Poems on Various Subjects By John Thelwall. In Two Volumes |
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II. |
ELEGIES, PASTORALS, AND OTHER RURAL POEMS. |
Poems on Various Subjects | ||
ELEGIES, PASTORALS, AND OTHER RURAL POEMS.
ELEGIES.
ELEGY I. The ROSE.
If from Reflection's pow'r not wholly clear,
Would from the banquet's noisy mirth depart,
To gurgling streams to lend a pensive ear;
(If trembling Conscience shrink not from the choice)
E'en Friendship's joys, or even Beauty's smile,
For silent Solitude's instructive voice.
Or Fancy revels in luxuriant pow'r,
Articulation in each rill we find,
And gather morals from each budding flow'r.
(In no embroider'd vestment proudly gay)
Which by the gaudy tulip sidelong grows,
The blushing blossom thus appears to say:
“Fix thy affections on intrinsic worth;
“Tho' other flow'rs more gaudy vestments own,
“No bud so sweet perfumes the teeming earth.
“From cankering age, and time, charm-blighting, free;
“My scent continues when my hue is lost.
“In me the emblem of fair Delia see.”
Yet ne'er was virgin form more sweetly fair:
In her combine each charm of mien and face.
No sweeter bud perfumes the vernal air!
And, like thy scent, sweet blossom, shall remain:
The hand of Time shall polish, and not harm
The wit that rivets Cupid's roseate chain.
ELEGY II. The INVALID.
Intemp'rate pulses all unequal beat;
And tho' my fainting lungs can scarce sustain
Their wonted task, oppress'd with inward heat.
Upon no river's cooling margin stray;
Nor seek refreshing shelter from the trees,
When bright Meridian darts his scorching ray.
Can all the water in the Naiad's urns
Efface the image of my dearest maid?
Or quench Love's flame that in my bosom burns?
My waining health, ah! how shall I regain?
Verse may have pow'r to draw Love's venom'd dart;
And musick's charms may ease this feverish pain.
Invoke her presence with a sprightly strain,
Till kindly she my bosom reinspire.—
Love mocks my toil, and says, “That toil were vain!”
She seeks the breasts that jolly pastimes fire.—
My heart, alas! can by experience tell,
'Tis only Delia's smiles can Health inspire.
Or with one distant hope relieve my care?
Why will she not my wretchedness beguile,
And banish, with responsive Love, Despair?
And deem an age in sighs and tears well past,
If Delia'll pity my long-during pain,
And pay my sufferings with her love at last.
And well contented I'll my course pursue:
The gleam of Hope shall 'luminate my way,
And bear me up Life's tedious journey thro'.
ELEGY III. DESPONDENCY.
Nor lop my orchard's boughs, nor prune my vine?
While, chok'd with weeds, my promis'd crops decay,
And with'ring flow'rs, thro' lack of tending, pine.
Or teach my lambs in verdant meads to roam;
But, quite neglectful of my pining flocks,
Within my dreary cottage sigh at home.
Gay Flora scorns to bless my slighted bow'r;
Ceres nor visits my uncultur'd land,
Nor feel my trees Pomona's fruitful pow'r.
Let happier youths those busy cares employ;
Love, hopeless Love, my cheerless bosom tears.—
Why must I live forlorn of ev'ry joy?
Oh chace this langour with a gentle smile!
Rough Labour's active life o'erjoy'd I'll prove,
If Delia'll share the guerdon of my toil.
When scorching Leo fries the gaping ground;
While, in some water'd vale, the bleating flocks
My Delia tends, by poplars shaded round.
Or frigid blasts Earth's hoary bosom freeze,
Myself both goats and fleecy flocks will tend,
At home while Delia tastes indulgent ease.
To delve the glebe, or do the oxen's toil;
If thou'lt but cheer my heart at my return,
And pay my labours with a gracious smile.
And gather faggots from the neighb'ring wood,
And, numb'd and cramp'd with cold, when back I come
Thy fond concern shall warm my frozen blood.
ELEGY IV. The MUSE.
No more I sing of shepherds' happy loves;
No more each blossom's virtues I rehearse,
Or cull gay wreath's in Fancy's fertile groves.
My woes appear in ev'ry drooping lay:
If other subjects for my verse I chuse,
A love-lorn sigh wafts ev'ry thought away.
On high Parnassus seek immortal fame:
In epic verse a lasting work prepare,
May place with Maro's my yet humble name!
Let sanguine War in all its horrors rage!
Cleave heav'n's scar'd vault, and drench the thirsty plain,
While spreading Discord thunders thro' the page.
Let valiant Henry's conquests be thy choice!
—The vain attempt is blasted by my woes:
Love breathes a sigh dispels the trumpet's voice.
With rosy wreaths luxuriant grapes I'll twine:
To Bacchus' praise my lyricks shall belong;
With Bacchus buxom Venus shall combine.
Let many a cup of mantling wine be quafft!—
—Ah vain essay! my spirits sink to earth:
Love drops a tear, and sours the wanton draught.
Still turn to thee, my anguish to inflame?
Why does my Muse still ruminate my woes,
Still paint thy charms, still dwell on Delia's name?
Why, when I wake, is Delia still my theme?—
Has not Despair the pow'r Desire to kill?
Or does presumptuous Hope still fan my flame?
Shall treasure up thy lov'd memorial still:
Tho' ev'ry tender line inflame my smart,
Thy virtuous charms the mournful page shall fill.
ELEGY V. The PERSON.
Come, with sweet smiles, and banish fell Despair!
Why wilt thou heedless view thy lover's smart?
Ah, why reject his tender, faithful pray'r?
Nor shine my eyes with wit's enliv'ning ray;
No curls Hesperient wanton in my neck,
Nor glossy lips the currant's hue display?
And no far-grazing cattle call me lord;
No numerous fleeces whiten o'er the land,
Nor hives luxuriant honied sweets afford?
And cheerful toil shall multiply my store:
For thee thro' storms I'd plow my dang'rous way,
Or delve in gloomy mines for sordid ore.
To chace the furious lion with my spear;
Or hunt hyænas 'neath the frigid sky,
The toil-bought guerdon would my Delia share.
Nor yet the plainness of my person scorn:
My ceaseless toil shall force a boon from Fate,
And cheerful health my person shall adorn.
ELEGY VI. The LARK.
(So cruel Love, capricious god! decrees)
Long mourns, neglected by the lovely dame,
And long, enanguish'd, seeks in vain to please.
The faultering accent, trembling on his tongue;
The bosom heaving with the painful sigh,
The head propended as he droops along:
(The faithful indicates of fervent love)
Disgust the fancy of the thoughtless fair,
And the preventions of his fortune prove.
(Who insincerely boasts bright Beauty's pow'r)
Oft bears the virgin's captive heart away,
And on her soft affections steals each hour.
Thoughts unimpassion'd point the happy way
T'improve each chance with brisk, assiduous care,
And the unguarded, flatter'd heart betray.
My fond affection, my respectful fears,
Perplex my fancy, and my judgment blind:
Confus'd, I tremble when my love appears.
Neglect each pleasing, softly soothing art;
With fruitless sighs, thus vainly seek relief,
And vainly strive to gain my Delia's heart.
With sensibility and sense adorn'd
In blest extreme, like Heav'n's peculiar care!)
You cause the grief for which your lover's scorn'd.
Think not my sadness speaks a sullen heart,
Or mournful words a peevish mind display:
I sink, alas! beneath Love's hopeless dart!
To bandy jocund laughter round the room?
What tho' I gaily chaunt no mirthful song;
But o'er my converse wear a sadd'ning gloom?
Emerging gaily from the laughing east;
As blithe and sportive as the frolic May,
With choral birds and gaudy flow'rets drest.
Thro' the blue welkin while he wont to rove,
With dulcet pipe would hail Aurora's rays
With hymns of gratitude, and songs of love.
His head he droops, and hangs his fainting wings:
His bosom pierc'd with dreary Discontent,
No more, alas! the mattin warbler sings.
Sink, inly fainting, in my love-lorn heart.
Give me but Hope, no lev'rock shall compare
With me, in gaiety or tuneful art.
And, while 'tis warbled by thy dulcet voice,
No feather'd tenant of the blooming spray
Shall with more perfect gratitude rejoice.
ELEGY VII. The CONSOLATION.
Sigh in soft verse, in vain, for love's return?
Did he, in vain, in softest strains deplore,
Condemn'd unpitied to a timeless urn?
Made all the charms of Tibullus his own?
And was his learning and his genius vain
To chace from Delia's brow th'obdurate frown
To woo my lovelier Delia to these arms,
With verse expressive of the heaving sigh,
Which speaks my pains and her transcendent charms?
To breathe in artful notes the love-lorn care.
To me no aid laborious science brought:
Love and the Muse my only tutors are!
Meonides for me ne'er tun'd his shell;
Anacreon, Sappho, ne'er my verse improv'd;
Nor he who knew the arts of love so well.
And, like my person, rude and unrefin'd:
More fit to seek some rustic damsel's heart,
Than woo fair Delia's all-accomplish'd mind.
In pensive silence I'll my pipe forego.—
Yet no, the Muse my drooping heart shall cheer,
And balmy verse shall lull the poignant woe.
Stole on my heart, and fir'd my youthful mind:
For verse can soothe whom Love and Fortune wrong,
And Passion's force in friendly fetters bind.
Nor my more cruel fair, their frowns abate;
Yet will I still retain a grateful mind,
Nor Heav'n accuse, nor murmur at my fate.
Pensive I stretch'd upon the verdant plain,
Me, yet a boy, the Muse would tutor oft,
And Love instruct and meliorate the strain.
ELEGY VIII. The EXECRATION.
TO A FRIEND.
When first I listen'd to her syren tongue!
Resign'd my bosom to her pleasing pow'r,
And by her tuneful influence was undone.
With wild, enthusiast ardour, all my heart!
Oh happier they whom torpid Dulness shades,
Who plodding ply some low mechanic art!
Untimely laid me, ere th'aspiring flame
Of ambient Fancy o'er me shining first,
Inspir'd and fill'd me with the love of fame!
Nor sensibility nor spirit knows!
Who, all joys to appetite confin'd,
With pity throbs not, nor refinement glows!
Oh years of bliss!—swift o'er my youthful head,
With rhimes uncouth, ambitious, I begun
To shew the flame which late so widely spread.
With mimick pencil or instructive book,
And to refining arts, e'en then, aspire;—
My sports neglected, and my mates forsook.
Tho' cold Misfortune chill'd my progress long,
And damp'd the ardour of my youthful breast,
Nought could destroy the sacred love of song.
Which prompts the soul to knowledge and to fame;
Which to refinement makes us still aspire,
Expands the heart, and doubles feeling's claim.
Or what is Science? Fame and Knowledge what?
That thus you throw soft peace and rest away,
And, for Opinion, blast your tranquil lot?
For Sensibility and Fame forego
Low-thoughted transports: be the bosom mine
That feels from Sympathy redoubled woe!
Tho' nights of sleepless care the wish attend!
And my warm'd fancy, oh ye Muses! crown,—
Tho' in unpitied want the vision end!
With me the page instructive to explore,
Unheedful of the midnight tolling bell,—
Tho' aching heads succeed the 'laborate lore!
From noisy Mirth and greedy Wealth estrang'd,
Ere all the feelings I so long have priz'd,
With Muse and Fancy, for such bliss be chang'd.
(And generous souls the choice must better suit)
A man, oppress'd with grief and misery,
Than the most happy, grov'ling, sensual brute.
The more of Science does the bosom fire;
We bear resemblance to the brutes the less,
And tow'ring rise in dignity the high'r.
ELEGY IX. TWELFTH DAY.
To Mrs. H.
Those cheerful days of innocence and mirth!)
I bless'd the wained sun's convivial rays
That gave this day of joyous pastime birth.
Where humour much, but more good-nature shin'd;
While joke and song the cheerful feast prolong'd
Far past the usual hour for rest assign'd.
Full oft incite to pastimes gay and bland;
Full oft himself revive the flagging joke,
And in the comrade loose the sire's command.
Of morals blameless, as of manners gay;
He scorn'd the stoick frown and tone severe,
And rather chose by love than fear to sway.
Of all our joys. Yet not within his tomb
Was bliss interr'd; for many a tender shoot
Sprung budding forth, and blush'd with hopeful bloom.
(Now flown perhaps to visit me no more).
The blazing faggot cheer'd the social train,
While Ease and Plenty show'r'd their lavish store.
And eager wrestled for our transient fate.
If I suppos'd gay Stella was the queen,
Eager I panted for the kingly state.
And thought no real Monarch was so blest:
This crown'd my transport; was my warmest wish:—
Love, now my torture, then was but my jest.
In mirth outshining all my childish peers,
With spirits, health, and fortune to befriend—
What sad reverse attends my ripening years!
And friendless solitude, my peace destroys;
And love, all hopeless, drives me to despair;
And hell-born Ate my sad heart annoys.
Ye social days of plenty, joy, and peace!
Say will ye hither, once again, repair?
Will e'er the frowns of adverse Fortune cease?
To my sick fancy paints a thousand ills:
Upholds her shadowy, woe depictur'd screen,
And thus her hope-destroying lore instils:
My playful cat, my only company,
Who seems to pity my dejected state,
And, purring, fondly sports upon my knee.
And doating think on lovely Delia's charms—
Those charms, alas! which never must be mine:
Ah how the teasing thought my heart alarms!
And sing in mournful verse my hapless plight,
The regal name my Delia may elect,
And some pert beau (the monarch of the night)
Imprints the kiss, his three-hours consort hails;—
Careless the balmy nectar'd breath he sips,
Nor knows how rare a flow'r his sense regales.
Some favour'd lover gains the peerless prize;
The pleasing kiss inflames their mutual fires,
And mutual pleasure melts in either's eyes.
Should sick Imagination add her store?
Ideal, blending with substantial strife,
Oppress the feeble wretch surcharg'd before?
Swell not with fancied woes my real grief,
Nor forge conceits to double ev'ry pain!—
But come, kind Hope, and bring my mind relief.
And I, who long have mourn'd her cruel spite,
In time her warm benevolence may feel:—
Aurora's rays succeed the darkest night.
ELEGY X. NEW YEAR'S NIGHT
The plaintive Moon displays her yellow face:
Her light diminish'd by the humid shrowd,
Which wimples o'er the wonted azure space.
Illume my window with a dappled light,
And, fix'd in sober thought, my eye surveys
The dun appearance of the cheerless night.
“Thou pensive bard, survey thy shadow'd fate!
“Yon low'ring sky with serious truth is wrought:
“Strong emblem, youth, of thy untoward state.
“No spot is cheer'd with azure's splendid hue,
“Yet sullen darkness no where is display'd:
“In this thy state of mind distinctly view.
“No cheerful friends, no nymphs of form divine
“Thy days consume, or cheer thy lonely nights;
“No rays of Fortune on thy efforts shine.
“Tho' sportive joys thy mind but rarely bless,
“Yet art thou not in black Despondence lost:
“Few feel the gloom of Melancholy less.
“Dispelling darkness, yet scarce yielding light,
“Shews how thy feeble hopes just faintly gleam,
“To keep thy soul from Fear's desponding night.”
Tolls forth the knell of a departed day!
Ah, who that hears the awful sound can tell
That he shall hear another toll'd away?
To hail with festal joy the new-born year,
Prolong the cheerful hour, and jocund yet
Push round the glass, while songs and pastimes cheer?
And waste in pensive thought the sleepless night,
Have hail'd this gay, this sportive season too,
The social harbinger of loud delight.
Gave wings to time, and roll'd the hours away;
While sportive cranks, and harmless gambols free
Were interspers'd with flash of Humour gay.
Thrice has return'd the time of sport and glee—
—But ah! in vain the circling times appear,
Revolving seasons bring no joys to me.
Alone, neglected and deserted pine;
No hours convivial they in revels share,
Where wit, where beauty, and where affluence shine.
This age of worldly prudence and of pride—
To court the humble, or the youth engage,
Who, saving Genius, has no wealth beside?
Repine I will not at my stars unkind,
But rather far my gratitude display
For inward wealth, which gilds my tranquil mind.
Does not gay Fancy bless my lonely hours?
Does not Content her soothing lore instil,
And Health come tripping from her roseate bow'rs?
He, independent, Fortune may despise:
Others their bliss from outward objects claim;
He, in his bosom bears the source of joys.
Ye painted flies, who glitter at the ball!
Ye feather'd fops, who vaunt in tinsel state!
Know I, vain things! am richer than ye all!
And all the stores thro' fertile Nilus sent,
Procure such rich enjoyment for the mind
As Muse, as Fancy, Health, and young Content?
ELEGY XI. The DEPARTED FRIEND.
That decorates the thorny road of life—
How oft Grief's worm the tender bud invades,
How oft 'tis blighted by Misfortune's strife!
Shrinks the young foliage of our budding hopes!
How oft the sudden hand of cruel Death
The sweetest branch of our enjoyment lops!
Still shall thy memory in my bosom live.
Thy virtues bloom in recollection there;
To emulate those virtues will I strive.
Each other comfort in my tender age;
In him it seem'd my losses to repay—
My sweet companion on life's toilsome stage!
O'erflowing fount of Sensibility!
To friends how true, to relatives how kind,
And how belov'd of ev'ry one was he!
Witness the mutual sorrows she return'd,
While both in tears of fond affection melt,
When he a sister's transient parting mourn'd!
I wish'd I could the cause of grief remove;
But vain that wish—I then resolv'd to try
With tuneful verse my Philip's breast to soothe.
For friendship's flame that glow'd within my breast
Inspir'd my thoughts, all artless as they were,
And thus the lay, well-meaning, I addrest:
“Tho' nor by Muse inspir'd, nor Grace refin'd,
“Which I, in loose alternate rhime rehearse,
“To soothe the sorrows of thy gentle mind.
“No boldly-splendid thoughts my theme refine,
“—Such as in Spenser's nobler page appear,
“Or Collins, in thy strains majestic shine?
“Or various praise of nervous, smooth, and clear.
“Enough my honour, all I wish and claim,
“If with my verse thy bosom I may cheer.
“The faithful dictates of an honest heart:
“Friendship alone inspir'd the fair design
“To thee, these soothing verses to impart.
“No need of tuneful Pope's energic art,
“To strike, with trembling hand, a humble lyre,
“And sing the genuine feelings of the heart.
“Oh think they flow from an uneasy heart:
“The voice of Anguish never can be clear,
“And Melancholy mars the tuneful art.
“'Mongst gay compeers no social hours I spend;
“But oft in silence shed the bitter tear,
“And darkling sighs full oft my bosom rend.
“And my sad breast inspires with soothing rhimes;
“And Fancy for a while my bosom cheers,
“With promis'd bliss and joy in future times.
“Thy friendly converse glads my drooping heart;
“Relieves my sorrows with the cheerful gleam
“Of gay delight, and blunts Misfortune's dart.
“So shall my Muse to comfort thee essay:
“Thus from the stream the flow'rets nurture find,
“And in return her verdant banks array.
“Thy heart for ev'ry social tie who form'd,
“The best of all terrestrial gifts hath giv'n,—
“A friend with feelings like thy own adorn'd.
“By ev'ry soft accomplishment refin'd;
“Who pays thy generous love with equal store,
“And in affections like as like in mind.
“In warm fraternal bonds combin'd with thee:
“To meet at home a friend so good, so kind:
“In thy fair sister all these charms to see.
“The pearly drops in moist succession fell;—
“No wonder that with fault'ring tongues ye speak,
“And blend with tears the bitter word, “Farewel.”
“How small's the distance that your love divides:
“No snow-crown'd Alps your neighb'ring dwellings part,
“No roaring oceans 'tween ye roll their tides.
“For by short absence love is but increas'd,
“And pleasure's sweeter after pain's annoy:
“Who ne'er knew trouble Heav'n but half has bless'd.
“In silence droops, of ev'ry joy forlorn;
“But with his voice makes vocal all the grove
“When his heart's gladden'd by her wish'd return.
“Rolls limpid on, and smoothly babbling glides,
“Till some rude crag obstructs the tranquil rill,
“And in two wand'ring brooks its course divides.
“Unbless'd they wander, shed sad, troubled tears,
“And mourn their parting in low murm'ring sounds,
“Till pitying nature their lamenting hears.
“Rushes delighted to the other's breast:
“Thus reunited, far more pleas'd they seem
“Than ere division's anxious cares opprest.
“Their breast reflecting nature's various dyes:
“Flocks, shrubs, and flow'rs, which earth or feeds or yields,
“There mix confus'dly with the tinctur'd skies.”
When—oh! how transient, how unstable's life!
How vain is hope! How unexpected ill,
Instead of promis'd peace, brings unthought strife!
My bleeding memory mourns the painful thought!
That friend, for whom my verse design'd relief,
By swift disease t'his early grave was brought.
Who now my sad reflections shall relieve?
Where shall my heart consoling friendship find?—
Misfortune's children all unpitied grieve!
Droops on the earth, the florist views with pain
His garden's glory fall'n, each method tries
With props to rear it, and with art sustain;
By raging Erus, in the dust lays prone,
No trav'ller thinks it his assistance worth,
But each indignant treads its blossoms down.
You kindly courted when the world grew coy;—
When bland civility was at an end,
And cold-grown kindred turn'd th'inverted eye.
Thou other Philip, in a softer frame!
What can the anguish of thy bosom soothe?
What pangs excessive must thy breast enflame!
When in short absence ye were doom'd to pine?
What floods of woe will now that channel seek,
Since thou for e'er thy Philip must resign?
Their beauteous heads upon the earth recline,
So thy sad beauties drooping shrink from view;—
Oh when once more shall comfort's sunbeams shine?
ELEGY XII. The SWALLOWS.
WHILE the author was, one summer's evening, sitting among the branches of a young, but antic-twisted oak, which hangs over a favourite and most romantic dell, (the scenery of which is equally heightened by the bubbling and unequal stream which runs through it, and by the corn-fields, precipices, dingles and bushes, trees, and flowers which adorn its winding brink, and add a beautiful and wild variety to the prospect) two swallows settled on the boughs of the same tree. The noise the first made before he was joined by his companion, together with the romantic scene, suggested to his mind the ideas he has endeavoured to convey in the following Elegy.
(Where Philomela's wont to build her bow'r)
Which wreathes fantastic o'er the babbling brook,
To mournful thought I'll dedicate an hour.
To her bright bosom takes the panting Sun;
Who journeys down, behind yon hill, in haste
Obtruding eyes of prying man to shun.
And with her pipe salute departing day;
Each feather'd songster baits his tired wing,
And calls his partlet to the wonted spray.
With wonted vespers make each meadow ring;
With sweets surcharg'd, which gaudy Flora yields,
The bee, soft murmuring, homeward bends his wing.
And, perching near me, from the distant spray
Thus seems her tim'rous partner to invite:
“Oh guide, my love! thy purple wing this way.
“It is no foe invades our peaceful bow'r;
“But Strephon 'tis, who scorns a bird to harm,
“But ever guards them with his utmost pow'r.
“Which thro' the winding dells meanders stray;
“For here the Muse his throbbing bosom fills,
“And Fairies drive his pensive thoughts away.
“Which shone reflecting mild Lucina's sheen;
“I stretch'd the wing, to bid my bow'r farewel,
“When strait before me stood the Fairy Queen.
‘Thy fluttering heart divest of needless fear:
‘By no unfeeling swain thou art espied:—
‘The friend and lover of our haunts is here.
‘To rob the stock-dove of her callow young;
‘Nor stole the eggs from out the linnet's bow'rs;
‘Nor cag'd the sky-lark for his dulcet song.
‘From damps protect him, and his sorrows soothe:
‘For ever they the love-lorn swain befriend,
‘And ever pity unrewarded truth.
‘Will, with no skilless toil, our haunts improve;
‘Encrease the murmurs of each babbling rill
‘With stone-built falls, and grots which fairies love.
‘For love his feeling bosom has refin'd;
‘To ev'ry tender passion added pow'r,
‘And wak'd each chord of pity in his mind.
‘Which harmonizes, humanizes life,
‘Should make the lover's inward bosom bleed!
‘Give peace to others, but to him give strife!
‘And with convulsions rend her tortur'd womb,
‘While the heat makes surrounding vallies gay,
‘And decorates them with each brighter bloom.
“Her mystic train she sought beside the stream,
“Where to the tinkling rill they sportive play,
“And bask and frolick in the yellow beam.
“Our trembling pinions from the wonted bow'r;
“But, side by side, we'll keep our tranquil place,
“And to delight him try our skilless pow'r.
“Nor can we match the tuneful linnet's throat,
“Yet our rude lays may mitigate his care,
“And tho' unskilful, friendly is our note.
PASTORALS.
ECLOGUE I. THE TEARS OF HOBBINOL.
To the Memory of Mr. PHILIP BONAFOUS.
In this eclogue the author is introduced under the name of Hobbinol, lamenting the death of his friend Lubin.
In bitter stour, and shent with doleful teen;
(Hobbin, the youth who whilom blithe and gay
As mattin lark or linnet on the spray,
Was wont to sing the jocund roundelay.)
Unheeded now upon the dewy grass
His bagpipe lay, and eke untun'd it was.
His tear-stain'd cheeks forlorn of youthly blood;
In ropy tangles hung his unkempt hair,
Like one whose heart's yclouded by despair.
Full many were the heavy singulphs sent
From his riv'n breast, in sorwe all ydrent.
All in this dreary guise enchanc'd to see,
And to him yeod to weet what deal of woe
Ycaus'd his bitter tears so fast to flow.
Why what's the hap? Why, Hobbinol, my lad!
Thee art bewitch'd I trow, or ganging mad.
I met thy sheep o'ersprinting yonder mead,
Where they have stray'd for lack of better heed.
Up shepherd, up, thy scatterlings restrain,
Ere pilfering lossels filch them from the plain.
Hobbinol.
Let blithsome swains of flocks take proper keep,
Here will I lay, and eke for ever weep.
Thou witless herd-groom! hast forlorn thy wits?
How ill thy plaining with this season fits?
For now light Zephyr ling'ring Spring awakes
From her long slumber, and behold she breaks
Thro' frigid nature; sham'd that Boreas rude
Should on her wonted reign so long obtrude:
A verdant blush enclothes her gladsome frame.
D'ofte dolour then, eke 'gin some joyous game:
Tune up thy jolly pipe, which now forlore
Lies all unheeded on the greensward floor;
Herry the buxom season, as 'tis meet,
With hymnials loud and lovelays gaily sweet.
Hobbinol.
Ah Cuddy! seek thee out some happier swain:
Of me thou seek'st for joysomness in vain.
But ill bestead is that unhappy bard
Blithe madrigals to sing, whom Fortune hard
Doth doom in bitter stour his days to spill;
Whose gladsome fancy anguish keen doth kill.
For roundels brag to unshent shepherds wend,
Whiletime the welkin I with dolours rend.
Makes lightsome nature with his jolly waine?
What boots it me, that Boreas, blust'ring bleak,
His reign foregoes for Zephyr bland and meek?
That gay Vertumnus spreads him o'er the meads,
And by the hand the bloomy Flora leads?
That Naids no more their frore-bound fountains mourn,
But pour in gambolment the crystal urn?
From the warm'd stream that sheen-scal'd fishes leap?
That browsing lambkins merry gambols keep?
That on each spray birds maken melody,
And cooing doves speak their felicity?
To make me mirth in vain the sun essays;
In vain 'mongst budding trees light Zephyr plays:
Phœbus ne warms, ne Zephyr glads my heart;
Despair's breeme winter works me baneful smart.
In vain embraved meads look fresh and gay,
While lambs and fishes bragly sport and play:
They nor my eyen delight, ne ease my care,
Forthy my heart's yclouded by despair.
In vain the Naids in silver murmurs flow,
Birds sootly sing, and doves enamour'd coo;
Their melody no joyaunce can impart,
Sorwe's harsh discord grateth in my heart.
The landscape's pleasaunce cannot make me glad;
Nor songs mine ear delight, ne flow'rs mine eye,
The stream's soote murmurs pass unheeded by.
Cuddy.
Thou witless groom! what means this moody care?
What glauncing eye, or love-bereaving air
Hath trapp'd thy heart in Cupid's wimble snare?
Cheer up thou fon, thy jolly bagpipe tune;
With mirth and glee thou'lt lose thy passion soon.
Hobbinol.
Ah Cuddy, Cuddy, you my plight misdeem;
My drearyment is heavier than you ween.
Not Love's light arrow, but Death's heavy dart,
Bestirs this mortal teen within my heart.
Weep, weep my eyne! ye scalding tears descend!
All joy I've lost, for I have lost my friend.
Oh Death! of Sin the greedy tyrant son!
As round the world for ravin thou dost run;
Could'st thou no wight to glut thy craving find
But him alone in whom at once combin'd
Each gifting rare of heart, and eke of mind?
Joy is no more, for I have lost my friend.
Ah life what art thou? Tenure of an hour!
Of joy how scant? how full of dolourous stour?
A brere, whereon, in spring, few blosmes appear,
But muchel noyous thorns thro' all the year.
Ah, woe's my heart! how rear my blossoms fade?
How scant they open'd, and how soon decay'd?
Just budded forth, and, as that were too much,
Like sensitives yshrink'd they from my touch.
One flow'ret only blossom'd sootly forth,
And that I dempt of sick a peerless worth,
That, tho' I saw each other hope decay'd,
I counted this a rich amendment made.
But wele away! 'tis nip'd by deablly frost:
The only pleasaunce of my life is lost.
Weep, weep my eyne! ye scalding tears descend!
All joy I've lost; for I have lost my friend.
My Lubin dearn! the glory of the plain,
Love of each nymph! delight of ev'ry swain!
Lubin (on whom befriending heav'n bestow'd
A pleasant fancy, curb'd by judgment good,
A heart to Virtue's good beheasts inclin'd,
By Sensibility's soft touch refin'd,)
Ah, cruel Death! why did'st my bliss destroy?
Weep, weep my eyne! ye scalding tears descend!
Joy is no more; for I have lost my friend.
Cuddy.
Is Lubin dead?—Ye birds that fill each spray
Your sonnets cease, and be no longer gay.
Ah, blent thy face, bright sun, in mirky tears;—
How ill thy sheen at sick a time appears?—
Surcease ye babbling rills, or as ye flow,
Contrive to sing of drearyment and woe.
Be hush'd, ye zephyrs, if ye n'ill inspire
With woeful dirges some Æolian lyre.
Lambkins no more your pleasant pastimes keep,
But pining learn of us to wail and weep.
Weep, weep ye swains! for peerless Lubin's dead,
And cause of joyaunce from the plain is fled.
Ye buckthorns cease your budding leaves to show;—
Let nothing thrive but cypress, sign of woe.
Let daffodils their golden semblance lack,
And eke the primrose dight in sooty black;
Let crocusses no various colours know,
But them b'dight in livery of woe.
Mourn, mourn ye sylvan scenes! for Lubin's dead.
Hobbinol.
Ah, me! each various object pains my heart;
Each wonted pastime wakes my dol'rous smart.
Farewel to books that wont to glad my mind;
No pleasaunce now in rural songs I find.
Yet, whilom, when I wont to pine and grieve,
Would Colin's lovelays eft my mind relieve;
But now no lovelays can my grief assuage:
My Lubin's form's depeinten on each page.
Each rustic lay, which erst with joy I read,
Now but reminds me that my friend is dead.
How eft his converse would my taste refine?
How eft explain the beauties of each line;
And with soote praise inspire me to rehearse
My artless lays, and copy Colin's verse?
But now farewel to pipe and artless lays;
For he is gone who wont my skill to praise.
Weep, Cuddy, weep! let scalding tears descend!
Joyaunce is flown; for we have lost our friend.
For there the image of my friend I view.
In dreary cot, or o'er embraved glennes,
Where'er I won still, still the tender scenes,
And eke blithe hours in friendly pleasaunce spent,
My woeful mind loves all to represent.
How eft times would we rise at early dawn,
Whiles glitterand dews besprint the humid lawn,
And to some rivers cooling marge ystray,
With pleasing talk aye glad'ning all the way:
Thus was I wont a double good to find,
The walk my health improv'd, his lore my mind.
But, ah! such pleasaunce I must ken ne more
Sithence with Lubin I each joy forlore.
Weep, Cuddy, weep! let scalding tears descend:
Joyaunce is flown; for we have lost our friend.
Farewel the joys of valley, grove, and spring,
Desporting lambkins, birds that sootly sing:
Ne more, ne more your vernal charms invite;
Ne more, alas! your merry makes delight.
Weep, Cuddy, weep! let scalding tears descend:
Joyaunce is flown; for we have lost our friend.
Farewel to rustic verse and music sweet,
Ne more the loves of shepherds I repeat:
Sithence he's dead for whom I wont to play.
Weep, Cuddy, weep! let scalding tears descend:
Music is harsh; for we have lost our friend.
Yet hold, and let us stint our selfish tears;
For not our friendship in our grief appears:
Forthy, he 'as left this vale of dole below
For heav'nly realms, where never yet was woe.
Death's dart, that shent us with such sore annoy,
Exalted Lubin to sublimer joy.
Then stint ye impious tears, ne more descend;
Heav'n gain'd a cherub when we lost a friend.
ECLOGUE II. THE WEEPING LYRE.
In this eclogue the author is again introduced, under the character of Hobbinol, lamenting the death of Lubin; while a friend, under the name of Argol, is also introduced lamenting the death of Stella; by whom is meant a young lady who died about the same time.
Who 'neath a poplar sung their doleful strains.
Death, ugsome death! had both their joyaunce crost;
Hobbin his friend, his love had Argol lost.
And now, their daily rural business done,
Each one began his nightly task—to moan:
The silver moon, yshining o'er their heads,
Her glitterand beams upon the streamlet sheds,
Whose doleful murmurings o'er the pebbled ground
Invite the mourners by their plaintive sound.
And in the west did wained Phœbus' ray
Dapple with fainty red eve's dusky grey.
And with my sorwe's mingle eke thy tear?
Thou wilt I wot; tho' artless been my verse,
Thou'lt feel the tender subject I rehearse;
The tear adown thy manly cheek will steal—
Oh hide it not, for it becomes thee wele.
I'll mingle mine, and echo groan for groan,
Mourning thy loss whiles I waiment my own.
Each ones I pine, each ones at once I grieve;
Their memories both in Doric verse shall live.
Both I esteem'd, albe it is confest,
Lubin my friend was dearnest to my breast.
Albeit for him my heart is most forlorn,
Stella naith'less with unfeign'd dole I mourn;
And had ne Lubin drain'd the bitter tear,
My waiments sad had wetted Stella's bier.
The joy-lorn shepherds' mournful tales aread.
Argol, our flocks are in their cootes ypent,
And day's illum'ning waine in ocean blent;
The happier herd-grooms been all lull'd in sleep,
But we by sorwe kept awake to weep.
Better I trow we hail the sheen-clad moon
With woeful dirges, and our minstrels tune
To dreariment beside this murmuring stream
Than pining press the restless bed I deem.
Here set we down, our mutual teen rehearse:
For sorwe's oft reliev'd by mournful verse.
Argol.
Thy council, Hobbin, I arread is good:
Then let us here indulge the dreary mood.
I have a dirge, which ones erewhile I wrote,
Wherein my teen for Stella's death I note;
Thilk same I'll sing, and tune my sorweing tale
To the sad wailings of the nightingale.
Hobbinol.
And I last night, ystretch'd upon the ground,
Whiles pastime slept, and sadness reign'd around,
That murmuring flows these delved banks between,
Her voice to dole where Philomel attunes,
And mate-lorn doves yspill the night in moans,
To Lubin's praise compos'd a doleful verse:
The same if tears permit I will rehearse.
And eke I've made of maple ware a lyre,
Deftly attun'd with various sounding wire;
At top whereof's encarved a hollow shell;
From whence, like tears, adown the chordings well
Slow drops of water, and the whiles they flow
They give each note a sooter sound of woe.
Amuling this, mine Elegy I'll sing,
Touching with all my art each thrillant string.
Argol.
Eftsoons then Hobbinol begin thy tale,
And, after thee, I will my hap bewail.
Hobbinol.
Awake elegiac lyre the plaintive strain.
Ah woe is me! how mickle is the smart
The heart of Sensibility doth rend,
Our dearnest joyaunce lose, a bosom friend.
Nought to the feeling bosom been so dear
As the elected brother of the heart:
That dearnest blessing I enjoy'd while-ere,
But now bereaved am by Death's fell dart.
Ah, me! that dearnest friends so soon must part!
Awake elegiac lyre the plaintive strain.
Oh hailey flame! oh joyaunce most divine!
How eft profess'd? how scantly met on earth!
Thou wont to glad this drooping heart of mine.
But friendship's joysomness been now all o'er,
And ah! for aye with dearnest Lubin fled;
I'm doom'd to taste of joyaunce now no more,
But hang in pining dole my drooping head;
For social pastime is with Lubin dead.
Awake elegiac lyre the plaintive strain.
'Mongst blithesome louts ne more my time I'll spend;
Shall swell my eyne, and sighs my heart yrend.
Oh come, ye Muses, help me now to weep,
Help me to tell my Lubin's peerless worth.
Shall Lubin's virtues with his ashes sleep?
Sicker thilk gems been not of mould'ring earth:
Then letten verse ygive them second birth.
Awake my lyre, and Lubin's worth explain.
And modell'd eke each movement of his soul;
And dulcet graces deftly did their part,
With lovely manners cloathing soote the whole:
Philanthropy, and eke her sister fair,
Hight Sensibility, the parent-queen
Of generous passions, eachones did repair
To dwell my Lubin's tender heart within.
But mean Self-love there ne'er found place I ween.
Awake my lyre, and Lubin's worth explain.
And Justice, only to himself severe,
By Mercy made to other's failings blind;
And Prudence als, whose lorings all revere;
And Pity, from whose dawn-resembling eye
Distils for aye a teen-appeasing balm,
Before whose face all shents and dolours flee—
Of sick a mickle potence been her charm:
These virtues did and more his bosom warm.
Awake my lyre, and Lubin's worth explain.
Free from all surquedry, and eke from pride;
And manly strength of philosophic mind
Shone in his lore, did o'er his tongue preside.
Then sicker all have cause to weep and wail,
And eke, like me, to hang in drearyment,
That death has wrought so soon my Lubin's bale,
So soon this lamp of virtue is yblent.
Ah me! with dark despair I'm overhent.
Here cease my lyre, here cease the plaintive strain,
'Tis past thy art his virtues to explain!
To paint such peerless worth in plaintive lays
In tears, alas! my Lubin's praise shall shine;
For all who konn'd him speak in tears his praise.
A sister's sorwes and a mother's moans,
Aread his praise as brother and as son.
His pheers deep sighs, his friends heart-rending groans
Aread how true in Friendship's race he run:
Ah me! a virtuous race too soon foredone.
Then cease my lyre, then cease thy plaintive strain;
Cease down the wires melodious tears to rain.
Then Argol 'gan his ditty to recite.
My dolourous teen at thy untimely fate?
Ah me! my heart is overhent with woe,
To think how thou wert ravish'd from my arms:
Sweet bud of beauty! ah how short thy date!
Must Death's fell worm devour thy youthly charms?
Descend ye tears, ye floods of sorwe flow!
Hath seiz'd his amorous torch to light the fun'ral pyre.
Sad Philomela, from the humid spray,
Thy trembling notes awhile prolong,
And make the dolourous undersong
To my waimenteous dirge my love-lorn lay.
My dolourous teen at thy untimely fate?
Mourn, Venus, mourn thy earthly image dead;
And Love waiment thy daintiest darling lost;
Great been your woe, but mine been far more great:
How is each hope of tender pleasaunce crost!
Bright Pleasure's bow'r in fogs of anguish fled!
My saffron robe ychang'd to sable stole,
My madrigals to dirges turn'd, my glee to dole!
Sad Philomela! from the humid spray
Thy trembling notes awhile prolong
To make the dolourous undersong
To my waimenteous dirge, my love-lorn lay.
My dolourous teen at thy untimely fate?
Ah woe's my heart! shall pleasure me no more:
That vermil'd cheek, b'dight with dimpled state
The rose and lily eke I did adore,
All, all, alas! are sunk in sad decay.
The flow'ry garlands cull'd to grace each brow
Must be ychang'd to wreaths of baneful cypress now.
Sad Philomela! from the humid spray
Thy trembling notes a while prolong,
And make the dolourous undersong
To my waimenteous dirge, my love-lorn lay.
My dolourous teen at thy untimely fate?
The virgins meant to chaunt the amorous hymn,
To herryings soote to dance the heighdregue,
Must now their sportive merry-makes abate;
Must tear their chaplets on thy grave to strew;
Their sonnets chang'd to dirgeous waimentings,
Must d'off their snowy robes for weeds of woe;
Changing their wimble steps to traces sad and slow.
Sad Philomela! from the humid spray
Thy trembling notes a while prolong,
And make the dolourous undersong
To my waimenteous dirge, my love-lorn lay.
My dolourous teen at thy untimely fate?
But oh my Stella! tho' Death's cruel dart
Hath snatch'd from me so rear thy bloomy form,
Thy virtues, all for utterance too great,
Which more than beauty's waste did thee adorn,
Shall live for aye depeincted on each heart
That kenn'd thy worth. Tho' ah! what wont to joy
Their minds, must now, alas! fulfil them with annoy.
Sad Philomela! from the humid spray
No more thy trembling notes prolong,
Here cease thy dolourous undersong,
Here ends my solemn dirge, my love-lorn lay:
For ah my grief is all for speech too great,
Nor can my feeble wit's device relate
My dolourous teen at Stella's timeless fate.
Till bright Aurora o'er the mountains sent
Her changeling beams (besprinting o'er the plain
With spangleous sheen) forerunning Phœbus waine.
Then rose the woeful swains to loose their sheep
From the pent folds, where they them nightly keep;
The whiles all heedy of their dreary dole
Adown each cheek the floods of sorwe roll.
RURAL POEMS.
A NOSEGAY.
Each meadow breath'd perfume,
In gaudiest flow'rs each hedge-briar drest,
Each hawthorn white with bloom,
The fairest flow'rs to cull,
And visited my gay alcove,
Each sweetest bud to pull.
To grace my fair-one's breast.
Then thus, as teeming Fancy taught,
Each flow'r its worth exprest—
Pourtrays the varying tale,
Can give each flow'r a voice whose dyes
Enrich the scented vale.
The ROSE.
O'er my healthy cheek's diffus'd!
Smell, ye nymphs, what sweet perfume
From my blushing mouth's produc'd!
Free exert their fresh'ning pow'r;
And the brooks that babbling flow
Nourish ev'ry smiling flow'r.
From all sulph'rous vapours clear;
Here Contentment ever strays;
Tranquil virtues flourish here.
Stately domes to render gay,
Soon my blushing charms would fade,
And my breathing sweets decay.
Quick to rural shades retire:
Never hope that artful dyes
Can to rival mine aspire.
Civet, Marechalle, Otter rare,
To the sweets gay health exhales
In the smallest can compare.
The SPRIG of HAWTHORN.
Some wide display'd, some clos'd, some op'ning new.
For admiration each prefers her plea;
Hear the pretensions then of all the three.
The FULL-BLOWN BLOSSOM.
ALL my beauties display'd to the bright beaming sun,I court ev'ry gazer's regard;
Nor Zephyr's soft kiss e'er attempt I to shun,
Nor my sweets from the bee do I ward.
My cheeks by no blushes are stain'd:
I scorn the cold prude, with her maxims severe,
And her looks so demurely restrain'd.
The BUD.
Thus to tempt loud Scandal's pow'r!
Will beholders ever prize
Charms thus offer'd to their eyes?
More thy tender beauties prize;
And, like me, demurely grave,
Close thy sweets enfolded save.
Robes of vestal white enfold:
Not the sun's far piercing ray
Can my modest charms survey.
In the most esteem are held:
Admiration then to gain,
Observation's eye restrain.
The HALF-OPENED BLOSSOM.
Like a rifled, widow'd flow'r,
On her full-blown charms presume;
Wide display her beauty's pow'r.
Close her prudish beauties fold;
Immature, her graces hide,
Lest the sun her charms behold.
Who admire what's quite conceal'd?
What when clos'd are brightest eyes?
What is wish'd if all's reveal'd?
Nor yet court with aspect bold;
On my charms, thus op'ning bright,
Modesty's pure blush behold.
Make those hid the more desir'd;
Half conceal'd behind the screen,
Make those view'd the more admir'd.
The WOODBINES.
Round the hazle's stems we 'twine;
And, the sun's warm influence courting,
O'er their waving tops recline.
O'er the babbling streams are arch'd;
Where the fish, beneath us straying,
By our shades are kept unparch'd.
Tend to benefit mankind;
Which, in solitude delighting,
Neither use nor pleasure find.
The VIOLET.
Protected, I bloom on the soft mossy bank,
And the thick foliag'd arms of the hawthorn display
O'er my head their protection from winds bleak and dank.
Thus my sweets all protected, I scent ev'ry gale
That strays thro' the woodlands, or freshens the vale;
And my beauties, thus shelter'd, repay with their smiles
The care of my guardian, and crown all his toils.
Whose sweets are on mountains or meadows display'd,
Nor longer unsocial, unguarded remain,
But seek from love's union a durable shade.
Can your soft-smiling beauties resist or elude
The sun's with'ring heat, or the storm sharp and rude?
See yon king-cups unshelter'd, how swift they decay!
While my beauties defended look smiling and gay.
The COWSLIP.
With the morning's dew-drops shining,
I the fertile moisture sip,
Sweet as fair Melissa's lip.
As adown some valley sporting,
Humid treasures it supplies,
Sparkling like Melissa's eyes.
Those that want are ne'er rejected;
But my sweets are ever free,
To reward the toilsome bee.
The LILY of the VALLEY.
By a dingle's bushy side,
Unambitiously I dally,
Free from Envy, free from Pride.
Shame ne'er ting'd my cheek with red;
Meek and modestly I bear me,
Bowing still my humble head.
I to grandeur ne'er aspir'd;
Ne'er my humble lot repented;
With ambition ne'er was fir'd.
Prudence lends a constant screen,
Which from envious blights will guard me,
And the sun's too powerful sheen.
[THUS to Reflection's sober train]
Each flow'r a lesson gives:
A moralizer on the plain
Each turf and blossom lives.
I draw the moral lay,
They droop, they feel the withering pow'r;
They sicken and decay!
Shall, ere to-morrow's dawn,
Appear a charmless, shrivell'd sight,
And, scentless, droop forlorn!
Should you approve my lays,
On them will second life attend—
A life that ne'er decays!
Revive each drooping sweet—
Nay, make them lovelier than before,
Their perfume more complete.
To me it will appear;
The flow'rs, surviving in my lays,
A double value bear.
The TURTLES NEST.
“A temple's built to purest Love;
“Where his chaste rights are duly paid,
“Where his full pow'r's at large display'd,
“Where burn those fires that never fade.
“He condescends at large to show
“The means by which Connubial Love
“We may obtain, we may improve,
“Nor fear a change, nor wish to rove.”
But temple none, nor shrine she found.
When the fond partner of her breast
His secret meaning thus exprest:
“See here, my love, the Turtles Nest!
“My eyes the feather'd partners meet,
“Or when, as thro' the grove I stray,
“They fondly pour the mutual lay,
“'Tis thus methinks I hear them say:
‘Our mates we choose, for love and truth,
‘And thus our yet unfashion'd hearts,
‘Each to the other still imparts
‘Its tempers, inclinations, arts.
‘Where plodding Care, with stupid frown,
‘Where Simulation's treacherous art,
‘Where Pleasure's lure, Detraction's dart,
‘And Vanity corrupt the heart;
‘To rear our young our only care.
‘Thus seeking bliss, thus hoping rest
‘But in each other's tranquil breast,
‘Joy hovers round the Turtles Nest.
‘Nor jars, nor cold distrusts we prove;
‘Not Fate himself our loves can part,
‘But when he points the barbed dart
‘At once it pierces either's heart.’
Nor did it of its moral fail.
Old Clodio, whom her friends approv'd,
By titles and by grandeur mov'd,
She spurn'd, to bless the youth she lov'd.
They taste uncloying sweets of love;
And, leaning on her lover's breast,
Full oft has fond Serena blest
The day she saw the Turtles Nest.
EXTEMPORE.
On seeing a Bird perched on the Summit of a Poplar while it was shaking with the Breeze.
The little warbler stands;
And, fearless, while he pours the lay,
The distant view commands.
That fans the vernal air,
Shakes not his bosom's tranquil ease,
Nor gives one trembling care.
No stores his heart to 'thrall;
Should he from yonder spray be thrown,
He fears no dang'rous fall.
He'll claim his native skies,
And sweetly pour his sprightly lay,
As thro' the air he flies.
With pious ardour glows;
No cares his steady joys controul,
He fears no threat'ning woes.
And laughs at Fortune's spite:
Prepar'd, when Fate or Chance commands,
To seek the Realms of Light.
SONG.
The BEST AIR.
And the soft-breathing air
Which blows in the southward of France,
Conducive to health,
Which, far more than wealth,
All the blessings of life can enhance.
And of Italy teach;
But I, in Old England have found
A far better air
Waining health to repair,
Than did e'er on the Cont'nent abound.
'Mong the flow'rets of May,
Have so pleasant an influence to cheer!
The air that I mean
Flows forth from between
The bright rosy lips of my dear.
Can also give death,
As sure as from sickness can save!
At will can destroy,
Or fill me with joy,
And build me a bow'r or a grave!
More pleasure you'll find,
If tender and gentle's your breast,
To heal the heart's wound,
Than to deal death around;
And in blessing yourself will be blest!
AMBITION AND HUMILITY.
Just op'ning to the laughing day,
In all her gaudy vestments gay,
And bright in blushing pride,
To public notice far display'd;
While this, as of the sun afraid,
In shelter low reclin'd.
“If charms or merit are not shown,
“What boots it that we either own?
“They're idle gifts and vain!
“And hanging humbly near the ground,
“To rival this, which shines around,
“For beauty might aspire.
“Her glowing beauties shall survey,
“Which if aloft she would display
“Would charm each trav'ller's view.”
Has cropt the lofty flow'ret short;
To earth its flaunting beauties brought,
Where fading 'tis reclin'd!
The prudent blossom safe remains,
And thus, to the surrounding plains
“Exerts her modest voice:
“Ah pant not for a lofty state;
“For sudden dangers wait the great,
“And many fatal arts.
“Misfortune rides on ev'ry gale;
“While, in Contentment's humble vale,
“We shun the storms of Fate.”
SONNET.
To the MOON.
Just darting thro' this poplar shade,
And mingling dappled light between
The dusky umbrage round display'd,
Where smiling Hope, with feeble ray,
Pierces the thick'ning shadows through
Which Love and Fortune's frown display.
No more obstructed meet the ground!
Mount higher, Hope, and pour thy streams
Of light more full my heart around!
Ah may no fears thy smile confound,
But Joy thy offspring blest, gay thro' my bosom bound!
Poems on Various Subjects | ||