Poems (1810) :: :: University of Virginia Library

Whilst you, my lord, adorn that stately seat,
Where shining Beauty makes her soft retreat,
Enjoying all those graces, uncontrol'd,
Which noblest youths would die but to behold;
Whilst you inhabit Lowther's awful pile,
A structure worthy of the founder's toil;

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Amaz'd we see the former Lonsdale shine
In each descendant of his noble line:
But most transported and surpriz'd we view
His ancient glories all reviv'd in you,
Where charms and virtues join their equal grace,
Your father's godlike soul, your mother's lovely face.

Me Fortune and kind Heaven's indulgent care
To famous Oxford and the Muses bear,
Where, of all ranks, the blooming youths combine
To pay due homage to the mighty Nine,
And snatch, with smiling joy, the laurel crown,
Due to the learned honours of the gown.
Here I, the meanest of the tuneful throng,
Delude the time with an unhallow'd song,
Which thus my thanks to much-lov'd Oxford pays,
In no ungrateful, though unartful lays.

Where shall I first the beauteous scene disclose,
And all the gay variety expose?
For wheresoe'er I turn my wondering eyes,
Aspiring towers and verdant groves arise,
Immortal greens the smiling plains array,
And mazy rivers murmur all the way.

O! might your eyes behold each sparkling dome,
And freely o'er the beauteous prospect roam,
Less ravish'd your own Lowther you'd survey,
Though pomp and state the costly seat display,
Where Art so nicely has adorn'd the place,
That Nature's aid might seem an useless grace;
Yet Nature's smiles such various charms impart,
That vain and needless are the strokes of Art.
In equal state our rising structures shine,
Fram'd by such rules, and form'd by such design,
That here, at once surpriz'd and pleas'd, we view
Old Athens lost and conquer'd in the new;
More sweet our shades, more fit our bright abodes
For warbling Muses and inspiring Gods.

Great Vanbrook's self might own each artful draught
Equal to models in his curious thought,
Nor scorn a fabric by our plans to frame,
Or in immortal labours sing their fame;
Both ways he saves them from destroying Fate,
If he but praise them, or but imitate.

See, where the sacred Sheldon's haughty dome
Rivals the stately pomp of ancient Rome,
Whose form, so great and noble, seems design'd
T' express the grandeur of its founder's mind.
Here, in one lofty building, we behold
Whate'er the Latian pride could boast of old.
True, no dire combats feed the savage eye,
And strew the sand with sportive cruelty;
But, more adorn'd with what the Muse inspires,
It far outshines their bloody theatres.
Delightful scene! when here, in equal verse,
The youthful bards their godlike queen rehearse,
To Churchill's wreaths Apollo's laurel join,
And sing the plains of Hockstet and Judoign.

Next let the Muse record our Bodley's seat,
Nor aim at numbers, like the subject, great:
All hail, thou fabric, sacred to the Nine,
Thy fame immortal, and thy form divine!
Who to thy praise attempts the dangerous flight,
Should in thy various tongues be taught to write;
His verse, like thee, a lofty dress should wear,
And breathe the genius which inhabits there;
Thy proper lays alone can make thee live,
And pay that fame, which first thyself didst give.
So fountains, which through secret channels flow,
And pour above the floods they take below,
Back to their father Ocean urge their way,
And to the sea, the streams it gave, repay.

No more we fear the military rage,
Nurs'd up in some obscure barbarian age;
Nor dread the ruin of our arts divine,
From thick-skull'd heroes of the Gothic line,
Though pale the Romans saw those arms advance,
And wept their learning lost in ignorance.
Let brutal rage around its terrours spread,
The living murder, and consume the dead,
In impious fires let noblest writings burn,
And with their authors share a common urn;
Only, ye Fates, our lov'd Bodleian spare,
Be IT, and Learning's self shall be your care,
Here every art and every grace shall join,
Collected Phœbus here alone shall shine,
Each other seat be dark, and this be all divine.
Thus when the Greeks imperial Troy defac'd,
And to the ground its fatal walls debas'd,
In vain they burn the work of hands divine,
And vow destruction to the Dardan line,
Whilst good Æneas flies th' unequal wars,
And, with his guardian gods, Iülus bears,
Old Troy for ever stands in him alone,
And all the Phrygian kings survive in one.

Here still presides each sage's reverend shade,
In soft repose and easy grandeur laid;
Their deathless works forbid their fame to die,
Nor Time itself their persons shall destroy,
Preserv'd within the living gallery.
What greater gift could bounteous Heaven bestow,
Than to be seen above, and read below?
With deep respect I bend my duteous head,
To see the faithful likeness of the dead;
But O! what Muse can equal warmth impart?
The painter's skill transcends the poet's art.
When round the pictur'd founders I descry,
With goodness soft, and great with majesty,
So much of life the artful colours give,
Scarce more within their colleges they live;
My blood begins in wilder rounds to roll,
And pleasing tumults combat in my soul;
An humble awe my downcast eyes betray,
And only less than adoration pay.
Such were the Roman Fathers, when, o'ercome,
They saw the Gauls insult o'er conquer'd Rome;
Each captive seem'd the haughty victor's lord,
And prostrate chiefs their awful slaves ador'd.

Such art as this adorns your Lowther's hall,
Where feasting gods carouse upon the wall;
The nectar, which creating paint supplies,
Intoxicates each pleas'd spectator's eyes;
Who view, amaz'd, the figures heavenly fair,
And think they breathe the true Elysian air.
With strokes so bold, great Verrio's hand has drawn
The gods in dwellings brighter than their own.

Fir'd with a thousand raptures, I behold.
What lively features grac'd each bard of old;
Such lips, I think, did guide his charming tongue,
In such an air as this the poet sung;

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Such eyes as these glow'd with the sacred fire,
And hands like these employ'd the vocal lyre.
Quite ravish'd, I pursue each image o'er,
And scarce admire their deathless labours more.
See where the gloomy Scaliger appears,
Each shade is critic, and each feature sneers;
The artful Ben so smartly strikes the eye,
I more than see a fancy'd comedy;
The muddy Scotus crowns the motley show,
And metaphysics cloud his wrinkled brow.
But distant awe invades my beating breast,
To see great Ormond in the paint exprest;
With fear I view the figure from afar,
Which burns with noble ardour for the war;
But near approaches free my doubting mind,
To view such sweetness with such grandeur join'd.

Here studious heads the graver tablet shows,
And there with martial warmth the picture glows;
The blooming youth here boasts a brighter hue,
And painted virgins far outshine the true.

Hail, Colours, which with Nature bear a strife,
And only want a voice to perfect life!
The wondering stranger makes a sudden stand,
And pays low homage to the lovely band;
Within each frame a real fair believes,
And vainly thinks the mimic canvass lives;
Till, undeceiv'd, he quits th' enchanting shew,
Pleas'd with the art, though he laments it too.

So when his Juno bold Ixion woo'd,
And aim'd at pleasures worthy of a god,
A beauteous cloud was form'd by angry Jove,
Fit to invite, though not indulge his love;
The mortal thought he saw his goddess shine,
And all the lying graces look'd divine;
But when with heat he clasp'd her fancied charms,
The empty vapour baulk'd his eager arms.

Loth to depart, I leave th' inviting scene,
Yet scarce forbear to view it o'er again;
But still new objects give a new delight,
And various prospects bless the wandering sight.

Aloft in state the airy towers arise,
And with new lustre deck the wondering skies!
Lo! to what height the schools ascending reach,
Built with that art which they alone can teach;
The lofty dome expands her spacious gate,
Where all the decent graces jointly wait;
In every shape the god of art resorts,
And crouds of sages fill th' extended courts.

With wonders fraught the bright Museum see,
Itself the greatest curiosity!
Where Nature's choicest treasure, all combin'd,
Delight at once, and quite confound the mind;
Ten thousand splendours strike the dazzled eye,
And form on Earth another galaxy.

Here colleges in sweet confusion rise,
There temples seem to reach their native skies;
Spires, towers, and groves, compose the various shew,
And mingled prospects charm the doubting view;
Who can deny their characters divine,
Without resplendent, and inspir'd within?
But, since above my weak and artless lays,
Let their own poets sing their equal praise.

One labour more my grateful verse renews,
And rears aloft the low-descending Muse;
The building, parent of my young essays,
Asks in return a tributary praise.
Pillars sublime bear up the learned weight,
And antique sages tread the pompous height;
Whilst guardian Muses shade the happy piles,
And all around diffuse propitious smiles.
Here Lancaster, adorn'd with every grace,
Stands chief in merit, as the chief in place:
To his lov'd name our earliest lays belong,
The theme at once, and patron of our song.
Long may he o'er his much-lov'd Queen's preside,
Our arts encourage, and our counsels guide;
Till after-ages, fill'd with glad surprise,
Behold his image all majestic rise,
Where now in pomp a venerable band,
Princes and queens and holy fathers, stand.
Good Egglesfield claims homage from the eye,
And the hard stone seems soft with piety;
The mighty monarchs still the same appear,
And every marble frown provokes the war;
Whilst rugged rocks, mark'd with Philippa's face,
Soften to charms, and glow with new-born grace.
A sight less noble did the warriors yield,
Transform'd to statues by the Gorgon shield;
Distorting fear the coward's form confest,
And fury seem'd to heave the hero's breast;
The lifeless rocks each various thought betray'd,
And all the soul was in the stone display'd.

Too high, my verse, has been thy daring flight,
Thy softer numbers now the groves invite,
Where silent shades provoke the speaking lyre,
And chearful objects happy songs inspire,
At once bestow rewards, and thoughts infuse,
Compose a garland, and supply a Muse.

Behold around, and see the living green
In native colours paints a blooming scene;
Th' eternal buds no deadly Winter fear,
But scorn the coldest season of the year;
Apollo sure will bless the happy place,
Which his own Daphne condescends to grace;
For here the everlasting laurels grow,
In every grotto, and on every brow.
Prospects so gay demand a Congreve's strains,
To call the gods and nymphs upon the plains;
Pan yields his empire o'er the sylvan throng,
Pleas'd to submit to his superior song;
Great Denham's genius looks with rapture down,
And Spenser's shade resigns the rural crown.

Fill'd with great thoughts, a thousand sages rove
Through every field and solitary grove;
Whose souls, ascending an exalted height,
Out-soar the drooping Muse's vulgar flight,
That longs to see her darling votaries laid
Beneath the covert of some gentle shade,
Where purling streams and warbling birds conspire
To aid th' enchantments of the trembling lyre.

Bear me, some god, to Christ-Church, royal seat,
And lay me softly in the green retreat,
Where Aldrich holds o'er Wit the sovereign power,
And crowns the poets which he taught before.
To Aldrich Britain owes her tuneful Boyle,
The noblest trophy of the conquer'd isle;
Who adds new warmth to our poetic fire,
And gives to England the Hibernian lyre.
Philips, by Phœbus and his Aldrich taught,
Sings with that heat wherewith his Churchill fought,
Unfetter'd, in great Milton's strain he writes,
Like Milton's angels whilst his hero fights;
Pursues the bard, whilst he with honour can,
Equals the poet, and excels the man.

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O'er all the plains, the streams, and woods around,
The pleasing lays of sweetest bards resound;
A faithful echo every note returns,
And listening river-gods neglect their urns.
When Codrington and Steele their verse unrein,
And form an easy, unaffected strain,
A double wreath of laurel binds their brow,
As they are poets and are warriors too.
Trapp's lofty scenes in gentle numbers flow,
Like Dryden great, as soft as moving Rowe.
When youthful Harrison, with tuneful skill
Makes Woodstock Park scarce yield to Cooper's Hill;
Old Chaucer from th' Elysian Fields looks down,
And sees at length a genius like his own;
Charm'd with his lays, which reach the shades below,
Fair Rosamonda intermits her woe,
Forgets the anguish of an injur'd soul,
The fatal poignard, and envenom'd bowl.

Apollo smiles on Magd'len's peaceful bowers,
Perfumes the air, and paints the grot with flowers,
Where Yalden learn'd to gain the myrtle crown,
And every Muse was fond of Addison.
Applauded man! for weightier trusts design'd,
For once disdain not to unbend thy mind;
Thy mother Isis and her groves rehearse,
A subject not unworthy of thy verse;
So Latian fields will cease to boast thy praise,
And yield to Oxford, painted in thy lays:
And when the age to come, from envy free,
What thou to Virgil giv'st shall give to thee,
Isis, immortal by the poet's skill,
“Shall, in the smooth description, murmur still;”
New beauties shall adorn our sylvan scene,
And in thy numbers grow for ever green.

Danby's fam'd gift such verse as thine requires,
Exalted raptures, and celestial fires;
Apollo here should plenteously impart,
As well his singing, as his curing art;
Nature herself the healing garden loves,
Which kindly her declining strength improves,
Baffles the strokes of unrelenting Death,
Can break his arrows, and can blunt his teeth.
How sweet the landscape! where, in living trees,
Here frowns a vegetable Hercules!
There fam'd Achilles learns to live again;
And looks yet angry in the mimic scene;
Here artful birds, which blooming arbours show
Seem to fly higher, whilst they upwards grow,
From the same leaves both arms and warriors rise,
And every bough a different charm supplies.

So when our world the great Creator made,
And, unadorn'd, the sluggish chaos laid,
Horrour and Beauty own'd their sire the same,
And Form itself from Parent Matter came,
That lumpish mass alone was source of all,
And Bards and Themes had one original.

In vain the groves demand my longer stay,
The gentle Isis wafts the Muse away;
With ease the river guides her wandering stream,
And hastes to mingle with uxorious Thame,
Attempting poets on her banks lie down,
And quaff, inspir'd, the better Helicon,
Harmonious strains adorn their various themes,
Sweet as the banks, and flowing as the streams.

Bless'd we, whom bounteous Fortune here has thrown,
And made the various blessings all our own!
Nor crowns, nor globes, the pageantry of state,
Upon our humble, easy slumbers wait;
Nor aught that is Ambition's lofty theme
Disturbs our sleep, and gilds the gaudy dream.
Touch'd by no ills which vex th' unhappy great,
We only read the changes in the state,
Triumphant Marlborough's arms at distance hear,
And learn from Fame the rough events of war;
With pointed rhymes the Gallic tyrant pierce,
And make the cannon thunder in our verse.

See how the matchless youth their hours improve,
And in the glorious way to knowledge move!
Eager for fame, prevent the rising Sun,
And watch the midnight labours of the Moon.
Not tender years their bold attempts restrain,
Who leave dull Time, and hasten into man,
Pure to the soul, and pleasing to the eyes,
Like angels youthful, and like angels wise.

Some learn the mighty deeds of ages gone,
And, by the lives of heroes, form their own;
Now view the Granique choak'd with heaps of slain,
And warring worlds on the Pharsalian plain;
Now hear the trumpets clangour from afar,
And all the dreadful harmony of war;
Now trace those secret tricks that lost a state,
And search the fine-spun arts that made it great,
Correct those errours that its ruin bred,
And bid some long-lost empire rear its ancient head,

Others, to whom persuasive arts belong,
(Words in their looks, and music on their tongue)
Instructed by the wit of Greece and Rome,
Learn richly to adorn their native home;
Whilst listening crowds confess the sweet surprize,
With pleasure in their breasts, and wonder in their eyes.

Here curious minds the latent seeds disclose,
And Nature's darkest labyrinths expose;
Whilst greater souls the distant worlds descry,
Pierce to the out-stretch'd borders of the sky,
Enlarge the searching mind, and broad expand the eye.

O you, whose rising years so great began,
In whose bright youth I read the shining man,
O Lonsdale, know what noblest minds approve,
The thoughts they cherish, and the hearts they love:
Let these examples your young bosom fire,
And bid your soul to boundless height aspire.
Methinks I see you in our shades retir'd,
Alike admiring, and by all admir'd:
Your eloquence now charms my ravish'd ear,
Which future senates shall transported hear,
Now mournful verse inspires a pleasing woe,
And now your cheeks with warlike fury glow,
Whilst on the paper fancy'd fields appear,
And prospects of imaginary war;
Your martial soul sees Hockstet's fatal plain,
Or fights the fam'd Ramilia o'er again.

But I in vain these lofty names rehearse,
Above the faint attempts of humble verse,
Which Garth should in immortal strains design,
Or Addison exalt with warmth divine;
A meaner song my tender voice requires,
And fainter lays confess the fainter fires,

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By Nature fitted for an humble theme,
A painted prospect, or a murmuring stream,
To tune a vulgar note in Echo's praise,
Whilst Echo's self resounds the flattering lays;
Or, whilst I tell how Myra's charms surprise,
Paint roses on her cheeks, and suns within her eyes.

O, did proportion'd height to me belong,
Great Anna's name should grace th' ambitious song;
Illustrious dames should round their queen resort,
And Lonsdale's mother crown the splendid court;
Her noble son should boast no vulgar place,
But share the ancient honours of his race;
Whilst each fair daughter's face and conquering eyes
To Venus only should submit the prize.
O matchless beauties! more than heavenly fair,
Your looks resistless, and divine your air,
Let your bright eyes their bounteous beams diffuse,
And no fond Bard shall ask an useless Muse;
Their kindling rays excite a noble fire,
Give beauty to the song, and music to the lyre.

This charming theme I ever could pursue,
And think the inspiration ever new,
Did not the god my wandering pen restrain;
And bring me to his Oxford back again.

Oxford, the goddess Muse's native home,
Inspir'd like Athens, and adorn'd like Rome!
Hadst thou of old been Learning's fam'd retreat,
And pagan Muses chose thy lovely seat,
O, how unbounded had their fiction been!
What fancy'd visions had adorn'd the acene!
Upon each hill a sylvan Pan had stood,
And every thicket boasted of a god;
Satyrs had frisk'd in each poetic grove,
And not a sream without its nymphs could move;
Each summit had the train of Muses show'd,
And Hippocrene in every fountain flow'd;
The tales, adorn'd with each poetic grace,
Had look'd almost as charming as the place.

Ev'n now we hear the world with transports own
Those fictions by more wondrous truths outdone;
Here pure Eusebia keeps her holy seat,
And Themis smiles from Heaven on this retreat;
Our chaster Graces own refin'd desires,
And all our Muses burn with vestal fires;
Whilst guardian-angels our Apollos stand,
Scattering rich favours with a bounteous hand,
To bless the happy air, and sanctify the land.

O pleasing shades! O ever-green retreats!
Ye learned grottoes! and ye sacred seats!
Never may you politer arts refuse,
But entertain in peace the bashful Muse!
So may you be kind Heaven's distinguish'd care,
And may your fame be lasting, as 'tis fair!
Let greater Bards on fam'd Parnassus dream,
Or taste th' inspir'd Heliconian stream;
Yet, whilst our Oxford is the bless'd abode
Of every Muse, and every tuneful god,
Parnassus owns its honours far outdone,
And Isis boasts more Bards than Helicon.

A thousand blessings I to Oxford owe,
But you, my Lord, th' inspiring Muse bestow;
Grac'd with your name th' unpolish'd poem shines,
You guard its faults, and consecrate the lines,
O might you here meet my desiring eyes,
My drooping song to nobler heights would rise:
Or might I come to breathe your northern air,
Yet should I find an equal pleasure there;
Your presence would the harsher climate soothe,
Hush every wind, and every mountain smooth;
Would bid the groves in springing pomp arise,
And open charming vista's to the eyes;
Would make my trifling verse be heard around,
And sportive Echo play the empty sound:
With you I should a better Phœbus find,
And own in you alone the charms of Oxford join'd.