Poems on Several Occasions :: :: University of Virginia Library

Ah! where is hid the sylvan Scene,
The leafy Shade, the vernal Green?
In Flora's Meads the Sweets that grew,
Colours which Nature's Pencil drew,
Chaplets, the Bust of Pope might wear,
Worthy to bloom around Ianthe's Hair?

Gay-mantled Spring away is flown,
The silver-tressed Summer's gone,
And golden Autumn; nought remains
But Winter with his iron Chains,

The feather-footed Hours that fly
Say, “Human Life thus passes by.”
What shall the Wise, the Prudent? they
Will seize the Bounty of To-day,
And prostrate to the Gods their grateful Homage pay.

The Man, whom Isis' Stream inspires,
Whom Pallas owns, and Phœbus fires,
Whom Suada, smiling Goddess, deigns
To guide in sweet Hyblæan Plains,
He Winter's Storms, undaunted still, sustains.

Black lowring Skies ne'er hurt the Breast
By white-rob'd Innocence possest.
Roar as ye List, ye Winds,—begin,—
Virtue proclaims fair Peace within:
Ethereal Pow'r! 'tis you that bring
The balmy Zephyrs, and restore the Spring.

Should Dangers e'er my Friend assail,
Virtue flings round her Coat of Mail;
Kindly protects Thee from all Harms,
Drest in her native spotless Charms.
Thy Mind at ease no Tumult knows,
With all his Rage tho' black November blows.

Dark stormy Months I too defy,
November blows, and what care I:
Tun'd to new Joys my Hours are on the Wing,
I blend the Dance or with the Muses sing:
While Bacchus' Blessings varied Pleasures bring.

With Horace now dispos'd to laugh,
Worthy the Lips of Jove I quaff
Rich Venusine: now lose my Soul
In Ovid's sweet nectareal Bowl.

If you, Calliope, should deign
Aloud to sound a martial Strain,
Your Vot'ry streight in Rapture hears
The noble Music of the Spheres:
Mounted on Wings, see! see! I fly
With Mantua's Swan, and range the boundless Sky.

With eager Joy I oft repair
To the gay crouded Theatre,

Where shines the Man who treads our Stage,
Garrick! the Roscius of the Age!
His Voice, Mien, Manner, Look, a Life imparts;
'Tis He who captivates our Eyes,—our Hearts.

Vanbrugh,—your leave,—what's lewdly writ
I hate,—I hate th' Immoral Wit.
Immortal Shakespear I admire,
And kindle at his sacred Fire:
O! what a Glory breathes his Page,
He lives?—He lives thro' ev'ry Age
Father of Tragedy, He reigns
Sole Monarch o'er Theatric Plains.

Hence with the Sock:—the Queen commands:—
Grac'd with the golden Buskin stands:
The Stage in Majesty improves,
Trembling beneath her, awful as she moves.

What Thunder bursts!—it shakes the Heart—
Thunder beyond the Reach of Art!

The claps!—I heard 'em,—how they roll!
The lovely Terror fills my Soul:
Who talks of Fiends!—of gaping Graves!—
Othello!—'tis Othello raves!

What Tenderness!—what fierce Disdain
Whirls, boils, and foams thro' ev'ry Vein!
He swears!—invokes Hell, Earth, Air, Skies!
See where the glorious Madman flies!
He groans,—he trembles,—falls,—the Hero dies!

Shakespear, excessive Joys like these
(I almost said) are Cruelties:
Whirlwinds of Pleasure tear the panting Breast,
And the Mind akes, too exquisitely blest.

Chang'd is the Scene:—methinks I rove
In some enchanted Cypress-Grove,
Soft Otway calls!—who can refuse
The plaintive Voice of Otway's Muse?

We'll go, my fair Ianthe, we will go,
Tho' your fond love-inspiring Eyes o'erflow
Like bubbling Springs, more beautiful in Woe.

Sweet is the Sympathy of Woe;
Have I not seen (nay felt 'em too)
Down-stealing Tears, big, silent, slow,
Speak a soft Language as they flow,
Daughters of tender Grief, express
Charming Monimia's deep Distress!

What murmurs of the anxious Fair!
What Sighs around perfume the Air!
Otway, you paint what Nature is,
Beyond, the Bard of Salamis;
Your Muse can with our Passions play,
And steal us from ourselves away.

Let others prize, what Men bestow,
The lofty Name, the laurel'd Brow:

More charming, sure, thy Triumphs are
(Who would not wish to win the Fair!)
To raise at Pleasure Hopes, or Fears,
To soften Virgins into Tears.
Poet, I envy thee, who thus
Canst conquer Them, who conquer Us.