Poems (1791) :: :: University of Virginia Library

By a prattling stream, on a Midsummer's eve,
Where the woodbine and jess'mine their boughs interweave,
Fair Flora, I cry'd, to my harbour repair,
For I must have a chaplet for sweet William's hair.

II

She brought me the vi'let that grows on the hill,
The vale-dwelling lilly, and gilded jonquill:
But such languid odours how cou'd I approve,
Just warm from the lips of the lad that I love.

III

She brought me, his faith and his truth to display,
The undying myrtle, and ever-green bay:
But why these to me, who've his constancy known?
And Billy has laurels enough of his own.

IV

The next was a gift that I could not contemn,
For she brought me two roses that grew on a stem:
Of the dear nuptial tie they stood emblems confest,
So I kiss'd 'em, and press'd 'em quite close to my breast.

V

She brought me a sun-flow'r—This, fair one's, your due;
For it once was a maiden, and love-sick like you:
Oh! give it me quick, to my shepherd I'll run,
As true to his flame, as this flow'r to the sun.

The LASS with the GOLDEN LOCKS.

BALLAD II.

I

No more of my Harriot, of Polly no more,
Nor all the bright beauties that charm'd me before;
My heart for a slave to gay Venus I've sold,
And barter'd my freedom for ringlets of gold:
I'll throw down my pipe, and neglect all my flocks
And will sing to my lass with the golden locks.

II

Tho' o'er her white forehead the gilt tresses flow,
Like the rays of the sun on a hillock of snow;
Such painters of old drew the Queen of the Fair,
'Tis the taste of the antients, 'tis classical hair:
And tho' witlings may scoff, and tho' raillery mocks,
Yet I'll sing to my lass with the golden locks.

III

To live and to love, to converse and be free,
Is loving, my charmer, and living with thee:
Away go the hours in kisses and rhime,
Spite of all the grave lectures of old father Time;
A fig for his dials, his watches and clocks,
He's best spent with the lass of the golden locks.

IV

Than the swan in the brook she's more dear to my sight,
Her mien is more stately, her breast is more white,
Her sweet lips are rubies, all rubies above,
They are fit for the language or labour of love;
At the park in the mall, at the play in the box,
My lass bears the bell with her golden locks.

V

Her beautiful eyes, as they roll or they flow,
Shall be glad for my joy, or shall weep for my woe;
She shall ease my fond heart, and shall sooth my soft pain;
While thousands of rivals are sighing in vain;
Let them rail at the fruit they can't reach, like the fox,
While I have the lass with the golden locks.

On my WIFE's BIRTH-DAY.

BALLAD III.

I

'Tis Nancy's birth-day—raise your strains,
Ye nymphs of the Parnassian plains,
And sing with more than usual glee
To Nancy, who was born for me.

II

Tell the blithe Graces as they bound?
Luxuriant in the buxom round;
They're not more elegantly free,
Than Nancy, who was born for me.

III

Tell royal Venus, tho' she rove,
The Queen of the immortal grove;
That she must share her golden fee
With Nancy, who was born for me.

IV

Tell Pallas, tho' th'Athenian school,
And ev'ry trite pedantic fool,
On her to place the palm agree,
'Tis Nancy's, who was born for me.

V

Tell spotless Dian, tho' she range,
The regent of the up-land grange,
In chastity she yields to thee,
O, Nancy, who wast born for me.

VI

Tell Cupid, Hymen, and tell Jove,
With all the pow'rs of life and love,
That I'd disdain to breathe or be,
If Nancy was not born for me.

The DECISION.

BALLAD IV.

I

My Florio, wildest of his sex,
(Who sure the veriest saint wou'd vex)
From beauty roves to beauty;
Yet, tho' abroad the wanton roam,
Whene'er he deigns to stay at home,
He always minds his duty.

II

Something to every charming she,
In thoughtless prodigality,
He's granting still and granting,
To Phyllis that, to Cloe this,
And every madam, every miss;
Yet I find nothing wanting.

III

If haply I his will displease,
Tempestuous as th'autumnal seas
He foams and rages ever;

But when he ceases from his ire,
I cry, such spirit, and such fire,
Is surely wond'rous clever.

IV

I ne'er want reason to complain;
But sweet is pleasure after pain,
And every joy grows greater.
Then trust me, damsels, whilst I tell,
I should not like him half so well,
If I cou'd make him better.

Tho TALKATIVE FAIR.

BALLAD V.

I

From morn to night, from day to day
At all times and at every place,
You scold, repeat, and sing, and say,
Nor are there hopes you'll ever cease:

II

Forbear, my Celia, oh! forbear,
If your own health, or ours you prize
For all mankind that hear you, swear
Your tongue's more killing han your yes.

III

Your tongue's a traitor to your face,
Your fame's by your own noise obscur'd,
All are distracted while they gaze;
But if they listen, they are cur'd.

IV

Your silence wou'd acquire more praise,
Than all you say, or all I write;
One look ten thousand charms displays;
Then hush—and be an angel quite.

The SILENT FAIR.

BALLAD V.

I

From all her fair loquacious kind,
So different is my Rosalind,
That not one accent can I gain
To crown my hopes, or sooth my pain.

II

Ye lovers, who can construe sighs,
And are the interpreters of eyes,
To language all her looks translate,
And in her gestures read my fate.

III

And if in them you chance to find
Aught that is gentle, aught that's kind,

Adieu mean hopes of being great,
And all the littleness of state.

IV

All thoughts of grandeur I'll despise,
Which from dependence take their rise;
To serve her shall be my employ,
And love's sweet agony my joy.

The FORCE of INNOCENCE.

BALLAD VII.

To Miss C---.

I

The blooming damsel, whose defence
Is adamantine innocence,
Requires no guardian to attend
Her steps, for modesty's her friend:
Tho' her fair arms are weak to wield
The glitt'ring spear, and massy shield;
Yet safe from force and fraud combin'd,
She is an Amazon in mind.

II

With this artillery she goes,
Not only 'mongst the harmless beaux:
But e'en unhurt and undismay'd,
Views the long sword and fierce cockade,

Tho' all a syren as she talks,
And all a goddess as she walks,
Yet decency each action guides,
And wisdom o'er her tongue presides.

III

Place her in Russia's showery plains,
Where a perpetual winter reigns,
The elements may rave and range,
Yet her fix'd mind will never change.
Place her, Ambition, in thy tow'rs,
'Mongst the more dang'rous golden show'rs,
E'en there she'd spurn the venal tribe,
And fold her arms against the bribe.

IV

Leave her, defenceless and alone,
A pris'ner in the torrid zone,
The sunshine there might vainly vie
With the bright lustre of her eye;
But Phœbus' self, with all his fire,
Cou'd ne'er one unchaste thought inspire;
But Virtue's path she'd still pursue
And still, my fair, wou'd copy you.

The DISTRESSED DAMSEL.

BALLAD VIII.

I

Of all my experience how vast the amount,
Since fifteen long winters I fairly can count!
Was ever a damsel so sadly betray'd,
To live to these years and yet still be a maid?

II

Ye heroes triumphant by land and by sea,
Sworn vot'ries to love, but unmindful of me;
You can storm a strong fort, or can form a blockade,
Yet ye stand by like dastards, and see me a maid.

III

Ye lawyers so just, who with slippery tongue,
Can do what you please, or with right, or with wrong,
Can it be or by law or by equity said,
That a buxom young girl ought to die an old maid

IV

Ye learned physicians, whose excellent skill
Can save, or demolish, can cure, or can kill,
To a poor, forlorn damsel contribute your aid,
Who is sick—very sick—of remaining a maid.

V

Ye fops, I invoke, not to list to my song,
Who answer no end—and to no sex belong;
Ye echoes of echoes, and shadows of shade—
For if I had you—I might still be a maid.

The FAIR RECLUSE.

BALLAD IX.

I

Ye ancient patriarchs of the wood,
That veil around these awful glooms,
Who many a century have stoode
In verdant age, that ever blooms.

II

Ye Gothic tow'rs, by vapours dense,
Obscur'd into severer state,
In pastoral magnificence
At once so simple and so great.

III

Why all your jealous shades on me,
Ye hoary elders, do ye spread?
Fair Innocence shou'd still be free,
Nought shou'd be chain'd, but what we dread.

IV

Say, must these tears for ever flow?
Can I from patience learn content,
While solitude still nurses woe,
And leaves me leisure to lament.

V

My guardian see!—who wards off peace,
Whose cruelty is his employ,
Who bids the tongue of transport cease,
And stops each avenue to joy.

VI

Freedom of air alone is giv'n,
To aggravate, not sooth my grief,
To view th'immensely-distant heav'n,
My nearest prospect of relief.

To Miss --- one of the Chichester Graces.

BALLAD X.

Written in Goodwood Gardens, September, 1750.

I

“Ye hills that overlook the plains,
“Where wealth and Gothic greatness reigns,
“Where Nature's hand by Art is check'd,
“And Taste herself is architect;
“Ye fallows grey, ye forests brown,
“And seas that the vast prospect crown,
“Ye fright the soul with Fancy's store,
“Nor can she one idea more!”

II

I said—when dearest of her kind
(Her form, the picture of her mind)
Chloris approach'd—The landskip flew!
All Nature vanish'd from my view!
She seem'd all Nature to comprize,
Her lips! her beauteous breasts! her eyes!
That rous'd, and yet abash'd desire,
With liquid, languid, living fire!

III

But then—her voice!—how fram'd t'endear!
The music of the Gods to hear!
Wit that so pierc'd, without offence,
So brac'd by the strong nerves of sense!
Pallas with Venus play'd her part,
To rob me of an honest heart;
Prudence and Passion jointly strove,
And reason was th'ally of Love.

IV

Ah me! thou sweet, delicious maid,
From whence shall I solicit aid?
Hope and despair alike destroy,
One kills with grief, and one with joy.
Celestial Chloris! Nymph divine!
To save me, the dear task be thine.
Tho' conquest be the woman's care,
The angel's glory is to spare.

LOVELY HARRIOT,

A Crambo Ballad.

BALLAD XI.

I

Great Phœbus in his vast career,
Who forms the self succeeding year,
Thron'd in his amber chariot;

Sees not an object half so bright,
Nor gives such joy, such life, such light,
As dear delicious Harriot.

II

Pedants of dull phlegmatic turns,
Whose pulse not beats, whose blood not burns,
Read Malebranche, Boyle and Marriot;
I scorn their philosophic strife,
And study nature from the life,
(Where most she shines) in Harriot.

III

When she admits another wooer,
I rave like Shakespeare's jealous Moor,
And am as raging Barry hot.
True, virtuous, lovely, was his dove,
But virtue, beauty, truth and love,
Are other names for Harriot.

IV

Ye factious members who oppose,
And tire both Houses with your prose,
Tho' never can ye carry aught;
You might command the nation's sense,
And without bribery convince,
Had ye the voice of Harriot.

V

You of the music common weal,
Who borrow, beg, compose, or steal,
Cantata, air, or ariet;

You'd burn your cumb'rous works in score,
And sing, compose, and play no more,
If once you heard my Harriot.

VI

Were there a wretch who dar'd essay,
Such wond'rous sweetness to betray
I'd call him an Iscariot;
But her e'en satire can't annoy,
So strictly chaste, but kindly coy,
Is fair angelic Harriot.

VII

While sultans, emperors, and kings,
(Mean appetite of earthly things)
In all the waste of war riot;
Love's softer duel be my aim,
Praise, honour, glory, conquest, fame,
Are center'd all in Harriot.

VIII

I swear by Hymen and the pow'rs
That haunt Love's ever blushing bow'rs,
So sweet a nymph to marry ought;
Then may I hug her silken yoke,
And give the last, the final stroke,
T'accomplish lovely Harriot.

To JENNY GRAY.

BALLAD XII.

I

Bring, Phœbus, from Parnassian bow'r,s
A chaplet of poetic flowers,
That far out bloom the May;
Bring verse so smooth, and thoughts so free,
And all the Muses heraldry,
To blazon Jenny Gray.

II

Observe yon almond's rich perfume,
Presenting Spring with early bloom,
In ruddy tints how gay!
Thus, foremost of the blushing fair,
With such a blithsome, buxom air,
Blooms lovely Jenny Gray.

III

The merry, chirping, plumy throng,
The bushes and the twigs among
That pipe the sylvan lay,
All hush'd at her delightful voice
In silent extacy rejoice,
And study Jenny Gray.

IV

Ye balmy odour-breathing gales,
That lightly sweep the green robed vales,
And in each rose-bush play;

I know you all, you're arrant cheats,
And steal your more than natural sweets,
From lovely Jenny Gray.

V

Pomona and that Goddess bright,
The florist's and the maids delight,
In vain their charms display;
The luscious nectarine, juicy peach,
In richness, nor in sweetness reach
The lips of Jenny Gray.

VI

To the sweet knot of Graces three,
Th'immortal band of bards agree,
A tuneful tax to pay;
There yet remains a matchless worth,
There yet remains a lovelier fourth,
And she is Jenny Gray.

To Miss KITTY BENNET and her Cat Crop.

BALLAD XIII.

I

Full many a heart, that now is free,
May shortly, fair one, beat for thee,
And court thy pleasing chain;
Then prudent hear a friend's advice,
And learn to guard, by conduct nice,
The conquests you shall gain.

II

When Tabby Tom your Crop pursues,
How many a bite, and many a bruise
The amorous Swain endures?
E'er yet one favouring glance he catch,
What frequent squalls, how many a scratch
His tenderness procures?

III

Tho' this, 'tis own'd, be somewhat rude,
And Puss by nature be a prude,
Yet hence you may improve;
By decent pride, and dint of scoff,
Keep caterwauling coxcombs off,
And ward th'attacks of love.

IV

Your Crop a mousing when you see,
She teaches you œconomy,
Which makes the pot to boil:
And when she plays with what she gains,
She shews you pleasure springs from pains,
And mirth's the fruit of toil.

The PRETTY BAR-KEEPER of the MITRE.

BALLAD XIV.

Written at College, 1741.

I

“Relax, sweet girl, your wearied mind,
“And to hear the poet talk,
“Gentlest creature of your kind,
“Lay aside your sponge and chalk;
“Cease, cease the bar-bell, nor refuse
“To hear the jingle of the Muse.

II

“Hear your numerous vot'ries prayers,
“Come, O come, and bring with thee
“Giddy whimsies, wanton airs,
“And all love's soft artillery;
“Smiles and throbs, and frowns, and tears,
“With all the little hopes and fears.

III

She heard—she came—and e'er she spoke,
Not unravish'd you might see
Her wanton eyes that wink'd the joke,
Ee'r her tongue could set it free.
While a forc'd blush her cheeks inflam'd,
And seem'd to say she was asham'd.

IV

No handkerchief her bosom hid,
No tippet from our sight debars
Her heaving breasts with moles o'erspread,
Mark'd, little hemispheres, with stars;
While on them all our eyes we move,
Our eyes that meant immoderate love.

V

In every gesture, every air,
Th'imperfect lisp, the languid eye;
In every motion of the fair
We awkward imitators vie,
And forming our own from her face,
Strive to look pretty, as we gaze.

VI

If e'er she sneer'd, the mimic crowd
Sneer'd too, and all their pipes laid down;
If she but stoop'd, we lowly bow'd,
And sullen if she 'gan to frown
In solemn silence sat profound—
But did she laugh!—the laugh went round.

VII

Her snuff-box if the nymph pull'd out,
Each Johnian in responsive airs
Fed with the tickling dust his snout,
With all the politesse of bears.
Dropt she her fan beneath her hoop,
Ev'n stake-stuck Clarians strove to stoop.

VIII

The tons of culinary Kays
Smoaking from the eternal treat,
Lost in extatic transport gaze,
As tho' the fair was good to eat;
Ev'n gloomiest King's men, pleas'd awhile,
“Grin horribly a ghastly smile.”

IX

But hark, she cries, “my mama calls,”
And strait she's vanish'd from our fight;
'Twas then we saw the empty bowls,
'Twas then we first perceiv'd it night;
While all, sad Synod, silent moan,
Both that she went—and went alone.

The WIDOW's RESOLUTION.

A Cantata.

BALLAD XV.

Recitative.

Sylvia, the most contented of her kind,
Remain'd in joyless widowhood resign'd:
In vain to gain her every shepherd strove,
Each passion ebb'd, but grief, which drowned love.

Air.

Away, she cry'd, ye swains, be mute,
Nor with your odious fruitless suit
My loyal thoughts controul;

My grief on Resolution's rock
Is built, nor can temptation shock
The purpose of my soul.

Tho' blith content with jocund air
May balance comfort against care,
And make me life sustain;
Yet ev'ry joy has wing'd its flight,
Except that pensive dear delight
That takes it's rise from pain.

Recitative.

She said:—A youth approach'd of manly grace,
A son of Mars, and of th'Hibernian race:—
In flow'ry rhetorick he no time employ'd,
He came—he woo'd—he wedded and enjoy'd:

Air.

Dido thus of old protested,
Ne'er to know a second flame;
But alas! she found she jested,
When the stately Trojan came.

Nature a disguise may borrow,
Yet this maxim true will prove,
Spite of pride, and spite of sorrow,
She that has an heart must love.

What on earth is so enchanting
As beauty weeping on her weeds!
Thro' flowing eyes on bosom panting
What a rapturous ray proceeds?

Since from death there's no returning,
When th'old lover bids adieu,
All the pomp and farce of mourning
Are but signals for a new.