University of Virginia Library


194

To the SAME,

On reading Poems to Thespia.

Downman! whose strains the sacred Nine inspire,
Whose native genius and inherent fire
Not sickness can depress,
Or sharpest anguish in it's dire excess.
While rising still superior over all,
Antæus like, more vigorous from his fall:
Thy limbs stern pain may bind,
But not inslave the free impassive mind.
Say, shall the muse's humblest votary raise
His voice to thee, whose soul thirsts not for praise,
But modestly withdraws
E'en from the breath of merited applause?

195

Yet though unpluck'd by me the laurel bough,
Tho not a leaf hath deck'd my youthful brow,
Haply with partial ear
The Father's Friend may heed the verse sincere.
For tho unused to seek the fragrant bowers
Where fancy dwells mid never-fading flowers;
Can I in silence rest
When thy mellifluous numbers charm my breast?
Where chaste desire unveils his purple ray,
Where innocence and grace unsullied play,
As in the happiest clime
They marked the golden age's blameless time.
Then white-robed purity serenely smiled,
And Heavenly Venus, and her spotless child,
Nor wealth (our sordid shame)
Damp'd his bright ardour, and ethereal flame.

196

His radiant torch more lustrous graced his hand
When saffron-vested Hymen knit the band,
And constancy and truth
Cherish'd thro life the fires which beam'd in youth.
Thus, (tho in these degenerate days how rare!)
Hast thou beheld the Paphian boy appear,
Nor less his gifts he shed
On her, the gentle partner of thy bed.
Well knew'st thou when, the walk recluse and still,
When to prefer the fount, or gurgling rill,
The open sunny plain,
Or the dark umbrage of the wood-land reign.
Well could thy taste discern the graces meek
Of sweet simplicity's unvarnisht cheek,
And when adorn'd the least,
To thee her genuine beauties were increast.

197

Much rather had'st thou, on the turf reclined,
Where the beech waved his branches to the wind,
Or the oak tower'd on high,
Attend the shepherd's native melody:
Or untaught voice, borne on the lingering gale
Of maid at eve returning thro the vale,
Or curfew sounding deep
Warning black night to climb the Eastern steep:
Than in the taper'd room to waste thy hours,
Where boastful art her tones profusely pours,
While nature thence removes,
Pleased with the murmuring brook, and choral groves.
With taste refined, and feelings just endow'd,
Well may'st thou view with careless glance the croud;
On the base world look down,
Nor heed it's treacherous smiles, or envious frown.

198

Oh! may Hygeia from her plumed wing
On thee once more her grateful odours fling!
Powerful new strength to impart,
And heal the wound of pain's corrosive dart!
So shall thy Thespia's eye with transport shine,
So shall each Friend the festive garland twine,
Indulge the genial rite,
And mark the day long-hoped with purest white.
SAMUEL CODRINGTON. 1781.