The Poetical Works of John Scott

Stern Winter hence with all his train removes,
And cheerful skies and limpid streams are seen;
Thick-sprouting foliage decorates the groves;
Reviving herbage clothes the fields with green.

Yet lovelier scenes th' approaching months prepare;
Kind Spring's full bounty soon will be display'd;
The smile of beauty ev'ry vale shall wear;
The voice of song enliven ev'ry shade.

O Fancy, paint not coming days too fair!
Oft for the prospects sprightly May should yield,
Rain-pouring clouds have darken'd all the air,
Or snows untimely whiten'd o'er the field:

But should kind Spring her wonted bounty show'r,
The smile of beauty, and the voice of song;
If gloomy thought the human mind o'erpow'r,
Ev'n vernal hours glide unenjoy'd along.

I shun the scenes where madd'ning passion raves,
Where Pride and Folly high dominion hold,
And unrelenting Avarice drives her slaves
O'er prostrate Virtue in pursuit of gold.

The grassy lane, the wood-surrounded field,
The rude stone fence with fragrant wall-flow'rs gay,
The clay-built cot, to me more pleasure yield
Than all the pomp imperial domes display:

And yet even here, amid these secret shades,
These simple scenes of unreprov'd delight,
Affliction's iron hand my breast invades,
And Death's dread dart is ever in my sight.

While genial suns to genial show'rs succeed,
(The air all mildness, and the earth all bloom);
While herds and flocks range sportive o'er the mead,
Crop the sweet herb, and snuff the rich perfume;

O why alone to hapless man deny'd
To taste the bliss inferior beings boast?
O why this fate, that fear and pain divide
His few short hours on earth's delightful coast?

Ah cease—no more of Providence complain!
'Tis sense of guilt that wakes the mind to woe,
Gives force to fear, adds energy to pain,
And palls each joy by Heav'n indulg'd below:

Why else the smiling infant-train so blest,
Ere ill propension ripens into sin,
Ere wild desire inflames the youthful breast,
And dear-bought knowledge ends the peace within?

As to the bleating tenants of the field,
As to the sportive warblers on the trees,
To them their joys sincere the seasons yield,
And all their days and all their prospects please;

Such mine, when first, from London's crowded streets,
Rov'd my young steps to Surry's wood-crown'd hills,
O'er new-blown meads that breath'd a thousand sweets,
By shady coverts and by chrystal rills.

O happy hours, beyond recov'ry fled!
What share I now that can your loss repay,
While o'er my mind these glooms of thought are spread,
And veil the light of life's meridian ray?

Is there no Power this darkness to remove?
The long-lost joys of Eden to restore?
Or raise our views to happier seats above,
Where fear and pain and death shall be no more?

Yes, those there are who know a Saviour's love
The long-lost joys of Eden can restore,
And raise their views to happier seats above,
Where fear and pain and death shall be no more:

These grateful share the gifts of Nature's hand;
And in the varied scenes that round them shine
(Minute and beautiful, or rude and grand),
Admire th' amazing workmanship divine.

Blows not a flow'ret in th' enamel'd vale,
Shines not a pebble where the riv'let strays,
Sports not an insect on the spicy gale,
But claims their wonder and excites their praise.

For them ev'n vernal Nature looks more gay,
For them more lively hues the fields adorn;
To them more fair the fairest smile of Day,
To them more sweet the sweetest breath of Morn.

They feel the bliss that Hope and Faith supply;
They pass serene th' appointed hours that bring
The Day that wafts them to the realms on high,
The Day that centers in Eternal Spring.

ELEGY II. Written in the Hot Weather, July, 1757.

Three hours from noon the passing shadow shows,
The sultry breeze glides faintly o'er the plains,
The dazzling Ether fierce and fiercer glows,
And human nature scarce its rage sustains.

Now still and vacant is the dusty street,
And still and vacant all yon fields extend,
Save where those swains, oppress'd with toil and heat,
The grassy harvest of the mead attend.

Lost is the lively aspect of the ground,
Low are the springs, the reedy ditches dry;
No verdant spot in all the vale is found,
Save what yon stream's unfailing stores supply.

Where are the flow'rs, the garden's rich array?
Where is their beauty, where their fragrance fled?
Their stems relax, fast fall their leaves away,
They fade and mingle with their dusty bed:

All but the natives of the torrid zone,
What Afric's wilds, or Peru's fields display,
Pleas'd with a clime that imitates their own,
They lovelier bloom beneath the parching ray.

Where is wild Nature's heart-reviving song,
That fill'd in genial spring the verdant bow'rs?
Silent in gloomy woods the feather'd throng
Pine thro' this long, long course of sultry hours.

Where is the dream of bliss by Summer brought?
The walk along the riv'let-water'd vale?
The field with verdure clad, with fragrance fraught?
The sun mild-beaming, and the fanning gale?

The weary soul Imagination chears,
Her pleasing colours paint the future gay:
Time passes on, the truth itself appears,
The pleasing colours instant fade away.

In diff'rent seasons diff'rent joys we place,
And these will Spring supply, and Summer these;
Yet frequent storms the bloom of Spring deface,
And Summer scarcely brings a day to please.

O for some secret shady cool recess,
Some Gothic dome o'erhung with darksome trees,
Where thick damp walls this raging heat repress,
Where the long aisle invites the lazy breeze!

But why these plaints?—reflect, nor murmur more—
Far worse their fate in many a foreign land,
The Indian tribes on Darien's swampy shore
The Arabs wand'ring over Mecca's sand.

Far worse, alas! the feeling mind sustains,
Rack'd with the poignant pangs of fear or shame;
The hopeless lover bound in Beauty's chains,
The bard whom Envy robs of hard-earn'd fame;

He, who a father or a mother mourns,
Or lovely consort lost in early bloom;
He, whom fell Febris, rapid Fury! burns,
Or Phthisis flow leads ling'ring to the tomb—

Lest Man should sink beneath the present pain;
Lest Man should triumph in the present joy;
For him th' unvarying laws of Heav'n ordain,
Hope in his ills, and to his bliss alloy.

Fierce and oppressive is the heat we bear,
Yet not unuseful to our humid soil;
Thence shall our fruits a richer flavour share,
Thence shall our plains with riper harvests smile.

Reflect, nor murmur more—for, good in all,
Heaven gives the due degrees of drought or rain;
Perhaps ere morn refreshing show'rs may fall,
Nor soon yon sun rise blazing fierce again:

Ev'n now behold the grateful change at hand!
Hark, in the East loud blust'ring gales arise;
Wide and more wide the dark'ning clouds expand,
And distant lightnings flash along the skies!

O, in the awful concert of the storm,
While hail and rain and wind and thunder join;
May deep-felt gratitude my soul inform,
May joyful songs of rev'rent praise be mine!

ELEGY III. Written in Harvest.

Farewell the pleasant violet-scented shade,
The primros'd hill, and daisy-mantled mead;
The furrow'd land, with springing corn array'd;
The sunny wall, with bloomy branches spread:

Farewell the bow'r with blushing roses gay;
Farewell the fragrant trefoil-purpled field;
Farewell the walk through rows of new-mown hay,
When ev'ning breezes mingled odours yield:

Of these no more—now round the lonely farms,
Where jocund Plenty deigns to fix her seat;
Th' autumnal landscape op'ning all its charms,
Declares kind Nature's annual work complete.

In diff'rent parts what diff'rent views delight,
Where on neat ridges waves the golden grain;
Or where the bearded barley dazzling white,
Spreads o'er the steepy slope or wide champaign.

The smile of Morning gleams along the hills,
And wakeful Labour calls her sons abroad;
They leave with chearful look their lowly vills,
And bid the fields resign their ripen'd load.

In various tasks engage the rustic bands,
And here the scythe, and there the sickle wield;
Or rear the new-bound sheaves along the lands,
Or range in heaps the swarths upon the field.

Some build the shocks, some load the spacious wains,
Some lead to shelt'ring barns the fragrant corn;
Some form tall ricks, that tow'ring o'er the plains
For many a mile, the homestead yards adorn.—

The rattling car with verdant branches crown'd,
The joyful swains that raise the clam'rous song,
Th' inclosure gates thrown open all around,
The stubble peopled by the gleaning throng,

Soon mark glad harvest o'er—Ye rural Lords,
Whose wide domains o'er Albion's isle extend;
Think whose kind hand your annual wealth affords,
And bid to Heaven your grateful praise ascend!

For tho' no gift spontaneous of the ground
Rose these fair crops that made your vallies smile,
Tho' the blithe youth of every hamlet round
Pursued for these thro' many a day their toil;

Yet what avail your labours or your cares?
Can all your labours, all your cares, supply
Bright suns, or soft'ning show'rs, or tepid airs,
Or one indulgent influence of the sky?

For Providence decrees, that we obtain
With toil each blessing destin'd to our use;
But means to teach us, that our toil is vain
If He the bounty of his hand refuse.

Yet, Albion, blame not what thy crime demands,
While this sad truth the blushing Muse betrays—
More frequent echoes o'er thy harvest lands,
The voice of Riot than the voice of Praise.

Prolific tho' thy fields, and mild thy clime,
Realms fam'd for fields as rich, for climes as fair,
Have fall'n the prey of Famine, War, and Time,
And now no semblance of their glory bear.

Ask Palestine, proud Asia's early boast,
Where now the groves that pour'd her wine and oil;
Where the fair towns that crown'd her wealthy coast;
Where the glad swains that till'd her fertile soil:

Ask, and behold, and mourn her hapless fall!
Where rose fair towns, where toil'd the jocund swain,
Thron'd on the naked rock and mould'ring wall,
Pale Want and Ruin hold their dreary reign.

Where Jordan's vallies smil'd in living green,
Where Sharon's flow'rs disclos'd their varied hues,
The wand'ring pilgrim views the alter'd scene,
And drops the tear of pity as he views.

Ask Grecia, mourning o'er her ruin'd tow'rs;
Where now the prospects charm'd her bards of old,
Her corn-clad mountains and Elysian bow'rs,
And silver streams thro' fragrant meadows roll'd.

Where Freedom's praise along the vale was heard,
And town to town return'd the fav'rite sound;
Where Patriot War her awful standard rear'd,
And brav'd the millions Persia pour'd around:

There Freedom's praise no more the valley chears,
There Patriot War no more her banner waves;
Nor bard, nor sage, nor martial chief appears,
But stern barbarians rule a land of slaves.

Of mighty realms are such the poor remains?
Of mighty realms that fell, when mad with pow'r,
They call'd for Vice to revel on their plains;
The monster doom'd their offspring to devour!

O Albion! wouldst thou shun their mournful fate,
To shun their follies and their crimes be thine;
And woo to linger in thy fair retreat,
The radiant Virtues, progeny divine!

Fair Truth, with dauntless eye and aspect bland;
Sweet Peace, whose brow no angry frown deforms;
Soft Charity, with ever-open hand;
And Courage, calm amid surrounding storms.

O lovely Train! O haste to grace our Isle!
So may the Pow'r who ev'ry blessing yields,
Bid on her clime serenest seasons smile,
And crown with annual wealth her far-fam'd fields.

ELEGY IV. Written at the Approach of Winter.

The Sun far southward bends his annual way,
The bleak North-east Wind lays the forests bare,
The fruit ungather'd quits the naked spray,
And dreary Winter reigns o'er earth and air.

No mark of vegetable life is seen,
No bird to bird repeats his tuneful call;
Save the dark leaves of some rude evergreen,
Save the lone red-breast on the moss-grown wall.

Where are the sprightly prospects Spring supply'd,
The may-flower'd hedges scenting every breeze;
The white flocks scatt'ring o'er the mountain's side,
The woodlarks warbling on the blooming trees?

Where is gay Summer's sportive insect train,
That in green fields on painted pinions play'd?
The herd at morn wide-pasturing o'er the plain,
Or throng'd at noon-tide in the willow shade?

Where is brown Autumn's ev'ning mild and still,
What time the ripen'd corn fresh fragrance yields,
What time the village peoples all the hill,
And loud shouts echo o'er the harvest fields?

To former scenes our fancy thus returns,
To former scenes that little pleas'd when here!
Our Winter chills us, and our Summer burns,
Yet we dislike the changes of the year.

To happier lands then restless Fancy flies,
Where Indian streams thro' green Savannahs flow;
Where brighter suns and ever tranquil skies
Bid new fruits ripen, and new flow'rets blow.

Let Truth these fairer happier lands survey—
There frowning Months descend in wat'ry storms;
Or Nature saints amid the blaze of day,
And one brown hue the sun-burnt plain deforms.

There oft, as toiling in the sultry fields,
Or homeward passing on the shadeless way,
His joyless life the weary lab'rer yields,
And instant drops beneath the deathful ray.

Who dreams of Nature, free from Nature's strife?
Who dreams of constant happiness below?
The hope-flush'd ent'rer on the stage of life;
The youth to knowledge unchastis'd by woe.

For me, long toil'd on many a weary road,
Led by false Hope in search of many a joy;
I find in Earth's bleak clime no blest abode,
No place, no season, sacred from annoy:

For me, while Winter rages round the plains,
With his dark days I human life compare;
Not those more fraught with clouds and winds and rains
Than this with pining pain and anxious care.

O! whence this wond'rous turn of mind our fate—
Whate'er the season or the place possest,
We ever murmur at our present state;
And yet the thought of parting breaks our rest?

Why else, when heard in Ev'ning's solemn gloom,
Does the sad knell, that sounding o'er the plain
Tolls some poor lifeless body to the tomb,
Thus thrill my breast with melancholy pain?

The voice of Reason thunders in my ear:
‘Thus thou, ere long, must join thy kindred clay;
‘No more those nostrils breathe the vital air,
‘No more those eyelids open on the day!’—

O Winter, o'er me hold thy dreary reign!
Spread wide thy skies in darkest horrors drest!
Of their dread rage no longer I'll complain,
Nor ask an Eden for a transient guest.

Enough has Heaven indulg'd of joy below,
To tempt our tarriance in this lov'd retreat;
Enough has Heaven ordain'd of useful woe,
To make us languish for a happier seat.

There is, who deems all climes, all seasons fair;
There is, who knows no restless passion's strife;
Contentment, smiling at each idle care;
Contentment, thankful for the gift of life!

She finds in Winter many a view to please;
The morning landscape fring'd with frost-work gay,
The sun at noon seen thro' the leafless trees,
The clear calm ether at the close of day:

She marks th' advantage storms and clouds bestow,
When blust'ring Caurus purifies the air;
When moist Aquarius pours the fleecy snow,
That makes th' impregnate glebe a richer harvest bear:

She bids, for all, our grateful praise arise,
To Him whose mandate spake the world to form;
Gave Spring's gay bloom, and Summer's chearful skies,
And Autumn's corn-clad field, and Winter's sounding storm.

University of Virginia Library

ELEGY I. Written at the Approach of Spring.

ELEGY II. Written in the Hot Weather, July, 1757.

ELEGY III. Written in Harvest.

ELEGY IV. Written at the Approach of Winter.