The works, in verse and prose, of William Shenstone, Esq In two volumes. With Decorations. The fourth edition |
I. |
II. |
The works, in verse and prose, of William Shenstone, Esq | ||
ELEGIES, WRITTEN ON Many different Occasions.
Assiduè veniebat; ibi hæc incondita, solus,
Montibus et silvis studio jactabàt inani!
Virg.
ELEGY I. He arrives at his retirement in the country, and takes occasion to expatiate in praise of simplicity.
To a Friend.
I bade Augusta's venal sons farewel;
Now, 'mid the trees, I see my smoke arise;
Now hear the fountains bubbling round my cell.
Preserve this villa for a friend that's dear!
Ne'er may my vintage glad the sordid breast;
Ne'er tinge the lip that dares be unsincere!
Fly my plain board, abhor my hostile name!
Hence! the faint verse that flows not from the heart,
But mourns in labour'd strains, the price of fame!
Assiduous art correct her page in vain!
His be the palm who, guiltless of disguise,
Contemns the pow'r, the dull resource to feign!
For lucre's venal meed, invite my scorn!
Still may the bard dissembling doubts and fears,
For praise, for flatt'ry sighing, sigh forlorn!
'Twas his fond heart effus'd the melting theme;
Ah! never could Aonia's hill disclose
So fair a fountain, or so lov'd a stream.
To form a sigh, or to contrive a tear!
Forgo your Pindus, and on—plains
Survey Camilla's charms, and grow sincere.
Love's gentle tyrant seats his aweful throne,
Write from thy bosom—let not art controul
The ready pen, that makes his edicts known.
The forms our pencil, or our pen design'd!
“Such was our youthful air and shape and face!
“Such the soft image of our youthful mind!
The loves and graces steal unseen away;
And where the turf diffus'd its pomp of flow'rs,
We wake to wintry scenes of chill decay!
Praise the soft hours that gave thee to her arms;
Paint thy proud scorn of ev'ry vulgar care,
When hope exalts thee, or when doubt alarms.
Near fount or stream, in meditation, rove;
If in the grove Œnone lov'd to stray,
The faithful muse shall meet thee in the grove,
ELEGY II. On posthumous reputation.
To a Friend.
Should rob the living virtue of its praise;
O foolish muses! that with zeal aspire
To deck the cold insensate shrine with bays!
To tread the skies with radiant garlands crown'd,
Say, will she hear the distant voice of fame?
Or hearing, fancy sweetness in the sound?
Perhaps ev'n friendship sheds a fruitless tear;
Ev'n Lyttelton but vainly trims the bay,
And fondly graces Hammond's mournful bier.
Renew their chaplets, and repeat their sighs;
Tho' near his tomb, Sabæan odours burn,
The loit'ring fragrance will it reach the skies?
Delia might place the votive wreaths in vain:
Yet the dear hope of Delia's future care
Once crown'd his pleasures, and dispell'd his pain.
Can ev'ry sense of present joys excel:
For this, great Hadrian chose laborious days;
Thro' this, expiring, bade a gay farewel.
To life's precarious date confine their care?
O teach them you, to spread the sacred base,
To plan a work, thro' latest ages fair!
You trace the story of each attic sage,
To think your blooming praise shall time defy?
Shall waft like odours thro' the pleasing page?
Around your name the varying style refines?
And readers call their lost attention home,
Led by that index where true genius shines?
Whose ardent bosoms catch this ancient fire!
Cold interest melts before the vivid flame,
And patriot ardours, but with life, expire!
ELEGY III. On the untimely death of a certain learned acquaintance.
Funereal pomp the scanty tear supplies;
Whilst heralds loud with venal voice proclaim,
Lo! here the brave and the puissant lies.
Pageant nor plume distinguish Alcon's bier;
The faithful muse with votive song attends,
And blots the mournful numbers with a tear.
That odious art which fortune's fav'rites know;
Form'd to bestow, he felt the warmest heart,
But envious fate forbade him to bestow.
He little knew that mortals could ensnare;
Virtue he knew; the noblest joy he found,
To sing her glories, and to paint her fair!
And unforeseen disaster thin'd his fold;
Yet, at another's loss, the swain would weep;
And, for his friend, his very crook were sold.
From winds protect them, and with food supply;
Ah! helpless they, toward the threaten'd pain!
The meagre famine, and the wintry sky?
He dar'd to love; and Cynthia was his theme;
He breath'd his plaints along the rocky shore,
They only echo'd o'er the winding stream.
Revives less lovely from the recent show'r;
So Philomel enamour'd eyes the rose;
Sweet bird! enamour'd of the sweetest flow'r!
He saw his tim'rous loves on her depend;
He lov'd the muse, altho' she taught in vain;
He lov'd the muse, for she was virtue's friend.
She wins the ear when formal pleas are vain;
She tempts patricians from the fatal doors
Of vice's brothel, forth to virtue's fane.
He griev'd that virtue might not wealth obtain:
Piteous of woes, and hopeless to relieve,
The pensive prospect sadden'd all his strain.
Like one ordain'd to swell the vulgar throng;
As tho' the virtues had not warm'd his breast,
As tho' the muses not inspir'd his tongue.
Saw peasant hands the pious rite supply:
The generous rustics mourn'd the friendly swain,
But pow'r and wealth's unvarying cheek was dry!
Where were ye then ye powerful patrons, where?
Wou'd ye the purple shou'd your limbs adorn,
Go wash the conscious blemish with a tear.
ELEGY IV. Ophelia's urn. To Mr. G---.
Near some lone fane, or yew's funereal green,
What dreary forms has magic fear survey'd!
What shrouded spectres superstition seen!
Nor dread the meagre phantoms wan array;
What none but fear's officious hand can paint,
What none, but superstition's eye, survey.
Shall see your step to these sad scenes return:
Constant, as crystal dews impearl the lawn,
Shall Strephon's tear bedew Ophelia's urn!
Where sleep the reliques of that virtuous maid:
Nor aught unlovely bend its devious way,
Where soft Ophelia's dear remains are laid.
She keeps late vigils on her urn reclin'd,
May see light groups of pleasing visions rise;
And phantoms glide, but of celestial kind.
Shall seek forgiveness of Ophelia's shade;
“Why has such worth, without distinction, dy'd,
Why, like the desert's lilly, bloom'd to fade?”
Shall unmolested breathe her softest sigh:
And candour with unwonted warmth complain,
And innocence indulge a wailful cry.
Shall cull fresh flow'rets for Ophelia's tomb:
And beauty chide the fates' severe command,
That shew'd the frailty of so fair a bloom!
Shall her lov'd pupil's native taste explain:
For mournful sable all her hues forego,
And ask sweet solace of the muse in vain!
Too much the sacred Nine their loss deplore:
Well may ye grieve, nor find an end of grief—
Your best, your brightest fav'rite is no more.
ELEGY V. He compares the turbulence of love with the tranquillity of friendship.
To Melissa his Friend.
I pass awhile to friendship's equal skies;
Thou, gen'rous maid, reliev'st my partial pain,
And chear'st the victim of another's eyes.
How can my will and reason disagree?
How can my passion live beneath despair!
How can my bosom sigh for aught but thee?
My soul has yet surviv'd its dreariest time;
Ill can I bear the various clime of love!
Love is a pleasing, but a various clime!
Parthenope, with ev'ry verdure crown'd!
When strait Vesuvio's horrid cauldrons roar,
And the dry vapour blasts the regions round.
When Maro to these fragrant haunts retir'd!
Oh fatal realms! and oh accurst domains!
When Pliny, 'mid sulphureous clouds, expir'd!
As o'er its waves the peaceful halcyons play;
When soon rude winds their wonted rule regain,
And sky and ocean mingle in the fray.
Ev'n hope subside amid the billows tost;
Hope, still emergent, still contemns the wave,
And not a feature's wonted smile is lost.
ELEGY VI. To a lady on the language of birds.
The science of the feather'd choirs explore:
Hear linnets argue, larks descant of love,
And blame the gloom of solitude no more.
Nor senseless ditty, chears the vernal tree:
Ah! who, that hears Dione's tuneful tongue,
Shall doubt that music may with sense agree?
Evolve the mazes, and the mist dispel:
Translate the song; convince my doubting maid,
No solemn dervise can explain so well.—
The slave of hopeless vows, and cold disdain!
When Philomel address'd his mournful mate,
And thus I constru'd the mellifluent strain.
At ev'ry note a lover sheds his tear;
Sing on, my bird—'tis Damon hears thy song;
Nor doubt to gain applause, when lovers hear.
A foe to Tereus, and to lawless love!
He mourns the story of our ancient woes;
Ah could our music his complaint remove!
And see pale Cynthia mounts the vaulted sky,
A train of lovers court the checquer'd shade;
Sing on, my bird, and hear thy mate's reply.
No lover blest the glow-worm's pallid ray:
But ill-star'd birds, that list'ning not admir'd,
Or list'ning envy'd our superior lay.
Let such by day unite their jarring strains!
But let us chuse the calm, the silent hour,
Nor want fit audience while Dione reigns.”
ELEGY VII. He describes his vision to an acquaintance.
Virg.
Pensive I saw the circling shade descend;
Weary and faint I heard the storm arise,
While the sun vanish'd like a faithless friend.
No friendly planet lent its glim'ring ray;
Ev'n the lone cot refus'd its wonted light,
Where toil in peaceful slumber clos'd the day.
The village cur 'twere transport then to hear;
In dreadful silence all was hush'd around,
While the rude storm alone distress'd mine ear.
Where tow'ring Wolsey breath'd his native air;
A sudden lustre chas'd the flitting shade,
The sounding winds were hush'd, and all was fair.
White were his locks with aweful scarlet crown'd,
And livelier far than Tyrian seem'd his vest,
That with the glowing purple ting'd the ground.
Benighted, lonesome, whither wou'dst thou stray?
Does wealth or pow'r thy weary step constrain?
Reveal thy wish, and let me point the way.
Felt ev'ry joy that fair ambition brings;
And left the lonely roof of yonder bow'r,
To stand beneath the canopies of kings.
Nor meanly rose, to bless myself alone:
I snatch'd the shepherd from his fleecy care,
And bade his wholesome dictate guard the throne.
I saw proud empires my decision wait;
My will was duty, and my word was law,
My smile was transport, and my frown was fate.”
Nor urg'd by hope of fame these toils endure;
A simple youth, that feels a lover's pain,
And, from his friend's condolance, hopes a cure.
Nor can mine honours, nor my fields extend;
Yet for his sake I leave my distant home,
Which oaks embosom, and which hills defend.
The spring, to shade me, robes her fairest tree;
And if a friend my grass-grown threshold find,
O how my lonely cot resounds with glee!
I wish to bless, I languish to bestow;
And tho' no friend to fame's obstreperous blast,
Still, to her dulcet murmurs not a foe.
Too mean to think that honours are my due,
Yet shou'd some patron yield my stores to bless,
I sure shou'd deem my boundless thanks were few.
Shot'st blazing forth; disdaining dull degrees;
Shou'd I to wealth, to fame, to pow'r aspire,
Must I not pass more rugged paths then these?
Praise him I scorn, and him I love betray?
Does not felonious envy bar the road?
Or falsehood's treach'rous foot beset the way?
Must not fair truth inglorious wait behind?
Whilst I approach the glitt'ring scenes of state,
My best companion no admittance find?
Shall I the rigid sway of fortune own?
Taught by the voice of pious truth, prepare
To spurn an altar, and adore a throne?
And when it leaves me no unshaken friend,
Shall I not weep that e'er I left the meads,
Which oaks embosom, and which hills defend?
Check not my speed where social joys invite!
The troubled vision cast a mournful glance,
And sighing vanish'd in the shades of night.
ELEGY VIII. He describes his early love of poetry, and its consequences. To Mr. G---. 1745.
What mutter'd spell retards their late increase?
Such less'ning fleeces must the swain behold,
That e'er with Doric pipe essays to please.
I took my vocal reed, and tun'd my lay;
I heard them say my vocal reed was sweet:
Ah fool! to credit what I heard them say!
Then courts the judgment of a friendly ear!
Not the poor veteran, that permits his foe
To guide his doubtful step, has more to fear.
'Till pious friendship mark'd the pleasing way:
Welcome such error! ever blest the cause!
Ev'n tho' it led me boundless leagues astray!
On list'ning Cherwell's osier banks reclin'd?
While foe to fortune, unseduc'd by fame,
I sooth'd the bias of a careless mind.
What tho' in Alma's guardian arms I play'd?
How shall the muse those vacant hours forget?
Or deem that bliss by solid cares repaid?
Where love and fancy fix their op'ning reign;
How nature shines in livelier colours drest,
To bless their union, and to grace their train.
And favour'd Rhodes beheld their passion crown'd,
Unusual flow'rs enrich'd the painted green;
And swift spontaneous roses blush'd around.
The drooping muses take their casual way;
And where they stop, a flood of tears they pour;
And where they weep, no more the fields are gay,
The cowslip's golden cup no more I see:
Dark and discolour'd ev'ry flow'r that blows,
To form the garland, Elegy! for thee!—
Ah might we now the pious rage controul;
Hush'd be my grief ere ev'ry smile be fled,
Ere the deep swelling sigh subvert the soul!
Pleas'd we behold the graceful umbrage rise;
But soon too deep it works its baneful way,
And, low on earth, the prostrate ruin lies.
Alludes to what is reported of the bay tree, that if it is planted too near the walls of an edifice, its roots will work their way underneath, till they destroy the foundation.
ELEGY IX. He describes his disinterestedness to a friend.
The pomp of India must I ne'er display;
Nor boast the produce of Peruvian mines,
Nor, with Italian sounds, deceive the day.
My grateful sheep their annual fleeces bring;
Fair in my garden buds the damask rose,
And, from my grove, I hear the throstle sing.
In vain allur'd by glitt'ring spoils they rove;
The fates ne'er meant them for the shepherd's prize,
Yet gave them ample recompence, in love.
They gave you toils; but toils your sinews brace;
They gave you nymphs, that own their amorous pains,
And shades, the refuge of the gentle race.
See! polish'd fair, the beech's friendly rind!
To sing soft carrols to your lovely dames,
See vocal grotts, and echoing vales assign'd!
Tho' sure the wreaths of chivalry to share,
Forego the ribbon thy Matilda gave?
And giving, bade thee in remembrance wear.
If to my mind my Delia's form it brings,
Has truer worth, imparts sincerer joy,
Than all that bears the radiant stamp of kings.
When love deplores the tyrant pow'r of gain!
Disdaining riches as the futile weeds,
I rise superior, and the rich disdain.
Pensive I hear the nuptial peal rebound;
“Some miser weds, I cry, the captive maid,
“And some fond lover sickens at the sound.”
Tho' now exalted to yon ambient sky,
So shun'd a soul distain'd with earth and gold,
So lov'd the pure, the generous breast, as I.
His loves, his friendships, ev'n his self, resigns;
Perverts the sacred instinct of his soul,
And to a ducate's dirty sphere confines.
Ere age impair me, and ere gold allure;
Restore thy dear idea to my breast,
The rich deposit shall the shrine secure.
The charms of independence let us sing;
Blest with thy friendship, can I wish for more?
I'll spurn the boasted wealth of Lydia's king.
ELEGY X. To fortune, suggesting his motive for repining at her dispensations.
Loads with fresh curses thy detested sway!
Ask not, thus branded in my softest song,
Why stands the flatter'd name, which all obey?
Nor see my roof on Parian columns rise;
That, on this breast, no mimic star is borne,
Rever'd, ah! more than those that light the skies.
I sing or pipe, but to the flocks that graze;
And, all inglorious, in the lonesome shade,
My finger stiffens, and my voice decays.
When many an embrio dome is lost in air;
While guardian prudence checks my eager hand,
And, ere the turf is broken, cries, “Forbear.
“Nor let yon rising column more aspire;
“Ah! better dwell in ruins, than behold
“Thy fortunes mould'ring, and thy domes entire.
“He planted, scornful of my sage commands;
“The peach's vernal bud regal'd his eye;
“The fruitage ripen'd for more frugal hands.”
O'er some rough rock that wou'd its wealth display,
Displays it aught but penury and pride?
Ah! construe wisely what such murmurs say.
Disdainful view the scantling drops distil!
How must Velino shake his reedy crest!
How ev'ry cygnet mock the boastive rill!
At noon the poor mechanic wanders home;
Collects the square, the level, and the line,
And, with retorted eye, forsakes the dome.
Can unrepining leave the rising wall:
Check the fond love of art that fir'd my veins,
And my warm hopes, in full pursuit, recall.
Loos'd be the whirlwind's unremitting sway;
Contented I, altho' the gazer smile
To see it scarce survive a winter's day.
As in the sun regales his wanton herd;
Guiltless of envy, why shou'd I repine,
That his rude voice, his grating reed's prefer'd?
Mine and the swain's reluctant homage share;
But ah! his tawdry shepherdess's pride,
Gods! must my Delia, must my Delia bear?
Submit to Marian's dress? to Marian's gold?
Must Marian's robe from distant India please?
The simple fleece my Delia's limbs enfold?
“Ye glitt'ring daughters of disguise adieu!”
So talk the wise, who judge of shape and air,
But will the rural thane decide so true?
'Tis thy false glare, O fortune! thine they see:
'Tis for my Delia's sake I dread thy frowns,
And my last gasp shall curses breathe on thee.
ELEGY XI. He complains how soon the pleasing novelty of life is over.
To Mr. J---
This fairy-scene, that cheats our youthful eyes!
The charm dissolves; th'aerial music's past;
The banquet ceases, and the vision flies.
Where the gay tapers, where the spacious dome?
Vanish'd the costly pearls, the crimson plumes,
And we, delightless, left to wander home!
What has the world to bribe our steps astray?
Ere reason learns by study'd laws to reign,
The weaken'd passions, self-subdued, obey.
Scarce shewn the whole that fortune can supply;
Since, not the miser so caress'd his gold,
As I, for what it gave, was heard to sigh.
To deck my native fleece with tawdry lace!
'Twas life, 'twas taste, and—oh my foolish heart;
Substantial joy was fix'd in pow'r and place.
The breathing picture, and the living stone:
“Tho' gold, tho' splendour, heav'n and fate deny,
“Yet might I call one Titian stroke my own!”
The wreath, the garland, fire the poet's pride,
I trim'd my lamp, consum'd the midnight oil—
But soon the paths of health and fame divide!
To grace my native scenes, my rural home;
To see my trees express their planter's care,
And gay, on Attic models, raise my dome.
A stagnant breezeless air becalms my soul;
A fond aspiring candidate no more,
I scorn the palm, before I reach the goal.
Bliss ev'n obtrusive courts the frolic mind;
Of health neglectful, yet by health carest;
Careless of favour, yet secure to find.
More free, more vivid than the linnet's wing;
Honest as light, transparent ev'n as air,
Tender as buds, and lavish as the spring.
Not all the craft to subtle age assign'd,
Not science shall extort that dear delight,
Which gay delusion gave the tender mind.
Parent of raptures, dear deceit, adieu!
And you, her daughters, pining with despair,
Why, why so soon her fleeting steps pursue!
Again to trace the wint'ry tracts of snow!
Or, sooth'd by vernal airs, again survey
The self-same hawthorns bud, and cowslips blow!
We start false joys, and urge the devious race:
A tender prey; that chears our youthful morn,
Then sinks untimely, and defrauds the chace.
ELEGY XII. His recantation.
No more with aukward fallacy complains,
How ev'ry fervour from my bosom flies,
And reason in her lonesome palace reigns.
No more she paints the breast from passion free;
I feel, I feel one loitering wish survive—
Ah need I, Florio, name that wish to thee?
The first, the loveliest of the train that shine!
The star of Venus lends her brightest ray,
When other stars their friendly beams resign.
Pure as that star, from guilt, from int'rest free,
Has gentle Delia trip'd across the plains,
And need I, Florio, name that wish to thee
I tune with careless hand my languid lays;
Some secret impulse wakes my former flame,
And fires my strain with hope of brighter days.
And lo! my crook with flow'rs adorn'd I see:
Has gentle Delia bound my crook with flow'rs,
And need I, Florio, name my hopes to thee?
ELEGY XIII. To a friend, on some slight occasion estranged from him.
Around his seat may peaceful shades abide!
Smooth flow the minutes, fraught with smiles, away,
And, till they crown our union, gently glide.
Lost to our wonted friendship, lost to joy!
Soon may thy breast the cordial wish resume,
Ere wintry doubt its tender warmth destroy.
By chance to meet beneath the torrid zone;
Would'st thou reject thy Damon's plighted hand?
Would'st thou with scorn thy once lov'd friend disown?
Shall kindred souls forego their social claim?
Launch'd in the vast abyss of space and time,
Shall dark suspicion quench the gen'rous flame?
See sadly sever'd by the laws of chance!
Myriads, in time's perennial list enroll'd,
Forbid by fate to change one transient glance!
Where passions rage, and hurricanes descend:
Say, shall we nurse the rage, assist the storm?
And guide them to the bosom—of a friend!
Might our joint aid the paths of peace explore!
Why leave thy friend amid the boist'rous throng,
Ere death divide us, and we part no more?
For me no more the vernal roses bloom!
I see stern fate his ebon wand display;
And point the wither'd regions of the tomb.
Sad as thou follow'st my untimely bier;
“Fool that I was—if friends so soon must part,
“To let suspicion intermix a fear.”
ELEGY XIV. Declining an invitation to visit foreign countries, he takes occasion to intimate the advantages of his own.
Waste their best minutes on a foreign strand,
Be mine, with British nymph or swain to rove,
And court the genius of my native land.
To catch the follies of an alien soil!
To win the vice his genuine soul disdains,
Return exultant, and import the spoil!
No more it blooms to British climes convey'd,
Cramp'd by the impulse of ungenial skies,
See its fresh vigour, in a moment, fade!
An aukward stranger, if we waft it o'er;
Why then these toils, this costly waste of time,
To spread soft poison on our happy shore?
In search of foreign modes I scorn to rove;
Nor, for the worthless bird of brighter plumes,
Wou'd change the meanest warbler of my grove.
Or form these limbs with pliant ease to play;
Trembling I view the Gaul's illusive art,
That steals my lov'd rusticity away.
Her citron groves, her flow'r-embroider'd shore;
She saw the British oak aspire sublime,
And soft Campania's olive charms no more.
To shed its lustre o'er th'Iberian maid;
Mien, beauty, shape, O native soil, are thine;
Thy peerless daughters ask no foreign aid.
'Till torn to season the Batavian bowl;
Ours is the breast whose genuine ardours please,
Nor need a drug to meliorate the soul.
Or with rude lips th'Aonian fount profane;
The muse no more by flow'ry Ladon roves,
She seeks her Thomson, on the British plain.
Ah! hapless realms that war's oppression feel!
In vain may Austria boast her Noric blade,
If Austria bleed beneath her boasted steel.
Raptur'd she once beheld its friendly shade!
And hoary Memphis boasts her tombs alone,
The mournful types of mighty pow'r decay'd!
No turban'd host the voice of truth reproves;
Learning's free source the sage's breast adorns,
And poets, not inglorious, chaunt their loves.
Thy thousand hues by chymic suns refin'd;
'Tis not the dress or mien my soul adores,
'Tis the rich beauties of Britannia's mind.
What envy'd flota bore so fair a freight?
The mine compar'd in vain its latent hoard,
The gem its lustre, and the gold its weight.
Thee the lov'd image of thy native shore!
Thee by the virtues arm'd the graces taught,
When shall we cease to boast, or to deplore?
What shall it now in recompence decree?
While friends that merit every earthly joy,
Feel every anguish; feel—the loss of thee!
No more the muse of partial praise arraign;
Britannia sees no foreign breast so fair,
And if she glory, glories not in vain.
ELEGY XV. In memory of a private family in Worcestershire.
The pealing bell awak'd a tender sigh;
Still, as the village caught the waving sound,
A swelling tear distream'd from ev'ry eye.
When the dull curfew spoke their freedom fled;
For sighing as the mournful accent roll'd,
Our hope, they cry'd, our kind support, is dead!
A group of ancient elms umbrageous rose;
The flocking rooks, by instinct's native rule,
This peaceful scene, for their asylum, chose.
Amid the shades emerging, struck the view;
'Twas here his youth respir'd its earliest air;
'Twas here his age breath'd out its last adieu.
One pious youth his whole affection crown'd:
In his young breast the virtues sprung so fair,
Such charms display'd, such sweets diffus'd around.
A noxious vapour clogs the poison'd sky;
Blasts the fair crop—the sire is drown'd in tears,
And, scarce surviving, sees his Cynthio die!
Heart-chill'd with grief—my thread, he cry'd, is spun!
“If heav'n had meant I shou'd my life extend,
Heav'n had preserv'd my life's support, my son.
Had my frail form obey'd the fates' decree!
Blest were my lot, O Cynthio! O my child!
Had heav'n so pleas'd, and I had dy'd for thee.”
Five irksome suns he saw, thro' tears, forlorn!
On his pale corse the sixth sad morning rose;
From yonder dome the mournful bier was borne.
Fought our bold fathers; rustic, unrefin'd!
Freedom's plain sons, in martial cares employ'd!
They ting'd their bodies, but unmask'd their mind.
Of milder merit, fix'd their calm retreat;
War's deadly crimson had forsook the place,
And freedom fondly lov'd the chosen seat.
To swell with empty sounds a spotless name;
If fost'ring skies, the sun, the show'r were blest,
Their bounty spread; their field's extent the same.
They scorn'd to lessen, careless to extend;
Bade luxury, to lavish courts aspire,
And avarice, to city-breasts descend.
To fire with vicious hopes a modest heir:
The sire, in place of titles, wealth, or pow'r,
Assign'd him virtue; and his lot was fair.
That sway'd the natives of a distant sphere;
From lucre's vagrant sons had learnt her fame,
But never wish'd to place her banners here.
Enjoy'd the most that innocence can give,
Those wholesome sweets that border virtue's way;
Those cooling fruits, that we may taste and live.
From their own streams their choicer fare they drew,
To lure the scaly glutton to the shore,
The sole deceit their artless bosom knew!
The common bosom, like their own, sincere!
'Tis its own guilt alarms the jealous mind;
'Tis her own poison bids the viper fear.
Their suppliant busts implore the reader's pray'r;
Ah gentle souls! enjoy your blissful reign,
And let frail mortals claim your guardian care.
That never flatter'd, injur'd, censur'd, strove;
The friends of science! music, all their own;
Music, the voice of virtue and of love!
Heard their soft lyres engage his list'ning ear;
And haply deem'd some courteous angel play'd;
No angel play'd—but might with transport hear.
Solve envy's charm, ambition's wretch release!
Raise him to spurn the radiant ills of life:
To pity pomp, to be content with peace.
The praise you sought from lips angelic flows;
Farewel! the virtues which deserve to live,
Deserve an ampler bliss than life bestows.
The modest merit of his line display'd;
Then pious Hough Vigornia's mitre wore—
Soft sleep the dust of each deserving shade.
The penns of Harborough; a place whose name in the Saxon language, alludes to an army. And there is a tradition that there was a battle fought, on the Downs adjoining, betwixt the Britons and the Romans.
ELEGY XVI. He suggests the advantages of birth to a person of merit, and the folly of a superciliousness that is built upon that sole foundation.
When title shines with ambient virtues crown'd,
Like some fair almond's flow'ry pomp it shews;
The pride, the perfume of the regions round.
Endure the swain, the youth of low degree;
Let meekness join'd its temperate beam display;
'Tis the mild verdure that endears the tree.
He sighs to brighten a neglected name;
Foe to the dull appulse of vulgar joy,
He mourns his lot; he wishes, merits fame.
Ambition there the bow'ry haunt invades;
Fame's awful rays fatigue the courtier's eye,
But gleam still lovely thro' the checquer'd shades.
Has fortune rear'd us in the rural grove;
Should ---'s eyes illume the desart plain,
Ev'n I may wonder, and ev'n I must love.
Tho' you contemn, the gods respect his vow;
Vindictive rage awaits the scornful mind,
And vengeance, too severe! the gods allow.
The look of sorrow, lovely still she bore:
Loose flow'd the soft redundance of her hair,
And, on her brow, a flow'ry wreath she wore.
Of ev'ry plain; she pillag'd ev'ry grove!
The fading chaplet daily she supply'd,
And still her hand some various garland wove.
From Bethlem's walls the poor lympatic stray'd;
Seem'd with her air her accent to conspire,
When, as wild fancy taught her, thus she said:
Sprung from the scepter'd line of ancient kings!
Scorn'd by the world, I ask thy tender aid;
Thy gentle voice shall whisper kinder things.
Nor I, nor you, shall its compassion move;
Come friendly let us wander, and complain,
And tell me, shepherd! hast thou seen my love?
And other loves are fair, and so is mine;
An air divine discloses whence he sprung;
He is my love, who boasts that air divine.
Ianthe listens to no vulgar vow;
A prince, from gods descended, fires her breast;
A brilliant crown distinguishes his brow.
More clear, more lovely bright than Hesper's beam?
The porc'lain pure with vulgar dirt debase?
Or mix with puddle the pellucid stream?
'Twas Jove's own nectar gave th'etherial hue:
Can base plebeian forms contend with mine!
Display the lovely white, or match the blue?
He chang'd his colours, and in vain he strove;
He frown'd—I smiling view'd the faint essay;
Poor youth! he little knew it flow'd from Jove.
How am'rous Jove trepann'd a mortal fair;
How thro' the race the generous current roll'd,
And mocks the poet's art, and painter's care.
Our sacred race; thro' demigods, convey'd;
And he, ally'd to Phoebus, ever young,
My god-like boy, must wed their duteous maid.
My sire's dread fury murmurs thro' the sky;
And should I yield—his instant rage appears,
He darts th'uplifted vengeance—and I die.
Have you not seen more horrid light'nings glare!
'Twas then a vulgar love ensnar'd my soul:
'Twas then—I hardly scap'd the fatal snare.
All as I listen'd to his vulgar strain;—
Yet such his beauty—wou'd my birth allow,
Dear were the youth, and blissful were the plain.
In fruitless searches ever doom'd to rove?
My nightly dreams the toilsome path resume,
And I shall die—before I find my love.
On distant heaths his radiant form survey'd;
Tho' night's thick clouds encompass'd all the sky,
The gems that bound his brow, dispell'd the shade.
Led by their beams I urg'd the pleasing chace;
'Till, on a sudden, these with-held their light—
All, all things envy the sublime embrace.
Wanders my destin'd youth, and chides my stay:
See, see, he grasps the steel—forbear my love—
Ianthe comes; thy princess hastes away.”
The lovely maniac bounded o'er the plain;
The piteous victim of an angry sky!
Ah me! the victim of her proud disdain!
ELEGY XVII. He indulges the suggestions of spleen: an elegy to the winds.
Et mulcere dedit mentes & tollere vento.
Awhile thy fury check, thy storms confine!
No trivial blast impells the passive air;
But brews a tempest in a breast like mine.
The peaceful regions of content invade!
With deadly poison taint the crystal springs!
With noisome vapour blast the verdant shade!
Of rigid Eurus, his detested sire;
Thro' one my blossoms and my fruits decay;
Thro' one my pleasures, and my hopes expire,
Relenting yields beneath the noontide beam,
I stand aghast; and chill'd with fear survey
How far I've tempted life's deceitful stream!
Shall wretched fancy a retreat explore?
She flies the sad presage of coming years,
And sorr'wing dwells on pleasures now no more!
But friends and patrons never to return!
She sees the nymphs, the graces, and the loves,
But sees them, weeping o'er Lucinda's urn.
Oh ill forsaken for Bœotian air!
She deems no flood reflects so bright a beam,
No reed so verdant, and no flow'rs so fair.
Thy bays might ev'n the civil storm repel;
Reviews thy social bliss, thy learned ease,
And with no chearful accent cries, farewel!
By youthful sports, by youthful toils ally'd!
Joyous we sojourn'd in thy circling shade,
And wept to find the paths of life divide.
Sees ev'ry muse a partial ear incline;
Binds with luxuriant bays his favour'd brow,
Nor yields the refuse of his wreath to mine.
Now blast my hope, now vindicate despair;
Bids my fond verse the love-sick parley cease;
Accuse my rigid fate, acquit my fair.
Superfluous mortal, let me ever rove!
Alas! there echo will repeat the tale—
Where shall I find the silent scenes I love?
Forbid to please, yet fated to admire;
Away my friends! my sorrows are my own!
Why should I breathe around my sick desire?
Near some sad ruin's ghastly shade to dwell!
Here let me fondly eye the rude remains,
And from the mould'ring refuse, build my cell!
Trace ev'ry dismal proof of fortune's pow'r;
Let me the wreck of theatres survey,
Or pensive sit beneath some nodding tow'r.
Convey'd pure streams to Rome's imperial wall,
Near the wide breach in silence let me mourn;
Or tune my dirges to the water's fall.
Tow'rs, arches, fanes in wild confusion strewn;
Let banish'd Marius, low'ring by thy side,
Compare thy fickle fortunes with his own.
My trembling nerves abhor thy rude controul;
And scarce a pleasing twilight soothes my care,
Ere one vast death like darkness shocks my soul.
Is built frail fear, or hope's deceitful pile;
My pains are fled—my joy resumes its place,
Shou'd the sky brighten, or Melissa smile.
Inopemque vitam in tugurio ruinarum Carthaginensium toleravit, cum Marius inspiciens Carthaginem, illa intuens Marium, alter alteri possent esse solatio. Liv.
ELEGY XVIII. He repeats the song of Collin, a discerning shepherd; lamenting the state of the woollen manufactury.
Quo minus est illis curæ mortalis egestas,
Avertes: victumque feres.
Virgil.
A tuneful shepherd charm'd the list'ning wave;
And sunny Cotsol' fondly lov'd the strain;
Yet not a garland crowns the shepherd's grave!
To feel his music with my flames agree!
To taste the beauties of his melting lay,
To taste, and fancy it was dear to thee.
I steal the musk-rose from the scented brake,
I strew my cowslips, and I pay my tear,
I'll add the myrtle for Ophelia's sake.
When death's chill rigour seiz'd his flowing tongue;
The more I found his fault'ring notes decay,
The more prophetic truth sublim'd the song.
By sunny mountain, or by verdant shore!
May some more happy hand your fold prepare,
And may you need your Collin's crook no more.
To breezy hills, or leafty shelters lead;
But if the sky with show'rs incessant weep,
Avoid the putrid moisture of the mead.
Long loit'ring there your fleecy tribes extend—
But what avail the maxims I bequeath?
The fruitless gift of an officious friend!
Tho' nightly cares, with daily labours, join?
If foreign sloth obtain the rich reward,
If Gallia's craft the pond'rous fleece purloin!
I met the terrors of an early grave?
For this, I led them from the pointed thorn?
For this I bath'd 'em in the lucid wave?
Thy blood to lavish, and thy wealth resign!
Shall ev'ry other virtue grace thy throne,
But quick-ey'd prudence never yet be thine?
Thou gav'st the sheep that browze Iberian plains:
Their plaintive cries the faithless region fill,
Their fleece adorns an haughty foe's domains.
Far from their dams their native guardians far!
Where the soft shepherd, all the livelong day,
Chaunts his proud mistress to his hoarse guittar.
Unmov'd they hear the pining shepherd's moan;
In silky folds each nervous limb disguise,
Allur'd by ev'ry treasure, but their own.
Anxious, to see the wintry tempest drive;
Preserve, said I, preserve your fleece, my sheep!
Ere long will Phillis, will my love arrive.
Rob'd in the Gallic loom's extraneous twine:
For gifts like these they give their spotless fame,
Resign their bloom, their innocence resign.
Give the rich growth of British hills to fame?
And let her charms, and her example, own
That virtue's dress, and beauty's are the same?
Once more the patriot's arduous path resume?
And, comely from his native plains array'd,
Speak future glory to the British loom?
I pierce the dreary shade of future days;
Sure 'tis the genius of the land inspires,
To breathe my latest breath in --- praise.
How gently shou'd my dying limbs repose!
O might his future glory bless mine eyes,
My ravish'd eyes! how calmly would they close!
By virtue rapt, by party uncontroul'd;
Britons for Britain shall the crook employ;
Britons for Britain's glory shear the fold.”
ELEGY XIX. Written in spring 1743.
Again the merchant ploughs the tumid wave;
Another spring renews the soldier's toil,
And finds me vacant in the rural cave.
The pensive pleasure and the tender pain,
The sordid Alpheus hurry'd thro' my groves;
Yet stop'd to vent the dictates of disdain.
He blam'd the graces of my fav'rite bow'r;
My breast, unsully'd by the lust of gold;
My time, unlavish'd in pursuit of pow'r.
Abjure these scenes from venal passions free;
Know, in this grove, I vow'd perpetual hate,
War, endless war, with lucre and with thee.
I drest an altar to Thalia's name:
Here, as I crown'd the verdant shrine with flowr's,
Soft on my labours stole the smiling dame.
Thou court success by virtue or by song,
Fly the false dictates of the venal race;
Fly the gross accents of the venal tongue.
Swerve not thy foot with fortune's vot'ries more;
Brand thou their lives, and brand their lifeless day—
The winning phantom urg'd me, and I swore.
“Aid my firm purpose, ye celestial pow'rs!
Aid me to quell the sordid breast, I said;
And threw my jav'lin tow'rds their hostile tow'rs.
Or added years no more the zeal allow;
Still, still observant to the grove I speed,
The shrine embellish, and repeat the vow.
Such gen'rous hate the Punic champion bore;
Thy lake, O Thrasimene! beheld it glow,
And Cannæ's walls, and Trebia's crimson shore.
Fair shine his arms in history enroll'd;
Whilst humbler lyres his civil worth proclaim,
His nobler hate of avarice and gold.—
Its hosts exhausted, and its fleets on fire;
Patient the victors lurid frown obey'd,
And saw th'unwilling elephants retire.
Their gold in pyramidic plenty pil'd,
He saw th'unutterable grief prevail;
He saw their tears, and, in his fury, smil'd.
Or this firm breast disclaims a patriot's pain;
I smile, but from a soul estrang'd to peace,
Frantic with grief, delirious with disdain!
Seems it less timely than the grief ye show?
O sons of Carthage! grant me to revile
The sordid source of your indecent woe!
When your fleet perish'd on the Punic wave;
Where lurk'd the coward tear, the lazy sigh,
When Tyre's imperial state commenc'd a slave?
Go, the mean sorrows of thy sons deplore;
Had freedom shar'd the vow to fortune paid,
She ne'er, like fortune, had forsook thy shore.”
Their pallid cheeks a crimson blush unfold;
Yet o'er that virtuous blush distreams a tear,
And falling moistens their abandon'd gold.
By the terms forced upon the Carthaginians by Scipio, they were to deliver up all the elephants, and to pay near two millions sterling.
ELEGY XX. He compares his humble fortune with the distress of others; and his subjection to Delia, with the miserable servitude of an African slave.
Why sinks my soul beneath each wint'ry sky?
What pensive crowds, by ceaseless labours worn,
What myriads, wish to be as blest as I!
Nor tempt the proud to quit his destin'd way?
Nor costly art my flow'ry dales disguise,
Where only simple friendship deigns to stray?
That scoop their couch beneath the drifted snows!
How void of hope they ken the frozen plain,
Where the sharp east for ever, ever blows!
My Delia's eyes endear the bands I wear;
The sigh she causes well becomes the brave,
The pang she causes, 'tis even bliss to bear.
Ah! not in love's delightful fetters bound!
No radiant smile his dying peace restores,
Nor love, nor fame, nor friendship heals his wound.
Shall I the mockery of grief display?
No, let the muse his piercing pangs disclose,
Who bleeds and weeps his sum of life away!
Ere the shrill boatswain gave the hated sign;
He dropt a tear unseen into the flood;
He stole one secret moment, to repine.
Such moving plaints as nature could inspire;
To me the muse his tender plea convey'd,
But smooth'd, and suited to the sounding lyre.
What savage race protects this impious gain?
Shall foreign plagues infest this teeming land,
And more than sea-born monsters plough the main?
Here the blue asps with livid poison swell;
Here the dry dipsa wriths his sinuous mail;
Can we not here, secure from envy, dwell?
When the stern panther sought his midnight prey,
What fate reserv'd me for this christian race?
O race more polish'd, more severe than they!
Thou hungry tyger, leave thy reeking den!
Ye sandy wastes in rapid eddies rise!
O tear me from the whips and scorns of men!
Are smiles the mien of rapine and of wrong?
Yet from their lip the voice of mercy flows,
And ev'n religion dwells upon their tongue.
Where gentle minds convey'd by death repair,
But stain'd with blood, and crimson'd o'er with crimes,
Say, shall they merit what they paint so fair?
Rich by our toils, and by our sorrows gay,
They ply our labours, and enhance our pains,
And feign these distant regions to repay.
For them we drain the mine's embowel'd gold;
Where rove the brutal nations wild desires?—
Our limbs are purchas'd, and our life is sold!
And favour'd isles with golden fruitage crown'd,
Where tufted flow'rets paint the verdant plain,
Where ev'ry breeze shall med'cine ev'ry wound.
Shall, vainly suppliant, spread his asking hand;
There shall we view the billows raging strife,
Aid the kind breast, and waft his boat to land.”
ELEGY XXI. Taking a view of the country from his retirement, he is led to meditate on the character of the ancient Britons. Written at the time of a rumoured tax upon luxury, 1746.
Umbrageous coverts hide my muse and me;
Or 'mid the rural shepherds, flow my days,
Amid the rural shepherds, I am free.
Say, should I grow myself a solemn slave?
To find thy tints, O Titian! grace my wall,
Forego the flow'ry fields my fortune gave?
Thro' fringy woodland, or smooth-shaven lawn;
Or pensile grove, or airy cliff ascend,
And hail the scene by nature's pencil drawn.
Nor fatt'ning olive cloath the fields I rove,
Sequester'd shades, and gurgling founts are mine,
And ev'ry silvan grott the muses love.
Where hood and cowl devotion's aspect wore,
I trace the tott'ring reliques with a smile,
To think the mental bondage is no more!
Or the tall oaks, my country's bulwark, rise;
Pleas'd, if mine eye, o'er thousand vallies borne,
Discern the Cambrian hills support the skies.
Scales the proud hill's etherial cliffs with pain!
Such Caer-caradoc! thy stupendous height,
Whose ample shade obscures th'Iernian main.
Some prying sage his lonely step may bend;
There, by the love of novel plants inspir'd,
Inviduous view the clamb'ring goats ascend.
The freeborn Briton left his greenest mead,
Receding sullen from his mightier foe,
For here he saw fair liberty recede.
Sustain'd her drooping sons, repell'd her foes,
Above or Persian luxe, or Attic art,
The rude majestic monument arose.
Sires, to his praise, attun'd their children's tongue;
The hoary druid fed the gen'rous flame,
While, in such strains, the rev'rend vizard sung.
Your gods expell'd, your liberty resign'd?
Go forth, my sons! for what is instant death
To souls secure perennial joys to find?
Where drops the balm that heals a tyrant's wound;
Where patriots, blest with boundless freedom, reign,
With misletoe's mysterious garlands crown'd,
Your solemn woods resound their martial fire;
To you, my sons, the ritual meed belongs,
If in the cause you vanquish, or expire.
What aweful voice my raptur'd bosom warms;
This is the favour'd moment heav'n approves,
Sound the shrill trump; this instant, sound, to arms.”
To shape the lance, or decorate the shield;
Ev'n the fair virgin stain'd her native grace,
To give new horrors to the tented field.
For some false Florimel's impure disguise,
The listed youth, nor war's loud signal know,
Nor virtue's call, nor fame's imperial prize.
Inert and silent slept the manly car;
But rush'd horrific o'er the fearful steep,
If freedom's aweful clarion breath'd to war.
Thron'd in the splendid carriage glides supine;
To taint his virtue with a foreign strain,
Or at a sav'ourite's board, his faith resign.
Chase her, Britannia, to some hostile shore!
Or fleece the baneful pest with annual spoil,
And let thy virtuous offspring weep no more!
ELEGY XXII. Written in the year --- when the rights of sepulture were so frequently violated.
Parent of dreams! thou great magician, say,
Whence my late vision thus endures the light;
Thus haunts my fancy thro' the glare of day.
And anxious care resign'd my limbs to rest;
A sudden lustre struck my wond'ring eyes,
And Silvia stood before my couch confest.
That led the dance beneath the festive shade!
But she that, in the morning of her day,
Intomb'd beneath the grass-green sod was laid.
No more her breast inspir'd the lover's flame,
No more her cheek the Pæstan rose surpast;
Yet seem'd her lip's etherial smile the same.
Nor such her voice as charm'd the list'ning crowd;
Nor such her dress as heighten'd ev'ry grace;
Alas! all vanish'd for the mournful shroud!
That dear distinction every doubt remov'd;
Perish the lover, whose imperfect flame
Forgets one feature of the nymph he lov'd.
Oh! do not waste it with a fruitless tear!
Tho' griev'd to see thy Silvia's pale disguise,
Suspend thy sorrow, and attentive hear.
So be thy love with mutual love repaid!
So may thy bones in sacred silence rest,
Fast by the reliques of some happier maid!
Disease invidious nipt my flow'ry prime;
And oh! what pangs my tender bosom tore,
To think I ne'er must view my native clime!
No dear companion wept to see me die;
Lodge me within my native soil, I said;
There my fond parents honour'd reliques lie.
Unknown, forgot, I meet the fatal blow;
There many a friend shall grace my woeful bier,
And many a sigh shall rise, and tear shall flow.
Some venal mourner lent his careless aid;
And soon they bore me to my native soil,
Where my fond parents dear remains were laid.
Adorn'd with mournful verse thy Silvia's bier;
'Twas then the nymphs their votive garlands wove,
And strew'd the fragance of the youthful year.
Cou'd Damon's foot the pious path decline?
Ah no! 'twas Damon first attun'd his lay,
And sure no sonnet was so dear as thine.
My placid ghost no longer wept its doom;
When savage robbers every sanction brave,
And with outrageous guilt defraud the tomb!
Lose the cheap portion of my native sands?
Or, in my kindred's dear embraces laid,
Mourn the vile ravage of barbarian hands?
To see my limbs the felons gripe obey?
To see them gash'd beneath the daring steel?
To crowds a spectre, and to dogs a pray?
If health's fair science be by these refin'd,
Let guilty convicts, for their use, expire;
And let their breathless corse avail mankind.
To see the victim's corse deny'd repose!
Now, more severe! the poor offenceless maid
Dreads the dire outrage of inhuman foes.
Where the fond care the wand'ring manes claim?
Nature, instinctive, cries, Protect the dead,
And sacred be their ashes, and their fame:
Ev'n now the villain snuffs his wonted prey;
See! See! I lead thee to yon' sacred walls—
Oh! fly to chase these human wolves away.”
ELEGY XXIII. Reflections suggested by his situation.
I take my plaintive reed, and range the grove,
And raise my lay, and bid the rocks resound
The savage force of empire, and of love.
Where spreading oaks embow'r a Gothic fane;
Kendrida's arts a brother's youth beguil'd;
There nature urg'd her tend'rest pleas in vain.
Th'ambitious maid cou'd every care employ;
Then with assiduous fondness cropt the flow'rs,
To deck the cradle of the princely boy?
Love fires her breast; the sultry passions rise;
A favour'd lover seeks the Mercian throne,
And views her Kenelm with a rival's eyes.
Wou'd fate or fortune Mercia's heir remove!
How sweet to revel on the couch of state!
To crown at once her lover and her love!
To these lone hills direct his devious way;
The youth, all prone, the sister guide obey'd,
Ill-fated youth! himself the destin'd prey.
Forms the lone refuge of the silvan game;
Since Lyttelton has crown'd the sweet domain
With softer pleasures, and with fairer fame.
Immortal bards, a polish'd race, retire;
And where hoarse scream'd the strepent horn, succeed
The melting graces of no vulgar lyre.
For Britain's friend the verdant wreath prepare!
Or, studious of revolving seasons, tell,
How peerless Lucia made all seasons fair!
And in these groves indulge his tuneful vein!
Or from yon' summit, with a guardian's eye,
Observe how freedoms hand attires the plain!
To his lov'd haunts, or dearer friend, return!
What art! what friendships! oh! what fame resign'd!
—In yonder glade I trace his mournful urn.
And these glad streams and smiling lawns behold?
Where is the breast can hear the woodland strain,
And think fair freedom well exchang'd for gold.
While o'er my head forgotten suns descend!
Thro' these dear valleys bend my casual way,
'Till setting life a total shade extend!
I'll muse how much I owe mine humbler fate:
Or shrink to find, how much ambition dares,
To shine in anguish, and to grieve in state!
Where her bold arm has left no sanguine stain?
Where, shew me where, the lineal scepter glows,
Pure, as the simple crook that rules the plain?
In kindred bosoms solve the social tie;
There not the parent's smile is half sincere;
Nor void of art the consort's melting eye.
No face is brighten'd, and no bosoms beat;
Youth, manhood, age, avow one forbid aim,
And ev'n the beardless lip essays deceit.
The glance, that more than rural blame instills;
Whispers, that ting'd with friendship doubly wound,
Pity that injures, and concern that kills.
Caressing brothers part but to revile;
There all men smile, and prudence warns the wise,
To dread the fatal stroke of all that smile.
With horrid purpose hug destructive arms;
There soft-ey'd maids in murd'rous plots conspire,
And scorn the gentler mischief of their charms.
Day, night, nor hour, their anxious guard resign;
But lay me, fate! on flow'ry banks, secure,
Tho' my whole soul be, like my limbs, supine.
My lyre resound no prostituted lays;
More warm to merit, more elate to wear
The cap of freedom, than the crown of bays.
I wish it not o'er golden sands to flow;
Chear'd by the verdure of my spiral wood,
I scorn the quarry, where no shrub can grow.
His tongue, his hand, attempts no secret wound;
He sings his Delia, and if she be true,
His love at once, and his ambition's crown'd.
Kenelm in the Saxon heptarchy was heir to the kingdom of Mercia; but being very young at his father's death, was, by the artifices of his sister and her lover, depriv'd of his crown and life together. The body was found in a piece of ground near the top of Clent Hill, exactly facing Mr. Shenstone's house: near which place a church was afterwards erected to his memory, still used for divine worship, and called St. Kenelm's. See Plot's History of Staffordshire.
ELEGY XXIV. He takes occasion from the fate of Eleanor of Bretagne , to suggest the imperfect pleasures of a solitary life.
Hid from the chearful glance of human eye;
When nature's pride inglorious waits the tomb,
Hard is that heart which checks the rising sigh.
The cause of love, the cause of justice own?
Matchless thy charms, and was no life resign'd
To see them sparkle from their native throne?
Well might such brows the regal gem resign;
Thy radiant mein might scorn the guilt of arms,
Yet Albion's aweful empire yield to thine.
She wet with royal tears her daily cell;
She found keen anguish ev'ry rose devour;
They sprung, they shone, they faded, and they fell.
Successive suns a languid radiance threw;
To paint how fierce her angry guardian frown'd,
To mark how fast her waning beauty flew.
Nor warmly hopes what splendor can supply;
Fond youth incessant mourns, if rigid walls
Restrain its list'ning ear, its curious eye.
This boasted calm that smooths our early days,
For never yet could youthful mind restrain
Th'alternate pant for pleasure and for praise.
Ev'n me, the scenes of polish'd life allure;
Some genius whispers “Life is on the wing,
And hard his lot that languishes obscure.
The shining cincture, and the broider'd fold
Can pierce like light'ning thro' the figur'd ore,
And melt to dross the radiant forms of gold.
The futile presents of capricious pow'r!
But wit, but worth, the public sphere adorn,
And who but envies then the social hour?
Forget how --- sustains the shepherd's cause?
Content in shades to tune a lonely reed,
Nor join the sounding pæan of applause?
See Grenville quit the muse's fav'rite ease;
And shall not swains admire his noble zeal?
Admiring praise, admiring strive to please?
And courts, and cells in vain our hopes renew:
But ah! where Grenville charms the list'ning ear,
'Tis hard to think the chearless maxim true.
Soft thro' the vale resound the lonesome lay;
Ev'n thickets yield delight, if taste preside,
But can they please, when Lyttleton's away?
Ah! were the shepherd's phrase, like his, refin'd!
But, how improv'd the generous dictate flows
Thro' the clear medium of a polish'd mind!
Her inmost wish in --- periods hear!
Happy that in the radiant circle move,
Attendant orbs, where Lonsdale gilds the sphere!
Each friendly charm, in --- conspire,
From public scenes all pensive must you part;
All joyless to the greenest fields retire!
Like some lone halcyon, social pleasure shun;
Go dare the light, enjoy its chearful beam,
And hail the bright procession of the sun.
The silent walk; no more by passion tost:
Then seek thy rustic haunts; the dreary gloom,
Where ev'ry art that colours life, is lost.”—
Restraints in hostile bands her motions wait—
—Yet will I grieve, and sadden all my strain,
When injur'd beauty mourns the muse's fate.
Eleanor of Bretagne, the lawful heiress of the English crown, upon the death of Arthur, in the reign of king John. She was esteemed the beauty of her time; was imprisoned forty years (till the time of her death) in Bristol castle.
ELEGY XXV. To Delia, with some flowers; complaining how much his benevolence suffers on account of his humble fortune.
Whate'er the lavish hand of wealth can show'r,
These would I give—and every gift enjoy,
That pleas'd my fair—but fate denies the pow'r.
To learn the latent wishes of a friend!
To give the boon his native taste admires,
And, for my transport, on his smile depend!
Where droop the sons of indigence and care!
His little gifts their gladden'd eyes amaze,
And win, at small expence, their fondest pray'r!
To spare the modest blush; to give unseen!
Like show'rs that fall behind the veil of night,
Yet deeply tinge the smiling vales with green.
Whose virtues in our cultur'd vales appear!
For whose sad fate a thousand shepherds grieve,
And fading fields allow the grief sincere.
To fix its equal sphere, and see it shine;
To hear it grateful own the gen'rous aid;
This, this is transport—but must ne'er be mine.
To range where daizies open, rivers roll;
While prose or song the languid hours amuse,
And soothe the fond impatience of my soul.
And urge with trivial cares the loit'ring year;
Awhile i'll prune my grove, protect my flow'rs,
Then, unlamented, press an early bier!
Some hireling hand a fading wreath bestow;
The rest will breathe as sweet, will glow as fair,
As when their master smil'd to see them glow.
The kid again shall wanton ere 'tis noon;
Nature will smile, will wear her best attire;
O! let not gentle Delia smile so soon!
And careless eyes my vulgar fate proclaim,
Let thy kind tear my utmost worth o'rpay;
And, softly sighing, vindicate my fame.—
I bless the silent path the fates decree;
Pleas'd, from the list of my inglorious days,
To raze the moments crown'd with bliss, and thee.
ELEGY XXVI. Describing the sorrow of an ingenuous mind, on the melancholy event of a licentious amour.
That eye where mirth, where fancy us'd to shine?
Thy chearful meads reprove that swelling sigh;
Spring ne'er enamell'd fairer meads than thine.
Wert thou not form'd by nature's partial care?
Blest in thy song and blest in ev'ry grace
That wins the friend, or that enchants the fair!
Not Damon's friendship can my peace restore;
Alas! his very praise awakes my pain,
And my poor wounded bosom bleeds the more.
Or fortune fix'd me to some lowly cell!
Then had my bosom 'scap'd this fatal wound,
Nor had I bid these vernal sweets, farewel.
My youth her vain licentious bliss admir'd;
In fortune's train the syren flatt'ry smil'd,
And rashly hallow'd all her queen inspir'd.
Ah vices! gilded by the rich and gay!
I chas'd the guileless daughters of the plain,
Nor dropt the chace, till Jessy was my prey.
Expence, and art, and toil, united strove;
To lure a breast that felt the purest flame,
Sustain'd by virtue, but betray'd by love.
I cloath'd each feature with affected scorn;
I spoke of jealous doubts, and fickle smiles,
And, feigning, left her anxious and forlorn.
Warm to deny, and zealous to disprove;
I bade my words the wonted softness wear,
And seiz'd the minute of returning love.
Will yet thy love a candid ear incline?
Assur'd that virtue, by misfortune prest,
Feels not the sharpness of a pang like mine.
Ere while to flaunt it in the face of day;
When scorn'd of virtue, stigmatiz'd by fame,
Low at my feet desponding Jessy lay.
See the sad reliques of a nymph undone!
I find, I find this rising sob renew'd:
I sigh in shades, and sicken at the sun.
When will the morn's once pleasing scenes return?
Yet what can morn's returning ray supply,
But foes that triumph, or but friends that mourn!
That led the tranquil hours of spotless fame;
For I have steep'd a father's couch in tears,
And ting'd a mother's glowing cheek with shame.
The sportive lambs, increase my pensive moan;
All seem to chase me from the chearful plain,
And talk of truth and innocence alone.
Where bloom the jasmins that could once allure,
Hope not to find delight in us, they say,
For we are spotless, Jessy; we are pure.
Say, could ye with my virgin fame compare?
The brightest bud that scents the vernal gale
Was not so fragrant, and was not so fair.
And all my fame's abhorr'd contagion flee;
Trembles each lip, and faulters ev'ry tongue,
That bids the morn propitious smile on me.
I bid the sweets of blooming youth adieu;
To die I languish, but I dread to die,
Lest my sad fate shou'd nourish pangs for you.
And let me silent seek some friendly shore;
There only, banish'd from the form I love,
My weeping virtue shall relapse no more.
Be such the meed of some more artful fair;
Nor could it heal my peace, or chase my shame,
That pity gave, what love refus'd to share.
Nor hurl thy Jessy to the vulgar crew;
Not such the parent's board at which I fed!
Not such the precept from his lips I drew!
Malice may learn to scorn so mean a spoil;
Envy may slight a face no longer fair;
And pity, welcome, to my native soil.”
Nor could these hands a niggard boon assign;
Grateful she clasp'd me in a last embrace,
And vow'd to waste her life in pray'rs for mine.
I saw her breast with ev'ry passion heave;
I left her—torn from ev'ry earthly friend;
Oh! my hard bosom, which could bear to leave!
The billows rag'd, the pilot's art was vain;
O'er the tall mast the circling surges close;
My Jessy—floats upon the wat'ry plain!
Seek not to stop reflection's bitter tear;
But warn the frolic, and instruct the gay,
From Jessy floating on her wat'ry bier!
The works, in verse and prose, of William Shenstone, Esq | ||