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23

ELEGIES, AND PLAINTIVE PIECES.

25

ELEGY, IMITATED FROM FLAMINIUS, Lib. iv. Page 18.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

These tears, Monimia, and these heart-felt groans
I pay, sad tribute for the joys I've lost;
Well pleas'd if life's last ebbing drop attones
My much-wrong'd Maid, and sooths her wand'ring ghost.
These now—nor will I long delay my part
In this dread scene of fatal misery;
Soon shall keen sorrow rend my perjur'd heart,
And join this faithless form in death to thee.
What tho' proud Stella share the nuptial bower
Which thy fond shepherd wove for thee alone.
With Stella I ne'er felt Love's genuine power,
Nor the strong tie of souls by choice made one.
But blind obedience to a parent's name,
(Curse the cold dictates of unfeeling Age!)
'Twas this forbade to nurse the mutual flame,
And in fond vows my willing heart engage.
For this I did to guilty wealth aspire,
To the calm haunts of gentle peace unknown;
Fondly for this profan'd love's hallow'd fire,
And hop'd for bliss when innocence was gone.
26

Love ne'er in pomp with mean Ambition vies,
Love knows no joys beyond the simple plain;
The splendid roof of gilded Care he flies,
And dwells beneath some shed, a cottage swain.
Perhaps e'en now thy visionary Shade,
Pleas'd the sad realms of silence to resign,
Bursts the cold prison of the peaceful dead,
And waits the doom that seals my fate with thine.
Hark! or I dream, from the dull womb of death
The well-known summons cries, “False youth, prepare!”
(That voice, like whisper of young zephyr's breath,
Which oft in life could charm my love-sick ear.)
“I come”—nor longer will delay my part
In this dread scene of fatal misery;
E'en now keen sorrow rends my perjur'd heart,
And joins this faithless form in death to thee.
27

A HERMIT'S MEDITATION.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

In lonesome cave
Of noise and interruption void,
His thoughtful solitude
A Hermit thus enjoy'd.
His choicest Book,
The remnant of a human head,
The volume was, whence he
This solemn lecture read.
Whoe'er thou art,
Partner of my retirement now,
My nearest intimate,
My best companion Thou!
On thee to muse
The busy living world I left;
Of converse all but thine,
And silent that, berest.
Wert thou the Rich,
The idol of a gazing crowd?
Wert thou the Great,
To whom obsequious thousands bow'd?
28

Was learning's store
Ere treasur'd up within this Shell?
Did wisdom ere within
This empty Hollow dwell?
Did youthful charms
Ere redden on this ghastful face?
Did Beauty's bloom these cheeks,
This forehead, ever grace?
If on this brow
Ere sat the scornful haughty frown;
Deceitful Pride! where now
Is that disdain?—'Tis gone.
If cheerful Mirth
A gayness o'er this baldness cast;
Delusive, fleeting joy!
Where is it now?—'Tis past.
To deck this scalp,
If tedious long-liv'd hours it cost;
Vain, fruitless toil! where's now
That labour seen?—'Tis lost.
But painful sweat,
The dear-earn'd price of daily bread,
Was all perhaps that thee
With hungry sorrows fed.
29

Perhaps but tears,
Surest relief of heart-sick woe,
Thine only drink, from down
These sockets us'd to flow.
Oppress'd, perhaps,
With aches and with aged cares,
Down to the grave thou brought'st
A few and hoary hairs.
'Tis all Perhaps—
No marks, no tokens, can I trace
What on this stage of life
Thy rank or station was.
Nameless, unknown!
Of all distinction stript and bare,
In nakedness conceal'd,
O who shall Thee declare
Nameless, unknown,
Yet fit companion thou for me,
Who hear no human voice,
No human visage see.
From Me, from Thee,
The glories of the world are gone:
Nor yet have either lost
What we could call our own.
30

What we are now
The great, the wise, the fair, the brave,
Shall all hereafter be,
All hermits in the Grave.

THE MONCKIS COMPLAYNTE TO ALMA MATER,

Touching dyverse newe Matters wrought in Oxenforde Cytie.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Whie, holie Modher, whie doth ruthlesse honde
Thus smyte thie gates of hoarie majestie,
Workyng rude spoyle wheare Science kepte her stonde,
Contente to flowte all gawdie fantasie?
Stay, holie Modher, stay soch vanitee,
Albe so trymm, this nought beseemeth thee.
No goodly sight of bedesmannes connyng celle,
Wheare urchyn Wysdome crawled forth thie lappe,
No sturdie porche wheare valour's chylde did dwelle,
Swyllyng his lore from out thie plenteous pappe!
Staie, holie Modher, staie soch vanitee,
Albe so trymm, this nought beseemeth thee.
31

At wonted noone thie trenchermenne unseene,
At eve unheard thy chawnte of godlie tonge,
More godlie far soch holie chawnte I weene
Than mottrying clerke with messe ne said ne songe,
Staie, holie Modher, staie soch vanitee,
Albe so trymm, this nought beseemeth thee.
Nyghte's sterrie hoste in steadie path doth byde,
Ne soff'reth chaunge thilk Lampe whyche ruleth daie;
O let not showe of mortals wytlesse pryde
Bedimm thie heavenlie course, sweet Sainct, wee praie:
Staie, holie Modher, staie all vanitee,
Ne be moe trymm thanne erste beseemed thee!
 

The city gates all taken down.

Friar Bacon's study.

Queen's College old gateway, which was the room of Hen. V.

Twelve, the usual hour of dinner, now changed to three, 1792.

Chaunting the service abolished in the choirs.

32

TO ELIZA.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

I ask'd a kiss, and scarce those lips complied,
For instant fled the momentary joy:—
Would thou hadst still the fatal bliss denied
And then, as now, been more severely coy!
Can one slight show'r refresh the thirsty mead?
One single plant with verdure clothe the plain?
One star o'er yon wide arch its radiance spread?
Or one small rill supply the boundless main?
The skies unnumber'd all their bounties pour;—
In such profusion are their blessings given,
E'en thankless man must own the wond'rous store
Becomes the rich munificence of heaven.
While you one kiss, and one alone, resign'd,
Tho' favouring night enwrapt th'unconscious grove;
Tho' well you knew not countless millions join'd
Could sate th'unrivall'd avarice of love.
Yet once again the dang'rous gift renew,
With kinder looks prolong the fleeting bliss;
Let me too try, while all thy charms I view,
Like Shakespeare's Moor, to “die upon a kiss!”
33

But no such kiss as some cold sister grants,
Or colder brother carelessly receives;
Mine be the kiss for which the lover pants,
And the dear, soft, consenting mistress gives!
Else I as well might clasp the sculptur'd fair,
And press th'unyielding marble lips to mine:
Or woo, the transports of my love to share,
The pictur'd forms of Reynolds' hand divine.
In thy sweet kiss, O, blend such soft desires
As conquer youth, and palsied age can warm;
Those arts that cherish love, like vestal fires,
And bid in Virtue's cause our passions arm!
Such if thou giv'st—tho' closing air and sea
Efface the arrow's path, the vessel's road,
More faithful to their trust my lips shall be,
And bear th'impression to their last abode.
34

ANSWER To the foregoing Address.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

And dar'st thou then, insulting youth, demand
A second spoil from love's impoverish'd store?
Shall strains like thine a second kiss command?
Thankless for One, because I gave no more?
One lamp irradiates all yon starry heav'n,
One polar star directs the pilot's way;
Yet what bold wretch complains no more were giv'n,
Or doubts the blessing of each friendly ray.
One timorous kiss, which multitudes might bode,
At once thy sun and guiding star had prov'd,
If, while thy lips beneath its pressure glow'd,
And thy tongue flatter'd, thou hadst truly lov'd.
The flame which burns upon the virgin cheek,
The rising sigh, half utter'd, half supprest,
To him who fondly loves, will more than speak
What wav'ring thoughts divide th'impassion'd breast.
Such soft confusion could the moor disarm,
And his rough heart like Desdemona's move;
But soon her easy weakness broke the charm,
And ere her life she lost, she lost his love.
35

No—if I hate thee, wherefore should I press
A treacherous contract with love's favourite seal?
And, if I wish thy future hours to bless,
Ah! why too soon that anxious care reveal?
A ready conquest oft the victor scorns;
His laurels fade whose foe, ere battle, yields:
No shouts attend the warrior, who returns
To claim the palm of uncontested fields.
But let thy soul each lawless wish disown
While yet my hate or love is undeclar'd—
Perhaps, ere many circling years are flown,
Thou'lt think Eliza but a poor reward.
For, oh! my kisses ne'er shall teem with art,
My faithful bosom forms but one design—
To study well the wife's, the mother's part,
And learn to keep thee, ere I make thee mine.
36

MAISTER J. HARTELIBE HIS ELEGIE On the Dethe of that most perfect Paragon of Beauty Mrs. S. Monimie.

Imitated from Flaminius, Lib. iv. Page 15.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Stop, Shepherde, and with girlondes dress the stone
That seales the lost Monimia's gentle dust;
Vain flows the teare, vaine is the deepfelt moane,
Nor shall the faithful tombe resign its trust.
Scarce the third lustrum saw the luckless mayde,
When Dethe, fell tyrant of the lowlie plaine,
Ruthlesse as rockes his destin'd prey survey'd,
And snatch'd the prize from each contending swain.
Her pipe, which erst benethe that amorous vine
In softest decsant sang Love's wanton toyes,
Now mute and silent on yon mournful pine
Hangs, the sad embleme of departed joyes:
Or if, perchaunce, among these pleached trees
Rove the rude wind, with solemn sound and slow,
Plaintive it seems to court the rising breeze,
And wounds each list'ning eare with notes of woe.
Go, Shepherde—but first drop one pitying teare
At the cold shrine of sacred miserie;
So may'st thou never want a friende sincere,
Nor one to pay the same sad rites to thee!
37

STANZAS WRITTEN IN AN HERMITAGE.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

The Hermit speaking.
When the wind doth sit aright,
How solemn 'tis, at dead of night,
To hear the melancholy knell;
While to the storm each thicket bows,
And Winter with his fleecy snows
Has whiten'd o'er my rocky cell!
Then musing, do I think of time;
I pity, lest in early prime
Some stripling gasp in vain for breath;
Lest, while each passion swelleth high,
While youth yet darteth from his eye,
He struggle in the grasp of death.
No fears I for myself afford,
Since age his cooling draught has pour'd
On each hot motion of my soul:
My frozen blood hath lost its fire,
Fled each young wish, each young desire,
Death's gloomy influence to controul.
With nature's simple wants supplied,
Thus let me thro' life's winter glide
38

Gently and smoothly to my end;
May innocence my actions guard,
May peace of mind be my reward,
And may I ever have a friend!

THE LOVER

To his Mistress in declining Health.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Pride of yon lawn, whose living gems
Bespangle Flora's summer vest,
Smote by the day-star's sultry beams
The musk-rose bows her blushing crest.
Unwonted grief my breast invades,
Cynthia! that drooping rose art thou;
And envious Malady o'ershades
The graces of thy lovely brow.
E'en now her with'ring touch I view
Steal from thy cheek health's crimson dye;
And languor each bright glance subdue
That told my heart love's embassy.
39

Pallid thy lip that Venus blest
With ruby tints, with rich perfumes;
Where He, whose arrows pierce my breast,
In nectar bath'd his little plumes.
Thy bosom's heavenly orbs of snow
Swell not above its circling zone,
And faintly throbs that heart below,
Which beat for love and me alone.
Ah! should inexorable fate
To his dark realms my fair consign,
Shall Thyrsis ask a longer date?
No! let thy parting hour be mine!
Sever'd thro' life's inclement day,
O! give thy last fond sigh to me;
And blest the mandate I'll obey
That weds my soul in death to thee.
40

ON THE DEATH OF Dr. GREGORY, Professor of Physic at Edinburgh.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Far from the gay, to seek the lonely shade,
With heaving breast the Muse dejected turns,
Sighs to the wave that murmurs in the glade,
And Isis echoes what Edina mourns.
O Thou so greatly lov'd, so quickly lost!
The tear that o'er thy grave unbidden flows
Prints on the living turf a fairer boast
Than all the fame that sculptur'd pride bestows.
Science on thee, her early fav'rite, smil'd,
Lur'd from the mazes of her dark retreat;
And led thee swiftly thro' the boundless wild,
To those blest bowers where Wisdom fix'd her seat.
And oft thine eye the treasures would explore
That Nature pours to sooth the stings of pain,
And Pæan's self inspir'd the sacred lore
That forc'd the praise of all thy wond'ring train.
And oft thy curious step would lightly trace
The flow'ry margin of the vocal mead,
Where sport the warb'ling Muse and sprightly Grace,
And sweep the lyre, and wake the tuneful reed.
41

Tho', pressing on to Fame's exalted shrine,
The dazzling rays of glory round thee play'd,
Still Modesty would blend her paths with thine,
Shrink from the glare and court the milder shade.
But poor the praise that rests on envied art,
Could Wisdom's lips alone thy worth proclaim:
Thine was the feeling breast, the lib'ral heart;
And every tongue conspir'd to bless thy name.
Thine was the joy another's joy to swell,
From pedant strife indignant far to fly,
With Fancy's beams the gloom of woe dispel,
And dry the tear that melts in Sorrow's eye.
With Her, whose mental charms her bloom refin'd,
Once was thy lot the purest bliss below;
And now, in happier, holier ties combin'd,
Ye share the joys which only angels know.
Yet the kind father, and the common friend,
Thine heirs must weep, whom ev'ry grace adorns;
Yet with their sighs the public sorrows blend,
And Isis echoes what Edina mourns.
42

UNFINISHED ELEGY TO THE MEMORY OF Dr. WILLIAM HAYES, Late Professor of Music in the University of Oxford.

Written for the Purpose of being set to Music by his Son and Successor P. Hayes.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

SYMPHONY.

These sounds of grief, this solemn air,
To Thee I sing, dear, honour'd Shade!
Hear, Spirit of my Father, hear!
To Thee these mournful rites are paid.

ORGAN MOVEMENT.

Such the last strains by Thee were tried;
Strains that to holy Choirs belong:
While Age, that wasted all beside,
Yet spar'd the sweetness of thy Song.
So pass'd He: nor approv'd alone
In Science; like his gentle art
His Life was Music, and in tone
With Virtue's harmony his heart.
O! if thy tuneful Spirit, to hear
The melancholy strains we raise,
May stoop from that celestial sphere
Where Music is the voice of Praise,— [OMITTED]
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