 | I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
 | VI. |
|
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
|
 | A Collection of Poems in Six Volumes |  |
345
RURAL INSCRIPTIONS.
By the Same.
[I.] On a Root-House.
Here in cool grot, and mossy cell,
We rural fays and faeries dwell:
Tho' rarely seen by mortal eye,
When the pale moon, ascending high,
Darts thro' yon' limes her quivering beams,
We frisk it near these crystal streams.
We rural fays and faeries dwell:
Tho' rarely seen by mortal eye,
When the pale moon, ascending high,
Darts thro' yon' limes her quivering beams,
We frisk it near these crystal streams.
Her beams, reflected from the wave,
Afford the light our revels crave;
The turf, with daisies broider'd o'er,
Exceeds, we wot, the Parian floor;
Nor yet for artful strains we call,
But listen to the water's fall.
Afford the light our revels crave;
The turf, with daisies broider'd o'er,
Exceeds, we wot, the Parian floor;
Nor yet for artful strains we call,
But listen to the water's fall.
Would you then taste our tranquil scene,
Be sure your bosoms be serene;
Devoid of hate, devoid of strife,
Devoid of all that poisons life;
And much it 'vails you, in their place,
To graft the love of human race.
Be sure your bosoms be serene;
Devoid of hate, devoid of strife,
Devoid of all that poisons life;
And much it 'vails you, in their place,
To graft the love of human race.
346
And tread with awe these favour'd bow'rs,
Nor wound the shrubs nor bruise the flow'rs;
So may your paths with sweets abound!
So may your couch with rest be crown'd!
But harm betide the wayward swain,
Who dares our hallow'd haunt profane!
Nor wound the shrubs nor bruise the flow'rs;
So may your paths with sweets abound!
So may your couch with rest be crown'd!
But harm betide the wayward swain,
Who dares our hallow'd haunt profane!
Oberon.
II. In a shady Valley, near a running Water.
O! let me haunt this peaceful shade;
Nor let ambition e'er invade
The tenants of this leafy bow'r,
That shun her paths, and slight her pow'r.
Nor let ambition e'er invade
The tenants of this leafy bow'r,
That shun her paths, and slight her pow'r.
Hither the plaintive halcyon flies
From social meads and open skies;
Pleas'd, by this rill, her course to steer,
And hide her saphire plumage here.
From social meads and open skies;
Pleas'd, by this rill, her course to steer,
And hide her saphire plumage here.
The trout, bedropt with crimson stains,
Forsakes the river's proud domains;
Forsakes the sun's unwelcome gleam,
To lurk within this humble stream.
Forsakes the river's proud domains;
Forsakes the sun's unwelcome gleam,
To lurk within this humble stream.
And sure I heard the Naiad say,
“Flow, flow, my stream! this devious way;
“Tho' lovely soft thy murmurs are,
“Thy waters, lovely cool and fair!
“Flow, flow, my stream! this devious way;
“Tho' lovely soft thy murmurs are,
“Thy waters, lovely cool and fair!
347
“Flow, gentle stream! nor let the vain
“Thy small unsully'd stores disdain:
“Nor let the pensive sage repine,
“Whose latent course resembles thine.”
“Thy small unsully'd stores disdain:
“Nor let the pensive sage repine,
“Whose latent course resembles thine.”
III. On a small Building in the Gothick Taste.
O you
that bathe in courtly blysse!
Or toyle in fortune's giddye spheare!
Doo not too rashlye deeme amysse
Of him, that bydes contentid here.
Or toyle in fortune's giddye spheare!
Doo not too rashlye deeme amysse
Of him, that bydes contentid here.
Nor yet disdeigne the russet stoale,
Whyche o'er each carelesse lymbe he flyngs:
Nor yet deryde the beechen bowle,
In whyche he quaffs the lympid spryngs.
Whyche o'er each carelesse lymbe he flyngs:
Nor yet deryde the beechen bowle,
In whyche he quaffs the lympid spryngs.
Forgyve hym, if, at eve or dawne,
Devoyde of worldlye carke he stray:
Or, all besyde some flowerye lawne,
He waste his inoffensive day.
Devoyde of worldlye carke he stray:
Or, all besyde some flowerye lawne,
He waste his inoffensive day.
So may He pardonne fraud and strife,
If such in courtlye haunt he see:
For faults there beene in busye lyfe,
From whyche these peacefull glennes are free.
If such in courtlye haunt he see:
For faults there beene in busye lyfe,
From whyche these peacefull glennes are free.
| A Collection of Poems in Six Volumes | |