 | The Poetical Works of Percival Stockdale |  |
287
TO HENRY COLLINGWOOD, SELBY, ESQ.
From these penates, which true friends, of late,
(Not one, a bishop) met to consecrate,
Through thy life's tenour may be given to flow,
Pleasures as durable as man can know!
May peace this ground salute with downy wing;
Round this gay spot may joy her chaplets fling:
Here may our souls, the rosy god of wine
Ne'er madden, or oppress, but oft refine;
Here oft may Cupid, from his purple plumes,
Shake all his passion with his rich perfumes!
(Not one, a bishop) met to consecrate,
Through thy life's tenour may be given to flow,
Pleasures as durable as man can know!
May peace this ground salute with downy wing;
Round this gay spot may joy her chaplets fling:
Here may our souls, the rosy god of wine
Ne'er madden, or oppress, but oft refine;
Here oft may Cupid, from his purple plumes,
Shake all his passion with his rich perfumes!
And may the souls of that convivial day
Be long recorded by my zealous lay!
Rundell, a favorite guest at Comus' court,
Who sense and humour blends with social sport;
And in your annals long unfaded shine,
The good, gay, friendly brothers from the Tyne;
Of steady worth one born the palm to share,
One, by bold sallies, to subdue the fair;
Dunbar, whose page gives force to Virtue's aim,
A scottish phenix, fired with Freedom's flame:
Field, who, by Fortune's caprice ne'er depressed,
Meets her worst frowns with a determined breast;
Whom in the spring of life the poet knew,
When Fancy still enjoyed some brilliant view;
Long ere Adversity's black storms arose;
Long ere my genius had procured me foes.
Be long recorded by my zealous lay!
Rundell, a favorite guest at Comus' court,
Who sense and humour blends with social sport;
And in your annals long unfaded shine,
The good, gay, friendly brothers from the Tyne;
Of steady worth one born the palm to share,
One, by bold sallies, to subdue the fair;
288
A scottish phenix, fired with Freedom's flame:
Field, who, by Fortune's caprice ne'er depressed,
Meets her worst frowns with a determined breast;
Whom in the spring of life the poet knew,
When Fancy still enjoyed some brilliant view;
Long ere Adversity's black storms arose;
Long ere my genius had procured me foes.
Oh! thou, whose ear with pleasure hears my strains,
Whose heart participates my joys, and pains!
Like a mere vain, and versifying elf,
Let me refer yet longer to myself:
In Twickenham's vicinage, oh! let me turn
An ardent look to Pope's funereal urn!
Shall I forget, on thy convivial day,
How inspiration dignified my way!—
The fane of Twickenham oped; thy poet found
The strong effects of consecrated ground:
Now warmth, now chillness through my vitals crept;
My heart's pulsation paused, and now it leapt.
The spot was shown me where his ashes lie;
I viewed the grave with reverential eye:
The aile seemed jealous for the mighty dead,
And bade his humble votary softly tread:
My mind's impressions met my listening ear;
And Echo said,—“The God of Pope is here.”
Ye bards, how great Heaven's intellectual plan
Was shown, in forming our stupendous man!
His image raised me far from earth; at once
I pitied Warton, and each impious dunce:
The church I left, with just ideas stored;
Admired the poet, but the God adored.
Whose heart participates my joys, and pains!
Like a mere vain, and versifying elf,
Let me refer yet longer to myself:
In Twickenham's vicinage, oh! let me turn
An ardent look to Pope's funereal urn!
Shall I forget, on thy convivial day,
How inspiration dignified my way!—
The fane of Twickenham oped; thy poet found
The strong effects of consecrated ground:
Now warmth, now chillness through my vitals crept;
My heart's pulsation paused, and now it leapt.
The spot was shown me where his ashes lie;
I viewed the grave with reverential eye:
289
And bade his humble votary softly tread:
My mind's impressions met my listening ear;
And Echo said,—“The God of Pope is here.”
Ye bards, how great Heaven's intellectual plan
Was shown, in forming our stupendous man!
His image raised me far from earth; at once
I pitied Warton, and each impious dunce:
The church I left, with just ideas stored;
Admired the poet, but the God adored.
| The Poetical Works of Percival Stockdale | |