The rural lyre a volume of poems ... by Ann Yearsley |
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FAMILIAR POEM TO MILO, AN AGED FRIEND, WHO WISHED THE AUTHOR RICHES. |
 | The rural lyre |  |
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FAMILIAR POEM TO MILO, AN AGED FRIEND, WHO WISHED THE AUTHOR RICHES.
You talk of wealth, dear Milo, as if I
Could find no joy in Nature's purer gifts.
When you are sighing o'er the goblet, full
Of racy liquid, and reflection turns
Back to the dearest treasure of your soul;
Should I buy off your mem'ry, were I rich?
When on your downy pillow you recline,
Where long-lost Emma meets your mental view;
Would you permit me to dispel the shade,
Dull your fine faculties, enchant your sense,
With yon cold Miser's, in a death-like sleep,
Were I more rich than Crœsus? Could you sit,
With more complacence on my narrow hearth,
Hear the dull story of my early fate,
How my neglected bosom bled, how oft
I sacrific'd to duty, and was turn'd
Pale and unthank'd away, had I more wealth?
Could find no joy in Nature's purer gifts.
When you are sighing o'er the goblet, full
Of racy liquid, and reflection turns
Back to the dearest treasure of your soul;
Should I buy off your mem'ry, were I rich?
When on your downy pillow you recline,
Where long-lost Emma meets your mental view;
Would you permit me to dispel the shade,
Dull your fine faculties, enchant your sense,
With yon cold Miser's, in a death-like sleep,
Were I more rich than Crœsus? Could you sit,
With more complacence on my narrow hearth,
Hear the dull story of my early fate,
How my neglected bosom bled, how oft
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Pale and unthank'd away, had I more wealth?
Surely, good Milo, you do much forepass
All that is noble or divine within,
When you thus chide me from the flow'ry vale,
Where Fancy, smiling, bids me mark the hours.
All that is noble or divine within,
When you thus chide me from the flow'ry vale,
Where Fancy, smiling, bids me mark the hours.
O could convenient wealth prolong your stay
From spheres behind the sun! were you content
To rove with me, till e'en on the bleak verge
Of time we trembled; I would rise at morn,
Draw from yon rock its glitt'ring atoms, bear
The heavy fardel, hear the vulgar swear
To bargains for the good unmeet, grow rich,
Ungentle, insolent as yon gay dame
Who stares me from the circle she profanes!
No—to be what I am not, would accuse
Your constancy of judgment—Milo, say,
How wealth might bless me, if unblest by you?
From spheres behind the sun! were you content
To rove with me, till e'en on the bleak verge
Of time we trembled; I would rise at morn,
Draw from yon rock its glitt'ring atoms, bear
The heavy fardel, hear the vulgar swear
To bargains for the good unmeet, grow rich,
Ungentle, insolent as yon gay dame
Who stares me from the circle she profanes!
No—to be what I am not, would accuse
Your constancy of judgment—Milo, say,
How wealth might bless me, if unblest by you?
Mourn not the state in which just Heav'n prescribes
Bounds to my wish, or from my wish removes
The feast, ere tempting lux'ry pall my taste,
Or spoil the meal I travail'd for. You plead
How much I owe my children. Tell me, friend,
Was Marlus deem'd an ideot, when his sire
Bade him pluck down the moon, and he, forsooth,
Brought the old man an oyster? We must mark
Things possible: th'impossible is not.
He dauntless in distress, bold in his rags,
Returns the sneer of Fortune, throws her gifts
To his expecting creditor, the world:
So I can give, accepting but a grave.
Milo, since gold ne'er purchases a mind,
Nor youth, nor health; nor mitigates the claim
Of those dread Pow'rs whose property we are,
And who will soon invite us, why should I
Lose fancy? She is all to me—the night
Would steal more lonely down, my pillow grow
Hard to my sleepless eye, e'en you would mourn
My spirits' desolation.—Abra drives
Her chariot like an Amazon, curls high
Her whip o'er modest worth; as worth strays on
Unnotic'd and unknown. Rich Abra's steeds,
Warm as their driver, less impatient, kiss
The modest Zephyr as they prance along:
Careless how lolls the lady in her car,
Or how her fame emblazes. Proudly she
Dares Phaeton in jockeyship, and hurls
Grace from her lofty seat.—O female grace,
Leave not fair Abra so uncouthly mad!
Bring her fair infant, lay it near her heart,
Bid her watch o'er the dawning thought.—Poor puss,
Thy suff'rings unprovok'd, thy terrors won
Pity from yon poor clown—his sighs disgrac'd
Abra in at the death! What claims the chace,
The leap o'er rail or five-barr'd gate?—what claims
The brushy tail of Reynard from the fair?
Can woman riot o'er departing life?
What fiend profanes her heart by nature made
Tender for lovely purposes? The act
That sears a female bosom, must destroy
A portion of her mind. Can woman raise,
And will observing angels join, the laugh,
When down the friendly covert panting steals
A fox dismay'd, fearing to die? One smile
On lips whence helpless infancy sends forth
Its fragrance, from a virtuous mother wins
More rapture than those ears too hardly won,
And hung poor trophies at the stable door.
Bounds to my wish, or from my wish removes
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Or spoil the meal I travail'd for. You plead
How much I owe my children. Tell me, friend,
Was Marlus deem'd an ideot, when his sire
Bade him pluck down the moon, and he, forsooth,
Brought the old man an oyster? We must mark
Things possible: th'impossible is not.
He dauntless in distress, bold in his rags,
Returns the sneer of Fortune, throws her gifts
To his expecting creditor, the world:
So I can give, accepting but a grave.
Milo, since gold ne'er purchases a mind,
Nor youth, nor health; nor mitigates the claim
Of those dread Pow'rs whose property we are,
And who will soon invite us, why should I
Lose fancy? She is all to me—the night
Would steal more lonely down, my pillow grow
Hard to my sleepless eye, e'en you would mourn
My spirits' desolation.—Abra drives
Her chariot like an Amazon, curls high
31
Unnotic'd and unknown. Rich Abra's steeds,
Warm as their driver, less impatient, kiss
The modest Zephyr as they prance along:
Careless how lolls the lady in her car,
Or how her fame emblazes. Proudly she
Dares Phaeton in jockeyship, and hurls
Grace from her lofty seat.—O female grace,
Leave not fair Abra so uncouthly mad!
Bring her fair infant, lay it near her heart,
Bid her watch o'er the dawning thought.—Poor puss,
Thy suff'rings unprovok'd, thy terrors won
Pity from yon poor clown—his sighs disgrac'd
Abra in at the death! What claims the chace,
The leap o'er rail or five-barr'd gate?—what claims
The brushy tail of Reynard from the fair?
Can woman riot o'er departing life?
What fiend profanes her heart by nature made
Tender for lovely purposes? The act
That sears a female bosom, must destroy
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And will observing angels join, the laugh,
When down the friendly covert panting steals
A fox dismay'd, fearing to die? One smile
On lips whence helpless infancy sends forth
Its fragrance, from a virtuous mother wins
More rapture than those ears too hardly won,
And hung poor trophies at the stable door.
I wander much, dear Milo, when I write
To you, who have reflected long. You prize
Souls puissant who drag at Fortune's wheel,
Deriding her bad judgment, as she throws
Her gifts with seeming blindness. Strength I love;
Yet they most drag who vainly disobey,
And weigh with their own stubbornness. Who set
Her axis going? Who struck out her path?
Charg'd her, though blind, ne'er to unloose the rein,
But keep her rapid progress through the world,
Throwing her hoards promiscuously? I own
My feebleness: millions more eager seize
The favours I forego, whilst sharing out
My whole estate with objects I adore.
To you, who have reflected long. You prize
Souls puissant who drag at Fortune's wheel,
Deriding her bad judgment, as she throws
Her gifts with seeming blindness. Strength I love;
Yet they most drag who vainly disobey,
And weigh with their own stubbornness. Who set
Her axis going? Who struck out her path?
Charg'd her, though blind, ne'er to unloose the rein,
But keep her rapid progress through the world,
Throwing her hoards promiscuously? I own
My feebleness: millions more eager seize
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My whole estate with objects I adore.
If I were rich, my boys might learn to breathe
Tones that ensnare the soul, shaking her pow'rs
With tremor much too exquisite. What boots
The languishment ideal, melting woe
So irresistible, when shades we love
Are heard by Fancy in melodious air?
Let those who feel declare.—Too oft the dance
In frightful labyrinth leaves the blooming maid,
Where virtue is no visitant. The moon
Then rises blushing, the fair wand'rer weeps
Neglected home, dreads her offended sire
Whose sole delight she was at morn, despairs,
And steals reluctantly to shades of vice,
Whence drop black poisons in the Tuscan grape
On her pale lip.—My sons, if rich, might wield
The fan emblaz'd with Psyche and her boy
O'er some enchantress, whose contagious sighs
Would blast the best impression of their souls.
The splendour of the virtuous mind appears
Brightest, when soaring to some unknown world,
Fearless of crowds beneath, or you would live
Virtuous unwisely. You are good and rich;
I poor—a vot'ry of wild fancy. When
You listen to my song, I am not poor;
You have not wealth enough to buy my joys:—
The chains of care fall off my pensive mind,
When through the winds your spirit hails me.—Thought,
Wondrous unwearied trav'ller, boldly roams
Around the spacious globe, attempts the skies
And heav'n, to find the object of its search;
Forms silent treaties, everlasting leagues
Between courageous independent minds,
Who fly far o'er the earth, and only bend
To virtue. Thought bears on eternal spring,
Colours to form our blessings, buds of hope
For souls serene, who taste pure joy, and live.
What bliss lives not in store of Thought! Our woes
Triumph at seasons, when we weary Thought
Down to our feebleness. For you it holds
The chart of moral worlds, unfolds the sphere
Of Truth!—Behold, my friend, yon eager throng
Driving each other o'er the sultry scene!
None mourn their neighbour's overthrow. In haste
To be more busy than their fellows, all
Forget their point, or know not when they pass'd
Their Sun's meridian. Morn was spent in vain,
Noon with impatience; ev'ning's cooler hour
Came not with contemplation. Glitt'ring forms
They chase! Ah see the shadows onward glide,
Elude them!—From the world the hunters fall.
Tones that ensnare the soul, shaking her pow'rs
With tremor much too exquisite. What boots
The languishment ideal, melting woe
So irresistible, when shades we love
Are heard by Fancy in melodious air?
Let those who feel declare.—Too oft the dance
In frightful labyrinth leaves the blooming maid,
Where virtue is no visitant. The moon
Then rises blushing, the fair wand'rer weeps
Neglected home, dreads her offended sire
Whose sole delight she was at morn, despairs,
And steals reluctantly to shades of vice,
Whence drop black poisons in the Tuscan grape
On her pale lip.—My sons, if rich, might wield
The fan emblaz'd with Psyche and her boy
O'er some enchantress, whose contagious sighs
Would blast the best impression of their souls.
The splendour of the virtuous mind appears
34
Fearless of crowds beneath, or you would live
Virtuous unwisely. You are good and rich;
I poor—a vot'ry of wild fancy. When
You listen to my song, I am not poor;
You have not wealth enough to buy my joys:—
The chains of care fall off my pensive mind,
When through the winds your spirit hails me.—Thought,
Wondrous unwearied trav'ller, boldly roams
Around the spacious globe, attempts the skies
And heav'n, to find the object of its search;
Forms silent treaties, everlasting leagues
Between courageous independent minds,
Who fly far o'er the earth, and only bend
To virtue. Thought bears on eternal spring,
Colours to form our blessings, buds of hope
For souls serene, who taste pure joy, and live.
What bliss lives not in store of Thought! Our woes
Triumph at seasons, when we weary Thought
Down to our feebleness. For you it holds
The chart of moral worlds, unfolds the sphere
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Driving each other o'er the sultry scene!
None mourn their neighbour's overthrow. In haste
To be more busy than their fellows, all
Forget their point, or know not when they pass'd
Their Sun's meridian. Morn was spent in vain,
Noon with impatience; ev'ning's cooler hour
Came not with contemplation. Glitt'ring forms
They chase! Ah see the shadows onward glide,
Elude them!—From the world the hunters fall.
Then hear my lay! Unwealthy as I am—
May I not tune the passions, melt the heart
Not obdurate by nature? Birds of song
Love best the secret shade, nor call on Jove
For gaudy plumage. When beside the stream,
Beneath the mountain, hill, or sacred oak,
I hear your mild instructive voice no more;
I will amid this woodland rest. [OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
May I not tune the passions, melt the heart
Not obdurate by nature? Birds of song
Love best the secret shade, nor call on Jove
For gaudy plumage. When beside the stream,
Beneath the mountain, hill, or sacred oak,
I hear your mild instructive voice no more;
I will amid this woodland rest. [OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
| The rural lyre | |