The Poetical Works of Percival Stockdale In two volumes |
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ON MY GOING TO LIVE AT WINDSOR. |
 | The Poetical Works of Percival Stockdale |  |
306
ON MY GOING TO LIVE AT WINDSOR.
Hail, sacred Windsor! hallowed are thy shades
By poets, and their nine inspiring maids!
Though now I seek, in thee, my last repose,
From many generous toils, and many woes;
Yet let me, sometimes, urge my favourite course;
To Fancy give her scope, and splendid force;
With our great bards to hold a noble strife,
Be my ambition, on the verge of life:
For but a few remaining years have I;
“Just time to look about me, and to die.”
By poets, and their nine inspiring maids!
Though now I seek, in thee, my last repose,
From many generous toils, and many woes;
Yet let me, sometimes, urge my favourite course;
To Fancy give her scope, and splendid force;
With our great bards to hold a noble strife,
Be my ambition, on the verge of life:
For but a few remaining years have I;
“Just time to look about me, and to die.”
So sung harmonious Pope; and as he sung,
His Cooper's-Hill more fragrant odours flung:
His Thames's banks with heavenly musick rung.
Checked was the current of the silver stream,
While it's god listened to the tuneful theme.
His Cooper's-Hill more fragrant odours flung:
His Thames's banks with heavenly musick rung.
Checked was the current of the silver stream,
While it's god listened to the tuneful theme.
307
Binfield, and Twickenham, hail! at sober eve,
Oft Abelard, and Eloisa leave
Their aromatick amaranthine grove;
Their bliss elysian, through thy walks to rove:
There softly sighs that other hapless dame;
And soothes her passion where it sprung to fame:
Aërial harps repeat the plaintive sound;
And Love, and Genius consecrate the ground.
Oft Abelard, and Eloisa leave
Their aromatick amaranthine grove;
Their bliss elysian, through thy walks to rove:
There softly sighs that other hapless dame;
And soothes her passion where it sprung to fame:
Aërial harps repeat the plaintive sound;
And Love, and Genius consecrate the ground.
Binfield, thy name with varied rapture warms,
Blest in a poet; blest in female charms!
There Buckeridge reads what Pope divinely wrote;
Glows as she reads, and loses not a thought:
Her feeling soul the varied notes inspire
With Freedom's bold, or Love's more gentle fire.
Blest in a poet; blest in female charms!
There Buckeridge reads what Pope divinely wrote;
Glows as she reads, and loses not a thought:
Her feeling soul the varied notes inspire
With Freedom's bold, or Love's more gentle fire.
Perusing, thus, my mind's distinguished fate,
The little pomp of the factitious great;
Still with unconquered spirit let me view,
To independence, and the muses, true.
Oh! may these objects all my thoughts refine;
Impel my conduct, and inspire my line!
Ennoble, and enlarge my moral plan;
Make me the friend, but not the slave of man;
Teach me respect even for my king to feel,
Only as he promotes the public weal;
Proudly to spurn all homage to a lord;
Unless his title, and his deeds accord.
The little pomp of the factitious great;
Still with unconquered spirit let me view,
To independence, and the muses, true.
308
Impel my conduct, and inspire my line!
Ennoble, and enlarge my moral plan;
Make me the friend, but not the slave of man;
Teach me respect even for my king to feel,
Only as he promotes the public weal;
Proudly to spurn all homage to a lord;
Unless his title, and his deeds accord.
But let the poor; the friendless; the distressed;
Scorned by the rich; avoided by the rest;
Plead with decisive pathos, in my breast.
When lords of millions not a mite bestow,
Even I may mitigate a brother's woe.
May I, when languid in the negro's cause,
On English ground, in vain imploring laws!
Be torne by ruffians from my native shore,
Like him; and destined ne'er to view it more:
Possess, while eager to resign my breath,
But a mere coffin's room, before my death!
Scorned by the rich; avoided by the rest;
Plead with decisive pathos, in my breast.
When lords of millions not a mite bestow,
Even I may mitigate a brother's woe.
May I, when languid in the negro's cause,
On English ground, in vain imploring laws!
Be torne by ruffians from my native shore,
Like him; and destined ne'er to view it more:
Possess, while eager to resign my breath,
But a mere coffin's room, before my death!
Thus may the muse her noblest powers impart;
Instruct my mind, and purify my heart;
Tutored by her, without a painful sigh,
With the soul's setting sun-shine may I die;
Tread the dark path, with vivid hope in God,
Which Rome's Pompilius, and her Ancus trod!
Instruct my mind, and purify my heart;
309
With the soul's setting sun-shine may I die;
Tread the dark path, with vivid hope in God,
Which Rome's Pompilius, and her Ancus trod!
| The Poetical Works of Percival Stockdale | |