, not ill employ'd!
O moments, better far enjoy'd
Than those in crowded cities pass'd;
Where oft to Luxury's gaudy reign
Trade lends her feeble aid in vain,
Till Pride, a bankrupt wretch at last,
Bids Fraud his specious wiles essay,
Youth's easy confidence to gain,
Or Industry's poor pittance rend away!

201

ODE XIII.

I hate that drum's discordant sound,
Parading round, and round, and round:
To thoughtless youth it pleasure yields,
And lures from cities and from fields,
To sell their liberty for charms
Of tawdry lace, and glittering arms;
And when Ambition's voice commands,
To march, and fight, and fall, in foreign lands.

I hate that drum's discordant sound,
Parading round, and round, and round:
To me it talks of ravag'd plains,
And burning towns, and ruin'd swains,
And mangled limbs, and dying groans,
And widows tears, and orphans moans;
And all that Misery's hand bestows,
To fill the catalogue of human woes.

202

ODE XIV. WRITTEN AFTER READING SOME MODERN LOVE-VERSES.

Take hence this tuneful Trifler's lays!
I'll hear no more the unmeaning strain
Of Venus' doves, and Cupid's darts,
And killing eyes, and wounded hearts;
All Flattery's round of fulsome praise,
All Falsehood's cant of fabled pain.

Bring me the Muse whose tongue has told
Love's genuine plaintive tender tale;
Bring me the Muse whose sounds of woe
'Midst Death's dread scenes so sweetly flow,
When Friendship's faithful breast lies cold,
When Beauty's blooming cheek is pale:

203

Bring thefe—I like their grief sincere;
It sooths my sympathetic gloom:
For, oh! Love's genuine pains I've borne,
And Death's dread rage has made me mourn;
I've wept o'er Friendship's early bier,
And dropt the tear on Beauty's tomb.

204

ODE XV. THE MUSE;

OR, POETICAL ENTHUSIASM.

The Muse! whate'er the Muse inspires,
My soul the tuneful strain admires:
The Poet's birth, I ask not where,
His place, his name, they're not my care;
Nor Greece nor Rome delights me more
Than Tagus' bank , or Thames's shore :
From silver Avon's flowery side
Tho' Shakespeare's numbers sweetly glide,
As sweet, from Morven's desart hills,
My ear the voice of Ossian fills.

205

The Muse! whate'er the Muse inspires,
My soul the tuneful strain admires:
Nor bigot zeal, nor party rage
Prevail, to make me blame the page;
I scorn not all that Dryden sings
Because he flatters courts and kings;
And from the master lyre of Gray
When pomp of music breaks away,
Not less the sound my notice draws,
For that 'tis heard in Freedom's cause.

The Muse! whate'er the Muse inspires,
My soul the tuneful strain admires:
Where Wealth's bright sun propitious shines,
No added lustre marks the lines;
Where Want extends her chilling shades,
No pleasing flower of Fancy fades;
A scribbling peer's applauded lays
Might claim, but claim in vain, my praise

206

From that poor Youth, whose tales relate
Sad Juga's fears and Bawdin's fate .

The Muse! whate'er the Muse inspires,
My soul the tuneful strain admires:
When Fame her wreath well-earn'd bestows,
My breast no latent envy knows;
My Langhorne's verse I lov'd to hear,
And Beattie's song delights my ear;
And his, whom Athens' Tragic Maid
Now leads through Scarning's lonely glade,
While he for British nymphs bids flow
Her notes of terror and of woe .

The Muse! whate'er the Muse inspires,
My soul the tuneful strain admires:

207

Or be the verse of blank or rhyme,
The theme or humble or sublime;
If Pastoral's hand my journey leads
Thro' harvest fields or new-mown meads;
If Epic's voice sonorous calls
To Œta's cliffs or Salem's walls ;
Enough—the Muse, the Muse inspires!
My soul the tuneful strain admires.

alluding to Camoens, the epic poet of Portugal; of whose Lusiad we have a well known masterly translation by Mr. Mickle.

alluding to Milton, Pope, &c.

See Rowley's Poems, supposed to have been written by Chatterton, an unhappy youth born at Bristol.

See Mr. Potter's excellent Translation of Æschylus and Euripides.

See Mr. Glover's Leonidas, alluded to as an example of Classical dignity and simplicity.

See Tasso's Jerusalem Delivered, alluded to as an example of Gothic fancy and magnificence.

208

ODE XVI. VIEWING THE RUINS OF AN ABBEY

TO A FRIEND.

How steep yon mountains rise around,
How bold yon gloomy woods ascend!
How loud the rushing torrents sound
That 'midst these heaps of ruin bend,
Where one arch'd gateway yet remains,
And one lone aisle its roof retains,
And one tall turret's walls impend!

Here once a self-sequester'd train
Renounc'd life's tempting pomp and glare;
Rejected power, relinquish'd gain,
And shunn'd the great, and shunn'd the fair:

209

The voluntary slaves of toil,
By day they till'd their little soil,
By night they awoke, and rose to prayer.

Tho' Superstition much we blame,
That bade them thus consume their years;
Their motive still our praise must claim,
Their constancy our thought reveres:
And sure their solitary scheme
Must check each passion's wild extreme,
And save them cares, and save them fears.

Their convent's round contain'd their all;
Their minds no sad presage opprest,
What fate might absent wealth befal,
How absent friends might be distrest:
Domestic ills ne'er hurt their ease;
They nought of pain could feel from these,
Who no domestic joys possest.

210

But Imperfection haunts each place:
Would this kind calm atone to thee
For Fame's or Fortune's sprightly chace,
Whose prize in prospect still we see;
Or Hymen's happy moments blest,
With Beauty leaning on thy breast,
Or Childhood prattling at thy knee?

211

ODE XVII. PRIVATEERING.

How Custom steels the human breast
To deeds that Nature's thoughts detest!
How Custom consecrates to fame
What Reason else would give to shame!
Fair Spring supplies the favouring gale,
The Naval Plunderer spreads his sail,
And ploughing wide the watry way,
Explores with anxious eyes his prey.

The man he never saw before,
The man who him no quarrel bore,
He meets, and Avarice prompts the fight;
And Rage enjoys the dreadful sight

212

Of decks with streaming crimson dy'd,
And wretches struggling in the tide,
Or, 'midst th' explosion's horrid glare,
Dispers'd with quivering limbs in air.

The merchant now on foreign shores
His captur'd wealth in vain deplores;
Quits his fair home, O mournful change!
For the dark prison's scanty range;
By Plenty's hand so lately fed,
Depends on casual alms for bread;
And, with a father's anguish torn,
Sees his poor offspring left forlorn.

And yet, such Man's misjudging mind,
For all this injury to his kind,
The prosperous Robber's native plain
Shall bid him welcome home again;
His name the song of every street,
His acts the theme of all we meet,

213

And oft the artist's skill shall place
To public view his pictur'd face!

If glory thus be earn'd, for me
My object glory ne'er shall be;
No, first in Cambria's loneliest dale
Be mine to hear the shepherd's tale!
No, first on Scotia's bleakest hill
Be mine the stubborn soil to till!
Remote from wealth, to dwell alone,
And die, to guilty praise unknown!

214

ODE XVIII. TO HOSPITALITY.

Domestic Power! erewhile rever'd
Where Syria spread her palmy plain,
Where Greece her tuneful Muses heard,
Where Rome beheld her Patriot Train;
Thou to Albion too wert known,
'Midst the moat and moss-grown wall
That girt her Gothic-structur'd hall
With rural trophies strown.

The traveller, doubtful of his way,
Upon the pathless forest wild;
The huntsman, in the heat of day,
And with the tedious chace o'ertoil'd;

215

Wide their view around them cast,
Mark'd the distant rustic tower,
And sought and found the festive bower,
And shar'd the free repast.

E'en now, on Caledonia's shore,
When Eve's dun robe the sky arrays,
Thy punctual hand unfolds the door,
Thy eye the mountain road surveys;
Pleas'd to spy the casual guest,
Pleas'd with food his heart to cheer,
With pipe or song to sooth his ear,
And spread his couch for rest.

Nor yet ev'n here disdain'd thy sway,
Where Grandeur's splendid modern seat
Far o'er the landscape glitters gay;
Or where fair Quiet's lone retreat

216

Hides beneath the hoary hill,
Near the dusky upland shade,
Between the willow's glossy glade,
And by the tinkling rill.

There thine the pleasing interviews
That friends and relatives endear,
When scenes not often seen amuse,
When tales not often told we hear;
There the scholar's liberal mind
Oft instruction gives and gains,
And oft the lover's lore obtains
His fair-one's audience kind.

O gentle Power! where'er thy reign,
May Health and Peace attend thee still;
Nor Folly's presence cause thee pain,
Nor Vice reward thy good with ill:

217

Gratitude thy altar raise,
Wealth to thee her offerings pay,
And Genius wake his tuneful lay
To celebrate thy praise.

218

ODE XIX. THE APOLOGY.

‘Pastoral, and Elegy, and Ode!
‘Who hopes, by these, applause to gain,
‘Believe me, Friend, may hope in vain—
‘These classic things are not the mode;
‘Our taste polite, so much refin'd,
‘Demands a strain of different kind.

‘Go, court the Muse of Chevy Chace,
‘To tell in Sternhold's simple rhymes
‘Some tale of ancient English times;
‘Or try to win rude Satire's grace,
‘That Scold, who dirt around her throws,
‘And many a random stain bestows.

219

‘Or dull trite thoughts in songs combine,
‘And bid the tuneful accents fall,
‘To wake the echoes of Vauxhall;
‘Or tow'rds the Stage thy thoughts incline,
‘And furnish some half-pilfer'd play,
‘To shine the meteor of the day.’

O! no—tho' such the crowd amuse,
And peals of noisy praise procure;
Will they the critic eye endure,
And pass the ordeal of Reviews?
And who is he for whom they'll gain
A nich in Fame's immortal fane?

The plan that Virgil's choice could claim,
The plan that Horace deign'd to chuse,
Trust me, I wish not to refuse:—
To Akenside's or Shenstone's name
The praise that future days shall pay,
Methinks may well content my lay.

220

ODE XX.

This scene how rich from Thames's side,
While evening suns their amber beam
Spread o'er the glassy-surfac'd tide,
And 'midst the masts and cordage gleam;
Blaze on the roofs with turrets crown'd,
And gild green pastures stretch'd around,
And gild the slope of that high ground,
Whose cornfields bright the prospect bound !

The white sails glide along the shore,
Red streamers on the breezes play,
The boatmen ply the dashing oar,
And wide their various freight convey;

221

Some Neptune's hardy thoughtless train,
And some the careful sons of gain,
And some the enamour'd nymph and swain
Listening to music's soothing strain.

But there, while these the sight allure,
Still Fancy wings her flight away,
To woods recluse, and vales obscure,
And streams that solitary stray;
To view the pine-grove on the hill,
The rocks that trickling springs distill,
The meads that quivering aspins fill,
Or alders crowding o'er the rill.

And where the trees unfold their bloom,
And where the banks their floriage bear,
And all effuse a rich perfume
That hovers in the soft calm air;
The hedge-row path to wind along,
To hear the bleating fleecy throng,

222

To hear the skylark's airy song,
And throstle's note so clear and strong.

But say, if there our steps were brought,
Would these their pow'r to please retain?
Say, would not restless, roving thought
Turn back to busy scenes again?
O strange formation of the mind!
Still, tho' the present fair we find,
Still tow'rds the absent thus inclin'd,
Thus fix'd on objects left behind!

Shooter's Hill. This view was taken on the North side of the Thames, at Ratcliff.

223

ODE XXI. WRITTEN AFTER A JOURNEY TO BRISTOL.

Thee, Bristol, oft my thoughts recal,
Thy Kingsdown brow and Brandon hill;
The space, once circled by thy wall,
Which tow'rs and spires of churches fill;
And masts and sails of vessels tall,
With trees and houses intermingled still!

From Clifton's rocks how grand the sight,
When Avon's dark tide rush'd between!
How grand, from Henbury's woody height,
The Severn's wide-spread watry scene,
Her waves with trembling sunshine bright,
And Cambrian hills beyond them rising green!

224

To Mendip's ridge how stretch'd away
My view, while Fancy sought the plain
Where Blagdon's groves secluded lay,
And heard my much-lov'd Poet's strain !
Ah! why so near, nor thither stray
To meet the friend I ne'er shall meet again?

Occasion's call averse to prize,
Irresolute we oft remain—
She soon irrevocably flies,
And then we mourn her flown in vain;
While Pleasure's imag'd forms arise,
Whose fancied loss Regret beholds with pain.

And Bristol! why thy scenes explore,
And why those scenes so soon resign,
And fail to seek the spot that bore
That wonderous tuneful Youth of thine,

225

The Bard , whose boasted ancient store
Rose recent from his own exhaustless mine !

Though Fortune all her gifts denied,
Though Learning made him not her choice,
The Muse still placed him at her side,
And bade him in her smile rejoice—
Description still his pen supplied,
Pathos his thought, and Melody his voice!

Conscious and proud of merit high,
Fame's wreath he boldly claim'd to wear;
But Fame, regardless, pass'd him by,
Unknown, or deem'd unworth her care:
The Sun of Hope forsook his sky;
And all his land look'd dreary, bleak, and bare!

226

Then Poverty, grim spectre, rose,
And horror o'er the prospect threw—
His deep distress too nice to expose;
Too nice for common aid to sue,
A dire alternative he chose,
And rashly from the painful scene withdrew.

Ah! why for Genius' headstrong rage
Did Virtue's hand no curb prepare?
What boots, poor youth! that now thy page
Can boast the publick praise to share,
The learn'd in deep research engage,
And lightly entertain the gentle fair?

Ye, who superfluous wealth command,
O why your kind relief delay'd?
O why not snatch'd his desperate hand?
His foot on Fate's dread brink not stay'd?
What thanks had you your native land
For a new Shakespeare or new Milton paid?

227

For me—Imagination's power
Leads oft insensibly my way,
To where, at midnight's silent hour,
The crescent moon's slow-westering ray
Pours full on Redcliff's lofty tower,
And gilds with yellow light its walls of grey.

'Midst Toil and Commerce slumbering round,
Lull'd by the rising tide's hoarse roar,
There Frome and Avon willow-crown'd,
I view sad-wandering by the shore,
With streaming tears, and notes of mournful sound,
Too late their hapless Bard, untimely lost, deplore.

The late ingenious Dr. John Langhorne, then resident at Blagdon, near Bristol.

Chatterton.

This is at least the Author's opinion, notwithstanding all that has hitherto appeared on the other side of the question. The last line alludes to one of the ingenious Mr. Mason in his Elegy to a young Nobleman:

“See from the depths of his exhaustless mine
“His glittering stores the tuneful spendthrift throws.”

228

ODE XXII. TO CRITICISM.

Fair Nymph! of Taste and Learning born,
Whom Truth's and Candour's gifts adorn,
The Muse's friend! to thee she sings:
Accept the grateful verse she brings.
When Genius, ranging Nature o'er,
Collects his tributary store,
What Matter's tract immense supplies,
Or wide in Mind's vast region lies,
And every thought with skill combines,
And all transmits in tuneful lines;
Then rapture sparkling in thine eye,
Then rais'd thy solemn voice on high;
Thy comment still his work pursues,
The plan explains, the style reviews,
And marks its strength, and marks its ease;
And tells us why and how they please.

229

And when, perhaps, disdaining care,
He blends with faults his products fair;
Whate'er of such thy sight surveys,
Thy tongue in triumph ne'er displays,
But hints, as spots that dim the sun,
Or rocks that future sails should shun.

'Twas Thee whom once Stagyra's grove
Oft with her Sage allur'd to rove;
'Twas Thee to whom in Tadmor's bowers,
Her Statesman vow'd his vacant hours;
'Twas Thee whom, Tibur's vines among,
Her Bard in careless measures sung;
'Twas Thou who thence to Albion's plain
Remov'd, to teach her tuneful train,
When Dryden's age, by thee inspir'd,
Condemn'd the flights his youth admir'd;
And Pope, intent on higher praise,
So polish'd all his pleasing lays:

230

And now, by Thee, our favour'd coast
A Warton, Hurd, and Burke can boast;
And Her, whose pen from Gallic rage
Defended Shakespeare's injur'd page .

Give me, bright Power! with ready ear,
Another's plea for fame to hear,
And bid my willing voice allow
The bays to Merit's modest brow:
And when the Muse her presence deigns,
And prompts my own unstudied strains,
Instruct me them, with view severe,
To inspect, and keep from error clear;
Nor spare, though fancy'd e'er so fine,
One ill-placed thought, or useless line.

Aristotle.

Longinus.

Horace.

The ingenious Mrs. Montague, who has so ably vindicated Shakespeare from the cavils of Voltaire.

231

ODE XXIII. TO DISEASE.

Disease! Man's dread, relentless foe,
Fell source of fear, and pain, and woe!
O say, on what ill-fated coast
They mourn thy tyrant reign the most?
On Java's bogs, or Gambia's sand,
Or Persia's sultry southern strand;
Or Egypt's annual-flooded plain,
Or Rome's neglected, waste domain;
Or where her walls Byzantium rears,
And mosques and turrets crescent-crown'd,
And from his high serail the sultan hears
The wide Propontis' beating waves resound .

232

I'll ask no more—Our clime, tho' fair,
Enough thy tyrant reign must share;
And lovers there, and friends, complain,
By Thee their friends and lovers slain:
And yet our Avarice and our Pride
Combine to spread thy mischiefs wide;
While that the captive wretch confines,
To hunger, cold, and filth resigns,—
And this the funeral pomp attends
To vaults, where mouldering corses lie,—
Amid foul air thy form unseen ascends,
And like a vulture hovers in the sky .

Byzantium: Constantinople; subject to frequent visitations of that dreadful fever, the plague.

Alluding to the too frequent miserable situation of prisoners of war, debtors, &c.; and the absurd custom of burying in churches; circumstances contributing greatly to the propagation of Disease.

233

ODE XXIV. THE TEMPESTUOUS EVENING.

There's grandeur in this sounding storm,
That drives the hurrying clouds along
That on each other seem to throng,
And mix in many a varied form;
While, bursting now and then between,
The Moon's dim misty orb is seen,
And casts faint glimpses on the green.

Beneath the blast the forests bend,
And thick the branchy ruin lies,
And wide the shower of foliage flies;
The lake's black waves in tumult blend,
Revolving o'er and o'er and o'er,
And foaming on the rocky shore,
Whose caverns echo to their roar.

234

The sight sublime enrapts my thought,
And swift along the past it strays,
And much of strange event surveys,
What History's faithful tongue has taught,
Or Fancy form'd, whose plastic skill
The page with fabled change can fill
Of ill to good, or good to ill.

But can my soul the scene enjoy,
That rends another's breast with pain?
O hapless he, who, near the main,
Now sees its billowy rage destroy!
Beholds the foundering bark descend,
Nor knows, but what its fate may end
The moments of his dearest friend!

235

ODE XXV. THE MELANCHOLY EVENING.

O haste, ye hovering clouds, away,
Ye clouds so fleecy, dim, and pale,
Thro' which the Moon's obstructed ray
Sheds this sad whiteness o'er the vale!
Forbear, ye bells, that languid strain!
The sight, the sound, are fraught with pain;
The words of dying friends I hear,
The open grave I linger near,
Take the last look, and drop the parting tear!

Bestow my view dire phantoms rise,
The plagues of hapless human-kind!
Pale Fear, who unpursued still flies,
And starts, and turns, and looks behind;

236

Remorse, whose own indignant aim
Deforms with useless wounds her frame;
Despair, whose tongue no speech will deign,
Whose ghastly brow looks dark disdain,
And bends from steep rocks o'er the foaming main.

And Rage, whose bosom inly burns,
While Reason's call he scorns to hear;
And Jealousy, who ruthless turns
From suppliant Beauty's prayer and tear;
Revenge, whose thoughts tumultuous roll
To seek the poniard or the bowl;
And Phrensy, wildly passing by,
With her chain'd arm and starting eye,
And voice that with loud curses rends the sky!

Ambition, here, to heights of power
His course with daring step pursues,
Tho' Danger's frown against him lour,
Tho' Guilt his path with blood bestrews;

237

There Avarice grasps his useless store,
Tho' Misery's plaints his aid implore,
Tho' he, her ruin'd cottage nigh,
Beholds her famish'd infants lie,
And hears their faint, their last expiring cry!

Ye dreadful band! O spare, O spare!
Alas, your ear no prayers persuade!
But, ah! if Man your reign must bear,
Sure Man had better ne'er been made!
Say, will Religion clear this gloom,
And point to bliss beyond the tomb?
Yes, haply for her chosen train;
The rest, they say, severe decrees ordain
To realms of endless night, and everlasting pain !

The Author does not give these as his own sentiments, but merely such as the gloomy moment described might naturally suggest. That the above dreadful idea is adopted by a large body of Christians, is sufficient to authorise its admission into a Poem professing to paint the dark side of things.

238

ODE XXVI. THE PLEASANT EVENING.

Delightful looks this clear, calm sky,
With Cynthia's silver orb on high;
Delightful looks this smooth green ground,
With shadows cast from cots around:
Quick-twinkling lustre decks the tide;
And chearful radiance gently falls
On that white town, and castle walls,
That crown the spacious river's further side.

And now along the echoing hills
The night-bird's strain melodious trills;
And now the echoing dale along
Soft flows the shepherd's tuneful song:
And now, wide o'er the water borne,
The city's mingled murmur swells,

239

And lively change of distant bells,
And varied warbling of the deep-ton'd horn.

Their influence calms the soften'd soul,
The passions feel their strong controul:
While Fancy's eye, where'er it strays,
A scene of happiness surveys;
Thro' all the various walks of life
No natural ill nor moral sees,
No Famine fell, nor dire Disease,
Nor War's infernal unrelenting strife.

For these, behold a heavenly band
Their white wings waving o'er the land!
Sweet Innocence, a cherub fair;
And Peace and Joy, a sister pair:
And Kindness mild, their kindred Grace,
Whose brow serene complacence wears,
Whose hand her liberal bounty bears
O'er the vast range of animated space!

240

Blest vision! O for ever stay!
O far be Guilt and Pain away!
And yet, perhaps, with Him, whose view
Looks at one glance creation through,
To general good our partial ill
Seems but a sand upon the plain,
Seems but a drop amid the main,
And some wise unknown purpose may fulfil.

241

ODE XXVII. AFTER READING AKENSIDE'S POEMS.

To Fancy's view what visions rise,
Remote amid yon azure skies!

What Goddess-form descends in air?
The Grecian Muse, severely fair!
What Sage is he, to whom she deigns
Her lyre of elevated strains?
The Bard of Tyne—his master hand
Awakes new music o'er the land;
And much his voice of right and wrong
Attempts to teach the unheeding throng.

What mean those chrystal rocks serene,
Those laureate groves for ever green,

242

Those Parian domes?—Sublime retreats,
Of Freedom's sons the happy seats!—
There dwell the Few who dared disdain
The lust of power and lust of gain;
The Patriot names of old renown'd,
And those in later ages found;
The Athenian, Spartan, Roman boast,
The pride of Britain's sea-girt coast!

But, oh! what darkness intervenes!
But, oh! beneath, what different scenes!
What Matron she, to grief resign'd,
Beside that ruin'd arch reclin'd?
Her sons, who once so well could wield
The warrior-spear, the warrior-shield,
A turban'd Ruffian's scourge constrains
To toil on desolated plains!—

And She who leans that column nigh,
Where trampled arms and eagles lie;

243

Whose veil essays her blush to hide,
Who checks the tear that hastes to glide?
A mitred Priest's oppressive sway
She sees her drooping race obey:
Their vines unprun'd, their fields untill'd,
Their streets with want and misery fill'd.

And who is She, the Martial Maid
Along that cliff so careless laid,
Whose brow such laugh unmeaning wears,
Whose eye such insolence declares,
Whose tongue descants, with scorn so vain,
On slaves of Ebro or of Seine?
What griesly Churl , what Harlot bold ,
Behind her, chains enormous hold?
Tho' Virtue's warning voice be near,
Alas, she will not, will not hear!
And now she sinks in sleep profound,
And now they bind her to the ground.

244

O what is He, his ghastly form,
So half obscur'd in cloud and storm,
Swift striding on ?—beneath his strides
Proud Empire's firmest base subsides;
Behind him dreary wastes remain,
Oblivion's dark chaotic reign!

Avarice.

Luxury.

Ruin.

245

THE MEXICAN PROPHECY:

AN ODE.

246

[_]

DE SOLIS, in his History of the Conquest of Mexico, informs us, that, on the approach of Cortez to the neighbourhood of that city, the Emperor Motezuma sent a number of magicians to attempt the destruction of the Spanish army. As the sorcerers were practising their incantations, a dæmon appeared to them in the form of their idol Tlcatlepuca, and foretold the fall of the Mexican empire. On this legend is founded the following Poem. The conquest of Mexico was undertaken from motives of avarice, and accompanied with circumstances of cruelty; but it produced the subversion of a tyrannical government, and the abolition of a detestable religion of horrid rites and human sacrifices.

247

From Cholula's hostile plain ,
Left her treacherous legions slain,
Left her temples all in flame,
Cortes' conquering army came:
High on Chalco's stormy steep
Shone their phalanx broad and deep;
High the Hispanian banner rais'd,
Bore the Cross in gold emblaz'd .
Thick the gleaming spears appear'd,
Loud the neighing steeds were heard;
Flash'd the musquets lightnings round,
Roll'd their thunders o'er the ground,

248

Echo'd from a thousand caves,
Down to Tenustitan's waves ;—
Spacious lake, that far below
Bade its lucid level flow:
There the ever-sunny shore
Groves of palm and coco bore;
Maize-fields rich, savannas green,
Stretch'd around, with towns between.
Tacubà, Tezeùco fair,
Rear'd their shining roofs in air;
Mexico's imperial pride
Glitter'd 'midst the glassy tide,
Bright with gold, with silver bright,
Dazzling, charming all the sight .
From their post the war-worn band
Raptur'd view'd the happy land:

249

‘Haste to victory, haste to ease,
‘Mark the spot that gives us these!’

On the exulting heroes strode,
Shunn'd the smooth insidious road,
Shunn'd the rock's impending shade,
Shunn'd the expecting ambuscade .

Deep within a gloomy wood
Motezume's magicians stood:
Tlcàtlepùca's horrid form,
God of famine, plague, and storm,
High on magic stones they rais'd;
Magic fires before him blaz'd;
Round the lurid flames they drew,
Flames whence steams of sulphur flew;

250

There, while bleeding victims smok'd,
Thus his aid they loud invok'd:

‘Minister supreme of ill,
‘Prompt to punish, prompt to kill,
‘Motezuma asks thy aid!
‘Foreign foes his realms invade;
‘Vengeance on the strangers shed,
‘Mix them instant with the dead!
‘By thy temple's sable floor,
‘By thy altar stain'd with gore,
‘Stain'd with gore and strew'd with bones,
‘Echoing shrieks, and echoing groans!
‘Vengeance on the strangers shed,
‘Mix them instant with the dead!’

Ordaz heard, Velasquez heard—
Swift their fauchions' blaze appear'd;
Alvarado rushing near,
Furious rais'd his glittering spear;

251

Calm, Olmedo mark'd the scene ,
Calm he mark'd, and stepp'd between:
‘Vain their rites and vain their prayer,
‘Weak attempts beneath your care;
‘Warriors! let the wretches live!
‘Christians! pity, and forgive!’
Sudden darkness o'er them spread,
Glow'd the woods with dusky red;
Vast the Idol's stature grew,
Look'd his face of ghastly hue,
Frowning rage, and frowning hate,
Angry at his nation's fate;
Fierce his fiery eyes he roll'd,
Thus his tongue the future told;
Cortes' veterans paus'd to hear;
Wondering all, tho' void of fear:

‘Mourn, devoted city, mourn!
‘Mourn, devoted city, mourn!

252

‘Doom'd for all thy crimes to know
‘Scenes of battle, scenes of woe!
‘Who is he—O spare the sight!—
‘Rob'd in gold, with jewels bright?
‘Hark! he deigns the crowd to call;
‘Chiefs and warriors prostrate fall .
‘Reverence now to fury yields;
‘Strangers o'er him spread your shields!
‘Thick the darts, the arrows, fly;
‘Hapless Monarch! he must die!
‘Mark the solemn funeral state
‘Passing thro' the western gate!
‘Chàpultèqua's cave contains
‘Mighty Motezume's remains.

‘Cease the strife! alas, 'tis vain!
‘Myriads throng Otumba's plain;

253

‘Wide their feathery crests they wave,
‘All the strong and all the brave .
‘Gleaming glory thro' the skies,
‘See the Imperial standard flies!
‘Down by force resistless torn;
‘Off in haughty triumph borne.
‘Slaughter heaps the vale with dead,
‘Fugitives the mountains spread.

‘Mexico, 'tis thine to know
‘More of battle, more of woe!—
‘Bright in arms the stranger train
‘O'er thy causeways move again.
‘Bend the bow, the shaft prepare,
‘Join the breastplate's folds with care;

254

‘Raise the sacrificial fire,
‘Bid the captive youths expire ;
‘Wake the sacred trumpet's breath,
‘Pouring anguish, pouring death ;
‘Troops from every street repair,
‘Close them in the fatal snare;
‘Valiant as they are, they fly,
‘Here they yield, and there they die.

‘Cease the strife! 'tis fruitless all,
‘Mexico at last must fall!
‘Lo! the dauntless band return,
‘Furious for the fight they burn!
‘Lo! auxiliar nations round,
‘Crowding o'er the darken'd ground!

255

‘Corses fill thy trenches deep;
‘Down thy temple's lofty steep
‘See thy priests, thy princes thrown—
‘Hark! I hear their parting groan!
‘Blood thy Lake with crimson dyes,
‘Flames from all thy domes arise!

‘What are those that round thy shore
‘Launch thy troubled waters o'er?
‘Swift canoes that from the fight
‘Aid their vanquish'd monarch's flight;
‘Ambush'd in the reedy shade,
‘Them the stranger barks invade;
‘Soon thy lord a captive bends,
‘Soon thy far-fam'd empire ends ;
‘Otomèca shares thy spoils,
‘Tlàscalà in triumph smiles .

256

‘Mourn, devoted city, mourn!
‘Mourn, devoted city, mourn!

‘Cease your boast, O stranger band,
‘Conquerors of my fallen land!
‘Avarice strides your van before,
‘Phantom meagre, pale, and hoar!
‘Discord follows, breathing flame,
‘Still opposing claim to claim ;
‘Kindred Dæmons haste along!
‘Haste, avenge my country's wrong!’

Ceas'd the voice with dreadful sounds,
Loud as tides that burst their bounds;
Roll'd the form in smoke away,
Amaz'd on earth th' exorcists lay;
Pondering on the dreadful lore,
Their course the Iberians downward bore;
Their helmets glittering o'er the vale,
And wide their ensigns fluttering in the gale.

Cholula was a large city, not far distant from Mexico. The inhabitants were in league with the Mexicans; and after professing friendship for the Spaniards, endeavoured to surprise and destroy them.

The device on Cortes's standard was the Sign of the Cross. —Vide De Solis.

Tenustitan, otherwise Tenuchtitlan, the ancient name of the Lake of Mexico.

The Spanish historians assert, that the walls and houses of the Indian cities were composed of a peculiar kind of glittering stone or plaster, which at a distance resembled silver.

The Indians had blocked up the usual road to Mexico, and opened another broader, and smooth at the entrance, but which led among rocks and precipices, where they had placed parties in ambush. Cortes discovered the stratagem, and ordered his troops to remove the obstructions. Being asked by the Mexican ambassadors the reason of this procedure, he replied, that the Spaniards always chose to encounter difficulties.

Bartholeme de Olmedo, chaplain to Cortes: he seems to have been a man of enlarged ideas, much prudence, moderation, and humanity.

Motezuma, who was resident in the Spanish quarters when they were attacked by the Mexicans, proposed shewing himself to the people, in order to appease the tumult. At his first appearance, he was regarded with veneration, which was soon exchanged for rage, to the effects whereof he fell a victim.

Cortes, in his retreat from Mexico, after the death of Motezuma, was followed and surrounded by the whole collective force of the empire, in the plains of Otumba. After repelling the attacks of his enemies, on every side, with indefatigable valour, he found himself overpowered by numbers; when, making one desperate effort, with a few select friends, he seized the imperial standard, killed the general, and routed the army.

De Solis relates, that the Mexicans sacrificed to their idols a number of Spaniards, whom they had taken prisoners, and whose cries and groans were distinctly heard in the Spanish camp, exciting sentiments of horror and revenge in their surviving companions.

The above author observes, that the Sacred Trumpet of the Mexicans was so called, because it was not permitted to any but the priests to sound it; and that only when they denounced war, and animated the people on the part of their gods.

When the Spaniards had forced their way to the centre of Mexico, Guatimozin, the reigning emperor, endeavoured to escape in his canoes across the Lake; but was pursued and taken prisoner by Garcia de Holguin, captain of one of the Spanish brigantines.

The Otomies were a fierce, savage nation, never thoroughly subdued by the Mexicans. Tlascala was a powerful neighbouring republic, the rival of Mexico.

Alluding to the dissensions which ensued among the Spaniards, after the conquest of America.

257

EPISTLES.

259

EPISTLE I. THE GARDEN.

TO A FRIEND.

From Whitby's rocks steep rising o'er the main,
From Eska's vales, or Ewecot's lonely plain,
Say, rove thy thoughts to Amwell's distant bow'rs,
To mark how pass thy Friend's sequester'd hours?

‘Perhaps, 'think'st thou, ‘he seeks his pleasing scenes
‘Of winding walks, smooth lawns, and shady greens:
‘Where China's willow hangs its foliage fair,
‘And Po's tall poplar waves its top in air,

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‘And the dark maple spreads its umbrage wide,
‘And the white bench adorns the bason side;
‘At morn reclin'd, perhaps, he sits to view
‘The bank's neat slope, the water's silver hue.

‘Where, 'midst thick oaks, the subterraneous way
‘To the arch'd grot admits a feeble ray;
‘Where glossy pebbles pave the varied floors,
‘And rough flint-walls are deck'd with shells and ores,
‘And silvery pearls, spread o'er the roofs on high,
‘Glimmer like faint stars in a twilight sky;
‘From noon's fierce glare, perhaps, he pleas'd retires,
‘Indulging musings which the place inspires.

‘Now where the airy octagon ascends,
‘And wide the prospect o'er the vale extends,
‘'Midst evening's calm, intent perhaps he stands,
‘And looks o'er all that length of sun-gilt lands,
‘Of bright green pastures, stretch'd by rivers clear,
‘And willow groves, or osier islands near.’

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Alas, my friend, how strangely men mistake,
Who guess what others most their pleasure make!
These garden scenes, which Fashion o'er our plains
Spreads round the villas of our wealthy swains,
Tho' Envy grudge, or Friendship wish to share,
They claim but little of their owners' care.

For me, my groves not oft my steps invite,
And far less oft they fail to offend my sight:
In vain the senna waves its glossy gold,
In vain the cistus' spotted flowers unfold,
In vain the acacia's snowy bloom depends,
In vain the sumach's scarlet spike ascends,
In vain the woodbine's spicy tufts disclose,
And green slopes redden with the shedding rose:
These neat-shorn hawthorns useless verdant bound,
This long straight walk, that pool's unmeaning round,
These short-curv'd paths that twist beneath the trees,
Disgust the eye, and make the whole displease.

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‘No scene like this,’ I say, ‘did Nature raise,
‘Brown's fancy form, or Walpole's judgment praise;
‘No prototype for this did I survey
‘In Woollett's landscapes , or in Mason's lay.’

But might thy genius, Friend, an Eden frame,
Profuse of beauty, and secure from blame;
Where round the lawn might wind the varied way,
Now lost in gloom, and now with prospect gay;
Now screen'd with clumps of green, for wintry bow'rs;
Now edg'd with sunny banks, for summer flow'rs;
Now led by chrystal lakes with lilies drest,
Or where light temples court the step to rest—
Time's gradual change, or Tempest's sudden rage,
There with thy peace perpetual war would wage.

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That tyrant oak, whose arms so far o'ergrow,
Shades some poor shrub that pines with drought below;
These rampant elms, those hazels branching wide,
Crowd the broad pine, the spiry larix hide.
That lilac brow, where May's unsparing hand
Bade one vast swell of purple bloom expand,
Soon past its prime, shews signs of quick decay,
The naked stem, and scanty-cover'd spray.
Fierce Boreas calls, and Ruin waits his call;
Thy fair catalpa's broken branches fall;
Thy soft magnolia mourns her blasted green,
And blighted laurel's yellowing leaves are seen.

But Discontent alone, thou'lt say, complains
For ill success, where none perfection gains:
True is the charge; but from that tyrant's sway
What art, what power, can e'er redeem our day?
To me, indeed, short ease he sometimes yields,
When my lone walk surrounds the rural fields;

264

There no past errors of my own upbraid,
No time, no wealth, expended unrepaid:
There Nature dwells, and throws profuse around
Each pastoral sight and every pastoral sound;
From Spring's green copse, that pours the cuckoo's strain,
And evening bleatings of the fleecy train,
To Autumn's yellow field, and clamorous horn
That wakes the slumbering harvesters at morn.
There Fancy too, with fond delighted eyes,
Sees o'er the scene ideal people rise;
There calm Contentment, in his cot reclin'd,
Hears the grey poplars whisper in the wind;

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There Love's sweet song adown the echoing dale
To Beauty's ear conveys the tender tale;
And there Devotion lifts his brow to Heaven,
With grateful thanks for many a blessing given.

Thus oft thro' Maylan's shady lane I stray,
Trace Rushgreen's paths, or Postwood's winding way;
Thus oft to Eastfield's airy height I haste;
(All well-known spots thy feet have frequent trac'd!)
While Memory, as my sight around I cast,
Suggests the pleasing thought of moments past;
Or Hope, amid the future, forms again
The dream of bliss Experience broke in vain.

See Mr. Walpole's ingenious History of the Modern Taste in Gardening, at the end of the Fourth Volume of his Anecdotes of Painting.

The above-named excellent Artist, several years ago, drew and engraved a number of beautiful views in some of our most celebrated modern gardens.

There is a custom, frequent in many parts of England, of calling the harvest-men to and from work by the sound of a horn. This practice, as well as that of the Harvest-Shouting, seems much on the decline. The latter could boast its origin from high antiquity, as appears from that beautiful stroke of Eastern Poetry, Isaiah, chap. xvi: “I will water thee with my tears, O Heshbon and Elealeh; for the shouting for thy summer fruits, and for thy harvest, is fallen!”

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EPISTLE II. WINTER AMUSEMENTS IN THE COUNTRY.

TO A FRIEND IN LONDON.

While Thee, my Friend, the City's scenes detain,—
The chearful scenes where Trade and Pleasure reign;
Where glittering shops their varied stores display,
And passing thousands crowd the public way;
Where Painting's forms and Music's sounds delight,
And Fashion's frequent novelties invite,
And Conversation's sober social hours
Engage the mind, and elevate its powers—
Far different scenes for us the country yields,
Deserted roads and unfrequented fields:
Yet deem not, lonely as they are, that these
Boast nought to charm the eye, the ear to please.

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Tho' here the Tyrant Winter holds command,
And bids rude tempests desolate the land;
Sometimes the Sun extends his chearing beam,
And all the landscape casts a golden gleam:
Clear is the sky, and calm and soft the air,
And thro' thin mist each object looks more fair.

Then, where the villa rears its sheltering grove,
Along the southern lawn 'tis sweet to rove:
There dark green pines, behind, their boughs extend,
And bright spruce firs like pyramids ascend,
And round their tops, in many a pendent row,
Their scaly cones of shining auburn show;
There the broad cedar's level branches spread,
And the tall cypress lifts its spiry head;
With alaternus ilex interweaves,
And laurels mix their glossy oval leaves;
And gilded holly crimson fruit displays,
And white viburnum o'er the border strays.

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Where these from storms the spacious greenhouse screen,
Ev'n now the eye beholds a flow'ry scene;
There chrystal sashes ward the injurious cold,
And rows of benches fair exotics hold;
Rich plants, that Afric's sunny cape supplies,
Or o'er the isles of either India rise.

While strip'd geranium shows its tufts of red,
And verdant myrtles grateful fragrance shed;
A moment stay to mark the vivid bloom,
A moment stay to catch the high perfume,
And then to rural scenes—Yon path, that leads
Down the steep bourn and 'cross the level meads,
Soon mounts the opponent hill, and soon conveys
To where the farm its pleasing group displays:
The rustic mansion's form, antiquely fair;
The yew-hedg'd garden, with its grass-plat square;
The barn's long ridge, and doors expanded wide;
The stable's straw-clad eves and clay-built side;

269

The cartshed's roof, of rough-hewn roundwood made,
And loose on heads of old sere pollards laid;
The granary's floor that smooth-wrought posts sustain,
Where hungry vermin strive to climb in vain;
And many an ash that wild around them grows,
And many an elm that shelter o'er them throws.

Then round the moat we turn, with pales inclos'd,
And 'midst the orchard's trees in rows dispos'd,
Whose boughs thick tufts of misletoe adorn
With fruit of lucid white on joints of yellow borne.

Thence up the lane, romantic woods among,
Beneath old oaks with ivy overhung
(O'er their rough trunks the hairy stalks intwine,
And on their arms the sable berries shine):
Here oft the sight, on banks bestrewn with leaves,
The early primrose' opening bud perceives;
And oft steep dells or ragged cliffs unfold
The prickly furze with bloom of brightest gold;
Here oft the red-breast hops along the way,
And 'midst grey moss explores his insect prey;

270

Or the green woodspite flies with outcry shrill,
And delves the sere bough with his sounding bill;
Or the rous'd hare starts rustling from the brake,
And gaudy jays incessant clamour make;
Or echoing hills return from stubbles nigh
The sportsman's gun, and spaniel's yelping cry.

And now the covert ends in open ground,
That spreads wide views beneath us all around;
There turbid waters, edg'd with yellow reeds,
Roll thro' the russet herd-forsaken meads;
There from the meads th' inclosures sloping rise,
And, 'midst th' inclosures, dusky woodland lies;
While pointed spires and curling smokes, between,
Mark towns and vills and cottages unseen.
And now,—for now the breeze and noontide ray
Clear the last remnants of the mist away,—
Far, far o'er all extends the aching eye,
Where azure mountains mingle with the sky:

271

To these the curious optic tube applied
Reveals each object distance else would hide;
There seats or homesteads, plac'd in pleasant shades,
Show their white walls and windows thro' the glades;
There rears the hamlet church its hoary tow'r
(The clock's bright index points the passing hour);
There green-rob'd huntsmen o'er the sunny lawn
Lead home their beagles from the chace withdrawn,
And ploughs slow-moving turn the broad champaign,
And on steep summits feed the fleecy train.

But wintry months few days like these supply,
And their few moments far too swiftly fly:
Dank thaws, chill fogs, rough winds, and beating rain,
To sheltering rooms th' unwilling step detain;
Yet there, my Friend, shall liberal Science find
Amusement various for th' inquiring mind.

While History's hand her sanguine record brings,
With woes of nations fraught, and crimes of kings;

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Plague thins the street, and Famine blasts the plain,
War wields his sword, Oppression binds his chain;
Curiosity pursues the unfolding tale,
Which Reason blames, and Pity's tears bewail.

While Fancy's powers the eventful novel frame,
And Virtue's care directs its constant aim;
As Fiction's pen domestic life portrays,
Its hopes and fears and joys and griefs displays;
By Grandison's or Clinton's story mov'd,
We read delighted, and we rise improv'd.

Then with bold Voyagers our thought explores
Vast tracts of ocean and untrodden shores;
Now views rude climes, where ice-rocks drear aspire,
Or red volcanos shoot their streams of fire:
Now seeks sweet isles, where lofty palm-groves wave,
And cany banks translucent rivers lave;
Where Plenty's gifts luxuriant load the soil,
And Ease reposes, charm'd with Beauty's smile.

273

Such, hapless Cook ! amid the southern main,
Rose thy Ta-heitè's peaks and flowery plain;—
Why, daring Wanderer! quit that blissful land,
To seek new dangers on a barbarous strand?
Why doom'd, so long escap'd from storms and foes,
Upon that strand thy dying eyes to close;
Remote each place by habit render'd dear,
Nor British friends nor Otaheitean near?

Nor less than books the Engraver's works invite,
Where past and distant come before the sight;
Where, all the Painter's lively tints convey'd,
The skilful Copyist gives in light and shade:
While faithful views the prospect's charms display,
From coast to coast, and town to town, we stray;
While faithful portraits human features trace,
We gaze delighted on the speaking face;
Survey the port that bards and heroes bore,
Or mark the smiles that high-born beauties wore.

274

Cease these to please? Philosophy attends
With arts where knowledge with diversion blends;
The Sun's vast system in a model shows;
Bids the clear lens new forms to sight expose;
Constructs machines, whose wond'rous powers declare
The effects of light, and properties of air;
With whirling globes excites electric fires,
And all their force and all their use inquires.
O Nature! how immense thy secret store,
Beyond what ev'n a Priestley can explore!

Such, Friend, the employments may his time divide,
Whom rural shades from scenes of business hide;
While o'er his ear unnotic'd glide away
The noise and nonsense of the passing day !

That well-known beautiful flowering evergreen, commonly called Laurustinus.

The Green Woodpecker. —Vide Pennant's British Zoology, folio, p. 78.

Vide The Fool of Quality, a well-known novel, by Mr. Henry Brooke, author of Gustavus Vasa, &c.

This celebrated Circumnavigator, after surmounting numerous difficulties, and escaping many dangers, was at length slain by the inhabitants of Owhyhee, a little island in the Pacific Ocean.

A short Epistle, partly on the same plan as the foregoing, was, some years ago, inadvertently suffered to appear in a Collection of Poems, by Several Hands, published by G. Pearch.—Such lines of that Piece, as were thought worth preservation, are here retained.

275

AN ESSAY ON PAINTING.

276

[_]

The Author had conceived a design of writing a pretty extensive Poem on the subject of Painting, long before Mr. Hayley's ingenious “Poetical Epistle to an Eminent Painter” appeared. That performance anticipated and precluded part of his intended Work, but seemed not to render the suppression of the following Lines necessary.

277

TO A YOUNG ARTIST.

From sunny Adria's sea-surrounded towers,
From Tyber's vales and Arno's viny bowers,
The Muse of Painting seeks Britannia's plain,
And leads to Thames's bank her favourite train:
There, where a nation's wealth her dome has plac'd,
With her kind Sister's Attic beauties grac'd,
She, like the Spring, as liberal and as gay,
Bids her rich hand its annual stores display;
And mimic Being glowing round the walls,
From scene to scene the rapt attention calls.

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There, where the Public gives the palm of praise,
And only Merit to renown can raise,
Doubtless, my Friend, the just ambition's thine
To see thy future works distinguish'd shine.
Hear then thy Poet's monitory lay,
That hints not useless may perchance convey:
No artist I, like Him of Gallia's shore ,
Whose pencil practis'd, ere he taught his lore;
Yet Taste incites me others' works to view,
And risk a judgment haply not untrue.

Were Painting's path my pleasing road to fame,
The choice of subject much my care should claim;
His graphic power he sure but ill bestows,
Who best a trifle's nice resemblance shows.
Tho' the rich tints so finely blended fall,
When carps and pheasants deck the rural hall,

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That oft, like Zeuxis' grapes, they scarcely fail
To tempt to touch the feather or the scale,—
Yet not ev'n Elmer's skill can make us prize
What every field or every pond supplies;
Regret gives pain to view such wonderous art
Tried on no theme that interests the heart.

The pride of Genius should thy hand restrain
From all that Life's inferior ranks contain ;
Thy conscious pallet ne'er its hues should spare
To draw a sportsman's hound or racer's mare;
Nor thy reluctant crayon stoop to trace
A fool's dull eye, or villain's ill-mark'd face.

280

But deem not Portrait's gifts I mean to slight,—
Portrait, the source of many a pure delight!
When Bards' or Sages' works our wishes fire
To see their forms whose minds we there admire,
The featur'd canvas full to view displays
Reason's deep calm or Fancy's glowing rays.
When Beauty's charms their varied graces wear,
Love's gentle smile, or Mirth's vivacious air,
The pleasing image strikes remotest climes,
And goes unalter'd down to distant times.
When Death's relentless hand in dust has laid
The school-companion, or the first-lov'd maid;
The father kind, with filial awe rever'd;
The tender mother, by her cares endear'd;
When from our arms the darling child is torn,
Or when the husband or the wife we mourn—
As on their picture many a glance we cast,
Remembrance wanders to the vanish'd past;

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Our thoughts o'er numberless minutiæ roll,
And pain-mix'd pleasure solaces the soul.
To Portrait's study should thy choice incline,
Ev'n there to aim at excellence be thine;
And strive to reach the point that few can gain,
Preserve the likeness, yet the spirit retain.

Of Landscape's province wide extends the range,
From the deep vale and humble rural grange,
To Cambrian heaths sublimely brown and bare ,
Or Alpine ice-points glittering white in air:
And not from Nature only she designs,
But different parts of different scenes combines;
Or new creations of her own she forms,
Illumes with sunshine, or involves in storms .

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Familiar prospects would thy hand bestow?
Mark what our hay-fields and our hop-grounds show;
Where in neat rows the russet cocks are seen,
Or from tall poles depend festoons of green;
And long straight paths in perspective extend,
And yellow sandhills close behind ascend .
Nor sweeter contrast sure can meet the eye
Than village lanes in vernal months supply,
When amber clouds, in sky of soft bright blue,
Hang o'er the copse just crown'd with verdure new;
Or where the orchard's sun-gilt branches spread
Their bloom of white or faintly-blushing red.
The fairest scenes, when peopled, look more fair,
But these to people asks peculiar care:
We wish not here for Virgil's classic swains,
Nor Dryad nymphs light tripping o'er the plains;

283

Nor yet the grinning Hobbinols of Gay,
Nor cottage Marians in their torn array:
The rustic life, in every varied place,
Can boast its few of beauty and of grace;
From them select the forms that most may please,
And clothe with simple elegance and ease:
Such forms in Smith's delightful spots we prize,
And such in Sandby's pleasant fields arise.

The observant Artist much from travel gains;
Increase of knowledge well rewards his pains.
Now his pleas'd eye o'er Tuscan prospects roves,
Their sunny corn-fields and their cypress groves;
Their roads, where sports from tree to tree the vine,
And thro' broad leaves its chrystal clusters shine ;
Their white Casines, with olive groves around;
And glittering cliffs with towns and castles crown'd.

284

Now his pleas'd step a wider circuit tries,
Where Nile's vast flood on Egypt's level lies;
While 'midst the tide tall palms their tops uprear,
And causeways broad and cities fair appear .
Now Indian climes he east or west explores,
Quits the dull factory and the sandy shores ,
Climbs craggy hills, pervades romantic woods,
Or winds along the cataracts of the floods;
Thro' beasts and birds and insects, fruits and flow'rs,
In shape and colour all distinct from ours;
Or strays o'er isles that spicy vales unfold,
'Midst skies of glory and 'midst seas of gold;
Such skies, such seas, as Hodges' pencil drew,
And round the rocks of Ulitea threw .

285

Whate'er we copy, or whate'er we feign,
Thro' all the piece one character should reign:
When Claude's bright morn on Mola's precincts dawns,
What sweet quiescence marks the groves and lawns!
How calm his herds among the ruins graze!
How calm his curious peasant stands to gaze !
When bold Salvator under turbid skies
Bids his scath'd hills and blasted trees arise,
Behind wild rocks bids his wild streams be lost,
And from vast cliffs shews broken fragments tost;
'Midst them no shepherds lead their flocks along,
Nor village maidens seem to tune their song;
But solemn augurs flights of birds survey,
Or stern-eyed robbers wait the passing prey .

286

In Rubens' forest, when the wounded boar,
Plung'd in the stream, attempts the further shore,
How the fierce dogs retard his aukward speed!
How the fierce hunters urge the staining steed!
And eager one the winged arrow sends,
And one firm-fix'd the expectant spear protends .

To History's group, where passion'd thought exprest
Strikes kindred feelings on the gazer's breast,—
To History's group, the epic of thy art,
Proceed we now, and what we can, impart.

The mighty Masters of Italian name
All Rome, all Florence, and Bologna claim;
Whose fresco forms still animate their walls,
Whose living canvas decks their domes and halls:
What various powers for these their glory won,
And what of theirs to chuse, and what to shun,

287

Illustrious Reynolds much in prose has told,
And more my verse pretends not to unfold.
These still thy study but with caution make,
Nor prize the picture for the Painter's sake;
Raffaelle himself, beneath himself oft fell,
And meaner hands' best works his worst excel .

'Tis General Nature, in thy art and mine,
Must give our fame in future times to shine:
Sublime and pathos, like the Sun's fix'd flame,
Remain, and please thro' every age the same;
Humour's light shapes, like vapours in the sky,
Rise, pass, and vary, and for ever fly:
Hogarth and Swift, if living, might deplore
Half their keen jokes, that now are jokes no more.

288

What Truth's rich page of real event supplies,
What Fancy's powers of fabled act devise,
Before thee lie—but where the field so wide,
There Judgment's hand Selection's step must guide.

To Horror's forms the mind aversion feels,
To Spaniolet's flay'd saints and torturing wheels;
Nor praise for nauseous images we win,
For Spenser's Error, or for Milton's Sin.

Mythology, that Greek enchantress, long
Has reign'd the idol of the painting throng:
But Reason's thought disdains Ovidian dreams
Absurd, of nymphs transform'd to trees and streams;
And Virtue Homer's wanton gods abhors,
With all their lewd amours and all their idle wars.

289

The Battle's conflicts ample scope bestow
The effects of fury, fear, and pain to show;
As different features these unlike express,
The contrast's force affects us more or less.
But here Confusion holds his crowded reign,
And the tir'd eye attempts to rest in vain;
And o'er the scene Humanity complains,
Where mangled corses lie, and blood the land distains.
When in the fore-ground kings or generals stand,
Direct the attack, or head the charging band,
Their graceful forms we unconcern'd survey,
Who fight for conquest, or who fight for pay:
Nor in their postures can there much be prais'd,
Their pistols levell'd, or their fauchions rais'd;
And to dull sameness here so oft we fall,
That who beholds one piece, beholds them all.

But War's dire field, not all confin'd to these,
Affords us often incidents that please:

290

For oft the Historian's, oft the Poet's art,
Can win our wishes on some hero's part;
His country nam'd, his place and parents known,
Our busy thought his perils makes its own.
To fierce Pelides, 'midst Scamander's waves,
When young Lycaon's voice for pity craves ;
The Chief's stern brow, and lance suspended high,
The Youth's bent knee and deprecating eye,
Not West's rich pencil need disdain to trace,
Or Romney's stroke with glowing colours grace.
When Dithyrambus, on Oëta's plain,
Mourns the brave Persian whom his hand has slain,
Nor marks his danger from the approaching foe,
Nor his bold friend prepar'd to ward the blow;

291

In one what grief, in one what vengeful rage,
In one what ardour, might the sight engage !

The gentle Kauffman's traits can best declare
The sentimental feelings of the Fair,
When soft Erminia in the sylvan shade
Leaves Tancred's name on every tree display'd ;
Or kind Louisa pens the friendly scroll,
To sooth the mournful sister of her soul .

292

The same skill'd hand more strong expression tries,
At Edward's feet when Woodville's daughter lies ;
Or, 'midst the admiring weeping train around,
Fond Eleanora sucks the poison'd wound .
Delightful Artist!—Grace her pencil guides,
And Delicacy o'er its stroke presides!
The immortal Swans, appointed to redeem
Genius and Worth from Lethe's silent stream,
Pleas'd with their charge shall bear her medall'd name
To the fair Priestess of the fane of Fame .

Such tender subjects, if thy choice they gain,
Enough for thee as yet untouch'd remain.

293

Now from the page of Richardson bestow
On Clementina's face the lines of woe;
Or let sweet Harriet's livelier beauty wear
The soul-fraught eye and apprehensive air;
Or draw the proud Olivia's rage-flush'd charms,
When the calm Hero seiz'd her deadly arms;
And paint that Hero, firm in trial prov'd,
Unaw'd by Danger, and by Vice unmov'd .
To Sterne's soft Maniac let thy hand impart
The languid cheek, the look that pierc'd his heart,
When to her Virgin Saint the vesper song she rais'd,
Or earnest view'd him as he sat and gaz'd .

294

Mark, if thou can'st, Philanthropy divine,
That swells the breast and bids the features shine,
When the tear glistening starts from Toby's eyes
Fix'd on the couch where poor Le Fevre dies.

The Grecian classics' venerable lore
I see thee often diligent explore;
What Homer's Muse to Chian cities taught,
Or Pity's Priest to Athens' audience brought.
Methinks, now rising from thy plastic hand,
Troy's hoary Monarch shall a suppliant stand;
To stern Achilles all his griefs explain,
And ask his Hector's corse, nor ask in vain .

295

Now Jove's kind Son to Thebes's sorrowing King
Shall his restor'd unknown Alcestis bring;
Admetus' eyes his anguish'd thoughts declare,
And turn disgusted from the proffer'd Fair .

The Dark Sublime of extra-natural scenes
The vulgar magic's puerile rite demeans;
Where hags their caldrons fraught with toads prepare,
Or glide on broomsticks thro' the midnight air.
Chain'd on the rock let bold Prometheus lie,
And cast wild looks, upbraiding, to the sky ;
Bid Milton's Satan from the burning steep
Call his wide legions, slumbering on the deep;
Or Camoens' Spirit of the Cape upraise,
And show him only by the lightning's blaze;

296

Or place sad Hosier's Ghost amid the tide,
Where by the pale Moon anchor'd navies ride .

O where is He, whose thought such grandeur gave
To bold Fitzwalter and the barons brave,
When, rang'd in arms along their Thames's strand,
They snatch'd their charter from a tyrant's hand ?
Thro' all the scenes his rapid stroke bestow'd,
Rosa's wild grace and daring spirit glow'd;
In him—ah lost ere half his powers were shown!—
Britain perhaps an Angelo had known!

Wouldst thou his honours emulous pursue,
And give the Patriot Energy to view,—
Deep in the gloom of Dalecarlia's mine,
Bid Freedom's flame in Vasa's visage shine ;

297

The pass of fam'd Thermopylæ display,
And Sparta's Monarch's port august pourtray .

For Pontiffs and for Kings, the Painter's skill
From Sacred Story toils their walls to fill;
Where'er we turn, its subjects strike the eye,
And few untried are left for us to try.
Yet who has Jepthah's matchless woe exprest,
By his lov'd Daughter's sudden sight distrest;
Or shewn the Patriarchs, struck with wild amaze,
As on the Viceroy's hidden cup they gaze ?

298

Or who, when Israel's hosts on Edom's plain
Despairing lie,—a thirst-afflicted train!—
Has bade the Prophet and his minstrel stand,
And call new waters o'er the burning sand ?
When David's chiefs, with generous thought inspir'd,
Bring the clear wave his sickening soul desir'd;
What dignity might to his act be given,
The pure libation pouring out to Heaven !

No more of Theme; Design must now succeed—
The mind's strong picture when we hear or read ,
Where every person finds his proper place,
And turn of attitude and turn of face:

299

The Artist's powers in this must greatly fail,
Whose figures point not out at once his tale .
When Lystra's crowd around the Apostles throng,
And joyful lead the victim ox along;
Ask we the cause, while He that cause explains,
Whose limb, late useless, strength and use obtains ?
When West's young Warrior, bleeding on the ground,
His mournful group of martial friends surround;
Their gallant General instantly we know,
Their griefs, their cares, his life's importance show;

300

Quebec's proud tower, the encountering troops between,
In distant view discriminates the scene .

As in the Drama all events should tend
In course unbroken to the purpos'd end;
So must the Picture's business still maintain
The same connective unity of train.
When Copley's Youth, swift-struggling thro' the wave,
The anxious boatmen strain each nerve to save;
As strives the ravenous shark to reach his prey,
One lifts the javelin to arrest his way;
And now, as near his dreadful jaws expand,
One casts the cord, and one extends the hand:
What care, what pity, mark their eager eyes!
What hopes, what terrors, in our bosoms rise !

301

The skilful Painter, at whose option lie
Positions various, fails not all to try;
And those prefers, where every part the best
Accordance keeps, illustrating the rest.
By different modes effect he oft obtains;
To one Chief Figure now the attention gains;
Now force on Second Characters bestows,
And all his meaning by reflection shows;
Now thro' the Whole, each rank, and sex, and age,
One common ruling passion bids engage.

When Raffaelle's Saviour from the tomb ascends,
Such majesty and grace his presence blends,
That the fix'd eye contemplates him alone,
Nor heeds the astonish'd guards around him thrown .

When Vandyke's General, whose victorious spear
Sunk Persia's pride, and check'd the Goth's career,

302

Of service paid with indigence complains,
And sightless age on daily alms sustains;
As the young Chief the affecting scene surveys,
How all his form the emotion'd soul betrays!
‘O thus has Fortune for the brave decreed?
‘Of toils and dangers this at last the meed ?’

When Rome's fair Princess, who from Syria's shore
Her late-lost Consort's sacred ashes bore,
With steps slow-moving o'er Brundusium's strand,
Meets her lov'd friends—a numerous mourning band—
Her gentle frame no gestures rude disgrace,
No vulgar grief deforms her beauteous face;
Her downcast eyes immoveable remain,
Fix'd on the urn her careful hands sustain.
The widow'd mother, by her garment's folds,
Close on each side each tender offspring holds;
While Melancholy all the train o'ershades
Of hoary warriors and of blooming maids;

303

And all their breasts with pity seem to heave,
And for the dead and for the living grieve .

The Great Sublime with energy to express
Exert thy utmost power, nor fear excess.
When Passion's tumults in the bosom rise,
Inflate the features, and enrage the eyes;
To Nature's outline can we draw too true,
Or Nature's colours give too full to view?
Did Reynolds' hand with force too strong disclose
Those looks that mark the unutterable woes,
When Ugoline the wretch in prison lies,
And hears his dying children's piercing cries,
And while fell Hunger haunts the impervious walls,
And one by one the suffering victims calls,

304

Invokes the lightning's bolt those walls to rend,
Or earth to open, and his miseries end ?

Our Bards indeed, I own, here often fail,
And spoil with bombast and conceit their tale;
Their heroes rant in many a curious strain
Of thought, that none could think in anger or in pain.

Celestial scenes with caution must be tried,
Where Knowledge fails, and Fancy sole can guide:
The Great First Cause no form reveals to sight,
We mark his presence by excess of light ;
While angel shapes at ease on wing remain,
Or on thin clouds their airy steps sustain.

305

But tho', fair Painting! thus by just design,
And strong expression, much to please is thine;
Yet not from these thy utmost praises rise,
For useful moral oft thy work supplies.
When, 'midst Poussin's Arcadian vale serene,
The virgin's sculptur'd monument is seen,
And the sad shepherd pointing seems to say,
‘O Death, no place is sacred from thy sway!’
Our mournful thoughts the well-known truth recal,
That Youth and Beauty oft untimely fall .
On Carthage' plains when Marius meets the eye,
And the stern Prætor's mandate bids him fly;
Fresh from the view the strong reflection springs,
How strange the vast vicissitude of things!

306

Rome's rival City to the dust deprest;
Her haughty Consul there denied to rest !
When Persia's Conqueror, 'midst her female train,
Appears the chaste, the generous, and humane;
His look, his action, on the mind impress
The needful knowledge how to bear success .

Thus may thy Art, O Friend, for ever prove
Of force, to Virtue, and from Vice, to move!
To Statesmen, thoughtless on the heights of pow'r,
Mark Wolsey's fall, or show his final hour;
To Patriot eyes give Marvell's calm disdain,
When Daney urg'd the tempting bribe in vain ;

307

Or bid the Inconstant her own doom deplore
In the sad exit of the hapless Shore .

Without the Entheus Nature's self bestows,
The world no Painter nor no Poet knows:
But think not Mind in its own depth contains
A source of wealth that no disbursement drains:
Quick Observation, ever on the wing,
Home, like the bee, its useful stores must bring;
From hills, and vales, and rocks, and streams, and trees,
And towns, and all that people those and these,
From meanest objects that may hints inspire,
Discolour'd walls, or heaps of glowing fire .
Care too beside thee still must take her place,
Retouch each stroke, and polish every grace;

308

For when we join not dignity with ease,
Nor thou canst paint, nor I can write, to please.

Perfection's point the Artist nearest gains,
Who with his work unsatisfied remains:
Da Vinci's thought an excellence conceiv'd,
That his eye miss'd in all his hand atchiev'd .

The Clear-obscure how happiest to produce,
And what of various tints the various use,
My lay to that presumes not to aspire,
Nor with trite precept this thy ear shall tire:
Coreggio's practice that describes the best;
In Fresnoy's theory this we find exprest.

No rude incongruence should thy piece disgrace,
No motley modes of different time and place;
By Grecian chiefs no Gallic airs be worn ,
Nor in their hands be modern weapons borne;

309

Nor mix the crested helm and coat of mail
With the vast curl'd peruke, or pointed tail.
And sacred ever be the solemn scene
From base intrusion of burlesque and mean;
Nor in a Patriarch's or Apostle's sight
Set snarling dogs and growling cats to fight.

One caution further must the Muse impart;
Shun Naked Form, that scandal of thy art:
Even Dryden blames them who refuse to spare
The painful blushes of the modest Fair.
Let Decency her veil of drapery throw,
And Grace diffuse its folds in easy flow .

And now, my Friend, for Thee may Fortune find
Employ congenial to thy liberal mind;

310

Not tasks impos'd by power, or chosen for gain,
Begun reluctant, and pursued with pain.
What warms the heart, the hand with force reveals,
And all that force the charm'd spectator feels:
For Genius, piercing as the electric flame,
When wak'd in one, in others wakes the same.

Architecture.

C.A. Du Fresnoy, a well-known French Painter; author of a Latin poem, De Arte Graphica.

The Author must here once for all remark, that whatever he may say respecting the works of any Painter is solely the result of impartial, though possibly mistaken opinion. He cannot be misled by friendship; for, excepting a slight acquaintance with those amiable characters, Mr. West and Mrs. Kauffman, he has not the pleasure of knowing any Artist whose name he has taken the liberty to mention.

This is meant only of such objects, when considered as the principal subject of a picture. Almost every class of animals may be occasionally introduced as ornaments in landscape, and often in history.

That celebrated artist, Mr. Wilson, has painted a set of beautiful Views from Nature, in different parts of Wales.

These circumstances, termed by the Painters Accidents of Nature, often agreeably diversify landscape.

For this imagery the Author is indebted to Mr. Walpole, who, in his Anecdotes of Painting, vol. iv. p. 65, proposes our hay-fields and hop-grounds as new subjects of landscape.

The late Mr. George Smith of Chichester.

The hedgerow trees in Tuscany are covered with vines. —Vide Smollet's Travels, vol. ii. p. 46.

Vide Rollin's Ancient History, 18mo. vol. i. p. 22.

Several of our Artists have attended to this circumstance of foreign scenery. The ingenious Mr. George Robertson has painted several fine romantic Views in Jamaica, which have been engraved.

Several beautiful Landscapes, taken in different parts of the New Discovered Islands, by Mr. Hodges, who attended Captain Cook in one of his Voyages, must be well remembered by those who attend the annual Exhibitions of the Royal Academy.

Vide a beautiful Engraving, by Vivarez, from a capital Picture of Claude Lorrain, called the Morning, in which he introduces himself drawing an antique temple on the banks of the Tyber, between Ponte Mola and Rome.

Vide Salvator Rosa's Landscapes, engraved by Goupy. See also Sir Joshua Reynolds's Discourses, p. 175.

Vide Rubens's Landscape of boar-hunting, engraved by Bolswert.

For this assertion the Author has the highest authority, viz. that of Sir Joshua Reynolds. “I have no desire,” says he, “to degrade Raffaelle from the high rank he deservedly holds; but, in comparing him with himself, he does not appear to me to be the same man in Oil as in Fresco.”—Discourses, p. 165.

Gioseppe Ribera, a native of Valencia in Spain. He was noted for painting horrid subjects; such as Prometheus with the Vulture feeding on his liver; Ixion tortured on the wheel; and St. Bartholomew with the skin flayed from his body. —Vide Dryden's Translation of Fresnoy, p. 352.

Vide the Iliad, book xxi.—This story of Lycaon is perhaps one of the most affecting passages in the whole Poem. Vide Pope's Note, vol. v. p. 208. of his Translation. The countenance of Achilles, at the moment when the death of Patroclus, occurring to his thought, determined him to kill Lycaon, would afford a fine expression:

“Talk not of life or ransom, he replies;
“Patroclus dead, whoever meets me dies.”

Vide Leonidas, book viii. l. 355.

“He ended, rushing furious on the Greek,
“Who, while his gallant enemy expir'd,
“While Hyperanthes tenderly receiv'd
“The last embraces of his gasping friend,
“Stood nigh reclin'd in sadness on his shield,
“And in the pride of victory repin'd.
“Unmark'd his foe approach'd. But forward sprung
“Diomedon. Before the Thespian youth
“Aloft he rais'd his targe------”

Vide Tasso's Jerusalem Delivered.

See Emma Corbett, an interesting novel, by Mr. S. I. Pratt, Vol. i. Letter 34.

See the story of Elizabeth Grey, daughter of Sir Richard Woodville, suing to Edward IV. for restitution of her lands.— Rapin, vol. i. p. 601.

The well-known story of Eleanor of Castile, queen of Edward I., sucking the poison from her husband's arm, when he was wounded by an assassin in Palestine.

See a Painting of Mrs. Kauffman's, from a passage in Ariosto, where swans are introduced bringing the names of ingenious persons, inscribed on medals, to a nymph who deposits them in the Temple of Fame.

The History of Sir Charles Grandison, vol. iv. p. 176. The interview between Grandison and Olivia, at the instant of his seizing her poniard, would make a noble picture. This work of Richardson's abounds with fine situations. Brooke's Fool of Quality, and the Adventurer of Hawkesworth, are also books worthy the perusal of an artist who wishes for choice of interesting incidents.

This subject has been attempted by several ingenious artists, who have given very pleasing figures; but perhaps none that convey the precise idea of Sterne. This author being mentioned, a trite observation must be indulged, viz. That there probably never was a more striking instance of misapplication of talents than in him. With superior powers for the pathos, he chose to descend to ribaldry, that affronted the taste and corrupted the morals of the Public. What pity that the gold had not been separated from the dross, and the latter consigned to that oblivion it so richly merits!

Euripides; termed so by Collins.

Vide the Iliad, book xxiv.

Vide the Alcestis of Euripides. Hercules restores to life Alcestis, the deceased wife of Admetus, and brings her to her husband, disguised with a veil, and represented as a stranger; whom Admetus, in the height of distress for the loss of his beloved consort, refuses to admit into his palace.

See the Prometheus of Æschylus.

See that admirable song, intitled Hosier's Ghost; by the Author of Leonidas.

Vide the late Mr. Mortimer's Picture of King John delivering Magna Charta to the Barons. That ingenious Artist's obvious powers of imagination promised the attainment of a high degree of excellence in his profession.

Brooke's Gustavus Vasa, act i. sc. 2. where Gustavus discovers himself to Anderson and Arnoldus in the copper-mines of Dalecarlia. See another fine subject in the same Tragedy, act iv. scene xi.

Vide Leonidas, book x. where the Hero of the Poem repeats to the assembled council the message of Argestes; while Alpheus, at the same instant, brings news of the Persians having passed the Upper Strait. This would make a noble picture; the dauntless appearance of the Greeks might be well contrasted with the fear and shame of the ambassador of Xerxes.—The Banquet of Melissa, Priestess of the Muses, where Leonidas and Æschylus are supposed present, book vii. is another fine subject. Such pictures would hardly be popular; but to some minds they would afford singular pleasure.

The Author does not recollect seeing or hearing of any celebrated picture on those interesting subjects, of Jepthah's return, and the discovery of Joseph's cup in the sack of Benjamin.

Vide 2 Kings, chap. iii.—This subject would afford a variety of noble expression in the different characters of the Kings, the pious confidence of Jehosaphat, and the desponding anxiety of Jehoram, the distress of the soldiers, and the enthusiasm of Elisha. The streams of water might appear in the distance, seemingly visible only to the Prophet, from his situation.

2 Samuel, chap. xxiii.

See Sir Joshua Reynolds's Discourses, p. 104.

“That composition must be defective, which cannot, to a careful observer, point out its own tendency; and those expressions must be either weak or false, which do not in some degree mark the interest of each actor in the drama.” —Webb's Inquiry into the Beauties of Painting, preface, p. 8.

Vide Raffaelle's St. Paul and Barnabas at Lystra. For the above observation and description the Author is indebted to the ingenious “Inquiry into the Beauties of Painting,” p. 180.

Vide West's celebrated Picture of the Death of General Wolfe, engraved by Woollett.

See Mr. Copley's Picture of a Youth rescued by Sailors from a Shark in the Harbour of the Havannah. There is a fine Mezzotinto of this Piece by Green.

Raffaelle's Picture of the Resurrection of Christ; engraved by Vivarez and Grignion from a Drawing of Dalton.

Vide the Belisarius of Vandyke; engraved by Goupy and Scotin.

This capital Picture of Agrippina landing at Brundusium, with the ashes of Germanicus, is, in the Author's opinion, one of Mr. West's most pleasing compositions. There is a beautiful Print of it by Earlom.

Vide Sir Joshua Reynolds's excellent Picture of Count Ugolino and his Children in the Dungeon; where they were confined and starved to death by the archbishop Ruggieri. This circumstance is described by the Italian poet Dantè.

The Author could not here omit censuring the practice of some celebrated Painters, who have presumptuously and absurdly represented the Supreme Being in the form of an Aged Man.

Vide Poussin's Picture, called The Shepherds in Arcadia; engraved by Ravenet, in Mr. Boydell's Collection of Prints: Also the Abbé Du Bos's Reflections on Poetry, Painting, and Music; and Dr. Warton's ingenious Essay on Didactic Poetry, in his Translation of Virgil.

There is a fine Picture of Mortimer's on this subject. The reply of Marius, to the messenger who came with orders for him to depart, was nobly concise and affecting: “Go, tell the Prætor, thou hast seen Marius sitting on the ruins of Carthage.”

Vide Le Brun's Alexander in the Tent of Darius, engraved by Edelinck.

See the Life of Andrew Marvell, in Cibber's Lives of the Poets.

The interview between Shore and her Husband, in the last scene of Rowe's Tragedy, would afford a fine Picture.

Vide Reynolds's Discourses, p. 61.

Vide Graham's Account of Painters, in Dryden's Fresnoy, p. 278.

Vide Reynolds's Discourses, p. 87.

Vide Dryden's Preface to his Translation of Fresnoy's Art of Painting, p. 22, &c. where the licence of Painters, in the above respect, is severely censured.

311

SONNETS AND MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.

312

[_]

The following Sonnets, and the Stanzas addressed to Mrs. Macaulay, appeared in Pearch's Collection of Poems, published in 1770. The remaining Pieces are now first printed.

313

SONNETS.

SONNET I. APOLOGY FOR RETIREMENT. 1766.

Why asks my Friend what cheers my passing day,
Where these lone fields my rural home inclose,
That all the pomp the crowded City shows
Ne'er from that home allures my steps away?

Now thro' the upland shade I musing stray,
And catch the gale that o'er the woodbine blows;
Now in the meads on river banks repose,
And breathe rich odour from the new-mown hay:

Now pleas'd I read the poet's lofty lay,
Where music fraught with useful knowledge flows;
Now Delia's converse makes the moments gay,
The Maid for love and innocence I chose:
O Friend! the man who joys like these can taste,
On vice and folly needs no hour to waste.

314

SONNET II. TO DELIA. 1766.

Thrice has the Year its varied circuit run,
And swiftly, Delia, have the moments flown,
Since with my love for Thee my care begun,
To improve thy tender mind to science prone.

The flatteries of my sex I bade Thee shun,
I bade Thee shun the manners of thy own;
Fictitious manners, by example won,
That ill for loss of innocence atone!

Say, generous Maiden, in whose gentle breast
Dwells simple Nature, undisguis'd by Art,
Now amply tried by Time's unerring test,
How just the dictates of this faithful heart;
Which, with the joys thy favouring smiles impart,
Deems all its care repaid, itself supremely blest!

315

SONNET III. AFTER READING SHENSTONE'S ELEGIES. 1766.

The gentle Shenstone much of Fortune' plain'd,
Where Nature's hand the liberal spirit gave;
Partial, her bounty she too oft restrain'd,
But pour'd it full on Folly's tasteless slave.

By her alike my humble prayer disdain'd,
She stern denies the only boon I crave;
O'er my fields, fair as those Elysian feign'd,
To bid the green walk wind, the green wood wave.

On the high hill to raise the higher tower,
To ope wide prospects over distant plains,
Where by broad rivers towns and villas rise;
Taste prompts the wish, but Fortune bounds the power:
Yet while Health cheers, and Competence sustains,
These more than all, Contentment bids me prize.

316

SONNET IV. PREFIXED TO LANGHORNE'S POETICAL WORKS. 1766.

Langhorne! unknown to me (sequester'd swain!)
Save by the Muse's soul-enchanting lay,
To kindred spirits never sung in vain;
Accept the tribute of this light essay.

Sweet are thy songs, they oft amuse my day;
Of Fancy's visions while I hear thee 'plain,
While Scotland's honours claim thy pastoral strain,
Or Music comes o'er Handel tears to pay.

For all thy Irwan's flowery banks display,
Thy Persian Lover, and his Indian fair;
For all Theodosius' mournful lines convey,
When Pride and Avarice part a matchless Pair;
Receive just praise, and wreaths that ne'er decay,
By Fame and Virtue twin'd for thee to wear.

317

SONNET V. TO BRITAIN. 1766.

Renown'd Britannia! lov'd Parental Land!
Regard thy welfare with a watchful eye!
Whene'er the weight of Want's afflicting hand
Wakes in thy vales the Poor's persuasive cry—

When wealth enormous sets the Oppressor high,
When bribes thy ductile senators command,
And slaves in office freemen's rights withstand;
Then mourn, for then thy fate approacheth nigh!

Not from perfidious Gaul or haughty Spain,
Nor all the neighbouring nations of the main,
Tho' leagued in war tremendous round thy shore—
But from Thyself, thy ruin must proceed!
Nor boast thy power; for know it is decreed,
Thy freedom lost, thy power shall be no more!

318

MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.

STANZAS

ON READING MRS. MACAULAY'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 1766.

To Albion's bards the Muse of History spoke:
‘Record the glories of your native land,
‘How Power's rude chain her sons' brave efforts broke,
‘And the keen scourge tore from Oppression's hand.

‘Give to renown the Patriot's noble deeds;
‘Brand with disgrace the Tyrant's hated name;
‘Tho' Falsehood oft awhile the mind misleads,
‘Impartial Time bestows impartial fame.’

319

She said; and soon the lofty lyre they strung,
But artful chang'd the subject and the lore;
Of kings, and courts, and courtly slaves they sung,
And gloss'd with vain applause their actions o'er.

The servile strain the Muse indignant heard;
Anxious for truth, for public virtue warm,
She Freedom's faithful advocate appear'd,
And bore on earth the fair Macaulay's form.

320

ELEGY IN THE MANNER OF HAMMOND;

SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN IN THE AUTHOR'S GARDEN, DURING A STORM. 1756.

Blow on, ye Winds! exert your utmost rage,
Sweep o'er the dome, or thro' the forest howl!
Could North with South, or East with West engage,
What were their war to that within my soul?

There adverse passions fierce contention hold,
There Love and Pride maintain alternate sway,
There fell Despair's dark clouds on clouds are roll'd,
And veil Hope's transient, faint, delusive ray!

Too charming Sylvia! dear capricious Fair!
What strange perplexing change of mind is thine!
No more thy smiles I'll trust, thy frowns I'll bear;
I'll shun the beauty that must ne'er be mine!

321

Was it for thee I form'd this fair retreat,
Bade thro' the grove the smooth walk wind away,
Adorn'd that walk with many a rustic seat,
And by those seats bade tinkling runnels stray;

Along my sunny wall the fruit-tree spread,
Upon my eves expos'd the curling vine,
Around my door the spicy woodbine led,
Beneath my window saw the jasmine twine?

Blow on, ye Winds! exert your utmost power,
Rage thro' my groves, and bear down every tree;
Blast the fair fruit, and crush the blooming flower—
For Sylvia's lost, and these are nought to me!

322

THE AUTHOR TO HIS WIFE. 1776.

Friend of my heart, by favouring Heaven bestow'd,
My lov'd Companion on Life's various road!
Now six swift years have wing'd their flight away
Since yon bright Sun adorn'd our nuptial day—
For thy sweet smiles, that all my cares remove,
Sooth all my griefs, and all my joys improve;
For thy sweet converse, ever fram'd to please,
With prudence lively, sensible with ease;
To Thee the Muse awakes her tuneful lay,
The thanks of gratitude sincere to pay!
Thus long may Hymen hold for us his reign,
And twine with wreaths of flowers his easy chain;
Still may fond love and firmest faith be mine,
Still health, and peace, and happiness be thine!

323

STANZAS

WRITTEN AT MEDHURST IN SUSSEX,

ON THE AUTHOR'S RETURN FROM CHICHESTER, WHERE HE HAD ATTEMPTED IN VAIN TO FIND THE BURIAL-PLACE OF COLLINS.

To view the beauties of my native land,
O'er many a pleasing distant scene I rove;
Now climb the rock, or wander on the strand,
Or trace the rill, or penetrate the grove.

From Baia's hills, from Portsea's spreading wave,
To fair Cicestria's lonely walls I stray;
To her fam'd Poet's venerated grave,
Anxious my tribute of respect to pay .

324

O'er the dim pavement of the solemn fane,
'Midst the rude stones that crowd the adjoining space,
The sacred spot I seek, but seek in vain;
In vain I ask—for none can point the place.

What boots the eye whose quick observant glance
Marks every nobler, every fairer form?
What the skill'd ear that sound's sweet charms intrance,
And the fond breast with generous passion warm?

What boots the power each image to pourtray,
The power with force each feeling to express?
How vain the hope that thro' Life's little day,
The soul with thought of future fame can bless?

While Folly frequent boasts the insculptur'd tomb,
By Flattery's pen inscrib'd with purchas'd praise;
While Rustic Labour's undistinguish'd doom
Fond Friendship's hand records in humble phrase;

325

Of Genius oft and Learning worse the lot;
For them no care, to them no honour shown :
Alive neglected, and when dead forgot,
Even Collins slumbers in a grave unknown.

Flow, Lavant, flow! along thy sedgy shore
Bear the fraught vessel from the neighbouring main!
Enrich thy sons!—but on thy banks no more
May lofty Poet breathe his tuneful strain!

Collins was born at Chichester, died, and probably was interred there.

This censure may seem too general—perhaps it is so. But must it not be allowed that the Public is capricious in bestowing its honours? Does not Westminster Abbey show monuments erected to men, as poets, who had little or no title to the name, while it contains no memorials of writers of far superior merit?

326

VERSES

TO A FRIEND, PLANTING.

Proceed, my Friend, pursue thy healthful toil,
—Dispose thy ground, and meliorate thy soil;
Range thy young plants in walks, or clumps, or bowers,
Diffuse o'er sunny banks thy fragrant flowers;
And, while the new creation round thee springs,
Enjoy uncheck'd the guiltless bliss it brings:
But hope no more. Tho' Fancy forward stray
There scenes of distant pleasure to survey,
To expatiate fondly o'er the future grove,
The happy haunt of Friendship and of Love;
Know, each fair image form'd within thy mind,
Far wide of truth thy sickening sight shall find!

327

TO AN ABSENT FRIEND.

While thou far hence on Albion's southern shore,
View'st her white rocks, and hear'st her ocean roar;
Thro' scenes, where we together stray'd, I stray,
And think o'er talk of many a long-past day.

That favourite park now tempts my steps again,
On whose green turf so oft at ease we have lain;
While Hertford's turrets rose in prospect fair,
And my fond thought beheld my Sylvia there;
And much the Muse rehears'd in careless lays
The Lover's sufferings and the Beauty's praise.

Those elm-crown'd fields now oft my walk invite,
Whence Lee's wide vale lies pleasant to the sight;
Where, as our view o'er towns and villas roll'd,
Our fancy imag'd how they look'd of old;

328

When Gothic mansions there uprear'd their towers,
Their halls for banquet, and for rest their bowers.

But, O my Friend! whene'er I seek these scenes
Of lovely prospects and delightful greens;
Regardless idly of the joy possess'd,
I dream of days to come, of days more blest,
When thou with me shalt wander here once more,
And we shall talk again our favourite topics o'er.

On Time's smooth current as we glide along,
Thus Expectation ever tunes her song:
‘Fair these green banks with gaudy flow'rets bloom,
‘Sweet breathe these gales, diffusing rich perfume;
‘Heed, heed them not, but carelessly pass by,
‘To-morrow fairer, sweeter will supply.’
To-morrow comes—the same the Syren's lay—
‘To-morrow sweeter gales, and flow'rets still more gay.’

329

THE SHEPHERD's ELEGY;

OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF AN INGENIOUS FRIEND.

Upon a bank with spreading boughs o'erhung,
Of pollard oak, brown elm, and hornbeam grey,
The faded fern and russet grass among,
While rude winds swept the yellow leaves away,
And scatter'd o'er the ground the wild fruits lay;
As from the churchyard came the village throng,
Down sat a rural bard, and rais'd his mournful song.

‘Nature's best gifts, alas, in vain we prize!
‘The powers that please, the powers that pleasure gain!
‘For O with them, in full proportion, rise
‘The powers of giving and of feeling pain!
‘Why from my breast now bursts this plaintive strain?

330

‘Genius, my Friend! with all its charms was thine,
‘And sensibility too exquisite is mine!

‘There low he lies!—that head in dust repos'd,
‘Whose active thought scann'd every various theme!
‘Clos'd is that eye, for ever, ever clos'd,
‘Whence wont the blaze of sentiment to beam!
‘Mute is that tongue, whence flow'd the copious stream
‘Of eloquence, whose moral lore so rare
‘Delighted and improv'd the listening Young and Fair.

‘Witness for me, ye rain-polluted rills;
‘Ye desart meads, that one brown hue display;
‘Ye rude east-winds, whose breath the dank air chills;
‘Ye hovering clouds, that veil the Sun's faint ray!
‘Witness, as annual here my steps shall stray,
‘How his dear image thought shall still recall,
‘And oft the sigh shall heave, and oft the tear shall fall!’

331

As cease the murmurs of the mantling pool,
As cease the whispers of the poplar spray,
While o'er the vale the white mist rises cool
At the calm sunset of a summer's day—
So softly, sweetly ceas'd the Shepherd's lay:
While down the pathway to the hamlet plain
Return'd, with lingering steps, the pensive rural train.

332

ON THE INGENIOUS MR. JONES'S ELEGANT TRANSLATIONS AND IMITATIONS OF EASTERN POETRY,

AND HIS RESOLUTION TO DECLINE TRANSLATING THE PERSIAN POETS.

The Asian Muse, a Stranger fair!
Becomes at length Britannia's care;
And Hafiz' lays, and Sadi's strains,
Resound along our Thames's plains.
They sing not all of streams and bowers,
Or banquet scenes, or social hours;
Nor all of Beauty's blooming charms,
Or War's rude fields, or feats of arms;
But Freedom's lofty notes sincere,
And Virtue's moral lore severe.

333

But ah! they sing for us no more!
The scarcely-tasted pleasure's o'er!
For He, the Bard whose tuneful art
Can best their varied themes impart—
For He, alas! the task declines;
And Taste, at loss irreparable, repines.

334

CONCLUSION.

TO A FRIEND.

When erst the Enthusiast Fancy's reign
Indulg'd the wild, romantic thought,
That wander'd 'midst Arcadian vales,
Sicilian streams, Arabian gales;
Blest climes, with wond'rous pleasures fraught,
Sweet pleasures, unalloy'd with pain!

When Observation's calmer view
Remark'd the real state of things;
Whate'er amusive one obtain'd,
Whate'er of use the other gain'd,
To thee my verse a tribute brings,
A tribute to thy friendship due.

335

Accept then this, nor more require:
The Muse no further task essays;
But 'midst the sylvan scenes she loves,
The falling rills, and whispering groves,
With smiles her labours past surveys,
And quits the syrinx and the lyre.

341

FINIS.

University of Virginia Library

MORAL ECLOGUES.

ECLOGUE I. THERON;

or, the Praise of Rural Life.

ECLOGUE II. PALEMON;

or, Benevolence.

ECLOGUE III. ARMYN;

or, The Discontented.

ECLOGUE IV. LYCORON;

or, The Unhappy.

ELEGY I. Written at the Approach of Spring.

ELEGY II. Written in the Hot Weather, July, 1757.

ELEGY III. Written in Harvest.

ELEGY IV. Written at the Approach of Winter.

ELEGY;

WRITTEN AT AMWELL IN HERTFORDSHIRE, MDCCLXVIII.

AMWELL:

A DESCRIPTIVE POEM.

AMOEBAEAN ECLOGUES.

ECLOGUE I. RURAL SCENERY;

or, The Describers.

ECLOGUE II. RURAL BUSINESS;

or, The Agriculturists.

ORIENTAL ECLOGUES.

ZERAD;

OR, THE ABSENT LOVER:

AN ARABIAN ECLOGUE.

SERIM;

OR, THE ARTIFICIAL FAMINE.

AN EAST-INDIAN ECLOGUE.

LI-PO;

OR, THE GOOD GOVERNOR:

A CHINESE ECLOGUE.

ODES.

ODE I. TO LEISURE.

ODE II. THE EVENING WALK.

ODE III. TO CHILDHOOD.

ODE IV. HEARING MUSIC.

ODE V. A LANDSCAPE.

ODE VI. TO A FRIEND,

ON HIS MARRIAGE, AND REMOVAL INTO THE COUNTRY.

ODE VII. WRITTEN IN WINTER.

ODE VIII. TO A FRIEND.

ODE IX. LEAVING BATH,

MDCCLXXVI.

ODE X. TO J. PAYNE, ESQ.

ACCOUNTANT-GENERAL OF THE BANK OF ENGLAND.

ODE XI. TO A FRIEND APPREHENSIVE OF DECLINING FRIENDSHIP.

ODE XII. TO A FRIEND.

ODE XIII.

ODE XIV. WRITTEN AFTER READING SOME MODERN LOVE-VERSES.

ODE XV. THE MUSE;

OR, POETICAL ENTHUSIASM.

ODE XVI. VIEWING THE RUINS OF AN ABBEY

ODE XVII. PRIVATEERING.

ODE XVIII. TO HOSPITALITY.

ODE XIX. THE APOLOGY.

ODE XX.

ODE XXI. WRITTEN AFTER A JOURNEY TO BRISTOL.

ODE XXII. TO CRITICISM.

ODE XXIII. TO DISEASE.

ODE XXIV. THE TEMPESTUOUS EVENING.

ODE XXV. THE MELANCHOLY EVENING.

ODE XXVI. THE PLEASANT EVENING.

ODE XXVII. AFTER READING AKENSIDE'S POEMS.

THE MEXICAN PROPHECY:

AN ODE.

EPISTLES.

EPISTLE I. THE GARDEN.

EPISTLE II. WINTER AMUSEMENTS IN THE COUNTRY.

AN ESSAY ON PAINTING.

SONNETS AND MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.

SONNETS.

SONNET I. APOLOGY FOR RETIREMENT. 1766.

SONNET II. TO DELIA. 1766.

SONNET III. AFTER READING SHENSTONE'S ELEGIES. 1766.

SONNET IV. PREFIXED TO LANGHORNE'S POETICAL WORKS. 1766.

SONNET V. TO BRITAIN. 1766.

MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.

STANZAS