Poems on Various Subjects :: :: University of Virginia Library

Poems on Various Subjects

By John Thelwall. In Two Volumes

Thelwall, John (1764-1834)

II.

A DRAMATIC POEM, FOUNDED ON FACTS, RECORDED IN THE REPORTS OF THE HUMANE SOCIETY.

II.

III.

IV.

ELEGIES, PASTORALS, AND OTHER RURAL POEMS.

MISCELLANIES.

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ELEGIES.

ELEGY I. The ROSE.

Sure there are hours when the most joyous heart,
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;

And social souls relinquish for a while
(If trembling Conscience shrink not from the choice)
E'en Friendship's joys, or even Beauty's smile,
For silent Solitude's instructive voice.

For, where Reflection sways the feeling mind,
Or Fancy revels in luxuriant pow'r,
Articulation in each rill we find,
And gather morals from each budding flow'r.

Thus while I gaze upon that op'ning rose,
(In no embroider'd vestment proudly gay)
Which by the gaudy tulip sidelong grows,
The blushing blossom thus appears to say:

“Judge not, fond shepherd, by thy eye alone,
“Fix thy affections on intrinsic worth;
“Tho' other flow'rs more gaudy vestments own,
“No bud so sweet perfumes the teeming earth.

“Perennial charms 'tis only I can boast;
“From cankering age, and time, charm-blighting, free;
“My scent continues when my hue is lost.
“In me the emblem of fair Delia see.”

Yes, Delia's mind excels each outward grace—
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!

Yet Delia's mind excels each outward charm,
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.

Tho' scarce I breathe (or breathe with toil and pain)
Intemp'rate pulses all unequal beat;
And tho' my fainting lungs can scarce sustain
Their wonted task, oppress'd with inward heat.

At sultry eve I court no fanning breeze,
Upon no river's cooling margin stray;
Nor seek refreshing shelter from the trees,
When bright Meridian darts his scorching ray.

Can Zephyr breathing thro' the poplar shade,
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?

Yet let me strive to heal my bleeding heart.—
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.

To rosy Health I'll tune my sober lyre,
Invoke her presence with a sprightly strain,
Till kindly she my bosom reinspire.—
Love mocks my toil, and says, “That toil were vain!”

With black Despair the Goddess scorns to dwell;
She seeks the breasts that jolly pastimes fire.—
My heart, alas! can by experience tell,
'Tis only Delia's smiles can Health inspire.

And why can Delia never, never smile?
Or with one distant hope relieve my care?
Why will she not my wretchedness beguile,
And banish, with responsive Love, Despair?

Content whole years I'll wear the servile chain,
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.

Oh shew me, then, one distant, cheerful ray,
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.

Why sit I thus, to listless Grief a prey,
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.

No more my kids I gather from the rocks,
Or teach my lambs in verdant meads to roam;
But, quite neglectful of my pining flocks,
Within my dreary cottage sigh at home.

Pan yields no fleeces to my idle hand;
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.

Farewel, Oh Life! to all thy prudent cares;—
Let happier youths those busy cares employ;
Love, hopeless Love, my cheerless bosom tears.—
Why must I live forlorn of ev'ry joy?

Oh rouse me, Delia, with responsive Love!
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.

My goats I'll gather from unshelter'd rocks,
When scorching Leo fries the gaping ground;
While, in some water'd vale, the bleating flocks
My Delia tends, by poplars shaded round.

But when from heav'n unwholesome rains descend,
Or frigid blasts Earth's hoary bosom freeze,
Myself both goats and fleecy flocks will tend,
At home while Delia tastes indulgent ease.

For thee I'll gladly rise at early dawn,
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.

The cow I'll milk, the brimming pale bring home,
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.

Farewel the transports of harmonious verse!
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.

Farewel the transports of the tuneful Muse!
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.

Awake, my Muse! shake off desponding Care;
On high Parnassus seek immortal fame:
In epic verse a lasting work prepare,
May place with Maro's my yet humble name!

Let trumpets sonorous bellow in the strain!
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.

Sing mighty battles and great derring-does!
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.

To livelier themes I'll turn my wanton song;
With rosy wreaths luxuriant grapes I'll twine:
To Bacchus' praise my lyricks shall belong;
With Bacchus buxom Venus shall combine.

Tune, tune, my lyre! I'll sing of drunken Mirth!
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.

Why do my thoughts, their own tormenting foes,
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 slumber, does she haunt me still?
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?

Dear cause of my all anguish! yes, my heart
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, Delia, come, and heal my bleeding heart!
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?

What tho' no orient blushes tinge my cheek,
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?

100

What tho' I've felt Misfortune's blighting hand,
And no far-grazing cattle call me lord;
No numerous fleeces whiten o'er the land,
Nor hives luxuriant honied sweets afford?

Yet want of wealth my fondness shall repay,
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.

Pleas'd o'er Numidia's burning sands I'd fly,
To chace the furious lion with my spear;
Or hunt hyænas 'neath the frigid sky,
The toil-bought guerdon would my Delia share.

Then come, my love, nor slight my lowly state;
Nor yet the plainness of my person scorn:
My ceaseless toil shall force a boon from Fate,
And cheerful health my person shall adorn.

101

ELEGY VI. The LARK.

The hapless youth who feels a real flame,
(So cruel Love, capricious god! decrees)
Long mourns, neglected by the lovely dame,
And long, enanguish'd, seeks in vain to please.

The fading langour of his mournful eye,
The faultering accent, trembling on his tongue;
The bosom heaving with the painful sigh,
The head propended as he droops along:

The dress neglected, and the slighted air,
(The faithful indicates of fervent love)
Disgust the fancy of the thoughtless fair,
And the preventions of his fortune prove.

While the false youth, with bless'd indifference gay,
(Who insincerely boasts bright Beauty's pow'r)
Oft bears the virgin's captive heart away,
And on her soft affections steals each hour.

102

His sprightly converse wins the list'ning ear;
Thoughts unimpassion'd point the happy way
T'improve each chance with brisk, assiduous care,
And the unguarded, flatter'd heart betray.

For me, the strong emotions of my mind,
My fond affection, my respectful fears,
Perplex my fancy, and my judgment blind:
Confus'd, I tremble when my love appears.

Thus I, perhaps, oppress'd by fear and grief,
Neglect each pleasing, softly soothing art;
With fruitless sighs, thus vainly seek relief,
And vainly strive to gain my Delia's heart.

Yet think, my Delia (thou, of all the fair,
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.

Oh then, thy lovely face with smiles array!
Think not my sadness speaks a sullen heart,
Or mournful words a peevish mind display:
I sink, alas! beneath Love's hopeless dart!

103

What tho' no sprightly wit adorns my tongue,
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?

I once was cheerful as the new-born day,
Emerging gaily from the laughing east;
As blithe and sportive as the frolic May,
With choral birds and gaudy flow'rets drest.

Yon captur'd Lark, whose waining life decays,
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.

But darkling now, in close confinement pent,
His head he droops, and hangs his fainting wings:
His bosom pierc'd with dreary Discontent,
No more, alas! the mattin warbler sings.

My spirits thus, encag'd by black Despair,
Sink, inly fainting, in my love-lorn heart.
Give me but Hope, no lev'rock shall compare
With me, in gaiety or tuneful art.

104

For thee I'll fondly pen the tender lay,
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.

Did tuneful Hammond, skill'd in classic lore,
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?

And did his Delia listen while his strain
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

Then ah what hope, what distant hope have I
To woo my lovelier Delia to these arms,
With verse expressive of the heaving sigh,
Which speaks my pains and her transcendent charms?

105

To me the deathless classics never taught
To breathe in artful notes the love-lorn care.
To me no aid laborious science brought:
Love and the Muse my only tutors are!

Thro' academic groves I never rov'd;
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.

Simple my thoughts, my language void of art,
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.

Then cease fond verse, nor seek again her ear:
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.

Bless'd be the hour when first the love of song
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.

106

Then tho' blind Fortune, deity unkind!
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.

For when, to hear some runnel bubble soft,
Pensive I stretch'd upon the verdant plain,
Me, yet a boy, the Muse would tutor oft,
And Love instruct and meliorate the strain.

Ovid.

ELEGY VIII. The EXECRATION.

TO A FRIEND.

1786.

Curs'd be the Muse! and curs'd the fatal hour
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.

107

Curs'd be the love of Science, which pervades,
With wild, enthusiast ardour, all my heart!
Oh happier they whom torpid Dulness shades,
Who plodding ply some low mechanic art!

Oh had the fates, low mould'ring in the dust
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!

Happy is he whose servile, grov'ling mind,
Nor sensibility nor spirit knows!
Who, all joys to appetite confin'd,
With pity throbs not, nor refinement glows!

But ah! ere yet ten sportive years had run—
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.

E'en then sequester'd oft would I retire,
With mimick pencil or instructive book,
And to refining arts, e'en then, aspire;—
My sports neglected, and my mates forsook.

108

Tho' arts unfriendly long the flame supprest;
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.

Still as I grew, I nurs'd the embrio fire,
Which prompts the soul to knowledge and to fame;
Which to refinement makes us still aspire,
Expands the heart, and doubles feeling's claim.

Oh foolish man! What is Refinement? say.
Or what is Science? Fame and Knowledge what?
That thus you throw soft peace and rest away,
And, for Opinion, blast your tranquil lot?

—Yes, grov'ling joys contented I resign;—
For Sensibility and Fame forego
Low-thoughted transports: be the bosom mine
That feels from Sympathy redoubled woe!

Be mine the heart that beats for high renown,—
Tho' nights of sleepless care the wish attend!
And my warm'd fancy, oh ye Muses! crown,—
Tho' in unpitied want the vision end!

109

Let careful Study quit her cobweb'd cell,
With me the page instructive to explore,
Unheedful of the midnight tolling bell,—
Tho' aching heads succeed the 'laborate lore!

Still let me mourn, neglected, poor, despis'd,
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.

For still I hold 'twere better far to be
(And generous souls the choice must better suit)
A man, oppress'd with grief and misery,
Than the most happy, grov'ling, sensual brute.

And sure the keener feelings we possess,
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.

110

ELEGY IX. TWELFTH DAY.

To Mrs. H.

1785.

The time has been (but ah! farewel those days—
Those cheerful days of innocence and mirth!)
I bless'd the wained sun's convivial rays
That gave this day of joyous pastime birth.

Around the social hearth, at night, we throng'd,
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 our sire'd the youthful train provoke;
Full oft incite to pastimes gay and bland;
Full oft himself revive the flagging joke,
And in the comrade loose the sire's command.

Good gentle soul! fulfill'd with sober cheer,
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.

111

But Death's keen axe has long embrac'd the root
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.

Grief's season past, gay Mirth return'd again,
(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.

Around the hat impatient were we seen,
And eager wrestled for our transient fate.
If I suppos'd gay Stella was the queen,
Eager I panted for the kingly state.

The prize obtain'd, I claim'd th'accustom'd kiss,
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.

Thus was I wont this festive eve to spend,
In mirth outshining all my childish peers,
With spirits, health, and fortune to befriend—
What sad reverse attends my ripening years!

112

Grim Penury, with unremitting care,
And friendless solitude, my peace destroys;
And love, all hopeless, drives me to despair;
And hell-born Ate my sad heart annoys.

Ye cheerful hours, unhurt by gnawing Care!
Ye social days of plenty, joy, and peace!
Say will ye hither, once again, repair?
Will e'er the frowns of adverse Fortune cease?

Pale Melancholy's first-born daughter, Spleen,
To my sick fancy paints a thousand ills:
Upholds her shadowy, woe depictur'd screen,
And thus her hope-destroying lore instils:

Perhaps, while here in solitude I set—
My playful cat, my only company,
Who seems to pity my dejected state,
And, purring, fondly sports upon my knee.

Perhaps, while here in solitude I pine,
And doating think on lovely Delia's charms—
Those charms, alas! which never must be mine:
Ah how the teasing thought my heart alarms!

113

Perhaps while I in solitude reflect,
And sing in mournful verse my hapless plight,
The regal name my Delia may elect,
And some pert beau (the monarch of the night)

E'en now, perhaps, upon her coral lips
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.

Or else, perhaps, (thus moping Spleen inspires)
Some favour'd lover gains the peerless prize;
The pleasing kiss inflames their mutual fires,
And mutual pleasure melts in either's eyes.

—Ah why to all the real woes of life
Should sick Imagination add her store?
Ideal, blending with substantial strife,
Oppress the feeble wretch surcharg'd before?

Hence caitiff Spleen, with thy chimera train!
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.

114

Full many a turn has Fortune's giddy wheel,
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

MDCCLXXXVII.

Now silence reigns, and thro' the misty cloud
The plaintive Moon displays her yellow face:
Her light diminish'd by the humid shrowd,
Which wimples o'er the wonted azure space.

Now thro' the leafless trees, her feeble rays
Illume my window with a dappled light,
And, fix'd in sober thought, my eye surveys
The dun appearance of the cheerless night.

Reflection whispers to my brooding thought,
“Thou pensive bard, survey thy shadow'd fate!
“Yon low'ring sky with serious truth is wrought:
“Strong emblem, youth, of thy untoward state.

115

“See all the sky a slaty cloud o'ershade;
“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 festive joys, no revels, no delights,
“No cheerful friends, no nymphs of form divine
“Thy days consume, or cheer thy lonely nights;
“No rays of Fortune on thy efforts shine.

“Yet may'st thou say, and 'tis no little boast,
“Tho' sportive joys thy mind but rarely bless,
“Yet art thou not in black Despondence lost:
“Few feel the gloom of Melancholy less.

“The moon whose palid rays so feebly beam,
“Dispelling darkness, yet scarce yielding light,
“Shews how thy feeble hopes just faintly gleam,
“To keep thy soul from Fear's desponding night.”

Hark! thro' the silent void the solemn bell
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?

116

How many now, with social glee who met
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 I, who now the serious Muses woo,
And waste in pensive thought the sleepless night,
Have hail'd this gay, this sportive season too,
The social harbinger of loud delight.

Then pastimes bland, and songs of cheerful glee
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.

But now has thrice revolv'd the various year,
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.

The hapless sons of Penury and Care,
Alone, neglected and deserted pine;
No hours convivial they in revels share,
Where wit, where beauty, and where affluence shine.

117

For who so dull, in this sagacious age—
This age of worldly prudence and of pride—
To court the humble, or the youth engage,
Who, saving Genius, has no wealth beside?

Yet thus neglected by the proud and gay,
Repine I will not at my stars unkind,
But rather far my gratitude display
For inward wealth, which gilds my tranquil mind.

Does not the Muse my raptur'd bosom fill?
Does not gay Fancy bless my lonely hours?
Does not Content her soothing lore instil,
And Health come tripping from her roseate bow'rs?

Bless'd is the youth who boasts a Poet's name!
He, independent, Fortune may despise:
Others their bliss from outward objects claim;
He, in his bosom bears the source of joys.

Ye gilded sons of Grandeur, vainly great!
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!

118

Can all the wealth of both the Indies join'd,
And all the stores thro' fertile Nilus sent,
Procure such rich enjoyment for the mind
As Muse, as Fancy, Health, and young Content?

“It is the knell of my departed hours.” Young.

ELEGY XI. The DEPARTED FRIEND.

MDCCLXXXV.

I grieve to think how quick each blossom fades
That decorates the thorny road of life—
How oft Grief's worm the tender bud invades,
How oft 'tis blighted by Misfortune's strife!

I grieve to think how Disappointment's breath
Shrinks the young foliage of our budding hopes!
How oft the sudden hand of cruel Death
The sweetest branch of our enjoyment lops!

I had a friend—Oh Philip, ever dear!
Still shall thy memory in my bosom live.
Thy virtues bloom in recollection there;
To emulate those virtues will I strive.

119

I had a friend—tho' heav'n had snatch'd away
Each other comfort in my tender age;
In him it seem'd my losses to repay—
My sweet companion on life's toilsome stage!

How fraught with tender feelings was his mind!
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 tender sorrows which he felt,
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 saw their tears, and heav'd a tender sigh;
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.

And truth to say, of Muse no need was there:
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:

120

“Accept, dear Phil, this rude, unskilful verse,
“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.

“What, tho' no polish'd lines, like Pope's, appear,
“No boldly-splendid thoughts my theme refine,
“—Such as in Spenser's nobler page appear,
“Or Collins, in thy strains majestic shine?

“I court not now the laurel'd wreath of Fame,
“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.

“Fair Friendship's voice shall breathe in ev'ry line
“The faithful dictates of an honest heart:
“Friendship alone inspir'd the fair design
“To thee, these soothing verses to impart.

“No need is there of lofty Spenser's fire;
“No need of tuneful Pope's energic art,
“To strike, with trembling hand, a humble lyre,
“And sing the genuine feelings of the heart.

121

“But if my numbers should offend thy ear,
“Oh think they flow from an uneasy heart:
“The voice of Anguish never can be clear,
“And Melancholy mars the tuneful art.

“My lonely time no fond relations cheer;
“'Mongst gay compeers no social hours I spend;
“But oft in silence shed the bitter tear,
“And darkling sighs full oft my bosom rend.

“At times, indeed, a friendly Muse appears,
“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.

“And sometimes (more than Muse or Fancy's dream)
“Thy friendly converse glads my drooping heart;
“Relieves my sorrows with the cheerful gleam
“Of gay delight, and blunts Misfortune's dart.

“As thy sweet converse oft has sooth'd my mind,
“So shall my Muse to comfort thee essay:
“Thus from the stream the flow'rets nurture find,
“And in return her verdant banks array.

122

“Thrice happy Phil! to thee indulgent Heav'n,
“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.

“One rich in Nature's gifts, and Virtue's lore,
“By ev'ry soft accomplishment refin'd;
“Who pays thy generous love with equal store,
“And in affections like as like in mind.

“Yet happier still a friend so lov'd to find
“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.

“No wonder then that down each kindred cheek
“The pearly drops in moist succession fell;—
“No wonder that with fault'ring tongues ye speak,
“And blend with tears the bitter word, “Farewel.”

“Yet think, my friend, and let it cheer thy heart,
“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.

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“Oft will ye meet, and meet with double joy;
“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.

“Thus some sweet lark, while absent from his love,
“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.

“Thus a pure stream adown some sloping hill
“Rolls limpid on, and smoothly babbling glides,
“Till some rude crag obstructs the tranquil rill,
“And in two wand'ring brooks its course divides.

“The sister streams, as o'er th'unlevel grounds
“Unbless'd they wander, shed sad, troubled tears,
“And mourn their parting in low murm'ring sounds,
“Till pitying nature their lamenting hears.

“For now, to vales convey'd, each troubled stream
“Rushes delighted to the other's breast:
“Thus reunited, far more pleas'd they seem
“Than ere division's anxious cares opprest.

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“With dimples deck'd they gambol thro' the fields,
“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.”

Thus dictates Friendship to my artless quill,
When—oh! how transient, how unstable's life!
How vain is hope! How unexpected ill,
Instead of promis'd peace, brings unthought strife!

Scarce had I finish'd, when—oh grief of griefs!
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.

Now who shall soothe my sorrow-clouded mind?
Who now my sad reflections shall relieve?
Where shall my heart consoling friendship find?—
Misfortune's children all unpitied grieve!

If the carnation, rich in gaudy dyes,
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;

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But if some hedge-row flow'ret, cast to earth
By raging Erus, in the dust lays prone,
No trav'ller thinks it his assistance worth,
But each indignant treads its blossoms down.

Not so didst thou, my heart's elected friend!
You kindly courted when the world grew coy;—
When bland civility was at an end,
And cold-grown kindred turn'd th'inverted eye.

But oh thou image of the generous youth!
Thou other Philip, in a softer frame!
What can the anguish of thy bosom soothe?
What pangs excessive must thy breast enflame!

Did sorrow's gems empearl thy lovely cheek,
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?

As fragrant lilies, overcharg'd with dew,
Their beauteous heads upon the earth recline,
So thy sad beauties drooping shrink from view;—
Oh when once more shall comfort's sunbeams shine?

Lilies of the Valley.

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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.

Here, 'mongst the branches of this spreading oak,
(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.

The blushing West, with glowing zone unbrac'd,
To her bright bosom takes the panting Sun;
Who journeys down, behind yon hill, in haste
Obtruding eyes of prying man to shun.

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Now 'gins the mournful nightingale to sing,
And with her pipe salute departing day;
Each feather'd songster baits his tired wing,
And calls his partlet to the wonted spray.

The verdant tenants of the dewy fields
With wonted vespers make each meadow ring;
With sweets surcharg'd, which gaudy Flora yields,
The bee, soft murmuring, homeward bends his wing.

And see where Phrogne steers her fearless flight,
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.

“Oh come, my love! devoid of Fear's alarm:
“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.

“Forlorn he loves to seek the dimpled rills
“Which thro' the winding dells meanders stray;
“For here the Muse his throbbing bosom fills,
“And Fairies drive his pensive thoughts away.

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“One night I saw him by this bushy dell,
“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.

‘Restrain thy flight, sweet chatterer!’ she cried,
‘Thy fluttering heart divest of needless fear:
‘By no unfeeling swain thou art espied:—
‘The friend and lover of our haunts is here.

‘He never climb'd the tree at midnight hours
‘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.

‘The fairies love him, and his steps attend,
‘From damps protect him, and his sorrows soothe:
‘For ever they the love-lorn swain befriend,
‘And ever pity unrewarded truth.

‘Full oft the youth, the anxious hours to kill,
‘Will, with no skilless toil, our haunts improve;
‘Encrease the murmurs of each babbling rill
‘With stone-built falls, and grots which fairies love.

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‘Then fear not him, but tranquil keep thy bow'r;
‘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.

‘Oh that that love which prompts each gen'rous deed,
‘Which harmonizes, humanizes life,
‘Should make the lover's inward bosom bleed!
‘Give peace to others, but to him give strife!

‘Thus scorching flames on Ætna's bowels prey,
‘And with convulsions rend her tortur'd womb,
‘While the heat makes surrounding vallies gay,
‘And decorates them with each brighter bloom.

“So spoke the Queen; then gliding light away,
“Her mystic train she sought beside the stream,
“Where to the tinkling rill they sportive play,
“And bask and frolick in the yellow beam.

“Then come, my love, nor let his presence chace
“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.

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“Tho' with the lark's shrill pipe we can't compare,
“Nor can we match the tuneful linnet's throat,
“Yet our rude lays may mitigate his care,
“And tho' unskilful, friendly is our note.