The Life and Poetical Works of James Woodhouse :: :: University of Virginia Library

Let happy Poets strike the string,
And chaunt the matchless charms of Spring;
The Spring, to me, displays no charms—
It calls me from my Hannah's arms!
'Tis thou mak'st Nature still appear
Array'd with charms throughout the Year.
Mak'st all her beauties blissful shine,
Her looks, her laughs, her lays, divine.

Can Miser's eye, with bliss, behold
Memento'd marks like grasps of gold—
Prompt payment spurn, and feel more fond
Of ledger's leaf, or bankrupt's bond?

The Sun may smile with genial pow'r—
May range the east at earlier hour—
In lustrous light go later down—
Smile sixteen hours without a frown—
I feel no warmth! No charms behold!
Thro' hazey eye, and bosom cold!
I greet him more, in murkey state,
When down at four, not up at eight.
His frowning face, and haggard eye,
Give no disgust when thou art by;
Nor can his smile, or colour, clear,
Infuse delight when Thou'rt not near!

I like not April's warm caress,
Lascivious leer, and wanton dress—
I loathe the Harlot laugh of May,
That lures from wedded love away!
I hate the jilting tricks of June,
Circean wreath, and Syren tune—
The garb unclasp'd, and glowing kiss,
That prompt me far from purer bliss!
To me bright Summer brings a curse,
While Winter forms the full reverse;
Keen Boreas blows the blandest breeze,
Sharp frosts can melt, and sunshine freeze;
For suns dissolve each dear delight,
While knitting frosts our joys unite.

Tho' Zephyr flies with fairy plumes,
To wake and waft Spring's rich perfumes;
Each Leaf, and flow'r, with kisses greets,
And lends, and borrows, all their sweets—
Would fain with all those treasures flee,
And offer up the spoils to Thee—
Would gladly fan thy fragrant breast,
And with soft airs thy limbs invest—
With woodland foliage fondly play,
To fence thy face from yellowing ray—
But can I love those fragrant gales,
While Absence all my soul assails;
Or whispering winds affection win,
While storms and tempests rage within?

Delighted most I scan the sky,
When Autumn's sable banners fly;
While rushing rains, and bellowing wind,

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Proclaim the brumal host behind.
I, raptur'd, hear the whirlwinds blow—
Transported see the first-born snow—
With joy behold the walls emboss'd,
And windows glaz'd with figur'd frost,
While every eave's with lustres hung,
Like cones inverted, large and long.
I view the snows but feel no cold
While thy fair arms and breasts infold;
And storms and frosts are doubly dear,
Which waft me in and shut me there.

Did ever Sailor love the breeze
That push'd him off to hostile seas;
His heart of all Earth's bliss bereft,
In every Friend, and Lover, left?
Would rather furious billows brave,
And gladly go where whirlwinds rave;
All drudgery—danger—death deride,
To gain Love's grasp at Friendship's side—
On Cyprian sands, tho' naked, cast,
He'd kiss the coast, and bless the blast;
Nor wish, for wealth, again to roam,
But live with Toil and Love at home!

The heart, at ease, may feel a joy
When jocund Spring approaches nigh—
The eye, with fascination, see
The sprouting plant and teeming tree—
Enchanted, note in glebe or bow'r,
The rising blade, or budding flow'r—
May mark the garden's gay attire;
May all its early sweets inspire,
And feast to surfeit on each scent,
Amid the smiles of calm content:
My Mind recedes, and makes each Sense
Conceive dislike, and frame offence—
All—all—remorse and misery bring,
They speak of absence while they spring!

Can School-boy e'er with raptures roam,
Who leaves each fondling Friend at home?
Submit to captious Churl's controul,
His feeling Frame, and simple soul—
To stand each stripe, confront each frown,
No Friend at hand his woes to drown,
And pour Love's balms in every sore,
While soothing sounds his pains deplore—
To still the sob, and stop the sigh,
And wipe the tears from either eye—
Meet Master's taunts, and Joulter's jibes
For vagrants' scraps and beggars' bribes—
In school-roam cag'd, hear warblers blythe,
But feels his frame with misery writhe—
See squirrel skip from spray to spray,
But he himself confin'd all day—
May trace parterres, at stated hours,
To see, and scent, but touch no flow'rs;
Eye walks, and walls, with fruitage full;
And look—and long—but dares not pull.

If any fruit my fancy warm,
The bramble-berry boasts that charm;
A two-fold charm! 'Tis Freedom's pledge,
It hangs, at large, on every hedge;
To Boors, as well, as Barons, free,
And, speaking Autumn, points to Thee!
If I, with bliss, one bloom behold,
'Tis furze-bush sprigg'd with spangled gold;
Or backward bush of blooming heath,
Prank'd thick with purple bells beneath,
Ordain'd to soothe the visual sense,
And, gather'd, give not Foes offence—
For tho' they yield no savoury smell,
Of better times their blossoms tell;
They tell, O Autumn, ever dear!
Thy happier hours of Love are near;
Whose beams ambrosial fruits afford,
Which seldom bless a Sovereign's board,
Supplying Heav'n's most rich desert,
Of fruitage fair, no health can hurt,
But help to strengthen, and supply,
The mental pow'rs with peace and joy.

I love beside those blooms to stop,
And prophesy that future crop,
When spiders spread their deep decoys
To net the numb'd October flies—
To mark their meshes, tense, and strong,
With dew-drops glittering all day long;
Contriv'd, with skill, in every part,
By geometric rules of art;

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And all my Soul with wonder glows,
While noting instincts Heav'n bestows!

Entranc'd, I feel enchantment all,
Beholding frost-nipp'd foliage fall;
Continual shook from shivering trees,
The sport of every passing breeze—
Descending round in rustling show'rs,
To shrowd the grass, or tomb the flow'rs:
Or floating wide on watery biers,
Bemoan'd in woods, with constant tears.
Some, rouz'd, awhile, to wandering life,
In speed contend, with friendly strife—
On breezes' pinions gently play,
Or wing'd by storms whirl wild away—
Then instant stop; then, sudden, start,
As loth from light and life to part;
Again Earth's chilly breast embrace,
Then, quick, repeat the rapid race—
In antic dance, or sportive bound,
Frisk, skip, and prance in morrice round;
Till, as vain Man, depriv'd of breath,
Reposes in the lap of Death,
Their beauties gone, their strength decay'd,
Their gambols, and their pranks, all play'd,
They sink to rest in every shade.

When all the wintry storms were hush'd,
And woods and fields with beauty flush'd,
I, sorrowing, smelt each pure perfume,
And grudg'd, and griev'd, o'er blushing bloom—
Now, snuff, delighted, sordid smells,
In musty woods, or muddy dells;
From putrid plant, or faded flow'r,
In garden ground, or blasted bow'r.
Tho' thy rude rain, and frost, and storm,
Frail Summer's laughing face deform,
Thy rugged cheeks, and rheumy eyes,
Rejoice my heart with higher joys—
Thy russet cloak's a comelier sight,
Than her green gown embroider'd bright;
And lovelier far, than vernal flow'rs,
Thy mushrooms shooting after show'rs;
That fear no more the fatal scythe,
But proudly spread their bonnets blythe,
With coverings form'd of silk and snow,
And lin'd with brightening pink below.
Like banners, bless'd, they speak of peace,
And tell me trouble soon shall cease;
Still auguring, glad, with aspect bland,
Love's rapturing vintage just at hand:
But more the later fungus race,
Begot by Phebus' warm embrace,
In Summer's months, on procreant Earth,
By damp September brought to birth;
That, just like Jove, produce their seed,
From teeming brain, for future breed:
Their forms and hues some solace yield,
In wood, or wild, or humid field;
Whose tapering stems, robust, or light,
Like columns catch the searching sight,
To claim remark where e'er I roam;
Supporting each a shapely dome;
Like fair umbrellas, furl'd, or spread,
Display their many-colour'd head;
Grey, purple, yellow, white, or brown,
Shap'd like War's shield, or Prelate's crown—
Like Freedom's cap, or Friar's cowl,
Or China's bright inverted bowl—
And while their broadening disks unfold
Gay silvery gills, or nets of gold,
Beneath their shady, curtain'd cove,
Perform all offices of love.
In beauty, chief, the eye to chain,
'Mong whispering pines, on arid plain,
A glittering group, assembled, stands,
Like Elfs or Fays embattled bands—
Where every arm appears to wield,
With pigmy strength, a giant shield;
All deeply dyed in sanguine gore,
With brazen bosses studded o'er;
While magic Fancy's ear confounds
The whistling winds with hostile sounds—
But to a Lover's ear, like mine,
They kindly speak the Year's decline;
Yet warm Imagination's wont,
To trace on every figur'd front,
Inscrib'd in hieroglyphics, clear,
Thy joyful Jubilee draws near.

O Autumn, Matron most sublime!
Now reigning round each arctic clime;

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Enthron'd as Nature's northern Queen,
With solemn air, and sober mien;
Enwrapping woodland, hill, and plain,
In chastest robes of russet stain—
Not with vain vesture, wide unfurl'd,
Flaunting and fluttering round the World;
Profusely scattering transient flow'rs,
O'er fields and meads, and woods, and bow'rs;
For sight and smell frail, transient, feasts,
Soon pluck'd by Man, or spoil'd by Beasts;
If spar'd scarce boast a moment's prime,
Ere stain'd, or smitten down by Time—
So soon they lose their loveliest charms,
And perish in their parents' arms.
Thou, from thy stores, with bounteous hand,
Pour'st plenteous fruits o'er all the Land;
To feast the Rich, and feed the Poor,
When flow'rs and verdure charm no more;
And oft thy motley mantle shines,
With beauties, more than Spring combines—
But whether Thou in brown be dress'd,
Or varied hues, my bosom's bless'd,
More, when my Hannah's beauty's join'd,
Than all in sprightly Spring I find,
Or Summer's suit most gay and green,
While Absence blights the blooming scene.
Tho' Thou appear with sallow look,
By blushing smiles, and songs, forsook,
Thy languid eye, thy tuneless voice,
Thy faded cheek is more my choice,
Than purest white, and richest red,
On Summer's clear complexion spread;
Than all blythe Spring's bewitching wiles,
Of melting tears, and amorous smiles;
Than fullest tone, and finest trill,
Her orchestra, triumphant, fill.
My heart abhors thy mingling lay,
Thou melancholy month of May!
Thy Cuckoo calls, detested strains!
With clarion curs'd, to pensive plains!
I hate the Lark's enamour'd note,
As o'er these plains her pinions float;
Ev'n Philomela's warblings, here,
Excite the sign, extort the tear—
For every summon, every song,
That courts a mate, convenes a throng,
Recals my ruminating mind
To plighted pleasures left behind!

Where valued treasures most abound
The hovering heart's in fetters found,
Enraptur'd with its present prize,
Or beating strong for future joys—
While mutual Love will most asswage,
The pains of Earth's poor pilgrimage,
And, next to Heav'n, my Hannah's breast,
Gives present pleasure's highest zest.

Forc'd far away from Thine and Thee,
Mellifluent lays amuse not Me,
The choral songs of sylvan Choirs
But vex my Soul with vain desires;
They boast a flame, or faithful bride,
Bright hopes at hand, or joys enjoy'd,
While I lament a Consort left,
Dull hopes delay'd, or bliss bereft.

My mawkish ear draws more delight
From Screech-owl, screaming thro' the night;
Wood pigeons, prowling round for prey,
With Stock-doves, murmuring all the day,
While Ravens, Rooks, and Crows complain,
Of hungry Autumn's dreary reign;
Or Swallows, gather'd in a crowd,
With consultation chattering loud,
Thick-perch'd on leafless willow-sprays,
How, when, and where, to point their ways,
To find their food, or sleep in peace,
Till frost and wintry famine cease:
These make my heart with rapture swell:
Of Love's true holiday they tell!
But Thee, dear Minstrel! most I love,
Soft warbling thro' the wasted grove;
Thee, Red-breast blythe! I fondly hail,
Whose sweetest sonnets now prevail!
For, tho' thy rhythmus flow, forlorn,
From naked bush, both night and morn,
With twittering tones, in solo shrill,
O'er echoing wood, or whispering hill,
And oft, in solitary song,
Chaunts't o'er my chamber all day long;
Yet more I love thy lonely lyre

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Than fullest fugues of vernal Choir.
Thy measur'd madrigals, at eve,
My Mind's low murmuring oft relieve;
Oft put my pensive Muse to flight,
With sprightly lays at earliest light.

Thou, first of all the feathered bards!
Art highest in my heart's regards.
In childhood, mid amusements gay,
While other broods became a prey,
Whene'er I heard thy younglings cry,
I pass'd with superstition, by—
Thy milk-white eggs, with crimson stain'd,
Each sacrilegious wish restrain'd;
Or, if thy empty house I knew,
My hand, with sacred awe, withdrew.

Thus, early, I rever'd thy nest:
Thy portrait, now, become my crest,
Shall, on my 'scutcheon, keep its place,
Till Time my tuneful fame crase—
For thou, of all the feathered host,
Thy rustic bard resemblest most;
Like him thou pour'st thy purest strain
When much distress, and misery, reign—
When clouds obscure autumnal skies,
And dreary Earth a desart lies,
Foreboding miseries more austere,
Thy choisest lays the landscape chear;
While vernal choirs in silence mourn,
Till plenty with the Spring return,
And light, and love, their pow'rs awake,
In every vocal bow'r and brake.

Oh! what melodious music, now
He breathes from yonder barren bough!
His bill expands, his bosom swells,
While clearest cadence thrills the dells!
How sweet the sounds! how soft the slurs!
They soothe my Soul while Woe demurs!
My mournful musings now He breaks,
And, thus, the plumey prophet speaks.
“O Lyrist! lift thy pensive eyes—
Survey the Earth—survey the Skies—
Behold the Welkin's gloomy frown!
Hear Boreas' trumpet call to Town!
While pillag'd plain, and leafless tree,
Proclaim a Harvest-home to Thee!
No longer press thy piteous theme—
Nor nurse thy dreary morning-dream—
Heav'n soon from suffering will release,
And fill thy panting heart with peace—
Will waft Thee, where, in warmer zone,
The fondest Friendship rules alone—
Transport Thee back from frowning plains,
To where true Love extatic reigns!
Kind Heav'n still every pray'r attends,
From harmless Lovers—faithful Friends—
And still, in every age, and clime,
Fulfils, in properest place and time,
What Hope desires, and Faith endures,
While Absence bears like loads with yours—
In every pain, and every woe,
Still blesses pious Souls, below;
At Death, by Angels borne above,
Unites in everlasting Love!”

O blessed Bird! from neighbouring bow'r,
Still, morn, and eve, such preaching pour;
Still, with such prompt prophetic art,
Salute my ear, to ease my heart,
Till parent Heav'n's bless'd Providence,
In loving-kindness call me hence,
To taste that peace, that love, that joy,
Found, only, where my Hannah's by!
And let me, still, from day to day,
With Her, enjoy thy friendly lay,
Till Heav'n in mercy, love, and grace,
Transport us both to that bless'd place,
Where, Faith and Hope absorb'd in sight,
Love fills the Soul with full delight;
Delight, unmix'd with woe, or pain,
Where Lovers, met, ne'er part again!