 | The Works of William Mason |  |
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ELEGY III. WRITTEN IN THE GARDEN OF A FRIEND.
While o'er my head this laurel-woven bowerIts arch of glittering verdure wildly flings,
Can fancy slumber? can the tuneful power,
That rules my lyre, neglect her wonted strings?
No; if the blighting east deform'd the plain,
If this gay bank no balmy sweets exhal'd,
Still should the grove re-echo to my strain,
And friendship prompt the theme, where beauty fail'd.
For he, whose careless art this foliage drest,
Who bade these twisting braids of woodbine bend,
He first, with truth and virtue, taught my breast
Where best to choose, and best to fix a friend.
How well does Mem'ry note the golden day,
What time, reclined in Marg'ret's studious glade,
My mimic reed first tuned the Dorian lay,
“Unseen, unheard, beneath an hawthorn shade?”
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The same desires, the same ingenuous arts
Inspired us both; we own'd, and blest the power
That join'd at once our studies, and our hearts.
Oh! since those days, when Science spread the feast,
When emulative youth its relish lent,
Say, has one genuine joy e'er warm'd my breast?
Enough; if joy was his, be mine content.
To thirst for praise his temperate youth forbore;
He fondly wish'd not for a poet's name;
Much did he love the Muse, but quiet more,
And, though he might command, he slighted Fame.
Hither, in manhood's prime, he wisely fled
From all that folly, all that pride approves;
To this soft scene a tender partner led;
This laurel shade was witness to their loves.
“Begone,” he cry'd, “Ambition's air-drawn plan;
“Hence with perplexing pomp, unwieldy wealth
“Let me not seem, but be the happy man,
“Possest of love, of competence, and health.”
Smiling he spake, nor did the Fates withstand;
In rural arts the peaceful moments flew:
Say, lovely lawn! that felt his forming hand,
How soon thy surface shone with verdure new;
How soon obedient Flora brought her store,
And o'er thy breast a shower of fragrance flung
Vertumnus came; his earliest blooms he bore,
And thy rich sides with waving purple hung:
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He pierced th' opposing oak's luxuriant shade;
Bade yonder crowding hawthorns low retire,
Nor veil the glories of the golden mead.
Hail, sylvan wonders, hail! and hail the hand,
Whose native taste thy native charms display'd,
And taught one little acre to command
Each envied happiness of scene, and shade.
Is there a hill, whose distant azure bounds
The ample range of Scarsdale's proud domain,
A mountain hoar, that yon wild peak surrounds,
But lends a willing beauty to thy plain?
And, lo! in yonder path I spy my friend;
He looks the guardian genius of the grove,
Mild as the fabled form that whilom deign'd,
At Milton's call, in Harefield's haunts to rove.
Blest Spirit, come! though pent in mortal mould,
I'll yet invoke thee by that purer name;
Oh come, a portion of thy bliss unfold,
From Folly's maze my wayward step reclaim.
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Misled by flattering Fortune's specious tale,
Has left the rural reign of peace and truth,
The huddling brook, cool cave, and whispering vale.
Won to the world, a candidate for praise,
Yet, let me boast, by no ignoble art,
Too oft the public ear has heard my lays,
Too much its vain applause has touch'd my heart;
But now, ere Custom binds his powerful chains,
Come, from the base enchanter set me free;
While yet my soul its first, best taste retains,
Recall that soul to reason, peace, and thee.
Teach me, like thee, to muse on Nature's page,
To mark each wonder in Creation's plan,
Each mode of being trace, and, humbly sage,
Deduce from these the genuine powers of man;
Of man, while warm'd with reason's purer ray,
No tool of policy, no dupe to pride;
Before vain Science led his taste astray;
When conscience was his law, and God his guide.
This let me learn, and learning let me live
The lesson o'er. From that great guide of truth
Oh may my suppliant soul the boon receive
To tread through age the footsteps of thy youth.
Written in 1758.
| The Works of William Mason | |