 |
 |
 | Poems by the Right Honourable the late Lord Lyttleton |  |
3
THE PROGRESS OF LOVE.
IN FOUR ECLOGUES.
UNCERTAINTY.
Eclogue I.
TO MR. POPE.
Pope, to whose reed beneath the beechen shade,
The nymphs of Thames a pleas'd attention paid;
While yet thy Muse, content with humbler praise,
Warbled in Windsor's grove her sylvan lays;
Tho' now sublimely borne on Homer's wing,
Of glorious wars, and godlike chiefs she sing:
Wilt thou with me re-visit once again
The crystal fountain, and the flowery plain?
Wilt thou, indulgent, hear my verse relate
The various changes of a lover's state;
And while each turn of passion I pursue,
Ask thy own heart if what I tell be true?
The nymphs of Thames a pleas'd attention paid;
While yet thy Muse, content with humbler praise,
Warbled in Windsor's grove her sylvan lays;
Tho' now sublimely borne on Homer's wing,
Of glorious wars, and godlike chiefs she sing:
Wilt thou with me re-visit once again
The crystal fountain, and the flowery plain?
Wilt thou, indulgent, hear my verse relate
The various changes of a lover's state;
And while each turn of passion I pursue,
Ask thy own heart if what I tell be true?
To the green margin of a lonely wood,
Whose pendant shades o'erlook'd a silver flood,
Young Damon came, unknowing where he stray'd,
Full of the image of his beauteous maid:
His flock far off, unfed, untended lay,
To every savage a defenceless prey;
No sense of interest could their master move,
And every care seem'd trifling now but love.
A while in pensive silence he remain'd,
But tho' his voice was mute, his looks complain'd;
At length the thoughts within his bosom pent,
Forc'd his unwilling tongue to give them vent.
Whose pendant shades o'erlook'd a silver flood,
Young Damon came, unknowing where he stray'd,
Full of the image of his beauteous maid:
4
To every savage a defenceless prey;
No sense of interest could their master move,
And every care seem'd trifling now but love.
A while in pensive silence he remain'd,
But tho' his voice was mute, his looks complain'd;
At length the thoughts within his bosom pent,
Forc'd his unwilling tongue to give them vent.
Ye nymphs, he cry'd, ye Dryads, who so long
Have favour'd Damon, and inspir'd his song;
For whom, retir'd, I shun the gay resorts
Of sportful cities, and of pompous courts;
In vain I bid the restless world adieu,
To seek tranquillity and peace with you.
Tho' wild ambition, and destructive rage
No factions here can form, no wars can wage:
Tho' envy frowns not on your humble shades,
Nor calumny your innocence invades,
Yet cruel love, that troubler of the breast,
Too often violates your boasted rest;
With inbred storms disturbs your calm retreat,
And taints with bitterness each rural sweet.
Have favour'd Damon, and inspir'd his song;
For whom, retir'd, I shun the gay resorts
Of sportful cities, and of pompous courts;
In vain I bid the restless world adieu,
To seek tranquillity and peace with you.
Tho' wild ambition, and destructive rage
No factions here can form, no wars can wage:
Tho' envy frowns not on your humble shades,
Nor calumny your innocence invades,
Yet cruel love, that troubler of the breast,
Too often violates your boasted rest;
With inbred storms disturbs your calm retreat,
And taints with bitterness each rural sweet.
Ah luckless day! when first with fond surprise
On Delia's face I fix'd my eager eyes;
Then in wild tumults all my soul was tost,
Then reason, liberty, at once were lost:
And every wish, and thought, and care was gone,
But what my heart employ'd on her alone.
Then too she smil'd: can smiles our peace destroy,
These lovely children of content and joy?
How can soft pleasure and tormenting woe,
From the same spring at the same moment flow?
Unhappy boy, these vain enquiries cease,
Thought could not guard, nor will restore thy peace:
Indulge the frenzy that thou must endure,
And soothe the pain thou know'st not how to cure.
Come, flattering Memory, and tell my heart
How kind she was, and with what pleasing art
She strove its fondest wishes to obtain,
Confirm her power, and faster bind my chain.
If on the green we danc'd a mirthful band,
To me alone she gave her willing hand:
Her partial taste, if e'er I touch'd the lyre,
Still in my song found something to admire.
By none but her my crook with flowers was crown'd,
By none but her my brows with ivy bound:
The world that Damon was her choice believ'd,
The world, alas! like Damon was deceiv'd.
When last I saw her, and declar'd my fire
In words as soft as passion could inspire,
Coldly she heard, and full of scorn withdrew,
Without one pitying glance, one sweet adieu.
The frighted hind, who sees his ripen'd corn
Up from the roots by sudden tempests torn,
Whose fairest hopes destroy'd and blasted lie,
Feels not so keen a pang of grief as I.
Ah, how have I deserv'd, inhuman maid,
To have my faithful service thus repaid?
Were all the marks of kindness I receiv'd,
But dreams of joy, that charm'd me and deceiv'd?
Or did you only nurse my growing love,
That with more pain I might your hatred prove?
Sure guilty treachery no place could find
In such a gentle, such a generous mind:
A maid brought up the woods and wilds among,
Could ne'er have learn'd the art of courts so young:
No; let me rather think her anger feign'd,
Still let me hope my Delia may be gain'd;
'Twas only modesty that seem'd disdain,
And her heart suffer'd when she gave me pain.
On Delia's face I fix'd my eager eyes;
Then in wild tumults all my soul was tost,
Then reason, liberty, at once were lost:
And every wish, and thought, and care was gone,
But what my heart employ'd on her alone.
Then too she smil'd: can smiles our peace destroy,
These lovely children of content and joy?
5
From the same spring at the same moment flow?
Unhappy boy, these vain enquiries cease,
Thought could not guard, nor will restore thy peace:
Indulge the frenzy that thou must endure,
And soothe the pain thou know'st not how to cure.
Come, flattering Memory, and tell my heart
How kind she was, and with what pleasing art
She strove its fondest wishes to obtain,
Confirm her power, and faster bind my chain.
If on the green we danc'd a mirthful band,
To me alone she gave her willing hand:
Her partial taste, if e'er I touch'd the lyre,
Still in my song found something to admire.
By none but her my crook with flowers was crown'd,
By none but her my brows with ivy bound:
The world that Damon was her choice believ'd,
The world, alas! like Damon was deceiv'd.
When last I saw her, and declar'd my fire
In words as soft as passion could inspire,
Coldly she heard, and full of scorn withdrew,
Without one pitying glance, one sweet adieu.
The frighted hind, who sees his ripen'd corn
Up from the roots by sudden tempests torn,
Whose fairest hopes destroy'd and blasted lie,
Feels not so keen a pang of grief as I.
Ah, how have I deserv'd, inhuman maid,
To have my faithful service thus repaid?
Were all the marks of kindness I receiv'd,
But dreams of joy, that charm'd me and deceiv'd?
6
That with more pain I might your hatred prove?
Sure guilty treachery no place could find
In such a gentle, such a generous mind:
A maid brought up the woods and wilds among,
Could ne'er have learn'd the art of courts so young:
No; let me rather think her anger feign'd,
Still let me hope my Delia may be gain'd;
'Twas only modesty that seem'd disdain,
And her heart suffer'd when she gave me pain.
Pleas'd with this flattering thought, the love-sick boy
Felt the faint dawning of a doubtful joy;
Back to his flock more chearful he return'd,
When now the setting sun less fiercely burn'd,
Blue vapours rose along the mazy rills,
And light's last blushes ting'd the distant hills.
Felt the faint dawning of a doubtful joy;
Back to his flock more chearful he return'd,
When now the setting sun less fiercely burn'd,
Blue vapours rose along the mazy rills,
And light's last blushes ting'd the distant hills.
7
HOPE.
ECLOGUE II.
TO MR. DODDINGTON.
Hear, Doddington, the notes that shepherds sing,
Notes soft as those of nightingales in spring:
Nor Pan, nor Phoebus tune the shepherd's reed;
From love alone our tender lays proceed;
Love warms our fancy with enlivening fires,
Refines our genius, and our verse inspires:
From him Theocritus, on Enna's plains,
Learnt the wild sweetness of his Doric strains;
Virgil by him was taught the moving art,
That charm'd each ear, and soften'd every heart:
O would'st thou quit the pride of courts, and deign
To dwell with us upon the vocal plain,
Thee too his power should reach, and every shade
Resound the praises of thy favourite maid;
Thy pipe our rural concert would improve,
And we should learn of thee to please and love.
Notes soft as those of nightingales in spring:
Nor Pan, nor Phoebus tune the shepherd's reed;
From love alone our tender lays proceed;
Love warms our fancy with enlivening fires,
Refines our genius, and our verse inspires:
From him Theocritus, on Enna's plains,
Learnt the wild sweetness of his Doric strains;
Virgil by him was taught the moving art,
That charm'd each ear, and soften'd every heart:
O would'st thou quit the pride of courts, and deign
To dwell with us upon the vocal plain,
Thee too his power should reach, and every shade
Resound the praises of thy favourite maid;
Thy pipe our rural concert would improve,
And we should learn of thee to please and love.
Damon no longer sought the silent shade,
No more in unfrequented paths he stray'd,
But call'd the nymphs to hear his jocund song,
And told his joy to all the rustic throng.
No more in unfrequented paths he stray'd,
But call'd the nymphs to hear his jocund song,
And told his joy to all the rustic throng.
8
Blest be the hour, he said, that happy hour,
When first I own'd my Delia's gentle power:
Then gloomy discontent and pining care
Forsook my breast, and left soft wishes there:
Soft wishes there they left, and gay desires,
Delightful languors, and transporting fires.
Where yonder limes combine to form a shade,
These eyes first gaz'd upon the charming maid;
There she appear'd, on that auspicious day,
When swains their sportive rites to Bacchus pay:
She led the dance—heavens! with what grace she mov'd!
Who could have seen her then, and not have lov'd?
I strove not to resist so sweet a flame,
But glory'd in a happy captive's name;
Nor would I now, could love permit, be free,
But leave to brutes their savage liberty.
When first I own'd my Delia's gentle power:
Then gloomy discontent and pining care
Forsook my breast, and left soft wishes there:
Soft wishes there they left, and gay desires,
Delightful languors, and transporting fires.
Where yonder limes combine to form a shade,
These eyes first gaz'd upon the charming maid;
There she appear'd, on that auspicious day,
When swains their sportive rites to Bacchus pay:
She led the dance—heavens! with what grace she mov'd!
Who could have seen her then, and not have lov'd?
I strove not to resist so sweet a flame,
But glory'd in a happy captive's name;
Nor would I now, could love permit, be free,
But leave to brutes their savage liberty.
And art thou then, fond swain, secure of joy?
Can no reverse thy flattering bliss destroy!
Has treacherous love no torment yet in store?
Or hast thou never prov'd his fatal power?
Whence flow'd those tears that late bedew'd thy cheek?
Why sigh'd thy heart as if it strove to break?
Why were the desart rocks invok'd to hear
The plaintive accents of thy sad despair?
From Delia's rigour all those pains arose,
Delia, who now compassionates my woes,
Who bids me hope; and in that charming word
Has peace and transport to my soul restor'd.
Can no reverse thy flattering bliss destroy!
Has treacherous love no torment yet in store?
Or hast thou never prov'd his fatal power?
Whence flow'd those tears that late bedew'd thy cheek?
Why sigh'd thy heart as if it strove to break?
Why were the desart rocks invok'd to hear
The plaintive accents of thy sad despair?
From Delia's rigour all those pains arose,
Delia, who now compassionates my woes,
Who bids me hope; and in that charming word
Has peace and transport to my soul restor'd.
Begin, my pipe, begin the gladsome lay;
A kiss from Delia shall thy music pay;
A kiss obtain'd 'twixt struggling and consent,
Given with forc'd anger, and disguis'd content:
No laureat wreaths I ask to bind my brows,
Such as the Muse on lofty bards bestows;
Let other swains to praise or fame aspire:
I from her lips my recompence require.
A kiss from Delia shall thy music pay;
9
Given with forc'd anger, and disguis'd content:
No laureat wreaths I ask to bind my brows,
Such as the Muse on lofty bards bestows;
Let other swains to praise or fame aspire:
I from her lips my recompence require.
Hark how the bees with murmurs fill the plain
While every flower of every sweet they drain:
See, how beneath yon hilloc's shady steep,
The shelter'd herds on flowery couches sleep:
Nor bees, nor herds, are half so blest as I,
If with my fond desires my love comply;
From Delia's lips a sweeter honey flows,
And on her bosom dwells more soft repose.
While every flower of every sweet they drain:
See, how beneath yon hilloc's shady steep,
The shelter'd herds on flowery couches sleep:
Nor bees, nor herds, are half so blest as I,
If with my fond desires my love comply;
From Delia's lips a sweeter honey flows,
And on her bosom dwells more soft repose.
Ah how, my dear, shall I deserve thy charms?
What gift can bribe thee to my longing arms?
A bird for thee in silken bands I hold,
Whose yellow plumage shines like polish'd gold;
From distant isles the lovely stranger came,
And bears the Fortunate Canaries name;
In all our woods none boasts so sweet a note,
Not even the nightingale's melodious throat.
Accept of this; and could I add beside
What wealth the rich Peruvian mountains hide;
If all the gems in Eastern rocks were mine,
On thee alone their glittering pride should shine.
But if thy mind no gifts have power to move,
Phoebus himself shall leave the Aonian grove;
The tuneful Nine, who never sue in vain,
Shall come sweet suppliants for their favourite swain.
For him each blue-ey'd Naiad of the flood,
For him each green-hair'd sister of the wood,
Whom oft beneath fair Cynthia's gentle ray
His music calls to dance the night away.
And you, fair nymphs, companions of my Love,
With whom she joys the cowslip meads to rove,
I beg you recommend my faithful flame,
And let her often hear her shepherd's name;
Shade all my faults from her inquiring sight,
And shew my merits in the fairest light;
My pipe your kind assistance shall repay,
And every friend shall claim a different lay.
What gift can bribe thee to my longing arms?
A bird for thee in silken bands I hold,
Whose yellow plumage shines like polish'd gold;
From distant isles the lovely stranger came,
And bears the Fortunate Canaries name;
In all our woods none boasts so sweet a note,
Not even the nightingale's melodious throat.
Accept of this; and could I add beside
What wealth the rich Peruvian mountains hide;
If all the gems in Eastern rocks were mine,
On thee alone their glittering pride should shine.
But if thy mind no gifts have power to move,
Phoebus himself shall leave the Aonian grove;
The tuneful Nine, who never sue in vain,
Shall come sweet suppliants for their favourite swain.
10
For him each green-hair'd sister of the wood,
Whom oft beneath fair Cynthia's gentle ray
His music calls to dance the night away.
And you, fair nymphs, companions of my Love,
With whom she joys the cowslip meads to rove,
I beg you recommend my faithful flame,
And let her often hear her shepherd's name;
Shade all my faults from her inquiring sight,
And shew my merits in the fairest light;
My pipe your kind assistance shall repay,
And every friend shall claim a different lay.
But see! in yonder glade the heavenly fair
Enjoys the fragrance of the breezy air—
Ah, thither let me fly with eager feet:
Adieu, my pipe, I go my love to meet—
O may I find her as we parted last,
And may each future hour be like the past!
So shall the whitest lamb these pastures feed,
Propitious Venus, on thy altars bleed.
Enjoys the fragrance of the breezy air—
Ah, thither let me fly with eager feet:
Adieu, my pipe, I go my love to meet—
O may I find her as we parted last,
And may each future hour be like the past!
So shall the whitest lamb these pastures feed,
Propitious Venus, on thy altars bleed.
11
JEALOUSY.
ECLOGUE III.
TO MR. EDWARD WALPOLE.
The Gods, O Walpole, give no bliss sincere:
Wealth is disturb'd by care, and power by fear.
Of all the passions that employ the mind,
In gentle love the sweetest joys we find;
Yet even those joys dire Jealousy molests,
And blackens each fair image in our breasts.
O may the warmth of thy too tender heart
Ne'er feel the sharpness of his venom'd dart;
For thy own quiet think thy mistress just,
And wisely take thy happiness on trust.
Wealth is disturb'd by care, and power by fear.
Of all the passions that employ the mind,
In gentle love the sweetest joys we find;
Yet even those joys dire Jealousy molests,
And blackens each fair image in our breasts.
O may the warmth of thy too tender heart
Ne'er feel the sharpness of his venom'd dart;
For thy own quiet think thy mistress just,
And wisely take thy happiness on trust.
Begin my Muse, and Damon's woes rehearse,
In wildest numbers and disorder'd verse.
In wildest numbers and disorder'd verse.
On a romantic mountain's airy head
(While browzing goats at ease around him fed)
Anxious he lay, with jealous cares opprest;
Distrust and anger labouring in his breast—
The vale beneath a pleasing prospect yields,
Of verdant meads and cultivated fields;
Thro' these a river rolls its winding flood,
Adorn'd with various tufts of rising wood;
Here half conceal'd in trees a cottage stands,
A castle there the opening plain commands,
Beyond, a town with glittering spires is crown'd,
And distant hills the wide horizon bound;
So charming was the scene, awhile the swain
Beheld delighted, and forgot his pain;
But soon the stings infix'd within his heart,
With cruel force renew'd their raging smart:
His flowery wreath, which long with pride he wore,
The gift of Delia, from his brows he tore:
Then cry'd; May all thy charms, ungrateful maid,
Like these neglected roses droop and fade;
May angry Heaven deform each guilty grace,
That triumphs now in that deluding face;
Those alter'd looks may every shepherd fly,
And even thy Daphnis hate thee worse than I.
(While browzing goats at ease around him fed)
Anxious he lay, with jealous cares opprest;
Distrust and anger labouring in his breast—
The vale beneath a pleasing prospect yields,
Of verdant meads and cultivated fields;
Thro' these a river rolls its winding flood,
Adorn'd with various tufts of rising wood;
12
A castle there the opening plain commands,
Beyond, a town with glittering spires is crown'd,
And distant hills the wide horizon bound;
So charming was the scene, awhile the swain
Beheld delighted, and forgot his pain;
But soon the stings infix'd within his heart,
With cruel force renew'd their raging smart:
His flowery wreath, which long with pride he wore,
The gift of Delia, from his brows he tore:
Then cry'd; May all thy charms, ungrateful maid,
Like these neglected roses droop and fade;
May angry Heaven deform each guilty grace,
That triumphs now in that deluding face;
Those alter'd looks may every shepherd fly,
And even thy Daphnis hate thee worse than I.
Say, thou inconstant, what has Damon done,
To lose the heart his tedious pains had won?
Tell me what charms you in my rival find,
Against whose power no ties have strength to bind:
Has he, like me, with long obedience strove
To conquer your disdain, and merit love?
Has he with transport every smile ador'd,
And dy'd with grief at each ungentle word?
Ah, no! the conquest was obtain'd with ease:
He pleas'd you, by not studying to please:
His careless indolence your pride alarm'd;
And had he lov'd you more, he less had charm'd.
To lose the heart his tedious pains had won?
Tell me what charms you in my rival find,
Against whose power no ties have strength to bind:
Has he, like me, with long obedience strove
To conquer your disdain, and merit love?
Has he with transport every smile ador'd,
And dy'd with grief at each ungentle word?
Ah, no! the conquest was obtain'd with ease:
He pleas'd you, by not studying to please:
His careless indolence your pride alarm'd;
And had he lov'd you more, he less had charm'd.
O pain to think, another shall possess
Those balmy lips which I was wont to press;
Another on her panting breast shall lie,
And catch sweet madness from her swimming eye!
I saw their friendly flocks together feed,
I saw them hand in hand walk o'er the mead:
Would my clos'd eyes had sunk in endless night,
Ere I was doom'd to bear that hateful sight!
Where-e'er they pass'd be blasted every flower,
And hungry wolves their helpless flocks devour!
Ah wretched swain! could no examples move
Thy heedless heart to shun the rage of love?
Hast thou not heard how poor Menalcas dy'd
A victim to Parthenia's fatal pride?
Dear was the youth to all the tuneful plain,
Lov'd by the nymphs, by Phoebus lov'd in vain:
Around his tomb their tears the Muses paid,
And all things mourn'd but the relentless maid.
Would I could die like him, and be at peace,
These torments in the quiet grave would cease;
There my vex'd thoughts a calm repose would find,
And rest as if my Delia still were kind.
No, let me live her falshood to upbraid;
Some god perhaps my just revenge will aid.—
Alas! what aid, fond swain, wouldst thou receive?
Could thy heart bear to see its Delia grieve?
Protect her, Heaven! and let her never know
The slightest part of hapless Damon's woe:
I ask no vengeance from the powers above;
All I implore is never more to love—
Let me this fondness from my bosom tear,
Let me forget that e'er I thought her fair.
Come, cool Indifference, and heal my breast;
Wearied, at length, I seek thy downy rest:
No turbulence of passion shall destroy
My future ease with flattering hopes of joy.
Hear, mighty Pan, and all ye Sylvans hear,
What by your guardian deities I swear;
No more my eyes shall view her fatal charms,
No more I'll court the trait'ress to my arms;
Not all her arts my steady soul shall move,
And she shall find that Reason conquers Love.—
Those balmy lips which I was wont to press;
13
And catch sweet madness from her swimming eye!
I saw their friendly flocks together feed,
I saw them hand in hand walk o'er the mead:
Would my clos'd eyes had sunk in endless night,
Ere I was doom'd to bear that hateful sight!
Where-e'er they pass'd be blasted every flower,
And hungry wolves their helpless flocks devour!
Ah wretched swain! could no examples move
Thy heedless heart to shun the rage of love?
Hast thou not heard how poor Menalcas dy'd
A victim to Parthenia's fatal pride?
Dear was the youth to all the tuneful plain,
Lov'd by the nymphs, by Phoebus lov'd in vain:
Around his tomb their tears the Muses paid,
And all things mourn'd but the relentless maid.
Would I could die like him, and be at peace,
These torments in the quiet grave would cease;
There my vex'd thoughts a calm repose would find,
And rest as if my Delia still were kind.
No, let me live her falshood to upbraid;
Some god perhaps my just revenge will aid.—
Alas! what aid, fond swain, wouldst thou receive?
Could thy heart bear to see its Delia grieve?
Protect her, Heaven! and let her never know
The slightest part of hapless Damon's woe:
I ask no vengeance from the powers above;
All I implore is never more to love—
14
Let me forget that e'er I thought her fair.
Come, cool Indifference, and heal my breast;
Wearied, at length, I seek thy downy rest:
No turbulence of passion shall destroy
My future ease with flattering hopes of joy.
Hear, mighty Pan, and all ye Sylvans hear,
What by your guardian deities I swear;
No more my eyes shall view her fatal charms,
No more I'll court the trait'ress to my arms;
Not all her arts my steady soul shall move,
And she shall find that Reason conquers Love.—
Scarce had he spoke, when thro' the lawn below
Alone he saw the beauteous Delia go;
At once transported he forgot his vow,
(Such perjuries the laughing gods allow)
Down the steep hill with ardent haste he flew;
He found her kind, and soon believ'd her true.
Alone he saw the beauteous Delia go;
At once transported he forgot his vow,
(Such perjuries the laughing gods allow)
Down the steep hill with ardent haste he flew;
He found her kind, and soon believ'd her true.
15
POSSESSION.
ECLOGUE IV.
TO LORD COBHAM.
Cobham, to thee this rural lay I bring,
Whose guiding judgment gives me skill to sing;
Tho' far unequal to those polish'd strains,
With which thy Congreve charm'd the listening plains,
Yet shall its music please thy partial ear,
And soothe thy breast with thoughts that once were dear;
Recall those years which time has thrown behind,
When smiling Love with Honour shar'd thy mind:
The sweet remembrance shall thy youth restore,
Fancy again shall run past pleasures o'er,
And while in Stowe's enchanting walks you stray,
This theme may help to cheat the summer's day.
Whose guiding judgment gives me skill to sing;
Tho' far unequal to those polish'd strains,
With which thy Congreve charm'd the listening plains,
Yet shall its music please thy partial ear,
And soothe thy breast with thoughts that once were dear;
Recall those years which time has thrown behind,
When smiling Love with Honour shar'd thy mind:
The sweet remembrance shall thy youth restore,
Fancy again shall run past pleasures o'er,
And while in Stowe's enchanting walks you stray,
This theme may help to cheat the summer's day.
Beneath the covert of a myrtle wood,
To Venus rais'd, a rustic altar stood,
To Venus and to Hymen, there combin'd,
In friendly league to favour human kind.
With wanton Cupids in that happy shade,
The gentle Virtues, and mild Wisdom play'd.
Nor there in sprightly Pleasure's genial train,
Lurk'd sick Disgust, or late repenting Pain,
Nor Force, nor Interest, join'd unwilling hands,
But Love consenting ty'd the blissful bands.
Thither with glad devotion Damon came,
To thank the powers who bless'd his faithful flame;
Two milk-white doves he on their altar laid,
And thus to both his grateful homage paid:
Hail, bounteous God, before whose hallow'd shrine
My Delia vow'd to be for ever mine,
While glowing in her cheeks, with tender love,
Sweet virgin modesty reluctant strove:
And hail to thee, fair Queen of young desires,
Long shall my heart preserve thy pleasing fires,
Since Delia now can all its warmth return,
As fondly languish, and as fiercely burn.
To Venus rais'd, a rustic altar stood,
To Venus and to Hymen, there combin'd,
In friendly league to favour human kind.
With wanton Cupids in that happy shade,
The gentle Virtues, and mild Wisdom play'd.
Nor there in sprightly Pleasure's genial train,
Lurk'd sick Disgust, or late repenting Pain,
Nor Force, nor Interest, join'd unwilling hands,
But Love consenting ty'd the blissful bands.
16
To thank the powers who bless'd his faithful flame;
Two milk-white doves he on their altar laid,
And thus to both his grateful homage paid:
Hail, bounteous God, before whose hallow'd shrine
My Delia vow'd to be for ever mine,
While glowing in her cheeks, with tender love,
Sweet virgin modesty reluctant strove:
And hail to thee, fair Queen of young desires,
Long shall my heart preserve thy pleasing fires,
Since Delia now can all its warmth return,
As fondly languish, and as fiercely burn.
O the dear gloom of last propitious night!
O shade more charming than the fairest light!
Then in my arms I clasp'd the melting maid,
Then all my pains one moment overpaid;
Then first the sweet excess of bliss I prov'd,
Which none can taste but who like me have lov'd.
Thou too, bright Goddess, once in Ida's grove,
Didst not disdain to meet a shepherd's love,
With him while frisking lambs around him play'd,
Conceal'd you sported in the secret shade;
Scarce could Anchises' raptures equal mine,
And Delia's beauties only yield to thine.
O shade more charming than the fairest light!
Then in my arms I clasp'd the melting maid,
Then all my pains one moment overpaid;
Then first the sweet excess of bliss I prov'd,
Which none can taste but who like me have lov'd.
Thou too, bright Goddess, once in Ida's grove,
Didst not disdain to meet a shepherd's love,
With him while frisking lambs around him play'd,
Conceal'd you sported in the secret shade;
Scarce could Anchises' raptures equal mine,
And Delia's beauties only yield to thine.
What are you now, my once most valu'd joys,
Insipid trifles all, and childish toys—
Friendship itself ne'er knew a charm like this,
Nor Colin's talk could please like Delia's kiss.
Insipid trifles all, and childish toys—
Friendship itself ne'er knew a charm like this,
Nor Colin's talk could please like Delia's kiss.
Ye Muses, skill'd in every winning art,
Teach me more deeply to engage her heart;
Ye Nymphs, to her your freshest roses bring,
And crown her with the pride of all the spring;
On all her days let health and peace attend;
May she ne'er want, nor ever lose a friend;
May some new pleasure every hour employ;
But let her Damon be her highest joy.
Teach me more deeply to engage her heart;
17
And crown her with the pride of all the spring;
On all her days let health and peace attend;
May she ne'er want, nor ever lose a friend;
May some new pleasure every hour employ;
But let her Damon be her highest joy.
With thee, my Love, for ever will I stay,
All night caress thee, and admire all day;
In the same field our mingled flocks we'll feed,
To the same spring our thirsty heifers lead,
Together will we share the harvest toils,
Together press the vine's autumnal spoils,
Delightful state, where peace and love combine,
To bid our tranquil days unclouded shine!
Here limpid fountains roll thro' flowery meads,
Here rising forests lift their verdant heads;
Here let me wear my careless life away,
And in thy arms insensibly decay.
All night caress thee, and admire all day;
In the same field our mingled flocks we'll feed,
To the same spring our thirsty heifers lead,
Together will we share the harvest toils,
Together press the vine's autumnal spoils,
Delightful state, where peace and love combine,
To bid our tranquil days unclouded shine!
Here limpid fountains roll thro' flowery meads,
Here rising forests lift their verdant heads;
Here let me wear my careless life away,
And in thy arms insensibly decay.
When late old age our heads shall silver o'er,
And our slow pulses dance with joy no more;
When time no longer will thy beauties spare,
And only Damon's eye shall think thee fair;
Then may the gentle hand of welcome death,
At one soft stroke deprive us both of breath;
May we beneath one common stone be laid,
And the same cypress both our ashes shade.
Perhaps some friendly Muse, in tender verse,
Shall deign our faithful passion to rehearse,
And future ages with just envy mov'd,
Be told how Damon and his Delia lov'd.
And our slow pulses dance with joy no more;
When time no longer will thy beauties spare,
And only Damon's eye shall think thee fair;
Then may the gentle hand of welcome death,
At one soft stroke deprive us both of breath;
May we beneath one common stone be laid,
And the same cypress both our ashes shade.
Perhaps some friendly Muse, in tender verse,
Shall deign our faithful passion to rehearse,
And future ages with just envy mov'd,
Be told how Damon and his Delia lov'd.
18
SOLILOQUY OF A BEAUTY IN THE COUNTRY.
Written at Eton School.
'Twas night; and Flavia to her room retir'd,
With evening chat and sober reading tir'd;
There melancholy, pensive, and alone,
She meditates on the forsaken town:
On her rais'd arm declin'd her drooping head,
She sigh'd, and thus in plaintive accents said:
With evening chat and sober reading tir'd;
There melancholy, pensive, and alone,
She meditates on the forsaken town:
On her rais'd arm declin'd her drooping head,
She sigh'd, and thus in plaintive accents said:
“Ah, what avails it to be young and fair,
“To move with negligence, to dress with care?
“What worth have all the charms our pride can boast,
“If all in envious solitude are lost?
“Where none admire, 'tis useless to excell;
“Where none are Beaus, 'tis vain to be a Belle:
“Beauty, like wit, to judges should be shewn;
“Both most are valu'd where they best are known.
“With every grace of nature, or of art,
“We cannot break one stubborn country-heart:
“The brutes, insensible, our power defy:
“To love exceeds a 'Squire's capacity.
“The town, the court, is Beauty's proper sphere;
“That is our heaven, and we are angels There:
“In that gay circle thousand Cupids rove,
“The court of Britain is the court of Love.
“How has my conscious heart with triumph glow'd,
“How have my sparkling eyes their transport shew'd,
“At each distinguish'd birth-night ball, to see
“The homage due to empire, paid to me!
“When every eye was fix'd on me alone,
“And dreaded mine more than the monarch's frown:
“When rival statesmen for my favour strove,
“Less jealous in their power, than in their love.
“Chang'd is the scene; and all my glories die,
“Like flowers transplanted to a colder sky;
“Lost is the dear delight of giving pain,
“The tyrant joy of hearing slaves complain.
“In stupid indolence my life is spent,
“Supinely calm, and dully innocent:
“Unblest I wear my useless life away;
“Sleep (wretched maid!) all night, and dream all day;
“Go at set hours to dinner and to prayer;
“For dulness ever must be regular.
“Now with mamma at tedious whist I play;
“Now without scandal drink insipid tea;
“Or in the garden breathe the country air,
“Secure from meeting any Tempter there:
“From books to work, from work to books I rove,
“And am (alas!) at leisure to improve!
“Is this the life a Beauty ought to lead?
“Were eyes so radiant only made to read?
“These fingers, at whose touch even age would glow,
“Are these of use for nothing but to sew?
“Sure erring Nature never could design
“To form a housewife in a mould like mine!
“O Venus, queen and guardian of the fair,
“Attend propitious to thy vot'ry's prayer:
“Let me revisit the dear town again:
“Let me be seen!—could I that wish obtain,
“All other wishes my own power would gain.”
“To move with negligence, to dress with care?
“What worth have all the charms our pride can boast,
“If all in envious solitude are lost?
“Where none admire, 'tis useless to excell;
“Where none are Beaus, 'tis vain to be a Belle:
“Beauty, like wit, to judges should be shewn;
“Both most are valu'd where they best are known.
“With every grace of nature, or of art,
“We cannot break one stubborn country-heart:
“The brutes, insensible, our power defy:
“To love exceeds a 'Squire's capacity.
19
“That is our heaven, and we are angels There:
“In that gay circle thousand Cupids rove,
“The court of Britain is the court of Love.
“How has my conscious heart with triumph glow'd,
“How have my sparkling eyes their transport shew'd,
“At each distinguish'd birth-night ball, to see
“The homage due to empire, paid to me!
“When every eye was fix'd on me alone,
“And dreaded mine more than the monarch's frown:
“When rival statesmen for my favour strove,
“Less jealous in their power, than in their love.
“Chang'd is the scene; and all my glories die,
“Like flowers transplanted to a colder sky;
“Lost is the dear delight of giving pain,
“The tyrant joy of hearing slaves complain.
“In stupid indolence my life is spent,
“Supinely calm, and dully innocent:
“Unblest I wear my useless life away;
“Sleep (wretched maid!) all night, and dream all day;
“Go at set hours to dinner and to prayer;
“For dulness ever must be regular.
“Now with mamma at tedious whist I play;
“Now without scandal drink insipid tea;
“Or in the garden breathe the country air,
“Secure from meeting any Tempter there:
“From books to work, from work to books I rove,
“And am (alas!) at leisure to improve!
40
“Were eyes so radiant only made to read?
“These fingers, at whose touch even age would glow,
“Are these of use for nothing but to sew?
“Sure erring Nature never could design
“To form a housewife in a mould like mine!
“O Venus, queen and guardian of the fair,
“Attend propitious to thy vot'ry's prayer:
“Let me revisit the dear town again:
“Let me be seen!—could I that wish obtain,
“All other wishes my own power would gain.”
21
BLENHEIM.
Writ at the University of Oxford in the year 1727.
Parent of arts, whose skilful hand first taught
The towering pile to rise, and form'd the plan
With fair proportion; architect divine,
Minerva, thee to my adventurous lyre
Assistant I invoke, that means to sing
Blenhemia, monument of British fame,
Thy glorious work! For thou the lofty towers
Didst to his virtue raise, whom oft thy shield
In peril guarded, and thy wisdom steer'd
Through all the storms of war.—Thee too I call
Thalia, sylvan muse, who lov'st to rove
Along the shady paths and verdant bowers
Of Woodstock's happy grove: there tuning sweet
Thy rural pipe, while all the Dryad train
Attentive listen; let thy warbling song
Paint with melodious praise the pleasing scene,
And equal these to Pindus' honour'd shades.
The towering pile to rise, and form'd the plan
With fair proportion; architect divine,
Minerva, thee to my adventurous lyre
Assistant I invoke, that means to sing
Blenhemia, monument of British fame,
Thy glorious work! For thou the lofty towers
Didst to his virtue raise, whom oft thy shield
In peril guarded, and thy wisdom steer'd
Through all the storms of war.—Thee too I call
Thalia, sylvan muse, who lov'st to rove
Along the shady paths and verdant bowers
Of Woodstock's happy grove: there tuning sweet
Thy rural pipe, while all the Dryad train
Attentive listen; let thy warbling song
Paint with melodious praise the pleasing scene,
And equal these to Pindus' honour'd shades.
When Europe freed, confess'd the saving power
Of Marlbrough's hand; Britain, who sent him forth
Chief of confederate hosts, to fight the cause
Of Liberty and Justice, grateful rais'd
This palace, sacred to her leader's fame;
A trophy of success; with spoils adorn'd
Of conquer'd towns, and glorying in the name
Of that auspicious field, where Churchill's sword
Vanquish'd the might of Gallia, and chastis'd
Rebel Bavar.—Majestic in its strength
Stands the proud dome, and speaks its great design.
Of Marlbrough's hand; Britain, who sent him forth
Chief of confederate hosts, to fight the cause
Of Liberty and Justice, grateful rais'd
This palace, sacred to her leader's fame;
22
Of conquer'd towns, and glorying in the name
Of that auspicious field, where Churchill's sword
Vanquish'd the might of Gallia, and chastis'd
Rebel Bavar.—Majestic in its strength
Stands the proud dome, and speaks its great design.
Hail happy chief, whose valour could deserve
Reward so glorious! grateful nation, hail,
Who paidst his service with so rich a meed!
Which most shall I admire, which worthiest praise,
The hero or the people? Honour doubts,
And weighs their virtues in an equal scale.
Not thus Germania pays the uncancell'd debt
Of gratitude to us.—Blush, Caesar, blush,
When thou behold'st these towers, ingrate, to thee
A monument of shame. Canst thou forget
Whence they are nam'd, and what an English arm
Did for thy throne that day? But we disdain
Or to upbraid or imitate thy guilt.
Steel thy obdurate heart against the sense
Of obligation infinite, and know,
Britain, like Heaven, protects a thankless world
For her own glory, nor expects reward.
Reward so glorious! grateful nation, hail,
Who paidst his service with so rich a meed!
Which most shall I admire, which worthiest praise,
The hero or the people? Honour doubts,
And weighs their virtues in an equal scale.
Not thus Germania pays the uncancell'd debt
Of gratitude to us.—Blush, Caesar, blush,
When thou behold'st these towers, ingrate, to thee
A monument of shame. Canst thou forget
Whence they are nam'd, and what an English arm
Did for thy throne that day? But we disdain
Or to upbraid or imitate thy guilt.
Steel thy obdurate heart against the sense
Of obligation infinite, and know,
Britain, like Heaven, protects a thankless world
For her own glory, nor expects reward.
Pleas'd with the noble theme, her task the Muse
Pursues untir'd, and thro' the palace roves
With ever new delight. The tap'stry rich
With gold, and gay with all the beauteous paint
Of various colour'd silks, dispos'd with skill,
Attracts her curious eye. Here Ister rolls
His purple wave; and there the Granic flood
With passing squadrons foams: here hardy Gaul
Flies from the sword of Britain; there to Greece
Effeminate Persia yields.—In arms oppos'd
Marlborough and Alexander vie for fame
With glorious competition; equal both
In valour and in fortune, but their praise
Be different, for with different views they fought;
This to subdue, and that to free mankind.
Pursues untir'd, and thro' the palace roves
With ever new delight. The tap'stry rich
With gold, and gay with all the beauteous paint
Of various colour'd silks, dispos'd with skill,
Attracts her curious eye. Here Ister rolls
23
With passing squadrons foams: here hardy Gaul
Flies from the sword of Britain; there to Greece
Effeminate Persia yields.—In arms oppos'd
Marlborough and Alexander vie for fame
With glorious competition; equal both
In valour and in fortune, but their praise
Be different, for with different views they fought;
This to subdue, and that to free mankind.
Now through the stately portals issuing forth
The Muse to softer glories turns, and seeks
The woodland shade, delighted. Not the vale
Of Tempe, fam'd in song, or Ida's grove
Such beauty boasts. Amid the mazy gloom
Of this romantic wilderness once stood
The bower of Rosamonda, hapless fair,
Sacred to grief and love: the crystal fount
In which she us'd to bathe her beauteous limbs
Still warbling flows, pleas'd to reflect the face
Of Spenser, lovely maid, when tir'd she sits
Beside its flowery brink, and views those charms
Which only Rosamond could once excel.
But see where flowing with a nobler stream,
A limpid lake of purest waters rolls
Beneath the wide-stretch'd arch, stupendous work,
Thro' which the Danube might collected pour
His spacious urn! Silent a while, and smooth
The current glides, till with an headlong force
Broke and disorder'd, down the steep it falls
In loud cascades; the silver-sparkling foam
Glitters relucent in the dancing ray.
The Muse to softer glories turns, and seeks
The woodland shade, delighted. Not the vale
Of Tempe, fam'd in song, or Ida's grove
Such beauty boasts. Amid the mazy gloom
Of this romantic wilderness once stood
The bower of Rosamonda, hapless fair,
Sacred to grief and love: the crystal fount
In which she us'd to bathe her beauteous limbs
Still warbling flows, pleas'd to reflect the face
Of Spenser, lovely maid, when tir'd she sits
Beside its flowery brink, and views those charms
Which only Rosamond could once excel.
But see where flowing with a nobler stream,
A limpid lake of purest waters rolls
Beneath the wide-stretch'd arch, stupendous work,
Thro' which the Danube might collected pour
His spacious urn! Silent a while, and smooth
The current glides, till with an headlong force
Broke and disorder'd, down the steep it falls
In loud cascades; the silver-sparkling foam
24
In these retreats repos'd the mighty soul
Of Churchill, from the toils of war and state,
Splendidly private, and the tranquil joy
Of contemplation felt, while Blenheim's dome
Triumphal, ever in his mind renew'd
The memory of his fame, and sooth'd his thoughts
With pleasing record of his glorious deeds.
So by the rage of faction, home recall'd,
Lucullus, while he wag'd successful war
Against the pride of Asia, and the power
Of Mithridates, whose aspiring mind
No losses could subdue, enrich'd with spoils
Of conquer'd nations, back return'd to Rome,
And in magnificent retirement past
The evening of his life.—But not alone,
In the calm shades of honourable ease,
Great Marlbro' peaceful dwelt: indulgent heaven
Gave a companion to his softer hours,
With whom conversing, he forgot all change
Of fortune or of taste, and in her mind
Found greatness equal to his own, and lov'd
Himself in her.—Thus each by each admir'd,
In mutual honour, mutual fondness join'd:
Like two fair stars with intermingled light,
In friendly union they together shone,
Aiding each other's brightness, till the cloud
Of night eternal quench'd the beams of one.
Thee, Churchill first, the ruthless hand of death
Tore from thy consort's side, and call'd thee hence
To the sublimer seats of joy and love;
Where fate again shall join her soul to thine,
Who now, regardful of thy fame, erects
The column to thy praise, and soothes her woe
With pious honours to thy sacred name
Immortal. Lo! where towering on the height
Of yon aërial pillar proudly stands
Thy image, like a guardian god, sublime,
And awes the subject plain: beneath his feet
The German eagles spread their wings, his hand
Grasps victory, its slave. Such was thy brow
Majestic, such thy martial port, when Gaul
Fled from thy frown, and in the Danube sought
A refuge from thy sword.—There, where the field
Was deepest stain'd with gore, on Hochstet's plain,
The theatre of thy glory, once was rais'd
A meaner trophy, by the Imperial hand;
Extorted gratitude; which now the rage
Of malice impotent, beseeming ill
A regal breast, has levell'd to the ground:
Mean insult! this with better auspices
Shall stand on British earth, to tell the world
How Marlbro' fought, for whom, and how repaid
His services. Nor shall the constant love
Of her who rais'd this monument be lost
In dark oblivion: that shall be the theme
Of future bards in ages yet unborn,
Inspir'd with Chaucer's fire, who in these groves
First tun'd the British harp, and little deem'd
His humble dwelling should the neighbour be
Of Blenheim, house superb; to which the throng
Of travellers approaching, shall not pass
His roof unnoted, but respectful hail
With reverence due. Such honour does the Muse
Obtain her favourites.—But the noble pile
(My theme) demands my voice.—O shade ador'd,
Marlborough! who now above the starry sphere
Dwell'st in the palaces of heaven, enthron'd
Among the demi-gods, deign to defend
This thy abode, while present here below,
And sacred still to thy immortal fame,
With tutelary care. Preserve it safe
From time's destroying hand, and cruel stroke
Of factious envy's more relentless rage.
Here may, long ages hence, the British youth,
When honour calls them to the field of war,
Behold the trophies which thy valour rais'd;
The proud reward of thy successful toils
For Europe's freedom, and Britannia's fame:
That fir'd with generous envy, they may dare
To emulate thy deeds.—So shall thy name,
Dear to thy country, still inspire her sons
With martial virtue; and to high attempts,
Excite their arms, till other battles won,
And nations sav'd, new monuments require,
And other Blenheims shall adorn the land.
Of Churchill, from the toils of war and state,
Splendidly private, and the tranquil joy
Of contemplation felt, while Blenheim's dome
Triumphal, ever in his mind renew'd
The memory of his fame, and sooth'd his thoughts
With pleasing record of his glorious deeds.
So by the rage of faction, home recall'd,
Lucullus, while he wag'd successful war
Against the pride of Asia, and the power
Of Mithridates, whose aspiring mind
No losses could subdue, enrich'd with spoils
Of conquer'd nations, back return'd to Rome,
And in magnificent retirement past
The evening of his life.—But not alone,
In the calm shades of honourable ease,
Great Marlbro' peaceful dwelt: indulgent heaven
Gave a companion to his softer hours,
With whom conversing, he forgot all change
Of fortune or of taste, and in her mind
Found greatness equal to his own, and lov'd
Himself in her.—Thus each by each admir'd,
In mutual honour, mutual fondness join'd:
Like two fair stars with intermingled light,
In friendly union they together shone,
Aiding each other's brightness, till the cloud
Of night eternal quench'd the beams of one.
Thee, Churchill first, the ruthless hand of death
Tore from thy consort's side, and call'd thee hence
25
Where fate again shall join her soul to thine,
Who now, regardful of thy fame, erects
The column to thy praise, and soothes her woe
With pious honours to thy sacred name
Immortal. Lo! where towering on the height
Of yon aërial pillar proudly stands
Thy image, like a guardian god, sublime,
And awes the subject plain: beneath his feet
The German eagles spread their wings, his hand
Grasps victory, its slave. Such was thy brow
Majestic, such thy martial port, when Gaul
Fled from thy frown, and in the Danube sought
A refuge from thy sword.—There, where the field
Was deepest stain'd with gore, on Hochstet's plain,
The theatre of thy glory, once was rais'd
A meaner trophy, by the Imperial hand;
Extorted gratitude; which now the rage
Of malice impotent, beseeming ill
A regal breast, has levell'd to the ground:
Mean insult! this with better auspices
Shall stand on British earth, to tell the world
How Marlbro' fought, for whom, and how repaid
His services. Nor shall the constant love
Of her who rais'd this monument be lost
In dark oblivion: that shall be the theme
Of future bards in ages yet unborn,
Inspir'd with Chaucer's fire, who in these groves
First tun'd the British harp, and little deem'd
His humble dwelling should the neighbour be
26
Of travellers approaching, shall not pass
His roof unnoted, but respectful hail
With reverence due. Such honour does the Muse
Obtain her favourites.—But the noble pile
(My theme) demands my voice.—O shade ador'd,
Marlborough! who now above the starry sphere
Dwell'st in the palaces of heaven, enthron'd
Among the demi-gods, deign to defend
This thy abode, while present here below,
And sacred still to thy immortal fame,
With tutelary care. Preserve it safe
From time's destroying hand, and cruel stroke
Of factious envy's more relentless rage.
Here may, long ages hence, the British youth,
When honour calls them to the field of war,
Behold the trophies which thy valour rais'd;
The proud reward of thy successful toils
For Europe's freedom, and Britannia's fame:
That fir'd with generous envy, they may dare
To emulate thy deeds.—So shall thy name,
Dear to thy country, still inspire her sons
With martial virtue; and to high attempts,
Excite their arms, till other battles won,
And nations sav'd, new monuments require,
And other Blenheims shall adorn the land.
27
TO THE Reverend Dr. AYSCOUGH at Oxford.
Writ from Paris in the Year 1728.
Say, dearest friend, how roll thy hours away?
What pleasing study cheats the tedious day?
Dost thou the sacred volumes oft explore
Of wise antiquity's immortal lore,
Where virtue by the charms of wit refin'd,
At once exalts and polishes the mind?
How different from our modern guilty art,
Which pleases only to corrupt the heart;
Whose curs'd refinements odious vice adorn,
And teach to honour what we ought to scorn!
Dost thou in sage historians joy to see
How Roman greatness rose with liberty;
How the same hands that tyrants durst controul,
Their empire stretch'd from Atlas to the Pole;
Till wealth and conquest into slaves refin'd
The proud luxurious masters of mankind?
Dost thou in letter'd Greece each charm admire,
Each grace, each virtue freedom could inspire;
Yet in her troubled states see all the woes,
And all the crimes that giddy faction knows;
Till rent by parties, by corruption sold,
Or weakly careless, or too rashly bold,
She sunk beneath a mitigated doom,
The slave and tutoress of protecting Rome?
What pleasing study cheats the tedious day?
Dost thou the sacred volumes oft explore
Of wise antiquity's immortal lore,
Where virtue by the charms of wit refin'd,
At once exalts and polishes the mind?
How different from our modern guilty art,
Which pleases only to corrupt the heart;
Whose curs'd refinements odious vice adorn,
And teach to honour what we ought to scorn!
Dost thou in sage historians joy to see
How Roman greatness rose with liberty;
How the same hands that tyrants durst controul,
Their empire stretch'd from Atlas to the Pole;
Till wealth and conquest into slaves refin'd
The proud luxurious masters of mankind?
Dost thou in letter'd Greece each charm admire,
Each grace, each virtue freedom could inspire;
Yet in her troubled states see all the woes,
And all the crimes that giddy faction knows;
28
Or weakly careless, or too rashly bold,
She sunk beneath a mitigated doom,
The slave and tutoress of protecting Rome?
Does calm Philosophy her aid impart,
To guide the passions, and to mend the heart?
Taught by her precepts, hast thou learnt the end
To which alone the wise their studies bend;
For which alone by nature were design'd
The powers of thought—To benefit mankind?
Not like a cloyster'd drone, to read and doze,
In undeserving, undeserv'd repose;
But reason's influence to diffuse; to clear
The enlighten'd world of every gloomy fear;
Dispel the mists of error, and unbind
Those pedant chains that clog the freeborn mind.
Happy who thus his leisure can employ!
He knows the purest hours of tranquil joy;
Nor vex'd with pangs that busier bosoms tear,
Nor lost to social virtue's pleasing care;
Safe in the port, yet labouring to sustain
Those who still float on the tempestuous main.
To guide the passions, and to mend the heart?
Taught by her precepts, hast thou learnt the end
To which alone the wise their studies bend;
For which alone by nature were design'd
The powers of thought—To benefit mankind?
Not like a cloyster'd drone, to read and doze,
In undeserving, undeserv'd repose;
But reason's influence to diffuse; to clear
The enlighten'd world of every gloomy fear;
Dispel the mists of error, and unbind
Those pedant chains that clog the freeborn mind.
Happy who thus his leisure can employ!
He knows the purest hours of tranquil joy;
Nor vex'd with pangs that busier bosoms tear,
Nor lost to social virtue's pleasing care;
Safe in the port, yet labouring to sustain
Those who still float on the tempestuous main.
So Locke the days of studious quiet spent;
So Boyle in wisdom found divine content;
So Cambray, worthy of a happier doom,
The virtuous slave of Louis and of Rome.
So Boyle in wisdom found divine content;
So Cambray, worthy of a happier doom,
The virtuous slave of Louis and of Rome.
Good
Wor'ster thus supports his drooping age,
Far from court-flattery, far from party-rage;
He, who in youth a tyrant's frown defy'd,
Firm and intrepid on his country's side,
Her boldest champion then, and now her mildest guide.
O generous warmth! O sanctity divine!
To emulate his worth, my friend, be thine!
Learn from his life the duties of the gown;
Learn not to flatter, nor insult the crown;
Nor basely servile court the guilty great,
Nor raise the church a rival to the state:
To error mild, to vice alone severe,
Seek not to spread the law of love by fear.
The priest, who plagues the world, can never mend:
No foe to man was e'er to God a friend.
Let reason and let virtue faith maintain,
All force but theirs is impious, weak, and vain.
Far from court-flattery, far from party-rage;
29
Firm and intrepid on his country's side,
Her boldest champion then, and now her mildest guide.
O generous warmth! O sanctity divine!
To emulate his worth, my friend, be thine!
Learn from his life the duties of the gown;
Learn not to flatter, nor insult the crown;
Nor basely servile court the guilty great,
Nor raise the church a rival to the state:
To error mild, to vice alone severe,
Seek not to spread the law of love by fear.
The priest, who plagues the world, can never mend:
No foe to man was e'er to God a friend.
Let reason and let virtue faith maintain,
All force but theirs is impious, weak, and vain.
Me other cares in other climes engage,
Cares that become my birth, and suit my age;
In various knowledge to improve my youth,
And conquer prejudice, worst foe to truth;
By foreign arts domestic faults to mend,
Enlarge my notions, and my views extend;
The useful science of the world to know,
Which books can never teach, or pedants shew.
Cares that become my birth, and suit my age;
In various knowledge to improve my youth,
And conquer prejudice, worst foe to truth;
By foreign arts domestic faults to mend,
Enlarge my notions, and my views extend;
The useful science of the world to know,
Which books can never teach, or pedants shew.
A nation here I pity, and admire,
Whom noblest sentiments of glory fire,
Yet taught by custom's force, and bigot fear,
To serve with pride, and boast the yoke they bear:
Whose nobles born to cringe, and to command,
In courts a mean, in camps a generous band;
From each low tool of power content receive
Those laws, their dreaded arms to Europe give.
Whose people vain in want, in bondage blest,
Tho' plunder'd, gay; industrious, tho' oppress'd;
With happy follies rise above their fate,
The jest and envy of each wiser state.
Whom noblest sentiments of glory fire,
Yet taught by custom's force, and bigot fear,
To serve with pride, and boast the yoke they bear:
Whose nobles born to cringe, and to command,
In courts a mean, in camps a generous band;
30
Those laws, their dreaded arms to Europe give.
Whose people vain in want, in bondage blest,
Tho' plunder'd, gay; industrious, tho' oppress'd;
With happy follies rise above their fate,
The jest and envy of each wiser state.
Yet here the Muses deign'd a while to sport
In the short sun-shine of a favouring court:
Here Boileau strong in sense, and sharp in wit,
Who from the ancients, like the ancients writ;
Permission gain'd inferior vice to blame,
By flattering incense to his master's fame.
Here Moliere, first of comic wits, excell'd
Whate'er Athenian theatres beheld;
By keen, yet decent satire skill'd to please,
With morals mirth uniting, strength with ease.
Now charm'd, I hear the bold Corneille inspire
Heroic thoughts with Shakespear's force and fire;
Now sweet Racine with milder influence move
The soften'd heart to pity and to love.
In the short sun-shine of a favouring court:
Here Boileau strong in sense, and sharp in wit,
Who from the ancients, like the ancients writ;
Permission gain'd inferior vice to blame,
By flattering incense to his master's fame.
Here Moliere, first of comic wits, excell'd
Whate'er Athenian theatres beheld;
By keen, yet decent satire skill'd to please,
With morals mirth uniting, strength with ease.
Now charm'd, I hear the bold Corneille inspire
Heroic thoughts with Shakespear's force and fire;
Now sweet Racine with milder influence move
The soften'd heart to pity and to love.
With mingled pain and pleasure I survey
The pompous works of arbitrary sway;
Proud palaces, that drain'd the subjects store,
Rais'd on the ruins of the oppress'd and poor;
Where even mute walls are taught to flatter state,
And painted triumphs stile ambition Great.
With more delight those pleasing shades I view,
Where Condé from an envious court withdrew: :
Where, sick of glory, faction, power and pride,
(Sure judge how empty all, who all had try'd)
Beneath his palms the weary chief repos'd,
And life's great scene in quiet virtue clos'd.
The pompous works of arbitrary sway;
Proud palaces, that drain'd the subjects store,
Rais'd on the ruins of the oppress'd and poor;
Where even mute walls are taught to flatter state,
And painted triumphs stile ambition Great.
31
Where Condé from an envious court withdrew: :
Where, sick of glory, faction, power and pride,
(Sure judge how empty all, who all had try'd)
Beneath his palms the weary chief repos'd,
And life's great scene in quiet virtue clos'd.
With shame that other fam'd retreat I see
Adorn'd by art, disgrac'd by luxury ;
Where Orleans wasted every vacant hour,
In the wild riot of unbounded power;
Where feverish debauch and impious love
Stain'd the mad table and the guilty grove.
Adorn'd by art, disgrac'd by luxury ;
Where Orleans wasted every vacant hour,
In the wild riot of unbounded power;
Where feverish debauch and impious love
Stain'd the mad table and the guilty grove.
With these amusements is thy friend detain'd,
Pleas'd and instructed in a foreign land;
Yet oft a tender wish recalls my mind
From present joys to dearer left behind:
Pleas'd and instructed in a foreign land;
Yet oft a tender wish recalls my mind
From present joys to dearer left behind:
O native isle, fair freedom's happiest seat!
At thought of thee my bounding pulses beat;
At thought of thee my heart impatient burns,
And all my country on my soul returns.
When shall I see thy fields, whose plenteous grain
No power can ravish from the industrious swain?
When kiss with pious love the sacred earth,
That gave a Burleigh, or a Russel birth?
When, in the shade of laws, that long have stood
Propp'd by their care, or strengthen'd by their blood,
Of fearless independence wisely vain,
The proudest slave of Bourbon's race disdain?
At thought of thee my bounding pulses beat;
At thought of thee my heart impatient burns,
And all my country on my soul returns.
When shall I see thy fields, whose plenteous grain
No power can ravish from the industrious swain?
When kiss with pious love the sacred earth,
That gave a Burleigh, or a Russel birth?
When, in the shade of laws, that long have stood
Propp'd by their care, or strengthen'd by their blood,
32
The proudest slave of Bourbon's race disdain?
Yet oh! what doubt, what sad presaging voice
Whispers within, and bids me not rejoice;
Bids me contemplate every state around,
From sultry Spain to Norway's icy bound;
Bids their lost rights, their ruin'd glories see;
And tells me, These, like England, once were Free.
Whispers within, and bids me not rejoice;
Bids me contemplate every state around,
From sultry Spain to Norway's icy bound;
Bids their lost rights, their ruin'd glories see;
And tells me, These, like England, once were Free.
33
TO MR. POYNTZ,
Ambassador at the Congress of Soissons, in the Year 1728.
Written at Paris.
O thou, whose friendship is my joy and pride,
Whose virtues warm me, and whose precepts guide;
Thou, to whom greatness, rightly understood,
Is but a larger power of being good;
Say, Poyntz, amidst the toils of anxious state,
Does not thy secret soul desire retreat?
Dost thou not wish (the task of glory done)
Thy busy life at length might be thy own;
That to thy lov'd philosophy resign'd,
No care might ruffle thy unbended mind?
Just is the wish. For sure the happiest meed,
To favour'd man by smiling heaven decreed,
Is to reflect at ease on glorious pains,
And calmly to enjoy what virtue gains.
Whose virtues warm me, and whose precepts guide;
Thou, to whom greatness, rightly understood,
Is but a larger power of being good;
Say, Poyntz, amidst the toils of anxious state,
Does not thy secret soul desire retreat?
Dost thou not wish (the task of glory done)
Thy busy life at length might be thy own;
That to thy lov'd philosophy resign'd,
No care might ruffle thy unbended mind?
Just is the wish. For sure the happiest meed,
To favour'd man by smiling heaven decreed,
Is to reflect at ease on glorious pains,
And calmly to enjoy what virtue gains.
Not him I praise, who from the world retir'd,
By no enlivening generous passion fir'd,
On flowery couches slumbers life away,
And gently bids his active powers decay;
Who fears bright glory's awful face to see,
And shuns renown as much as infamy.
But blest is he, who exercis'd in cares,
To private leisure public virtue bears?
Who tranquil ends the race he nobly run,
And decks repose with trophies labour won.
Him Honour follows to the secret shade,
And crowns propitious his declining head;
In his retreats their harps the Muses string,
For him in lays unbought spontaneous sing;
Friendship and truth on all his moments wait,
Pleas'd with retirement better than with state;
And round the bower where humbly great he lies,
Fair olives bloom, or verdant laurels rise.
By no enlivening generous passion fir'd,
On flowery couches slumbers life away,
And gently bids his active powers decay;
34
And shuns renown as much as infamy.
But blest is he, who exercis'd in cares,
To private leisure public virtue bears?
Who tranquil ends the race he nobly run,
And decks repose with trophies labour won.
Him Honour follows to the secret shade,
And crowns propitious his declining head;
In his retreats their harps the Muses string,
For him in lays unbought spontaneous sing;
Friendship and truth on all his moments wait,
Pleas'd with retirement better than with state;
And round the bower where humbly great he lies,
Fair olives bloom, or verdant laurels rise.
So when thy country shall no more demand
The needful aid of thy sustaining hand;
When peace restor'd shall on her downy wing
Secure repose and careless leisure bring;
Then to the shades of learned ease retir'd,
The world forgetting, by the world admir'd,
Among thy books and friends, thou shalt possess
Contemplative and quiet happiness;
Pleas'd to review a life in honour spent,
And painful merit paid with sweet content.
Yet tho' thy hours unclogg'd with sorrow roll,
Tho' wisdom calm, and science feed thy soul;
One dearer bliss remains to be possess'd,
That only can improve and crown the rest—
The needful aid of thy sustaining hand;
When peace restor'd shall on her downy wing
Secure repose and careless leisure bring;
Then to the shades of learned ease retir'd,
The world forgetting, by the world admir'd,
Among thy books and friends, thou shalt possess
Contemplative and quiet happiness;
Pleas'd to review a life in honour spent,
And painful merit paid with sweet content.
Yet tho' thy hours unclogg'd with sorrow roll,
Tho' wisdom calm, and science feed thy soul;
One dearer bliss remains to be possess'd,
That only can improve and crown the rest—
Permit thy friend this secret to reveal,
Which thy own heart perhaps would better tell;
The point to which our sweetest passions move,
Is to be truly lov'd, and fondly love.
This is the charm that smooths the troubled breast,
Friend to our health, and author of our rest,
Bids every gloomy vexing passion fly,
And tunes each jarring string to harmony.
Even while I write, the name of love inspires
More pleasing thoughts, and more enlivening fires;
Beneath his power my raptur'd fancy glows,
And every tender verse more sweetly flows.
Dull is the privilege of living free;
Our hearts were never form'd for liberty:
Some beauteous image well imprinted there,
Can best defend them from consuming care.
In vain to groves and gardens we retire,
And nature in her rural works admire;
Tho' grateful these, yet these but faintly charm;
They may delight us, but can never warm.
May some fair eyes, my friend, thy bosom fire
With pleasing pangs of ever gay desire;
And teach thee that soft science, which alone
Still to thy searching mind rests slightly known.
Thy soul, tho' great, is tender and refin'd,
To friendship sensible, to love inclin'd;
And therefore long thou can'st not arm thy breast
Against the entrance of so sweet a guest.
Hear what the inspiring Muses bid me tell,
For heaven shall ratify what they reveal.
Which thy own heart perhaps would better tell;
35
Is to be truly lov'd, and fondly love.
This is the charm that smooths the troubled breast,
Friend to our health, and author of our rest,
Bids every gloomy vexing passion fly,
And tunes each jarring string to harmony.
Even while I write, the name of love inspires
More pleasing thoughts, and more enlivening fires;
Beneath his power my raptur'd fancy glows,
And every tender verse more sweetly flows.
Dull is the privilege of living free;
Our hearts were never form'd for liberty:
Some beauteous image well imprinted there,
Can best defend them from consuming care.
In vain to groves and gardens we retire,
And nature in her rural works admire;
Tho' grateful these, yet these but faintly charm;
They may delight us, but can never warm.
May some fair eyes, my friend, thy bosom fire
With pleasing pangs of ever gay desire;
And teach thee that soft science, which alone
Still to thy searching mind rests slightly known.
Thy soul, tho' great, is tender and refin'd,
To friendship sensible, to love inclin'd;
And therefore long thou can'st not arm thy breast
Against the entrance of so sweet a guest.
Hear what the inspiring Muses bid me tell,
For heaven shall ratify what they reveal.
A chosen bride shall in thy arms be plac'd,
With all the attractive charms of beauty grac'd;
Whose wit and virtue shall thy own express,
Distinguish'd only by their softer dress:
Thy greatness she, or thy retreat shall share,
Sweeten tranquillity, or soften care:
Her smiles the taste of every joy shall raise,
And add new pleasure to renown and praise;
Till charm'd you own the truth my verse would prove,
That happiness is near ally'd to love.
With all the attractive charms of beauty grac'd;
36
Distinguish'd only by their softer dress:
Thy greatness she, or thy retreat shall share,
Sweeten tranquillity, or soften care:
Her smiles the taste of every joy shall raise,
And add new pleasure to renown and praise;
Till charm'd you own the truth my verse would prove,
That happiness is near ally'd to love.
37
VERSES To be written under a Picture of MR. POYNTZ.
Such is thy form, O Poyntz! but who shall findA hand, or colours to express thy mind?
A mind unmov'd by every vulgar fear,
In a false world that dares to be sincere;
Wise without art; without ambition great;
Tho' firm, yet pliant; active, tho' sedate;
With all the richest stores of learning fraught;
Yet better still by native prudence taught;
That, fond the griefs of the distress'd to heal,
Can pity frailties it could never feel;
That, when misfortune sued, ne'er sought to know
What sect, what party, whether friend or foe;
That, fix'd on equal virtue's temperate laws,
Despises calumny, and shuns applause;
That, to its own perfections singly blind,
Would for another think this praise design'd.
38
AN EPISTLE TO MR. POPE.
From Rome, 1730.
Immortal bard! for whom each Muse has wove
The fairest garlands of the Aonian grove;
Preserv'd our drooping genius to restore,
When Addison and Congreve are no more;
After so many stars extinct in night
The darken'd age's last remaining light!
To thee from Latian realms this verse is writ,
Inspir'd by memory of ancient wit;
For now no more these climes their influence boast,
Fallen is their glory, and their virtue lost;
From tyrants, and from priests the Muses fly,
Daughters of reason and of liberty:
Nor Baiae now, nor Umbria's plain they love,
Nor on the banks of Nar, or Mincius rove;
To Thames's flowery borders they retire,
And kindle in thy breast the Roman fire.
So in the shades, where chear'd with summer rays
Melodious linnets warbled sprightly lays,
Soon as the faded, falling leaves complain
Of gloomy winter's unauspicious reign,
No tuneful voice is heard of joy or love,
But mournful silence saddens all the grove.
The fairest garlands of the Aonian grove;
Preserv'd our drooping genius to restore,
When Addison and Congreve are no more;
After so many stars extinct in night
The darken'd age's last remaining light!
To thee from Latian realms this verse is writ,
Inspir'd by memory of ancient wit;
For now no more these climes their influence boast,
Fallen is their glory, and their virtue lost;
From tyrants, and from priests the Muses fly,
Daughters of reason and of liberty:
Nor Baiae now, nor Umbria's plain they love,
Nor on the banks of Nar, or Mincius rove;
To Thames's flowery borders they retire,
And kindle in thy breast the Roman fire.
So in the shades, where chear'd with summer rays
Melodious linnets warbled sprightly lays,
Soon as the faded, falling leaves complain
Of gloomy winter's unauspicious reign,
39
But mournful silence saddens all the grove.
Unhappy Italy! whose alter'd state
Has felt the worst severity of fate:
Not that barbarian hands her fasces broke,
And bow'd her haughty neck beneath their yoke;
Not that her palaces to earth are thrown,
Her cities desart, and her fields unsown;
But that her ancient spirit is decay'd,
That sacred wisdom from her bounds is fled,
That there the source of science flows no more,
Whence its rich stream supply'd the world before.
Has felt the worst severity of fate:
Not that barbarian hands her fasces broke,
And bow'd her haughty neck beneath their yoke;
Not that her palaces to earth are thrown,
Her cities desart, and her fields unsown;
But that her ancient spirit is decay'd,
That sacred wisdom from her bounds is fled,
That there the source of science flows no more,
Whence its rich stream supply'd the world before.
Illustrious names! that once in Latium shin'd;
Born to instruct, and to command mankind;
Chiefs, by whose virtue mighty Rome was rais'd,
And poets, who those chiefs sublimely prais'd!
Oft I the traces you have left explore,
Your ashes visit, and your urns adore;
Oft kiss, with lips devout, some mouldering stone,
With ivy's venerable shade o'ergrown;
Those hallow'd ruins better pleas'd to see
Than all the pomp of modern luxury.
Born to instruct, and to command mankind;
Chiefs, by whose virtue mighty Rome was rais'd,
And poets, who those chiefs sublimely prais'd!
Oft I the traces you have left explore,
Your ashes visit, and your urns adore;
Oft kiss, with lips devout, some mouldering stone,
With ivy's venerable shade o'ergrown;
Those hallow'd ruins better pleas'd to see
Than all the pomp of modern luxury.
As late on Virgil's tomb fresh flowers I strow'd,
While with the inspiring Muse my bosom glow'd,
Crown'd with eternal bays my ravish'd eyes
Beheld the poet's awful form arise;
Stranger, he said, whose pious hand has paid
These grateful rites to my attentive shade,
When thou shalt breathe thy happy native air,
To Pope this message from his master bear:
While with the inspiring Muse my bosom glow'd,
Crown'd with eternal bays my ravish'd eyes
Beheld the poet's awful form arise;
Stranger, he said, whose pious hand has paid
These grateful rites to my attentive shade,
When thou shalt breathe thy happy native air,
To Pope this message from his master bear:
40
Great bard, whose numbers I myself inspire,
To whom I give my own harmonious lyre,
If high exalted on the throne of wit,
Near me and Homer thou aspire to sit,
No more let meaner satire dim the rays
That flow majestic from thy nobler bays;
In all the flowery paths of Pindus stray,
But shun that thorny, that unpleasing way;
Nor when each soft engaging Muse is thine,
Address the least attractive of the Nine.
To whom I give my own harmonious lyre,
If high exalted on the throne of wit,
Near me and Homer thou aspire to sit,
No more let meaner satire dim the rays
That flow majestic from thy nobler bays;
In all the flowery paths of Pindus stray,
But shun that thorny, that unpleasing way;
Nor when each soft engaging Muse is thine,
Address the least attractive of the Nine.
Of thee more worthy were the task, to raise
A lasting column to thy country's praise;
To sing the land, which yet alone can boast
That liberty corrupted Rome has lost;
Where science in the arms of peace is laid,
And plants her palm beside the olive's shade.
Such was the theme for which my lyre I strung,
Such was the people whose exploits I sung;
Brave, yet refin'd, for arms and arts renown'd,
With different bays by Mars and Phoebus crown'd;
Dauntless opposers of tyrannic sway,
But pleas'd a mild Augustus to obey.
A lasting column to thy country's praise;
To sing the land, which yet alone can boast
That liberty corrupted Rome has lost;
Where science in the arms of peace is laid,
And plants her palm beside the olive's shade.
Such was the theme for which my lyre I strung,
Such was the people whose exploits I sung;
Brave, yet refin'd, for arms and arts renown'd,
With different bays by Mars and Phoebus crown'd;
Dauntless opposers of tyrannic sway,
But pleas'd a mild Augustus to obey.
If these commands submissive thou receive,
Immortal and unblam'd thy name shall live;
Envy to black Cocytus shall retire,
And howl with furies in tormenting fire;
Approving time shall consecrate thy lays,
And join the patriot's to the poet's praise.
Immortal and unblam'd thy name shall live;
Envy to black Cocytus shall retire,
And howl with furies in tormenting fire;
Approving time shall consecrate thy lays,
And join the patriot's to the poet's praise.
41
TO MY LORD *******.
In the year 1730. From Worcestershire.
Strenua nos exercet inertia: navibus atque
Quadrigis petimus bene Vivere: quod petis hic est;
Est Ulubris, Animus si te non deficit aequus.
Horace.
Quadrigis petimus bene Vivere: quod petis hic est;
Est Ulubris, Animus si te non deficit aequus.
Horace.
Favourite of Venus and the tuneful Nine,
Pollio, by nature form'd in courts to shine,
Wilt thou once more a kind attention lend
To thy long absent and forgotten friend;
Who after seas and mountains wander'd o'er,
Return'd at length to his own native shore,
From all that's gay retir'd, and all that's great,
Beneath the shades of his paternal seat
Has found that happiness he sought in vain
On the fam'd banks of Tiber and of Seine?
Pollio, by nature form'd in courts to shine,
Wilt thou once more a kind attention lend
To thy long absent and forgotten friend;
Who after seas and mountains wander'd o'er,
Return'd at length to his own native shore,
From all that's gay retir'd, and all that's great,
Beneath the shades of his paternal seat
Has found that happiness he sought in vain
On the fam'd banks of Tiber and of Seine?
'Tis not to view the well proportion'd pile,
The charms of Titian's and of Raphael's stile;
At soft Italian sounds to melt away;
Or in the fragrant groves of myrtle stray;
That lulls the tumults of the soul to rest,
Or makes the fond possessor truly blest.
In our own breasts the source of pleasure lies:
Still open, and still flowing to the wise;
Not forc'd by toilsome art and wild desire
Beyond the bounds of nature to aspire,
But in its proper channels gliding fair;
A common benefit, which all may share.
Yet half mankind this easy good disdain,
Nor relish happiness unbought by pain;
False is their taste of bliss, and thence their search is vain.
So idle, yet so restless are our minds,
We climb the Alps, and brave the raging winds,
Through various toils to seek content we roam,
Which with but thinking right were our's at home.
For not the ceaseless change of shifted place
Can from the heart a settled grief erase,
Nor can the purer balm of foreign air
Heal the distemper'd mind of aking care.
The wretch by wild impatience driven to rove
Vex'd with the pangs of ill-requited love,
From pole to pole the fatal arrow bears,
Whose rooted point his bleeding bosom tears,
With equal pain each different clime he tries,
And is himself that torment which he flies.
The charms of Titian's and of Raphael's stile;
At soft Italian sounds to melt away;
Or in the fragrant groves of myrtle stray;
That lulls the tumults of the soul to rest,
Or makes the fond possessor truly blest.
In our own breasts the source of pleasure lies:
Still open, and still flowing to the wise;
42
Beyond the bounds of nature to aspire,
But in its proper channels gliding fair;
A common benefit, which all may share.
Yet half mankind this easy good disdain,
Nor relish happiness unbought by pain;
False is their taste of bliss, and thence their search is vain.
So idle, yet so restless are our minds,
We climb the Alps, and brave the raging winds,
Through various toils to seek content we roam,
Which with but thinking right were our's at home.
For not the ceaseless change of shifted place
Can from the heart a settled grief erase,
Nor can the purer balm of foreign air
Heal the distemper'd mind of aking care.
The wretch by wild impatience driven to rove
Vex'd with the pangs of ill-requited love,
From pole to pole the fatal arrow bears,
Whose rooted point his bleeding bosom tears,
With equal pain each different clime he tries,
And is himself that torment which he flies.
For how should ills, that from our passions flow,
Be chang'd by Afric's heat, or Russia's snow?
Or how can aught but powerful reason cure,
What from unthinking folly we endure?
Happy is he, and he alone, who knows
His heart's uneasy discord to compose;
In generous love of others good to find
The sweetest pleasures of the social mind;
To bound his wishes in their proper sphere;
To nourish pleasing hope, and conquer anxious fear.
This was the wisdom ancient sages taught,
This was the sovereign good they justly sought;
This to no place or climate is confin'd,
But the free native produce of the mind.
Be chang'd by Afric's heat, or Russia's snow?
Or how can aught but powerful reason cure,
What from unthinking folly we endure?
Happy is he, and he alone, who knows
His heart's uneasy discord to compose;
In generous love of others good to find
The sweetest pleasures of the social mind;
43
To nourish pleasing hope, and conquer anxious fear.
This was the wisdom ancient sages taught,
This was the sovereign good they justly sought;
This to no place or climate is confin'd,
But the free native produce of the mind.
Nor think, my Lord, that courts to you deny
The useful practice of philosophy:
Horace, the wisest of the tuneful choir,
Not always chose from greatness to retire,
But in the palace of Augustus knew
The same unerring maxims to pursue,
Which in the Sabine or the Velian shade
His study and his happiness he made.
The useful practice of philosophy:
Horace, the wisest of the tuneful choir,
Not always chose from greatness to retire,
But in the palace of Augustus knew
The same unerring maxims to pursue,
Which in the Sabine or the Velian shade
His study and his happiness he made.
May you, my friend, by his example taught,
View all the giddy scene with sober thought;
Undazzled every glittering folly see,
And in the midst of slavish forms be free;
In its own center keep your steady mind;
Let prudence guide you, but let honour bind;
In show, in manners, act the courtier's part,
But be a country-gentleman at heart.
View all the giddy scene with sober thought;
Undazzled every glittering folly see,
And in the midst of slavish forms be free;
In its own center keep your steady mind;
Let prudence guide you, but let honour bind;
In show, in manners, act the courtier's part,
But be a country-gentleman at heart.
44
ADVICE TO A LADY. 1731.
The counsels of a friend, Belinda, hear,
Too roughly kind to please a lady's ear,
Unlike the flatteries of a lover's pen,
Such truths as women seldom learn from men.
Nor think I praise you ill, when thus I shew
What female vanity might fear to know:
Some merit's mine, to dare to be sincere,
But greater your's, sincerity to bear.
Too roughly kind to please a lady's ear,
Unlike the flatteries of a lover's pen,
Such truths as women seldom learn from men.
Nor think I praise you ill, when thus I shew
What female vanity might fear to know:
Some merit's mine, to dare to be sincere,
But greater your's, sincerity to bear.
Hard is the fortune that your sex attends;
Women, like princes, find few real friends:
All who approach them their own ends pursue:
Lovers and ministers are seldom true.
Hence oft from reason heedless beauty strays,
And the most trusted guide the most betrays:
Hence by fond dreams of fancy'd power amus'd,
When most you tyrannize you're most abus'd.
Women, like princes, find few real friends:
All who approach them their own ends pursue:
Lovers and ministers are seldom true.
Hence oft from reason heedless beauty strays,
And the most trusted guide the most betrays:
Hence by fond dreams of fancy'd power amus'd,
When most you tyrannize you're most abus'd.
What is your sex's earliest, latest care,
Your heart's supreme ambition? To be fair:
For this the toilet every thought employs,
Hence all the toils of dress, and all the joys:
For this, hands, lips, and eyes are put to school,
And each instructed feature has its rule;
And yet how few have learnt, when this is given,
Not to disgrace the partial boon of heaven?
How few with all their pride of form can move?
How few are lovely, that were made for love?
Do you, my fair, endeavour to possess
An elegance of mind as well as dress;
Be that your ornament, and know to please
By graceful nature's unaffected ease.
Your heart's supreme ambition? To be fair:
For this the toilet every thought employs,
Hence all the toils of dress, and all the joys:
For this, hands, lips, and eyes are put to school,
And each instructed feature has its rule;
45
Not to disgrace the partial boon of heaven?
How few with all their pride of form can move?
How few are lovely, that were made for love?
Do you, my fair, endeavour to possess
An elegance of mind as well as dress;
Be that your ornament, and know to please
By graceful nature's unaffected ease.
Nor make to dangerous wit a vain pretence,
But wisely rest content with modest sense;
For wit, like wine, intoxicates the brain,
Too strong for feeble woman to sustain;
Of those who claim it, more than half have none,
And half of those who have it, are undone.
But wisely rest content with modest sense;
For wit, like wine, intoxicates the brain,
Too strong for feeble woman to sustain;
Of those who claim it, more than half have none,
And half of those who have it, are undone.
Be still superior to your sex's arts,
Nor think dishonesty a proof of parts;
For you the plainest is the wisest rule,
A Cunning Woman is a Knavish Fool.
Nor think dishonesty a proof of parts;
For you the plainest is the wisest rule,
A Cunning Woman is a Knavish Fool.
Be good yourself, nor think another's shame
Can raise your merit, or adorn your fame.
Prudes rail at whores, as statesmen in disgrace
At ministers, because they wish their place.
Virtue is amiable, mild, serene;
Without, all beauty, and all peace, within:
The honour of a prude is rage and storm,
'Tis ugliness in its most frightful form:
Fiercely it stands defying gods and men,
As fiery monsters guard a giant's den.
Seek to be good, but aim not to be great:
A woman's noblest station is retreat;
Her fairest virtues fly from public sight,
Domestic worth, that shuns too strong a light.
Can raise your merit, or adorn your fame.
Prudes rail at whores, as statesmen in disgrace
At ministers, because they wish their place.
Virtue is amiable, mild, serene;
Without, all beauty, and all peace, within:
The honour of a prude is rage and storm,
'Tis ugliness in its most frightful form:
Fiercely it stands defying gods and men,
As fiery monsters guard a giant's den.
Seek to be good, but aim not to be great:
A woman's noblest station is retreat;
46
Domestic worth, that shuns too strong a light.
To rougher man ambition's task resign:
'Tis ours in senates or in courts to shine,
To labour for a sunk corrupted state,
Or dare the rage of envy, and be great.
One only care your gentle breasts should move,
The important business of your life is love;
To this great point direct your constant aim,
This makes your happiness, and this your fame.
'Tis ours in senates or in courts to shine,
To labour for a sunk corrupted state,
Or dare the rage of envy, and be great.
One only care your gentle breasts should move,
The important business of your life is love;
To this great point direct your constant aim,
This makes your happiness, and this your fame.
Be never cool reserve with passion join'd:
With caution chuse; but then be fondly kind.
The selfish heart, that but by halves is given,
Shall find no place in love's delightful heaven;
Here sweet extremes alone can truly bless,
The virtue of a lover is excess.
With caution chuse; but then be fondly kind.
The selfish heart, that but by halves is given,
Shall find no place in love's delightful heaven;
Here sweet extremes alone can truly bless,
The virtue of a lover is excess.
A maid unask'd may own a well-plac'd flame,
Not loving first, but loving wrong is shame.
Not loving first, but loving wrong is shame.
Contemn the little pride of giving pain,
Nor think that conquest justifies disdain;
Short is the period of insulting power;
Offended Cupid finds his vengeful hour,
Soon will resume the empire which he gave,
And soon the tyrant shall become the slave.
Nor think that conquest justifies disdain;
Short is the period of insulting power;
Offended Cupid finds his vengeful hour,
Soon will resume the empire which he gave,
And soon the tyrant shall become the slave.
Blest is the maid, and worthy to be blest,
Whose soul entire by him she loves possess'd,
Feels every vanity in fondness lost,
And asks no power, but that of pleasing most:
Her's is the bliss in just return to prove
The honest warmth of undissembled love;
For her, inconstant man might cease to range,
And gratitude forbid desire to change.
Whose soul entire by him she loves possess'd,
Feels every vanity in fondness lost,
And asks no power, but that of pleasing most:
Her's is the bliss in just return to prove
The honest warmth of undissembled love;
47
And gratitude forbid desire to change.
But lest harsh care the lover's peace destroy,
And roughly blight the tender buds of joy,
Let reason teach what passion fain would hide,
That Hymen's bands by prudence should be ty'd.
Venus in vain the wedded pair would crown,
If angry fortune on their union frown:
Soon will the flattering dream of bliss be o'er,
And cloy'd imagination cheat no more.
Then waking to the sense of lasting pain,
With mutual tears the nuptial couch they stain;
And that fond love, which should afford relief,
Does but increase the anguish of their grief;
While both could easier their own sorrows bear,
Than the sad knowledge of each other's care.
And roughly blight the tender buds of joy,
Let reason teach what passion fain would hide,
That Hymen's bands by prudence should be ty'd.
Venus in vain the wedded pair would crown,
If angry fortune on their union frown:
Soon will the flattering dream of bliss be o'er,
And cloy'd imagination cheat no more.
Then waking to the sense of lasting pain,
With mutual tears the nuptial couch they stain;
And that fond love, which should afford relief,
Does but increase the anguish of their grief;
While both could easier their own sorrows bear,
Than the sad knowledge of each other's care.
Yet may you rather feel that virtuous pain,
Than sell your violated charms for gain;
Than wed the wretch whom you despise, or hate,
For the vain glare of useless wealth or state.
The most abandon'd prostitutes are they,
Who not to love, but avarice fall a prey:
Nor ought avails the specious name of Wife;
A maid so wedded, is a Whore for Life.
Than sell your violated charms for gain;
Than wed the wretch whom you despise, or hate,
For the vain glare of useless wealth or state.
The most abandon'd prostitutes are they,
Who not to love, but avarice fall a prey:
Nor ought avails the specious name of Wife;
A maid so wedded, is a Whore for Life.
Even in the happiest choice, where favouring heaven
Has equal love, and easy fortune given,
Think not, the husband gain'd, that all is done;
The prize of happiness must still be won;
And oft, the careless find it to their cost,
The lover in the husband may be lost:
The Graces might alone his heart allure;
They and the Virtues meeting must secure.
Has equal love, and easy fortune given,
Think not, the husband gain'd, that all is done;
The prize of happiness must still be won;
And oft, the careless find it to their cost,
The lover in the husband may be lost:
48
They and the Virtues meeting must secure.
Let even your prudence wear the pleasing dress
Of care for him, and anxious tenderness.
From kind concern about his weal, or woe,
Let each domestic duty seem to flow;
The Houshold Sceptre if he bids you bear,
Make it your pride his servant to appear:
Endearing thus the common acts of life,
The mistress still shall charm him in the wife;
And wrinkled age shall unobserv'd come on,
Before his eye perceives one beauty gone:
Even o'er your cold, and ever-sacred urn,
His constant flame shall unextinguish'd burn.
Of care for him, and anxious tenderness.
From kind concern about his weal, or woe,
Let each domestic duty seem to flow;
The Houshold Sceptre if he bids you bear,
Make it your pride his servant to appear:
Endearing thus the common acts of life,
The mistress still shall charm him in the wife;
And wrinkled age shall unobserv'd come on,
Before his eye perceives one beauty gone:
Even o'er your cold, and ever-sacred urn,
His constant flame shall unextinguish'd burn.
Thus I, Belinda, would your charms improve,
And form your heart to all the arts of love:
The task were harder to secure my own
Against the power of those already known:
For well you twist the secret chains that bind
With gentle force the captivated mind,
Skill'd every soft attraction to employ,
Each flattering hope, and each alluring joy;
I own your genius, and from you receive
The rules of pleasing, which to you I give.
And form your heart to all the arts of love:
The task were harder to secure my own
Against the power of those already known:
For well you twist the secret chains that bind
With gentle force the captivated mind,
Skill'd every soft attraction to employ,
Each flattering hope, and each alluring joy;
I own your genius, and from you receive
The rules of pleasing, which to you I give.
49
SONG
[When Delia on the plain appears]
Written in the Year 1732.
I
When Delia on the plain appears,Aw'd by a thousand tender fears,
I would approach, but dare not move;
Tell me, my heart, if this be Love.
II
Whene'er she speaks, my ravish'd earNo other voice but her's can hear,
No other wit but her's approve;—
Tell me, my heart, if this be Love.
III
If she some other youth commend,Though I was once his fondest friend,
His instant enemy I prove;—
Tell me, my heart, if this be Love.
IV
When she is absent, I no moreDelight in all that pleas'd before,
The clearest spring, or shadiest grove;—
Tell me, my heart, if this be Love.
V
When fond of power, of beauty vain,Her nets she spread for every swain,
I strove to hate, but vainly strove;—
Tell me, my heart, if this be Love.
50
SONG.
[The heavy hours are almost past]
Written in the Year 1733.
I
The heavy hours are almost pastThat part my love and me;
My longing eyes may hope at last
Their only wish to see.
II
But how, my Delia, will you meetThe man you've lost so long?
Will love in all your pulses beat,
And tremble on your tongue?
III
Will you in every look declareYour heart is still the same?
And heal each idly-anxious care
Our fears in absence frame?
IV
Thus, Delia, thus I paint the scene,When shortly we shall meet,
And try what yet remains between
Of loitering time to cheat.
V
But if the dream that soothes my mindShall false and groundless prove;
If I am doom'd at length to find
You have forgot to love;
51
VI
All I of Venus ask, is this;No more to let us join;
But grant me here the flattering bliss,
To die and think you mine.
52
DAMON AND DELIA.
In Imitation of Horace and Lydia.
Written in the Year 1732.
Damon.
Tell me, my Delia, tell me why.
My kindest, fondest looks you fly:
What means this cloud upon your brow?
Have I offended? tell me how?
Some change has happen'd in your heart,
Some rival there has stolen a part;
Reason these fears may disapprove:
But yet I fear, because I love.
Delia.
First, tell me, Damon, why to day
At Belvidera's feet you lay?
Why with such warmth her charms you prais'd,
And every trisling beauty rais'd,
As if you meant to let me see
Your flattery is not all for me?
Alas! too well your sex I knew,
Nor was so weak to think you true.
Damon.
Unkind! my falsehood to upbraid,
When your own orders I obey'd;
53
The notice of the world to cheat,
And hide beneath another name,
The secret of our mutual flame.
Delia.
Damon, your prudence I confess,
But let me wish it had been less;
Too well the lover's part you play'd,
With too much art your court you made;
Had it been only art, your eyes
Would not have join'd in the disguise.
Damon.
Ah, cease thus idly to molest
With groundless fears thy virgin breast.
While thus at fancy'd wrongs you grieve,
To me a real pain you give.
Delia.
Tho' well I might your truth distrust,
My foolish heart believes you just;
Reason this faith may disapprove,
But I believe, because I love.
54
ODE, In Imitation of Pastor Fido.
[O Primavera Gioventu del Anno.]
Written abroad in 1729.
I
Parent of blooming flowers and gay desires,Youth of the tender year, delightful Spring,
At whose approach inspir'd with equal fires,
The amorous nightingale and poet sing:
II
Again dost thou return, but not with theeReturn the smiling hours I once possess'd;
Blessings thou bring'st to others, but to me
The sad remembrance, that I once was bless'd.
III
Thy faded charms, which winter snatch'd away,Renew'd in all their former lustre shine;
But ah! no more shall hapless I be gay,
Or know the vernal joys that have been mine.
IV
Tho' linnets sing, tho' flowers adorn the green,Tho' on their wings soft zephyrs fragrance bear;
Harsh is the music, joyless is the scene,
The odour faint; for Delia is not there.
V
Chearless and cold I feel the genial sun,From thee while absent I in exile rove;
Thy lovely presence, fairest light, alone.
Can warm my heart to gladness and to love.
55
Part of an ELEGY of Tibullus translated.
(Divitias alius fulvo sibi congerat Auro.)
1729–30.
Let others heap of wealth a shining store,
And much possessing, labour still for more;
Let them, disquited with dire alarms,
Aspire to win a dangerous fame in arms:
Me tranquil poverty shall lull to rest,
Humbly secure and indolently blest;
Warm'd by the blaze of my own chearful hearth,
I'll waste the wintery hours in social mirth;
In summer pleas'd attend to harvest toils,
In autumn press the vineyard's purple spoils,
And oft to Delia in my bosom bear
Some kid, or lamb that wants its mother's care:
With her I'll celebrate each gladsome day,
When swains their sportive rites to Bacchus pay,
With her new milk on Pales' altar pour,
And deck with ripen'd fruits Pomona's bower.
At night, how soothing would it be to hear,
Shelter'd and warm, the tempest whistling near;
And while my charmer in my arms I strain,
Slumber assisted by the beating rain!
Ah! how much happier, than the fool who braves
In search of wealth the black tempestuous waves!
While I, contented with my little store,
In tedious voyage seek no distant shore,
But idly lolling on some shady seat,
Near cooling fountains shun the dog-star's heat;
For what reward so rich could fortune give
That I by absence should my Delia grieve?
Let great Messala shine in martial toils,
And grace his palace with triumphal spoils;
Me beauty holds in strong, tho' gentle chains,
Far from tumultuous war, and dusty plains.
With thee, my love, to pass my tranquil days,
How would I slight ambition's painful praise!
How would I joy with thee, my love, to yoke.
The ox, and feed my solitary flock!
On thy soft breast might I but lean my head,
How downy should I think the woodland bed!
And much possessing, labour still for more;
Let them, disquited with dire alarms,
Aspire to win a dangerous fame in arms:
Me tranquil poverty shall lull to rest,
Humbly secure and indolently blest;
Warm'd by the blaze of my own chearful hearth,
I'll waste the wintery hours in social mirth;
In summer pleas'd attend to harvest toils,
In autumn press the vineyard's purple spoils,
And oft to Delia in my bosom bear
Some kid, or lamb that wants its mother's care:
With her I'll celebrate each gladsome day,
When swains their sportive rites to Bacchus pay,
With her new milk on Pales' altar pour,
And deck with ripen'd fruits Pomona's bower.
At night, how soothing would it be to hear,
Shelter'd and warm, the tempest whistling near;
And while my charmer in my arms I strain,
Slumber assisted by the beating rain!
56
In search of wealth the black tempestuous waves!
While I, contented with my little store,
In tedious voyage seek no distant shore,
But idly lolling on some shady seat,
Near cooling fountains shun the dog-star's heat;
For what reward so rich could fortune give
That I by absence should my Delia grieve?
Let great Messala shine in martial toils,
And grace his palace with triumphal spoils;
Me beauty holds in strong, tho' gentle chains,
Far from tumultuous war, and dusty plains.
With thee, my love, to pass my tranquil days,
How would I slight ambition's painful praise!
How would I joy with thee, my love, to yoke.
The ox, and feed my solitary flock!
On thy soft breast might I but lean my head,
How downy should I think the woodland bed!
The wretch, who sleeps not by his fair one's side,
Detests the gilded couch's useless pride,
Nor knows his weary, weeping eyes to close,
Tho' murmuring rills invite him to repose.
Hard were his heart, who thee, my fair, could leave
For all the honours prosperous War can give;
Tho' thro' the vanquish'd East he spread his fame,
And Parthian tyrants trembled at his name;
Tho' bright in arms, while hosts around him bleed,
With martial pride he press'd his foaming steed.
No pomps like these my humble vows require:
Hask, in thy embraces to expire:
Thee may my closing eyes in death behold!
Thee may my faultering hand yet strive to hold!
Then, Delia, then thy heart will melt in woe,
Then o'er my breathless clay thy tears will flow;
Thy tears will flow, for gentle is thy mind,
Nor dost thou think it weakness to be kind.
With thee each youth and tender maid shall join
In grief, and mix their friendly sighs with thine:
But ah! my Delia, I conjure thee spare
Thy heaving breasts and loose dishevell'd hair:
Wound not thy form; lest on the Elysian coast
Thy anguish should disturb my peaceful ghost.
Detests the gilded couch's useless pride,
Nor knows his weary, weeping eyes to close,
Tho' murmuring rills invite him to repose.
Hard were his heart, who thee, my fair, could leave
For all the honours prosperous War can give;
Tho' thro' the vanquish'd East he spread his fame,
And Parthian tyrants trembled at his name;
Tho' bright in arms, while hosts around him bleed,
With martial pride he press'd his foaming steed.
No pomps like these my humble vows require:
Hask, in thy embraces to expire:
57
Thee may my faultering hand yet strive to hold!
Then, Delia, then thy heart will melt in woe,
Then o'er my breathless clay thy tears will flow;
Thy tears will flow, for gentle is thy mind,
Nor dost thou think it weakness to be kind.
With thee each youth and tender maid shall join
In grief, and mix their friendly sighs with thine:
But ah! my Delia, I conjure thee spare
Thy heaving breasts and loose dishevell'd hair:
Wound not thy form; lest on the Elysian coast
Thy anguish should disturb my peaceful ghost.
But now nor death, nor parting should employ
Our sprightly thoughts, or damp our bridal joy:
We'll live, my Delia, and from life remove
All care, all bus'ness, but delightful love.
Old age in vain those pleasures would retrieve,
Which youth alone can taste, alone can give;
Then let us snatch the moment to be blest,
This hour is love's—Be fortune's all the rest.
Our sprightly thoughts, or damp our bridal joy:
We'll live, my Delia, and from life remove
All care, all bus'ness, but delightful love.
Old age in vain those pleasures would retrieve,
Which youth alone can taste, alone can give;
Then let us snatch the moment to be blest,
This hour is love's—Be fortune's all the rest.
58
SONG.
[Say, Myra, why is gentle love]
Written in the Year 1732.
I
Say, Myra, why is gentle loveA stranger to that mind,
Which pity and esteem can move;
Which can be just and kind?
II
Is it because you fear to shareThe ills that love molest:
The jealous doubt, the tender care,
That rack the amorous breast?
III
Alas! by some degree of woeWe every bliss must gain:
The heart can ne'er a transport know,
That never feels a pain.
59
Writ at Mr. Pope's House at Twickenham, which he had lent to MRS. G*****LLE.
In August 1735.
I
Go, Thames, and tell the busy town,Not all its wealth or pride
Could tempt me from the charms that crown
Thy rural flowery side:
II
Thy flowery side, where Pope has plac'dThe Muses green retreat,
With every smile of nature grac'd,
With every art compleat.
III
But now, sweet bard, thy heavenly songEnchants us here no more;
Their darling glory lost too long
Thy once lov'd shades deplore.
IV
Yet still for beauteous G---ll's sake,The Muses here remain;
G---lle, whose eyes have power to make
A Pope of every swain.
60
EPIGRAM.
[None without hope e'er lov'd the brightest fair]
None without hope e'er lov'd the brightest fair,But love can hope where reason would despair.
TO MR. WEST, At Wickham.
Written in the Year 1740.
Fair nature's sweet simplicity
With elegance refin'd,
Well in thy seat, my friend, I see,
But better in thy mind.
To both from courts and all their state
Eager I fly, to prove
Joys far above a courtier's fate,
Tranquillity and love.
61
TO MISS LUCY F*****.
Once by the Muse alone inspir'd,
I sung my amorous strains:
No serious love my bosom fir'd,
Yet every tender maid deceiv'd
The idly-mournful tale believ'd,
And wept my fancied pains.
I sung my amorous strains:
No serious love my bosom fir'd,
Yet every tender maid deceiv'd
The idly-mournful tale believ'd,
And wept my fancied pains.
But Venus now to punish me,
For having feign'd so well,
Has made my heart so fond of thee,
That not the whole Aönian quire
Can accents soft enough inspire,
Its real flame to tell.
For having feign'd so well,
Has made my heart so fond of thee,
That not the whole Aönian quire
Can accents soft enough inspire,
Its real flame to tell.
TO THE SAME, WITH HAMMOND'S ELEGIES.
All that of love can be exprestIn these soft numbers see;
But, Lucy, would you know the rest,
It must be read in me.
TO THE SAME.
[To him who in an hour must die]
To him who in an hour must die,
Not swifter seems that hour to fly,
Than slow the minutes seem to me,
Which keep me from the sight of thee.
Not swifter seems that hour to fly,
Than slow the minutes seem to me,
Which keep me from the sight of thee.
Not more that trembling wretch would give
Another day or year to live;
Than I to shorten what remains
Of that long hour which thee detains.
Another day or year to live;
Than I to shorten what remains
Of that long hour which thee detains.
Oh! come to my impatient arms,
Oh! come with all thy heavenly charms,
At once to justify and pay
The pain I feel from this delay.
Oh! come with all thy heavenly charms,
At once to justify and pay
The pain I feel from this delay.
63
TO THE SAME.
[To ease my troubled mind of anxious care]
I
To ease my troubled mind of anxious care,Last night the secret casket I explor'd;
Where all the letters of my absent fair,
(His richest treasure) careful love had stor'd:
II
In every word a magic spell I foundOf power to charm each busy thought to rest,
Tho' every word increas'd the tender wound
Of fond desire still throbbing in my breast.
III
So to his hoarded gold the miser steals,And loses every sorrow at the sight;
Yet wishes still for more, nor ever feels
Entire contentment, or secure delight.
IV
Ah! should I lose thee, my too lovely maid,Couldst thou forget thy heart was ever mine;
Fear not thy letters should the change upbraid:
My hand each dear memorial shall resign:
V
Not one kind word shall in my power remainA painful witness of reproach to thee;
And lest my heart should still their sense retain,
My heart should break, to leave thee wholly free.
64
A PRAYER TO VENUS IN HER TEMPLE AT STOWE.
TO THE SAME.
I
Fair Venus, whose delightful shrine surveysIts front reflected in the silver lake,
These humble offerings, which thy servant pays,
Fresh flowers, and myrtle wreaths, propitious take.
II
If less my love exceeds all other love,Than Lucy's charms all other charms excel,
Far from my breast each soothing hope remove,
And there let sad despair for ever dwell.
III
But if my soul is fill'd with her alone,No other wish, nor other object knows,
Oh! make her, Goddess, make her all my own,
And give my trembling heart secure repose.
IV
No watchful spies I ask to guard her charms,No walls of brass, no steel-defended door;
Place her but once within my circling arms,
Love's surest Fort, and I will doubt no more.
65
TO THE SAME. On her pleading Want of Time.
I
On Thames's bank, a gentle youthFor Lucy sigh'd with matchless truth,
Even when he sigh'd in rhime;
The lovely maid his flame return'd,
And would with equal warmth have burn'd,
But that she had not time.
II
Oft he repair'd with eager feetIn secret shades his fair to meet
Beneath the accustom'd lime;
She would have fondly met him there,
And heal'd with love each tender care,
But that she had not time.
III
“It was not thus, inconstant maid,“You acted once (the shepherd said)
“When love was in its prime:”
She griev'd to hear him thus complain,
And would have writ to ease his pain,
But that she had not time.
66
IV
How can you act so cold a part?No crime of mine has chang'd your heart,
If love be not a crime.—
We soon must part for months, for years—
She would have answer'd with her tears,
But that she had not time.
67
TO THE SAME.
[Your shape, your lips, your eyes are still the same]
Your shape, your lips, your eyes are still the same,Still the bright object of my constant flame;
But where is now the tender glance, that stole
With gentle sweetness my enchanted soul?
Kind fears, impatient wishes, soft desires,
Each melting charm that love alone inspires,
These, these are lost; and I behold no more
The maid, my heart delighted to adore.
Yet still unchang'd, still doating to excess,
I ought, but dare not, try to love you less;
Weakly I grieve, unpity'd I complain;
But not unpunish'd shall your change remain;
For you, cold maid, whom no complaints can move,
Were far more blest, when you like me could love.
68
TO THE SAME.
[When I think on your truth I doubt you no more]
I
When I think on your truth I doubt you no more,I blame all the fears I gave way to before,
I say to my heart, “Be at rest, and believe
“That whom once she has chosen she never will leave.”
II
But ah! when I think on each ravishing graceThat plays in the smiles of that heavenly face,
My heart beats again; I again apprehend
Some fortunate rival in every friend.
III
These painful suspicions you cannot remove,Since you neither can lessen your charms nor my love;
But doubts caus'd by passion you never can blame;
For they are not ill-founded, or you feel the same.
69
TO THE SAME WITH A NEW WATCH.
With me, while present, may thy lovely eyes
Be never turn'd upon this golden toy:
Think every pleasing hour too swiftly flies,
And measure time, by joy succeeding joy.
Be never turn'd upon this golden toy:
Think every pleasing hour too swiftly flies,
And measure time, by joy succeeding joy.
But when the cares that interrupt our bliss.
To me not always will thy fight allow,
Then oft with kind impatience look on this,
Then every minute count—as I do now.
To me not always will thy fight allow,
Then oft with kind impatience look on this,
Then every minute count—as I do now.
70
AN IRREGULAR ODE
Writ at Wickham in 1746.
TO THE SAME.
I.
Ye sylvan scenes with artless beauty gay,Ye gentle shades of Wickham say,
What is the charm that each successive year,
Which sees me with my Lucy here,
Can thus to my transported heart,
A sense of joy unfelt before impart?
II.
Is it glad Summer's balmy breath that blowsFrom the fair jessamine, and the blushing rose?
Her balmy breath, and all her blooming store
Of rural bliss was here before:
Oft have I met her on the verdant side
Of Norwood-hill, and in the yellow meads,
Where Pan the dancing Graces leads,
Array'd in all her flowery pride.
No sweeter fragrance now the gardens yield,
No brighter colours paint the enamell'd field.
71
III.
Is it to Love these new delights I owe?Four times has the revolving sun
His annual circle thro' the zodiac run;
Since all that love's indulgent power
On favour'd mortals can bestow,
Was given to me in this auspicious bower.
IV.
Here first my Lucy, sweet in virgin charmsWas yielded to my longing arms;
And round our nuptial bed,
Hovering with purple wings, the Idalian boy
Shook from his radiant torch the blissful fires
Of innocent desires,
While Venus scatter'd myrtles o'er her head.
Whence then this strange increase of joy?
He, only he can tell, who match'd like me,
If such another happy man there be)
Has by his own experience tried
How much the wife, is dearer than the bride.
72
TO THE MEMORY OF THE SAME LADY.
A MONODY. A.D. 1747.
Ipse cavâ solans aegrum testudine amorem,
Te dulcis conjux, te solo in littore secum,
Te veniente die, te decedente canebat.
Te dulcis conjux, te solo in littore secum,
Te veniente die, te decedente canebat.
I.
At length escap'd from every human eye,From every duty, every care,
That in my mournful thoughts might claim a share,
Or force my tears their flowing stream to dry.
Beneath the gloom of this embowering shade,
This lone retreat, for tender sorrow made,
I now may give my burden'd heart relief,
And pour forth all my stores of grief,
Of grief surpassing every other woe,
Far as the purest bliss, the happiest love
Can on the ennobled mind bestow,
Exceeds the vulgar joys that move
Our gross desires, inelegant, and low.
73
II.
Ye tufted groves, ye gently falling rills,Ye high o'ershadowing hills,
Ye lawns gay-smiling with eternal green,
Oft have you my Lucy seen!
But never shall you now behold her more:
Nor will she now with fond delight
And taste refin'd your rural charms explore.
Clos'd are those beauteous eyes in endless night,
Those beauteous eyes where beaming us'd to shine
Reason's pure light, and Virtue's spark divine.
III.
Oft would the Dryads of these woods rejoiceTo hear her heavenly voice,
For her despising, when she deign'd to sing,
The sweetest songsters of the spring:
The woodlark and the linnet pleas'd no more;
The nightingale was mute,
And every shepherd's flute
Was cast in silent scorn away,
While all attended to her sweeter lay.
Ye larks and linnets now resume your song,
And thou, melodious Philomel,
Again thy plaintive story tell,
For death has stopt that tuneful tongue,
Whose music could alone your warbling notes excell.
IV.
In vain I look aroundO'er all the well-known ground
74
Where oft we us'd to walk,
Where oft in tender talk
We saw the summer sun go down the sky;
Nor by yon fountain's side,
Nor where its waters glide
Along the valley, can she now be found:
In all the wide-stretch'd prospect's ample bound
No more my mournful eye
Can aught of her espy,
But the sad sacred earth where her dear relics lie.
V.
O shades of H---y, where is now your boast?Your bright inhabitant is lost.
You she preferr'd to all the gay resorts
Where female vanity might wish to shine,
The pomp of cities, and the pride of courts.
Her modest beauties shunn'd the public eye:
To your sequester'd dales
And flower-embroider'd vales
From an admiring world she chose to fly;
With nature there retir'd, and nature's God,
The silent paths of wisdom trod,
And banish'd every passion from her breast,
But those, the gentlest, and the best,
Whose holy flames with energy divine
The virtuous heart enliven and improve,
The conjugal, and the maternal love.
75
VI.
Sweet babes, who, like the little playful fawns,Were wont to trip along these verdant lawns
By your delighted mother's side,
Who now your infant steps shall guide?
Ah! where is now the hand whose tender care
To every virtue would have form'd your youth,
And strew'd with flowers the thorny ways of truth?
O loss beyond repair!
O wretched father, left alone
To weep their dire misfortune, and thy own!
How shall thy weaken'd mind, oppress'd with woe,
And drooping o'er thy Lucy's grave,
Perform the duties that you doubly owe,
Now she, alas! is gone,
From folly and from vice, their helpless age to save?
VII.
Where were ye, Muses, when relentless FateFrom these fond arms our fair disciple tore,
From these fond arms that vainly strove
With hapless ineffectual love
To guard her bosom from the mortal blow?
Could not your favouring power, Aonian maids,
Could not, alas! your power prolong her date,
For whom so oft in these inspiring shades,
Or under Campden's moss-clad mountains hoar,
You open'd all your sacred store,
Whate'er your ancient sages taught,
Your ancient bards sublimely thought,
And bade her raptur'd breast with all your spirit glow?
76
VIII.
Nor then did Pindus, or Castalia's plain,Or Aganippe's fount your steps detain,
Nor in the Thespian valleys did you play;
Nor then on Mincio's bank
Beset with osiers dank,
Nor where Clitumnus rolls his gentle stream,
Nor where through hanging woods
Steep Anio pours his floods,
Nor yet where Meles, or Ilissus stray.
Ill does it now beseem,
That of your guardian care bereft,
To dire disease and death your darling should be left.
IX.
Now what avails it that in early bloom,When light fantastic toys,
Are all her sex's joys,
With you she search'd the wit of Greece and Rome?
77
To emulate her ancient praise
Italia's happy genius could produce;
Or what the Gallic fire
Bright sparkling could inspire,
By all the Graces temper'd and refin'd;
Or what in Britain's Isle,
Most favour'd with your smile,
The powers of reason and of fancy join'd
To full perfection have conspir'd to raise?
Ah! what is now the use
Of all these treasures that enrich'd her mind,
To blank oblivion's gloom for ever now consign'd?
X.
At least, ye Nine, her spotless name'Tis yours from death to save,
And in the temple of immortal fame
With golden characters her worth engrave.
Come then, ye virgin sisters, come,
And strew with choicest flowers her hallow'd tomb.
But foremost thou, in sable vest ment clad,
With accents sweet and sad,
Thou, plaintive Muse, whom o'er his Laura's urn
Unhappy Petrarch call'd to mourn,
O come, and to this fairer Laura pay
A more impassion'd tear, a more pathetic lay.
XI.
Tell how each beauty of her mind and faceWas brighten'd by some sweet, peculiar grace!
78
Thro' her expressive eyes her soul distinctly spoke!
Tell her how manners by the world resin'd
Left all the taint of modish vice behind,
And made each charm of polish'd courts agree
With candid Truth's simplicity,
And uncorrupted Innocence!
Tell how to more than manly sense
She join'd the softening influence
Of more than female tenderness:
How in the thoughtless days of wealth and joy,
Which oft the care of others good destroy,
Her kindly melting heart,
To every want, and every woe,
To guilt itself when in distress,
The balm of pity would impart,
And all relief that bounty could bestow!
Even for the kid or lamb that pour'd its life
Beneath the bloody knife,
Her gentle tears would fall,
Tears from sweet Virtue's source, benevolent to all.
XII.
Not only good, and kind,But strong and elevated was her mind:
A spirit that with noble pride
Could look superior down
On Fortune's smile, or frown;
That could without regret or pain
To Virtue's lowest duty sacrifice
Or interest, or ambition's highest prize;
79
Its dignity by vengeance to maintain,
But by magnanimous disdain.
A wit, that temperately bright,
With inoffensive light
All pleasing shone, nor ever past
The decent bounds that Wisdom's sober hand,
And sweet Benevolence's mild command,
And bashful Modesty, before it cast.
A prudence undeceiving, undeceiv'd,
That nor too little, nor too much believ'd,
That scorn'd unjust Suspicion's coward fear,
And without weakness knew to be sincere.
Such Lucy was, when in her fairest days,
Amidst the acclaim of universal praise,
In life's and glory's freshest bloom
Death came remorseless on, and sunk her to the tomb.
XIII.
So where the silent streams of Liris glide,In the soft bosom of Campania's vale,
When now the wintery tempests all are fled,
And genial summer breathes her gentle gale,
The verdant orange lifts its beauteous head:
From every branch the balmy flowerets rise,
On every bough the golden fruits are seen;
With odours sweet it fills the smiling skies,
The wood-nymphs tend it, and the Idalian queen:
But in the midst of all its blooming pride
A sudden blast from Apenninus blows
Cold with perpetual snows:
80
XIV.
Arise, O Petrarch, from the Elysian bowers,With never-fading myrtles twin'd,
And fragrant with ambrosial flowers,
Where to thy Laura thou again art join'd;
Arise, and hither bring the silver lyre,
Tun'd by thy skilful hand,
To the soft notes of elegant desire,
With which o'er many a land
Was spread the same of thy disastrous love;
To me resign the vocal shell,
And teach my sorrows to relate
Their melancholy tale so well,
As may even things inanimate,
Rough mountain oaks, and desart rocks, to pity move.
XV.
What were, alas! thy woes compar'd to mine?To thee thy mistress in the blissful band
Of Hymen never gave her hand;
The joys of wedded love were never thine.
In thy domestic care
She never bore a share,
Nor with endearing art
Would heal thy wounded heart
Of every secret grief that fester'd there:
Nor did her fond affection on the bed
Of sickness watch thee, and thy languid head
81
And charm away the sense of pain:
Nor did she crown your mutual flame
With pledges dear, and with a father's tender name.
XVI.
O best of wives! O dearer far to meThan when thy virgin charms
Were yielded to my arms,
How can my soul endure the loss of thee?
How in the world, to me a desart grown,
Abandon'd, and alone,
Without my sweet companion can I live?
Without thy lovely smile,
The dear reward of every virtuous toil,
What pleasures now can pall'd ambition give?
Even the delightful sense of well-earn'd praise,
Unshar'd by thee, no more my lifeless thoughts could raise.
XVII.
For my distracted mindWhat succour can I find?
On whom for consolation shall I call?
Support me, every friend,
Your kind assistance lend
To bear the weight of this oppressive woe.
Alas! each friend of mine,
My dear departed love, so much was thine,
That none has any comfort to bestow.
My books, the best relief
In every other grief,
82
Each favourite author we together read
My tortur'd memory wounds, and speaks of Lucy dead.
XVIII.
We were the happiest pair of human kind!The rolling year its varying course perform'd,
And back return'd again,
Another and another smiling came,
And saw our happiness unchang'd remain;
Still in her golden chain
Harmonious Concord did our wishes bind:
Our studies, pleasures, tastes the same.
O fatal, fatal stroke,
That all this pleasing fabric Love had rais'd
Of rare felicity,
On which even wanton Vice with envy gaz'd,
And every scheme of bliss our hearts had form'd,
With soothing hope, for many a future day,
In one fad moment broke!
Yet, O my soul, thy rising murmurs stay,
Nor dare the all-wise Disposer to arraign,
Or against his supreme decree
With impious grief complain.
That all thy full-blown joys at once should fade
Was his most righteous will, and be that will obey'd.
XIX.
Would thy fond love his grace to her controul,And in these low abodes of sin and pain
Her pure, exalted soul
83
No—rather strive thy grovelling mind to raise
Up to that unclouded blaze,
That heavenly radiance of eternal light,
In which enthron'd she now with pity sees
How frail, how insecure, how slight
Is every mortal bliss;
Even love itself, if rising by degrees
Beyond the bounds of this imperfect state,
Whose fleeting joys so soon must end,
It does not to its sovereign Good ascend.
Rise then, my soul, with hope elate,
And seek those regions of serene delight,
Whose peaceful path and ever-open gate
No feet but those of harden'd Guilt shall miss.
There death himself thy Lucy shall restore,
There yield up all his power e'er to divide you more.
The Meles is a river of Ionia, from whence Homer, supposed to be born on its banks, is called Melisigenes.
84
VERSES, MAKING PART OF AN EPITAPH ON THE SAME LADY.
Made to engage all hearts, and charm all eyes;Tho' meek, magnanimous; tho' witty, wise;
Polite, as all her life in courts had been;
Yet good, as she the world had never seen;
The noble fire of an exalted mind,
With gentle female tenderness combin'd.
Her Speech was the melodious voice of Love,
Her Song the warbling of the vernal grove;
Her Eloquence was sweeter than her song,
Soft as her heart, and as her Reason strong;
Her Form each beauty of her mind express'd,
Her mind was Virtue by the Graces dress'd.
THE END.
| Poems by the Right Honourable the late Lord Lyttleton | |