The Shamrock or, Hibernian Cresses. A Collection of Poems, Songs, Epigrams, &c. Latin as well as English, The Original Production of Ireland. To which are subjoined thoughts on the prevailing system of school education, respecting young ladies as well as gentlemen: with practical proposals for a reformation [by Samuel Whyte] |
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POWERSCOURT. |
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 | The Shamrock |  |
9
POWERSCOURT.
Addressed to RICHARD WINGFIELD, Esq;
Dii tibi divitias dederant, artemque fruendi.
Hor.
Hor.
The Muse forgetting, by the Muse forgot,
The Thing I relish least become my Lot;
Doom'd to a Country Church, remote and poor,
And what is still more dreadful, serve the Cure!
No Sprig of Laurel left, but in my Pews,
How can I write? yet how shall I refuse?
My Life, a loitering, sedentary Calm,
My Taste for Song, a penitential Psalm!
Much tir'd I am with hearing News from Spain,
And ill inform'd State Matters to explain.
What Method then to please shall I pursue?
For once I'll venture—and indite to you.
The Thing I relish least become my Lot;
Doom'd to a Country Church, remote and poor,
And what is still more dreadful, serve the Cure!
No Sprig of Laurel left, but in my Pews,
How can I write? yet how shall I refuse?
My Life, a loitering, sedentary Calm,
My Taste for Song, a penitential Psalm!
Much tir'd I am with hearing News from Spain,
And ill inform'd State Matters to explain.
What Method then to please shall I pursue?
For once I'll venture—and indite to you.
To me! you cry, pray, Sir, on what Pretence?
A just Esteem for Candour, and Good-Sense;
For the plain Heart, benevolent Design;
The Warmth humane, or, if you will, divine!
What Name becomes you best? One late in Print—
The Man of Ross, seems no improper Hint,
Whose gracious Gates, like your's, receiv'd the Poor;
Nay more your Merit—for your Fortune's more!
Like his, your Worth sincere, and not a Sound;
Like him, a Blessing to your Country round;
To him, Age, Want, and Sickness paid their Vow;
That Man thus thought and liv'd—as you do now.
A just Esteem for Candour, and Good-Sense;
For the plain Heart, benevolent Design;
The Warmth humane, or, if you will, divine!
What Name becomes you best? One late in Print—
The Man of Ross, seems no improper Hint,
Whose gracious Gates, like your's, receiv'd the Poor;
Nay more your Merit—for your Fortune's more!
Like his, your Worth sincere, and not a Sound;
Like him, a Blessing to your Country round;
To him, Age, Want, and Sickness paid their Vow;
That Man thus thought and liv'd—as you do now.
10
Charm'd with this Theme, tho' indolent so long;
With Prose bemus'd; quite reprobate in Song;
In Awe I reassume the votive Pen;
And (Peace be to Apollo) write again.
Me Cynthius check'd in early Life's Career;
Desist, he cry'd, and gently twitch'd my Ear;
Desist from Verse, an Art beyond your Reach;
But (tho' a Heathen God) he bade me preach:
I bow'd, assented, and submissive chose
To abdicate the Lyre, and drudge in Prose.
But should Fate lead me to a Work like thine,
My Bosom kindles, and my Thoughts refine;
With softest Verse I press the Muse once more,
And (not to break old Customs) thus implore.
Attend in sky-dipt Robes, ye smiling Hours!
Unlock your chrystal Springs, and mossy Bowers,
Crowd each luxuriant Image Wit can feign,
And paint, O Muse! the Eye-enchanting Scene;
Give Wings to Thought; to rapid Fancy Fire—
(The meanest Judge can gaze, and just admire)
Romantic Clime! where e'er I turn my Eyes,
Elysian Walks, and Classic Landscapes rise!
Enthusiastic Fancy seems to see
A Tempe bloom; for such shall Powerscourt be!
With Prose bemus'd; quite reprobate in Song;
In Awe I reassume the votive Pen;
And (Peace be to Apollo) write again.
Me Cynthius check'd in early Life's Career;
Desist, he cry'd, and gently twitch'd my Ear;
Desist from Verse, an Art beyond your Reach;
But (tho' a Heathen God) he bade me preach:
I bow'd, assented, and submissive chose
To abdicate the Lyre, and drudge in Prose.
But should Fate lead me to a Work like thine,
My Bosom kindles, and my Thoughts refine;
With softest Verse I press the Muse once more,
And (not to break old Customs) thus implore.
Attend in sky-dipt Robes, ye smiling Hours!
Unlock your chrystal Springs, and mossy Bowers,
Crowd each luxuriant Image Wit can feign,
And paint, O Muse! the Eye-enchanting Scene;
Give Wings to Thought; to rapid Fancy Fire—
(The meanest Judge can gaze, and just admire)
Romantic Clime! where e'er I turn my Eyes,
Elysian Walks, and Classic Landscapes rise!
Enthusiastic Fancy seems to see
A Tempe bloom; for such shall Powerscourt be!
O! let my rapt Imagination trace
The Site, and Sylvan Genius of the Place,
Where Nature varies, yet unites each Part,
And Chance reflects Advantages to Art.
Or let my Eyes in bold Excursions gain
The swelling Vista, and the sinking Plain,
Where a free Heaven the Sight's wide Empire fills,
And melts in distant Clouds, and blueish Hills;
Or, caught where Views more regular appear,
Take in the verdant Slope, and rais'd Parterre.
Hence, from this Taste, are Numbers pleas'd and fed;
The Wise have Pleasure; the Distress'd have Bread.
This Taste brings Profit, and improves with Sense,
And thro' a thousand Channels turns Expence;
Benevolence in numerous Streams imparts,
And ends in Virtue what began in Arts;
Removes sharp Famine, Sickness and Despair;
Relieves the asking Eye, the rising Tear;
Such Woe as late o'er pale Hibernia past,
And such, ye Guardian Powers, we wish the last!
If Public Spirit shines, 'tis just at least,
To give some Glory too to Public Taste,
Which bids proud Art the pillar'd Fabric raise;
Scoops the rough Rock, and levels vast High-ways!
Plans future Woods for Prospect and Defence;
And forms a Bower a hundred Summers hence;
Ideal Groves, and Beauties just in View—
But such, my Friend, as Time shall bring to you.
The Site, and Sylvan Genius of the Place,
Where Nature varies, yet unites each Part,
And Chance reflects Advantages to Art.
Or let my Eyes in bold Excursions gain
The swelling Vista, and the sinking Plain,
11
And melts in distant Clouds, and blueish Hills;
Or, caught where Views more regular appear,
Take in the verdant Slope, and rais'd Parterre.
Hence, from this Taste, are Numbers pleas'd and fed;
The Wise have Pleasure; the Distress'd have Bread.
This Taste brings Profit, and improves with Sense,
And thro' a thousand Channels turns Expence;
Benevolence in numerous Streams imparts,
And ends in Virtue what began in Arts;
Removes sharp Famine, Sickness and Despair;
Relieves the asking Eye, the rising Tear;
Such Woe as late o'er pale Hibernia past,
And such, ye Guardian Powers, we wish the last!
If Public Spirit shines, 'tis just at least,
To give some Glory too to Public Taste,
Which bids proud Art the pillar'd Fabric raise;
Scoops the rough Rock, and levels vast High-ways!
Plans future Woods for Prospect and Defence;
And forms a Bower a hundred Summers hence;
Ideal Groves, and Beauties just in View—
But such, my Friend, as Time shall bring to you.
Fresh blow your Gardens! intermingl'd Scene!
Grass-Carpet Walks, and Green encircling Green;
A chequer'd Space, alternate Sun and Shade;
The Country round, one wide delicious Glade!
Enamell'd Vales, with fair Horizons bound,
Here towering Woods, and pendant Rocks surround;
With graceful Sweeps here mazy Windings run,
Or gently meet in Lines where they begun;
Here gushes down steep Steps a ductile Rill,
There spreads in fluid Azure, broad and still;
So mix'd the Views, so exquisitely shewn,
Each flowery Field, and Valley seems your own;
While Nature smiles, obsequious to your Call,
Directs, assists, and recommends it all;
At last she gives, O! Art, how vain thy Aid!
To crown the beauteous Work—a vast Cascade!
Grass-Carpet Walks, and Green encircling Green;
A chequer'd Space, alternate Sun and Shade;
The Country round, one wide delicious Glade!
Enamell'd Vales, with fair Horizons bound,
Here towering Woods, and pendant Rocks surround;
With graceful Sweeps here mazy Windings run,
Or gently meet in Lines where they begun;
Here gushes down steep Steps a ductile Rill,
There spreads in fluid Azure, broad and still;
So mix'd the Views, so exquisitely shewn,
Each flowery Field, and Valley seems your own;
12
Directs, assists, and recommends it all;
At last she gives, O! Art, how vain thy Aid!
To crown the beauteous Work—a vast Cascade!
Say, Muse! who dwell'st where mighty Shannon roars,
That once divided Empires with his Shores,
Say, in his Western Course immense and fair,
Can all his Falls and Cataracts compare?
Let grand Versailles her liquid Landscapes boast;
Pure Scenes of Nature here delight us most;
Her rudest Prospects bid the Fancy start,
And snatch the Soul beyond the Works of Art.—
O! would some Master Hand adorn your Walls,
And catch the living Fountain as it falls!
The gay Original would crown your Dome,
And you then boast your noblest Scene at Home!
Lo! down the Rock which Clouds and Darkness hide,
In wild Meanders spouts a silver Tide;
Or sprung from dropping Mists, or Wintry Rills,
Rolls the large Tribute of the Cloud-topp'd Hills;
But should the damp-wing'd Tempest keenly blow,
With whistling Torrents, and descending Snow,
In one huge Heap the showery Whirlpools swell,
And deluge wide the Tract where first they fell;
'Till, from the headlong Verge of yon black Steep,
A tumbling River bursts intense and deep;
From Rock to Rock its boiling Flood is broke,
And all below the Waters surge in Smoke.—
So vast the Height, no Distance seems between
The Mountain's Summit, and the blue Serene.
So wondrous fierce the sloping Torrents roll!
Such still Amazement fixes all the Soul!
So hoarse the Thunder of the rushing Tide,
The Sense can scarce receive a Sound beside!
Tho' the green Glades with one wild Concert ring,
And thro' the Woodland warbles all the Spring.—
Just where the Beam of Sight distended fails,
Up the clear Infinite the Eagle sails!
Or half-way down the Precipice's Head,
White lingering Fogs, and dew-bright Clouds are spread.
The Soul from Indolence to Rapture wakes,
'Till on th'unfolding Ear the Water breaks.
This Sound, when Night has sadden'd all the Skies,
Far off the Traveller hears with wild Surprize.
High o'er the waving Landscape, dark with Trees,
A distant Murmur swells upon the Breeze,
Now near, now dying, varies with each Blast,
Then settles in a sullen Roar at last.
Thus where the Nile's first Parent Urn is found,
Her Cataracts rush down (a dizzy Sound!)
Wide and more wide the dreadful Echoes run,
Pierce thro' the burning Zone, and meet the Sun.
That once divided Empires with his Shores,
Say, in his Western Course immense and fair,
Can all his Falls and Cataracts compare?
Let grand Versailles her liquid Landscapes boast;
Pure Scenes of Nature here delight us most;
Her rudest Prospects bid the Fancy start,
And snatch the Soul beyond the Works of Art.—
O! would some Master Hand adorn your Walls,
And catch the living Fountain as it falls!
The gay Original would crown your Dome,
And you then boast your noblest Scene at Home!
Lo! down the Rock which Clouds and Darkness hide,
In wild Meanders spouts a silver Tide;
Or sprung from dropping Mists, or Wintry Rills,
Rolls the large Tribute of the Cloud-topp'd Hills;
But should the damp-wing'd Tempest keenly blow,
With whistling Torrents, and descending Snow,
In one huge Heap the showery Whirlpools swell,
And deluge wide the Tract where first they fell;
'Till, from the headlong Verge of yon black Steep,
A tumbling River bursts intense and deep;
From Rock to Rock its boiling Flood is broke,
And all below the Waters surge in Smoke.—
So vast the Height, no Distance seems between
The Mountain's Summit, and the blue Serene.
So wondrous fierce the sloping Torrents roll!
Such still Amazement fixes all the Soul!
So hoarse the Thunder of the rushing Tide,
The Sense can scarce receive a Sound beside!
13
And thro' the Woodland warbles all the Spring.—
Just where the Beam of Sight distended fails,
Up the clear Infinite the Eagle sails!
Or half-way down the Precipice's Head,
White lingering Fogs, and dew-bright Clouds are spread.
The Soul from Indolence to Rapture wakes,
'Till on th'unfolding Ear the Water breaks.
This Sound, when Night has sadden'd all the Skies,
Far off the Traveller hears with wild Surprize.
High o'er the waving Landscape, dark with Trees,
A distant Murmur swells upon the Breeze,
Now near, now dying, varies with each Blast,
Then settles in a sullen Roar at last.
Thus where the Nile's first Parent Urn is found,
Her Cataracts rush down (a dizzy Sound!)
Wide and more wide the dreadful Echoes run,
Pierce thro' the burning Zone, and meet the Sun.
Description flags—let Thought the Rest express;
A Theme untouch'd, delicious to Excess!
Profuse of all the Soul can wish, or love;
A Landscape in the golden Dreams of Jove!
O that my Breast with Pæan's Flame were smit!
Or ardent as my Wish, sublime my Wit!
(If for a Verse like mine I could engage)
This deathless Stream should flow, from Age to Age.
But stop, fond Muse,—or soar to bolder Lays;
The finish'd Seat demands the Founder's Praise;
Where Taste sets off, and dignifies Expence,
Rich without Glare; magnificent with Sense.
As in some Piece a Titian's Hand has wrought
The fair Result, and Eloquence of Thought,
Where Light and Shadow blend in social Strife,
And every glorious Colour streams with Life;
Thus in Improvement shines the Attic Taste;
Thus Eden springs where late you found a Waste.
Sketch'd in your House, the candid Heart we view,
Its Grace, Strength, Order, all reflecting you;
Yet, pleas'd to see, and fonder still to tell,
Your candid Heart becomes that House so well;
The mirthful Look; kind Air without Controul;
The easy Converse, and the Flow of Soul.
A Theme untouch'd, delicious to Excess!
Profuse of all the Soul can wish, or love;
A Landscape in the golden Dreams of Jove!
O that my Breast with Pæan's Flame were smit!
Or ardent as my Wish, sublime my Wit!
(If for a Verse like mine I could engage)
This deathless Stream should flow, from Age to Age.
But stop, fond Muse,—or soar to bolder Lays;
The finish'd Seat demands the Founder's Praise;
Where Taste sets off, and dignifies Expence,
Rich without Glare; magnificent with Sense.
As in some Piece a Titian's Hand has wrought
The fair Result, and Eloquence of Thought,
Where Light and Shadow blend in social Strife,
And every glorious Colour streams with Life;
14
Thus Eden springs where late you found a Waste.
Sketch'd in your House, the candid Heart we view,
Its Grace, Strength, Order, all reflecting you;
Yet, pleas'd to see, and fonder still to tell,
Your candid Heart becomes that House so well;
The mirthful Look; kind Air without Controul;
The easy Converse, and the Flow of Soul.
How flush'd my Thought! how charm'd my Eye survey'd
The gilt Profile, and stately Colonade!
There arch'd Hesperian Windows drink the Noon;
Here fluted Dorics raise the rich Saloon;
The Pile all o'er for gazing Homage calls,
In Fretwork Cielings, and Historic Walls;
Ætherial Dyes the glowing Canvas stain,
And here fair Italy's best Triumphs reign.
Thus while my Sight the pictur'd Views amaze,
In keen Excursions vigorous Fancy strays;
Now beats my Heart, or emulous I burn,
At Tully's Tusculum, or Virgil's Urn:
Still green with Bays the hallow'd Ruins stand;
Still crown'd with Fame the hallow'd Names command;
Full on my conscious Soul their Glories strike;
And, for your Sake, I sigh to write unlike.—
But for these Lines, (yet menacing some more)
Mean as they are, their Passage I implore.
I know your Judgement polish'd, yet humane;
Your Temper, apt to give your Judgement Pain;
Dispos'd to think, to feel for human Race,
And even in this bad Age to shew some Grace;
To act as Reason and good Sense require;
Ah! how unlike the modern Country 'Squire!
By your Applause, Verse low as mine can live;
Nor can I make more Faults, than you forgive.
The gilt Profile, and stately Colonade!
There arch'd Hesperian Windows drink the Noon;
Here fluted Dorics raise the rich Saloon;
The Pile all o'er for gazing Homage calls,
In Fretwork Cielings, and Historic Walls;
Ætherial Dyes the glowing Canvas stain,
And here fair Italy's best Triumphs reign.
Thus while my Sight the pictur'd Views amaze,
In keen Excursions vigorous Fancy strays;
Now beats my Heart, or emulous I burn,
At Tully's Tusculum, or Virgil's Urn:
Still green with Bays the hallow'd Ruins stand;
Still crown'd with Fame the hallow'd Names command;
Full on my conscious Soul their Glories strike;
And, for your Sake, I sigh to write unlike.—
But for these Lines, (yet menacing some more)
Mean as they are, their Passage I implore.
I know your Judgement polish'd, yet humane;
Your Temper, apt to give your Judgement Pain;
Dispos'd to think, to feel for human Race,
And even in this bad Age to shew some Grace;
To act as Reason and good Sense require;
Ah! how unlike the modern Country 'Squire!
By your Applause, Verse low as mine can live;
Nor can I make more Faults, than you forgive.
| The Shamrock | |