 | Miscellanies, in Verse and Prose |  |
xi
VERSES TO THE AUTHOR.
Casimire, Book II. Ode 2. Imitated.
I
Tho' Autumn now to Winter yields,And hides with Snow the neighb'ring Fields;
Yet when the Sun, with piercing Ray,
Darts on the hills, the Snow will melt away.
II
But soon as Age, around our Brow,The silver Locks shall thinly sow,
That wintry Mantle will remain,
Nor change its cold unpleasing Dye again.
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III
Swift flies the Summer, Autumn flies;The blooming Spring, that soon will rise,
With equal speed will pass away;
For all things here are subject to Decay.
IV
Nor can the fragrant Nard renewOn your wan Gheeks the rosy hue;
Nor flow'ry Wreaths, around your head
Tho' daily worn, their glowing tincture spread.
V
What tho' our hungry Sister WormDemands this frail and fleeting Form?
For You the grateful Muse will claim
A fair reversion of surviving Fame.
VI
Long has be liv'd, around whose UrnHis Friends with pious Sorrow mourn.
To Memory your Fame convey;
All else the greedy Moons will snatch away.
Wm. Duncombe. November, 1753.
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[As Camus late his laurel'd Sons survey'd]
As
Camus late his laurel'd Sons survey'd,
Propt on his silver Urn, in Granta's Shade,
And saw each Bard, an awful Train, appear,
To charm, with well-known Sounds, his longing Ear,
Old Chaucer first, array'd in Palmer's Weed,
On Time-worn Oat came piping o'er the Mead;
With smoother Lays the bord'ring Valley rung,
While Fancy's Fav'rite, Doric Spenser, sung;
Milton, Musæus-like, o'erlook'd the Throng,
Divinely chanting his ecstatic Song;
Dryden soft-warbled a melodious Strain,
And courtly Prior join'd the tuneful Train.
Propt on his silver Urn, in Granta's Shade,
And saw each Bard, an awful Train, appear,
To charm, with well-known Sounds, his longing Ear,
Old Chaucer first, array'd in Palmer's Weed,
On Time-worn Oat came piping o'er the Mead;
With smoother Lays the bord'ring Valley rung,
While Fancy's Fav'rite, Doric Spenser, sung;
Milton, Musæus-like, o'erlook'd the Throng,
Divinely chanting his ecstatic Song;
Dryden soft-warbled a melodious Strain,
And courtly Prior join'd the tuneful Train.
Hush'd was the Breeze, and mute the babbling Tide,
While Camus listen'd with a Parent's Pride;
Then, as he rang'd them on his reedy Shore,
“Receive, he cry'd, one Bard, one Brother, more!
“A living Bard, the last whose polish'd Lays
“Sooth'd my sad Stream in our Deliv'rer's Days;
“For, ev'n in William's Reign, his plaintive Verse,
“Hung sweetest Wreaths on youthfull Gloucester's Herse;
“Thy Urn with Tears, my Dryden, he bedew'd,
“Nor mute his Master's slow Procession view'd.
While Camus listen'd with a Parent's Pride;
Then, as he rang'd them on his reedy Shore,
“Receive, he cry'd, one Bard, one Brother, more!
“A living Bard, the last whose polish'd Lays
“Sooth'd my sad Stream in our Deliv'rer's Days;
“For, ev'n in William's Reign, his plaintive Verse,
“Hung sweetest Wreaths on youthfull Gloucester's Herse;
“Thy Urn with Tears, my Dryden, he bedew'd,
“Nor mute his Master's slow Procession view'd.
“But Oh! what great, what happier Scenes inspir'd
“His Patriot Muse, with Anna's Glories fir'd!
“Then, when to Flandria's Fields her Marlbro's Sword
“The long-lost Joys of Liberty restor'd,
“These Groves re-echo'd with his
plausive Song,
“And Britain's Triumphs tun'd his glowing Tongue;
“To distant Ages eager to display,
“The deathless Deeds, that grac'd Ramillia's Day!
“His Patriot Muse, with Anna's Glories fir'd!
“Then, when to Flandria's Fields her Marlbro's Sword
“The long-lost Joys of Liberty restor'd,
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“And Britain's Triumphs tun'd his glowing Tongue;
“To distant Ages eager to display,
“The deathless Deeds, that grac'd Ramillia's Day!
“Can I forget how thro' yon broider'd Vale,
“Soft Music, floating on the vernal Gale,
“Drew ev'ry green-hair'd Dryad from the Wood,
“And ev'ry Naiad from my breezy Flood,
“Till I, to listen, left my crystal Spring,
“And cry'd, Does Eloise, or Constantia, sing?
“Admir'd Constantia! o'er thy hapless Bier
“Shall Genius mourn, and Beauty drop the Tear,
“Till Genius or till Beauty fails to move,
“Or Taste and Learning leave this laurel'd Grove.
“Soft Music, floating on the vernal Gale,
“Drew ev'ry green-hair'd Dryad from the Wood,
“And ev'ry Naiad from my breezy Flood,
“Till I, to listen, left my crystal Spring,
“And cry'd, Does Eloise, or Constantia, sing?
“Admir'd Constantia! o'er thy hapless Bier
“Shall Genius mourn, and Beauty drop the Tear,
“Till Genius or till Beauty fails to move,
“Or Taste and Learning leave this laurel'd Grove.
“But
when Rome's Patriot, true to Freedom's Cause,
“Gave, on our Stage, his little Senate Laws,
“Say why, of all th' applauding Train, alone
“Was thy coy Muse to Addison unknown?
“She, like a Vestal, veil'd from public View,
“Sung Cato's Praise, and with a Blush withdrew:
“Yet then, tho various Bards of deathless Fame,
“In lasting Strains embalm'd the Poet's Name,
“Still, still, we cry'd, unknowing whom to praise,
“An equal Genius warms these nameless Lays.
“Gave, on our Stage, his little Senate Laws,
“Say why, of all th' applauding Train, alone
“Was thy coy Muse to Addison unknown?
“She, like a Vestal, veil'd from public View,
“Sung Cato's Praise, and with a Blush withdrew:
“Yet then, tho various Bards of deathless Fame,
“In lasting Strains embalm'd the Poet's Name,
“Still, still, we cry'd, unknowing whom to praise,
“An equal Genius warms these nameless Lays.
“So when some Pyramid's stupendous Height
“On Nile's proud Shore attracts our wond'ring Sight,
“Tho' lost the Founder's Name, each Stranger knows,
“That by a royal Hand the Fabric rose.
“On Nile's proud Shore attracts our wond'ring Sight,
“Tho' lost the Founder's Name, each Stranger knows,
“That by a royal Hand the Fabric rose.
“Ev'n now, like Dryden, unsubdu'd by Age,
“Flames forth thy Muse, 'midst Winter's chilling Rage;
“She, like her own unchanging Laurel, boasts
“A lively Verdure in December Frosts;
“And green as ever were the Wreaths she spread
“In Hymen's Fane round young Carnarvon's Head,
“Flames forth thy Muse, 'midst Winter's chilling Rage;
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“A lively Verdure in December Frosts;
“And green as ever were the Wreaths she spread
“In Hymen's Fane round young Carnarvon's Head,
“Then haste, ye Nine, and, thro' th' Aonian Mead,
“To Pindus' utmost Height your Vot'ry lead!
“Fir'd with the Charms of Virtue and of Truth,
“There let him bloom, renew'd to endless Youth
“By that nectareous Stream, which sacred runs
“To Britain's Bards, and, chief, to Granta's Sons.”
“To Pindus' utmost Height your Vot'ry lead!
“Fir'd with the Charms of Virtue and of Truth,
“There let him bloom, renew'd to endless Youth
“By that nectareous Stream, which sacred runs
“To Britain's Bards, and, chief, to Granta's Sons.”
J. Duncombe. C. C. C. Cambridge.
These Lines allude to the Poems on the Duke of Gloucester's Death, and on the Sight of Mr. Dryden's Funeral, Pages 1 and 7.
Father Francis and Sister Constance, a Tale from the Spectator, was published by this Author several Years ago. See Page 119.
[And lives there still of verse that lofty rage]
And lives there still of verse that lofty rage,
Whose holy raptures fir'd the former age!
Rise from your urns, ye laurel'd dead, arise;
O here direct your steps, here turn your eyes,
See, still in vig'rous strength, and green in years,
The last, nor meanest of your train, appears.
Whose holy raptures fir'd the former age!
Rise from your urns, ye laurel'd dead, arise;
O here direct your steps, here turn your eyes,
See, still in vig'rous strength, and green in years,
The last, nor meanest of your train, appears.
But chief, ye British Ghosts of warriors slain,
In death victorious, on Ramillia's plain!
Invok'd, O hear! and thou, departed shade
Of mighty Marlbro', lift thy honour'd head.
Still breathes the bard, who sung your glorious deeds;
Still in his verse Bavaria, vanquish'd, bleeds:
By time unfaded, there your chaplets bloom;
And high-suspended trophies deck your tomb.
Again I see your standards wave in air,
Again your trumpets wake the slumb'ring war;
The hills, the vales, the dreadful notes rebound,
And Gallia's lillies wither at the sound.
In death victorious, on Ramillia's plain!
Invok'd, O hear! and thou, departed shade
Of mighty Marlbro', lift thy honour'd head.
Still breathes the bard, who sung your glorious deeds;
Still in his verse Bavaria, vanquish'd, bleeds:
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And high-suspended trophies deck your tomb.
Again I see your standards wave in air,
Again your trumpets wake the slumb'ring war;
The hills, the vales, the dreadful notes rebound,
And Gallia's lillies wither at the sound.
Say, shall we sigh o'er Gloucester's
sable bier?
Or o'er thy coarse, Constantia , drop the tear?
Say, shall we melt with love, or glow with rage,
While treads, in sweeping robes, her lofty stage
The buskin'd Muse?—methinks we hear again
The sounding numbers of a Dryden's strain.
Or o'er thy coarse, Constantia , drop the tear?
Say, shall we melt with love, or glow with rage,
While treads, in sweeping robes, her lofty stage
The buskin'd Muse?—methinks we hear again
The sounding numbers of a Dryden's strain.
Nor does the Muse alone her wreaths bestow,
But list'ning Camus heard thy periods flow
Smooth and majestic; when his peaceful vale,
Of distant triumphs heard the glorious tale;
How round the globe were Britain's thunders hurl'd,
And conqu'ring Anna held the balanc'd world.
Rome's rev'rend fathers, silent in applause,
Of old thus stood, when, in his country's cause,
Thee, furious Catiline, their Tully brav'd,
And, without arms, the nodding empire fav'd.
But list'ning Camus heard thy periods flow
Smooth and majestic; when his peaceful vale,
Of distant triumphs heard the glorious tale;
How round the globe were Britain's thunders hurl'd,
And conqu'ring Anna held the balanc'd world.
Rome's rev'rend fathers, silent in applause,
Of old thus stood, when, in his country's cause,
Thee, furious Catiline, their Tully brav'd,
And, without arms, the nodding empire fav'd.
These were the boast of youth.—With rapid pace
Now hoary Time has urg'd life's lengthen'd race;
But still superior stands thy lofty soul,
Uncheck'd, unhurt, and presses to the goal.
Thy sun, declining with unclouded rays,
Still warm its influence, and still bright its blaze;
As in the vernal sky, at evening's close,
Sets fair; for fair thy morning genius rose.
Now hoary Time has urg'd life's lengthen'd race;
But still superior stands thy lofty soul,
Uncheck'd, unhurt, and presses to the goal.
Thy sun, declining with unclouded rays,
Still warm its influence, and still bright its blaze;
As in the vernal sky, at evening's close,
Sets fair; for fair thy morning genius rose.
xvii
Strong as the
theme they paint, thy vary'd lays
With recent honours crown thy latter days.
And well may Truth with holy charms engage
The serious pen of moralizing age.
Thy latest numbers well her beauties claim,
Who now with endless wreaths adorns thy fame:
Whose hand with flow'rs thy future urn shall spread,
Attends thee living, and awaits thee dead.
With recent honours crown thy latter days.
And well may Truth with holy charms engage
The serious pen of moralizing age.
Thy latest numbers well her beauties claim,
Who now with endless wreaths adorns thy fame:
Whose hand with flow'rs thy future urn shall spread,
Attends thee living, and awaits thee dead.
Not that thy Muse could once, in brighter days,
Boast the fair friendship of the sons of praise;
Not that thy verse with manly sense could please,
And mix with strength the happier grace of ease;
But, that thy modest, and thy generous mind,
To fate superior, as to fate resign'd,
Adown life's stream, to fortune's varying gale,
Content, and humble, spread an even sail;
That 'mid the great receiv'd, in leisure bred,
Yet was thy life in blameless morals led;
That, arm'd with wit, unknowing to offend,
To learned worth, to Virtue's cause, a friend;
Backward to hope, what well desert might claim,
Thy heart disdain'd to push for wealth or fame;
To all, thy kind, thy boundless friendship shown;
To none thy merit, but thyself, unknown.
Boast the fair friendship of the sons of praise;
Not that thy verse with manly sense could please,
And mix with strength the happier grace of ease;
But, that thy modest, and thy generous mind,
To fate superior, as to fate resign'd,
Adown life's stream, to fortune's varying gale,
Content, and humble, spread an even sail;
That 'mid the great receiv'd, in leisure bred,
Yet was thy life in blameless morals led;
That, arm'd with wit, unknowing to offend,
To learned worth, to Virtue's cause, a friend;
Backward to hope, what well desert might claim,
Thy heart disdain'd to push for wealth or fame;
To all, thy kind, thy boundless friendship shown;
To none thy merit, but thyself, unknown.
James Marriott. Trinity-Hall, Cambridge.
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