A Collection of Poems in Six Volumes

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,
The plowman homewards plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his drony flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r
The mopeing owl does to the moon complain
Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r,
Molest her ancient, solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy houswife ply her evening care:
No children run to lisp their fire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await alike th'inevitable hour.
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye Proud, impute to These the fault,
If Mem'ry o'er their Tomb no Trophies raise,
Where thro' the long-drawn isle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn or animated bust
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or Flatt'ry sooth the dull cold ear of Death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
Or wak'd to extasy the living lyre.

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page
Rich with the spoils of Time did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desart air.

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast,
The little Tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.

Th'applause of list'ning senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes

Their lot forbad: nor circumscrib'd alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;
Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind.

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhimes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by th'unletter'd Muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply:
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to dye.

For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the chearful day,
Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
Ev'n in our Ashes live their wonted Fires.

For thee, who mindful of th'unhonour'd Dead
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely Contemplation led,
Some kindred Spirit shall inquire thy fate,

Haply some hoary-headed Swain may say,
‘Oft have we see him at the peep of dawn
‘Brushing with hasty steps the dews away
‘To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

‘There at the foot of yonder nodding beech
‘That wreathes its old fantastick roots so high,
‘His listless length at noon-tide wou'd he stretch,
‘And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

‘Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
‘Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he wou'd rove;
‘Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
‘Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.

‘One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,
‘Along the heath and near his fav'rite tree:
‘Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
‘Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

‘The next with dirges due in sad array,
‘Slow through the church-way path we saw him born,
‘Approach and read (for thou can'st read) the lay,
‘Grav'd on the stone beneath you aged thorn.

The EPITAPH.

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth,
A Youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown,
Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth,
And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heav'n did a recompence as largely send:
He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear,
He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
(There they alike in trembling hope repose)
The bosom of his Father and his God.

HYMN to ADVERSITY.

By the Same,

Daughter of Jove, relentless Pow'r,
Thou Tamer of the human breast,
Whose iron scourge and tort'ring hour
The Bad affright, afflict the Best!
Bound in thy adamantine chain
The Proud are taught to taste of pain,
And purple tyrants vainly groan
With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone.

When first thy Sire to send on earth
Virtue, his darling Child, design'd,
To thee he gave the heav'nly Birth,
And bad to form her infant mind.
Stern rugged Nurse! thy rigid lore
With patience many a year she bore:
What sorrow was, thou bad'st her know,
And from her own she learn'd to melt at others' woe.

Scared at thy frown terrific, fly
Self-pleasing Folly's idle brood,
Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy,
And leave us leisure to be good.
Light they disperse, and with them go
The summer Friend, the flatt'ring Foe;
By vain Prosperity received,
To her they vow their truth, and are again believed.

Wisdom in sable garb array'd,
Immers'd in rapt'rous thought profound,
And Melancholy, silent maid
With leaden eye, that loves the ground,
Still on thy solemn steps attend:
Warm Charity, the gen'ral friend,
With Justice to herself severe,
And Pity, dropping soft the sadly-pleasing tear.

Oh! gently on thy Suppliant's head,
Dread Goddess, lay thy chast'ning hand!
Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad,
Nor circled with the vengeful Band
(As by the Impious thou art seen)
With thund'ring voice, and threat'ning mien,
With screaming Horror's funeral cry,
Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty.

Thy form benign, oh Goddess, wear,
Thy milder influence impart,
Thy philosophic Train be there
To soften, not to wound my heart,
The gen'rous spark extinct revive,
Teach me to love, and to forgive,
Exact my own defects to scan,
What others are to feel, and know myself a man.

EDUCATION. A POEM: IN TWO CANTOS.

Written in Imitation of the Style and Manner of SPENSER's Fairy Queen. Inscribed to Lady Langham, Widow of Sir John Langham, Bart. By GILBERT WEST, Esq;

Unum studium vere liberale est, quod liberum facit. Hoc sapientiæ studium est, sublime, forte, magnanimum: cætera pusilla & puerilia sunt.—Plus scire velle quàm sit satis intemperantiæ genus est. Quid, quòd ista liberalium artium consectatio molestos, verbosos, intempestivos, sibi placentes facit, & ideo non dicentes necessaria, quia super-vacua didicerunt. Sen. Ep. 88.

O goodly Discipline! from heav'n y-sprong!
Parent of Science, queen of Arts refin'd!
To whom the Graces, and the Nine belong:
O! bid those Graces, in fair chorus join'd

With each bright Virtue that adorns the mind!
O bid the Muses, thine harmonious train,
Who by thy aid erst humaniz'd mankind,
Inspire, direct, and moralize the strain,
That doth essay to teach thy treasures how to gain!

And Thou, whose pious and maternal care,
The substitute of heavenly Providence,
With tenderest love my orphan life did rear,
And train me up to manly strength and sense;
With mildest awe, and virtuous influence,
Directing my unpractis'd wayward feet
To the smooth walks of Truth and Innocence;
Where Happiness heart-felt, Contentment sweet,
Philosophy divine aye hold their blest retreat.

Thou, most belov'd, most honour'd, most rever'd!
Accept this verse, to thy large merit due!
And blame me not, if by each tye endear'd,
Of nature, gratitude, and friendship true,
The whiles this moral thesis I pursue,
And trace the plan of goodly Nurture o'er,
I bring thy modest virtues into view;
And proudly boast that from thy precious store,
Which erst enrich'd my heart, I drew this sacred lore,

And thus, I ween, thus shall I best repay
The valued gifts, thy careful love bestow'd;
If imitating Thee, well as I may,
I labour to diffuse th'important good,
'Till this great truth by all be understood;
“That all the pious duties which we owe,
“Our parents, friends, our country and our God;
“The seeds of every virtue here below,
“From Discipline alone, and early Culture grow.

Nurture, Education.

CANTO I.

ARGUMENT.

The Knight, as to Pædîa's house
He his young Son conveys,
Is staid by Custom; with him fights,
And his vain pride dismays.

[I]

A gentle Knight there was, whose noble deeds
O'er Fairy Land by Fame were blazon'd round:
For warlike enterprize, and sage areeds
Emong the chief alike was he renown'd;

Whence with the marks of highest honours crown'd
By Gloriana, in domestick peace,
That port, to which the wise are ever bound,
He anchor'd was, and chang'd the tossing seas
Of bustling busy life, for calm sequester'd ease.

II

There in domestick virtue rich and great
As erst in publick, 'mid his wide domain,
Long in primæval patriarchal state,
The lord, the judge, the father of the plain,
He dwelt; and with him, in the golden chain
Of wedded faith y-link'd, a matron sage
Aye dwelt; sweet partner of his joy and pain,
Sweet charmer of his youth, friend of his age,
Skill'd to improve his bliss, his sorrows to assuage.

III

From this fair union, not of sordid gain,
But merit similar and mutual love,
True source of lineal virtue, sprung a train
Of youths and virgins; like the beauteous grove,
Which round the temple of Olympick Jove,
Begirt with youthful bloom the parent tree,
The sacred olive; whence old Elis wove

Her verdant crowns of peaceful victory,
The guerdons of bold strength, and swift activity.

IV

So round their noble parents goodly rose
These generous scyons: they with watchful care
Still, as the swelling passions 'gan disclose
The buds of future virtues, did prepare
With prudent culture the young shoots to rear:
And aye in this endearing pious toil
They by a Palmer sage instructed were,
Who from deep thought and studious search erewhile
Had learnt to mend the heart, and till the human soil.

V

For by cœlestial Wisdom whilom led
Through all th'apartments of th'immortal mind,
He view'd the secret stores, and mark'd the sted
To judgment, wit, and memory assign'd;
And how sensation and reflection join'd
To fill with images her darksome grotte,
Where variously disjointed or combin'd,
As reason, fancy, or opinion wrought,
Their various masks they play'd, and fed her pensive thought.

VI

Alse through the fields of Science had he stray'd
With eager search, and sent his piercing eye
Through each learn'd school, each philosophick shade,
Where Truth and Virtue erst were deem'd to lie;
If haply the fair vagrants he mote spy,
Or hear the musick of their charming lore:
But all unable there to satisfy
His curious soul, he turn'd him to explore
The sacred writ of Faith; to learn, believe, adore.

VII

Thence foe profess'd of Falshood and Deceit,
Those sly artificers of tyranny,
Aye holding up before uncertain feet
His faithful light, to Knowledge, Liberty,
Mankind he led, to Civil policy,
And mild Religion's charitable law;
That fram'd by Mercy and Benignity
The persecuting sword forbids to draw,
And free-created souls with penal terrours awe.

VIII

Ne with these glorious gifts elate and vain
Lock'd he his wisdom up in churlish pride;
But, stooping from his height, would even deign
The feeble steps of Infancy to guide.

Eternal glory Him therefore betide!
Let every generous youth his praise proclaim!
Who, wand'ring through the world's rude forest wide,
By him hath been y-taught his course to frame
To Virtue's sweet abodes, and heav'n-aspiring Fame!

IX

For this the Fairy Knight with anxious thought,
And fond paternal care his counsel pray'd;
And him of gentlest courtesy besought
His guidance to vouchsafe and friendly aid;
The while his tender offspring he convey'd,
Through devious paths to that secure retreat;
Where sage Pædîa, with each tuneful maid,
On a wide mount had fix'd her rural seat,
'Mid flow'ry gardens plac'd, untrod by vulgar feet.

X

And now forth-pacing with his blooming heir,
And that same virtuous Palmer them to guide;
Arm'd all to point, and on a courser fair
Y-mounted high, in military pride,
His little train before he slow did ride.
Him eke behind a gentle squire ensues,
With his young lord aye marching side by side,
His counsellour and guard, in goodly thews,
Who well had been brought up, and nurs'd by every Muse.

XI

Thus as their pleasing journey they pursued,
With chearful argument beguiling pain;
Ere long descending from an hill they view'd
Beneath their eyes out-stretch'd a spacious plain,
That fruitful shew'd, and apt for every grain,
For pastures, vines and flow'rs; while Nature fair
Sweet-smiling all around with count'nance fain
Seem'd to demand the tiller's art and care,
Her wildness to correct, her lavish waste repair.

XII

Right good, I ween, and bounteous was the soil,
Aye wont in happy season to repay
With tenfold usury the peasant's toil.
But now 'twas ruin all, and wild decay;
Untill'd the garden and the fallow lay,
The sheep-shorne down with barren brakes o'ergrown
The whiles the merry peasants sport and play,
All as the publick evil were unknown,
Or every publick care from every breast was flown.

XIII

Astonish'd at a scene at once so fair
And so deform'd; with wonder and delight
At man's neglect, and Nature's bounty rare,
In studious thought a-while the Fairy Knight,

Bent on that goodly lond his eager sight:
Then forward rush'd, impatient to descry
What towns and castles there-in were empight;
For towns him seem'd, and castles he did spy,
As to th'horizon round he stretch'd his roaming eye.

XIV

Nor long way had they travell'd, ere they came
To a wide stream, that with tumultuous roar
Emongst rude rocks its winding course did frame.
Black was the wave and sordid, cover'd o'er
With angry foam, and stain'd with infants' gore.
Thereto along th'unlovely margin stood
A birchen grove that waving from the shore,
Aye cast upon the tide its falling bud,
And with its bitter juice empoison'd all the flood.

XV

Right in the centre of the vale empight,
Not distant far a forked mountain rose;
In outward form presenting to the sight
That fam'd Parnassian hill, on whose fair brows
The Nine Aonian Sisters wont repose;
List'ning to sweet Castalia's sounding stream,
Which through the plains of Cirrha murm'ring flows;
But This to That compar'd mote justly seem
Ne fitting haunt for gods, ne worthy man's esteem.

XVI

For this nor founded deep, nor spredden wide,
Nor high up-rais'd above the level plain,
By toiling art through tedious years applied,
From various parts compil'd with studious pain,
Was erst up-thrown; if so it mote attain,
Like that poetick mountain, to be hight
The noble seat of Learning's goodly train.
Thereto, the more to captivate the sight,
It like a garden fair most curiously was dight.

XVII

In figur'd plots with leafy walls inclos'd,
By measure and by rule it was out-lay'd;
With symmetry so regular dispos'd,
That plot to plot still answer'd, shade to shade;
Each correspondent twain alike array'd
With like embellishments of plants and flow'rs,
Of statues, vases, spouting founts, that play'd
Through shells of Tritons their ascending show'rs,
And labyrinths involv'd and trelice-woven bow'rs.

XVIII

There likewise mote be seen on every side
The yew obedient to the planter's will,
And shapely box of all their branching pride
Ungently shorne, and with preposterous skill

To various beasts and birds of sundry quill
Transform'd, and human shapes of monstrous size;
Huge as that giant-race, who, hill on hill
High-heaping, sought with impious vain emprize,
Despite of thund'ring Jove, to scale the steepy skies.

XIX

Alse other wonders of the sportive shears
Fair Nature mis-adorning there were found;
Globes, spiral columns, pyramids and piers
With sprouting urns and budding statues crown'd;
And horizontal dials on the ground
In living box by cunning artists trac'd;
And gallies trim, on no long voyage bound,
But by their roots there ever anchor'd fast,
All were their bellying sails out-spread to every blast.

XX

O'er all appear'd the mountain's forked brows
With terrasses on terrasses up-thrown;
And all along arrang'd in order'd rows,
And visto's broad, the velvet slopes adown
The ever-verdant trees of Daphne shone.
But aliens to the clime, and brought of old
From Latian plains, and Grecian Helicon,
They shrunk and languish'd in a foreign mold,
By changeful summers starv'd, and pinch'd by winter's cold.

XXI

Amid this verdant grove with solemn state,
On golden thrones of antique form reclin'd,
In mimick majesty Nine Virgins sate,
In features various, as unlike in mind:
Alse boasted they themselves of heav'nly kind,
And to the sweet Parnassian Nymphs allied;
Thence round their brows the Delphick bay they twin'd,
And matching with high names their apish pride,
O'er every learned school aye claim'd they to preside.

XXII

In antique garbs, for modern they disdain'd,
By Greek and Roman artists whilom made,
Of various woofs, and variously distain'd
With tints of ev'ry hue, were they array'd;
And here and there ambitiously display'd
A purple shred of some rich robe, prepared
Erst by the Muses or th'Aonian Maid,
To deck great Tullius or the Mantuan Bard;
Which o'er each motley vest with uncouth splendor glared.

XXIII

And well their outward vesture did express
The bent and habit of their inward mind,
Affecting Wisdom's antiquated dress,
And usages by Time cast far behind.

Thence, to the charms of younger Science blind,
The customs, laws, the learning, arts and phrase
Of their own countries they with scorn declin'd;
Ne sacred Truth herself would they embrace,
Unwarranted, unknown in their fore-fathers' days.

XXIV

Thus ever backward casting their survey;
To Rome's old ruins and the groves forlorn
Of elder Athens, which in prospect lay
Stretch'd out beneath the mountain, would they turn
Their busy search, and o'er the rubbish mourn.
Then gathering up with superstitious care,
Each little scrap, however foul or torn,
In grave harangues they boldly would declare,
This Ennius, Varro; This the Stagyrite did wear.

XXV

Yet, under names of venerable sound,
While o'er the world they stretch'd their aweful rod;
Through all the provinces of Learning own'd
For teachers of whate'er is wise and good.
Alse from each region to their drad abode
Came youth unnumber'd, crowding all to taste
The streams of Science; which united flow'd
Adown the mount, from nine rich sources cast;
And to the vale below in one rude torrent pass'd.

XXVI

O'er every source, protectress of the stream,
One of those Virgin Sisters did preside;
Who, dignifying with her noble name
Her proper flood, are pour'd into the tide
The heady vapours of scholastick pride
Despotical and abject, bold and blind,
Fierce in debate, and forward to decide;
Vain love of praise, with adulation join'd,
And disingenuous scorn, and impotence of mind.

XXVII

Extending from the hill on every side,
In circuit vast a verdant valley spread;
Across whose uniform flat bosom glide
Ten thousand streams, in winding mazes led,
By various sluices from one common head;
A turbid mass of waters, vast, profound,
Hight of Philology the lake; and fed
By that rude torrent, which with roaring sound
Came tumbling from the hill, and flow'd the level round.

XXVIII

And every where this spacious valley o'er,
Fast by each stream was seen a numerous throng
Of beardless striplings to the birch-crown'd shore,
By nurses, guardians, fathers dragg'd along:

Who helpless, meek, and innocent of wrong,
Were torn reluctant from the tender side
Of their fond mothers, and by faitours strong,
By pow'r made insolent, and hard by pride,
Were driv'n with furious rage, and lash'd into the tide.

XXIX

On the rude bank with trembling feet they stood,
And casting round their oft-reverted eyes,
If haply they mote 'scape the hated flood,
Fill'd all the plain with lamentable cries;
But far away th'unheeding father flies,
Constrain'd his strong compunctions to repress;
While close behind, assuming the disguise
Of nurturing care, and smiling tenderness,
With secret scourges arm'd those griesly faitours press.

XXX

As on the steepy margin of a brook,
When the young sun with flowery Maia rides,
With innocent dismay a bleating flock
Crowd back, affrighted at the rolling tides:
The shepherd-swain at first exhorting chides
Their seely fear; at length impatient grown,
With his rude crook he wounds their tender sides;
And all regardless of their piteous moan,
Into the dashing wave compels them furious down.

XXXI

Thus urg'd by mast'ring Fear and dol'rous Teen
Into the current plung'd that infant crowd.
Right piteous was the spectacle, I ween,
Of tender striplings stain'd with tears and blood,
Perforce conflicting with the bitter flood;
And labouring to attain the distant shore,
Where holding forth the gown of manhood stood
The siren Liberty, and ever-more
Sollicited their hearts with her inchanting lore.

XXXII

Irksome and long the passage was, perplex'd
With rugged rocks on which the raving tide
By sudden bursts of angry tempests vex'd
Oft dash'd the youth, whose strength mote ill abide
With head up-lifted o'er the waves to ride.
Whence many wearied ere they had o'er-past
The middle stream (for they in vain have tried)
Again return'd astounded and aghast;
Ne one regardful look would ever backward cast.

XXXIII

Some, of a rugged, more enduring frame,
Their toilsome course with patient pain pursu'd;
And tho' with many a bruise and muchel blame,
Eft hanging on the rocks, and eft embru'd

Deep in the muddy stream, with hearts subdu'd
And quail'd by labour, gain'd the shore at last,
But in life's practick lear unskill'd and rude,
Forth to that forked hill they silent pac'd;
Where hid in studious shades their fruitless hours they waste.

XXXIV

Others of rich and noble lineage bred,
Though with the crowd to pass the flood constrain'd,
Yet o'er the crags with fond indulgence led
By hireling guides and in all depths sustain'd,
Skimm'd lightly o'er the tide, undipt, unstain'd,
Save with the sprinkling of the wat'ry spray:
And aye their proud prerogative maintain'd,
Of ignorance and ease and wanton play,
Soft harbingers of vice, and præmature decay.

XXXV

A few, alas, how few! by heav'n's high will
With subtile spirits endow'd and sinews strong,
Albe sore mated by the tempests shrill,
That bellow'd fierce and rife the rocks among,
By their own native vigour borne along
Cut briskly through the waves; and forces new
Gathering from toil, and ardor from the throng
Of rival youths, outstript the labouring crew,
And to the true Parnasse, and heav'n-thron'd glory flew.

XXXVI

Dire was the tumult, and from every shore
Discordant echoes struck the deafen'd ear,
Heart-thrilling cries, with sobs and singults sore
Short-interrupted, the imploring tear,
And furious stripes, and angry threats severe,
Confus'dly mingled with the jarring sound
Of all the various speeches that while-ere
On Shinar's wide-spread champain did astound
High Babel's builders vain, and their proud works confound.

XXXVII

Much was the Knight empassion'd at the scene,
But more his blooming son, whose tender breast
Empierced deep with sympathizing teen
On his pale cheek the signs of dread impress'd,
And fill'd his eyes with tears, which sore distress'd
Up to his sire he rais'd in mournful wise;
Who with sweet smiles paternal soon redress'd
His troublous thoughts, and clear'd each sad surmise;
Then turns his ready steed, and on his journey hies.

XXXVIII

But far he had not march'd ere he was stay'd
By a rude voice, that like th'united sound
Of shouting myriads, through the valley bray'd,
And shook the groves, the floods, and solid ground:

The distant hills rebellow'd all around.
“Arrest, Sir Knight, it cried, thy fond career,
“Nor with presumptuous disobedience wound
“That aweful majesty which all revere!
“In my commands, Sir Knight, the voice of nations hear!

XXXIX

Quick turn'd the Knight, and saw upon the plain
Advancing tow'rds him with impetuous gate,
And visage all inflamed with fierce disdain,
A monstrous Giant, on whose brow elate
Shone the bright ensign of imperial state;
Albeit lawful kingdom he had none;
But laws and kingdoms wont he oft create,
And oft' times over both erect his throne,
While senates, priests and kings his sov'ran sceptre own.

XL

Custom he hight; and aye in every land
Usurp'd dominion with despotick sway
O'er all he holds; and to his high command
Constrains even stubborn Nature to obey;
Whom dispossessing oft, he doth assay
To govern in her right: and with a pace
So soft and gentle doth he win his way,
That she unwares is caught in his embrace,
And tho' deflowr'd and thrall'd nought feels her foul disgrace.

XLI

For nurt'ring, even from their tend'rest age,
The docile sons of men withouten pain,
By disciplines and rules to every stage
Of life accommodate, he doth them train
Insensibly to wear and hug his chain.
Alse his behests or gentle or severe,
Or good or noxious, rational or vain,
He craftily persuades them to revere,
As institutions sage, and venerable lear.

XLII

Protector therefore of that forked hill,
And mighty patron of those Sisters Nine,
Who there enthron'd, with many a copious rill
Feed the full streams, that through the valley shine,
He deemed was; and aye with rites divine,
Like those, which Sparta's hardy race of yore
Were wont perform at fell Diana's shrine,
He doth constrain his vassals to adore
Perforce their sacred names, and learn their sacred lore.

XLIII

And to the Fairy Knight now drawing near,
With voice terrifick and imperious mien,
(All was he wont less dreadful to appear,
When known and practised than at distance seen)

And kingly stretching forth his sceptre sheen,
Him he commandeth, upon threat'ned pain
Of his displeasure high and vengeance keen,
From his rebellious purpose to refrain,
And all due honours pay to Learning's rev'rend train.

XLIV

So saying and forestalling all reply,
His peremptory hand without delay,
As one who little car'd to justify
His princely will, long us'd to boundless sway,
Upon the Fairy Youth with great dismay
In every quaking limb convuls'd, he lay'd:
And proudly stalking o'er the verdant lay,
Him to those scientifick streams convey'd,
With many his young compeers therein to be embay'd.

XLV

The Knight his tender son's distressful stour
Perceiving, swift to his assistance flew:
Ne vainly stay'd to deprecate that pow'r,
Which from submission aye more haughty grew.
For that proud Giant's force he wisely knew,
Not to be meanly dreaded, nor defy'd
With rash presumption; and with courage true,
Rather than step from Virtue's paths aside,
Oft had he singly scorn'd his all-dismaying pride.

XLVI

And now, disdaining parle, his courser hot
He fiercely prick'd, and couch'd his vengeful spear;
Where-with the Giant he so rudely smot,
That him perforce constrain'd to wend arrear.
Who, much abash'd at such rebuke severe,
Yet his accustom'd pride recov'ring soon,
Forth-with his massy sceptre 'gan up-rear;
For other warlike weapon he had none,
Ne other him behoved to quell his boldest fone.

XLVII

With that enormous mace the Fairy Knight
So sore he bet, that all his armour bray'd,
To pieces well-nigh riven with the might
Of so tempestuous strokes; but He was stay'd,
And ever with deliberate valour weigh'd
The sudden changes of the doubtful fray;
From cautious prudence oft deriving aid,
When force unequal did him hard assay:
So lightly from his steed he leapt upon the lay.

XLVIII

Then swiftly drawing forth his trenchant blade,
High o'er his head he held his fenceful shield;
And warily fore-casting to evade
The Giant's furious arm, about him wheel'd,

With restless steps aye traversing the field.
And ever as his foe's intemperate pride,
Through rage defenceless, mote advantage yield,
With his sharp sword so oft he did him gride,
That his gold-sandal'd feet in crimson floods were dyed.

XLIX

His baser parts he maim'd with many a wound;
But far above his utmost reach were pight
The forts of life: ne never to confound
With utter ruin, and abolish quite
A power so puissant by his single might
Did he presume to hope: Himself alone
From lawless force to free, in bloody fight
He stood; content to bow to Custom's throne,
So Reason mote not blush his sov'ran rule to own.

L

So well he warded, and so fiercely press'd
His foe, that weary wex'd he of the fray;
Yet nould he algates lower his haughty crest;
But masking in contempt his sore dismay,
Disdainfully releas'd the trembling prey,
As one unworthy of his princely care;
Then proudly casting on the warlike fay
A smile of scorn and pity, through the air
'Gan blow his shrilling horn; the blast was heard afar.

LI

Eftsoons astonish'd at th'alarming sound,
The signal of distress and hostile wrong,
Confusedly trooping from all quarters round,
Came pouring o'er the plain a numerous throng
Of every sex and order, old and young;
The vassals of great Custom's wide domain,
Who to his lore inur'd by usage long,
His every summons heard with pleasure fain,
And felt his every wound with sympathetick pain.

LII

They, when their bleeding king they did behold,
And saw an armed Knight him standing near,
Attended by that Palmer sage and bold;
Whose vent'rous search of devious Truth while-ere
Spread through the realms of Learning horrors drear,
Y-seized were at first with terrors great;
And in their boding hearts began to fear,
Dissention factious, controversial hate,
And innovations strange in Custom's peaceful state.

LIII

But when they saw the Knight his fauchion sheathe
And climbing to his steed march thence away,
With all his hostile train, they 'gan to breathe
With freer spirit, and with aspect gay

Soon chaced the gathering clouds of black affray.
Alse their great monarch, cheared with the view
Of myriads, who confess his sov'ran sway,
His ruffled pride began to plume anew;
And on his bugle clear a strain of triumph blew.

LIV

There-at the multitude, that stood around,
Sent up at once a universal roar
Of boisterous joy: the sudden-bursting sound,
Like the explosion of a warlike store
Of nitrous grain, th'afflicted welkin tore.
Then turning towards the Knight, with scoffings lewd,
Heart-piercing insults, and revilings sore,
Loud bursts of laughter vain, and hisses rude,
As through the throng he pass'd, his parting steps pursued.

LV

Alse from that forked hill the boasted seat
Of studious Peace and mild Philosophy,
Indignant murmurs mote be heard to threat,
Mustering their rage; eke baleful Infamy,
Rouz'd from her den of base obscurity
By those same Maidens Nine, began to sound
Her brazen trump of black'ning obloquy:
While Satire, with dark clouds encompast round,
Sharp, secret arrows shot, and aim'd his back to wound.

LVI

But the brave Fairy Knight no whit dismay'd
Held on his peaceful journey o'er the plain;
With curious eye observing, as he stray'd
Through the wide provinces of Custom's reign,
What mote afresh admonish him remain
Fast by his virtuous purpose; all around
So many objects mov'd his just disdain;
Him seem'd that nothing serious, nothing sound
In city, village, bow'r, or castle mote be found.

LVII

In village, city, castle, bow'r and hall,
Each sex, each age, each order and degree,
To vice and idle sport abandon'd all,
Kept one perpetual general jubilee.
Ne suffer'd ought disturb their merry glee;
Ne sense of private loss, ne publick woes,
Restraint of law, Religion's drad decree,
Intestine desolation, foreign foes,
Nor heav'n's tempestuous threats, nor earth's convulsive throws.

LVIII

But chiefly they whom Heav'n's disposing hand
Had seated high on Fortune's upper stage;
And plac'd within their call the sacred band
That waits on Nature and Instruction sage,

If happy their wise hests mote them engage
To climb through knowledge to more noble praise;
And as they mount, enlighten every age
With the bright influence of fair Virtue's rays;
Which from the aweful heights of Grandeur brighter blaze.

LIX

They, O perverse and base ingratitude!
Despising the great ends of Providence,
For which above their mates they were endued
With health, authority, and eminence,
To the low services of brutal sense
Abused the means of pleasures more refin'd,
Of knowledge, virtue, and beneficence;
And fettering on her throne th'immortal mind,
The guidance of her realm to passions wild resign'd.

LX

Hence thoughtless, shameless, reckless, spiritless,
Nought worthy of their kind did they assay;
But or benumb'd with palsied Idleness
In meerly living loiter'd life away.
Or by false taste of pleasure led astray,
For-ever wand'ring in the sensual bow'rs
Of feverish Debauch, and lustful Play,
Spent on ignoble toils their active pow'rs,
And with untimely blasts diseas'd their vernal hours.

LXI

Ev'n they to whom kind Nature did accord
A frame more delicate, and purer mind,
Through the foul brothel and the wine-stain'd board
Of beastly Comus loathing they declin'd,
Yet their soft hearts to idle joys resign'd;
Like painted insects, through the summer-air
With random flight aye ranging unconfin'd;
And tasting every flower and blossom fair,
Withouten any choice, withouten any care.

LXII

For choice them needed none, who only sought
With vain amusements to beguile the day;
And wherefore should they take or care or thought,
Whom Nature prompts, and Fortune calls to play?
“Lords of the earth, be happy as ye may!”
So learn'd, so taught the leaders of mankind;
Th'unreasoning vulgar willingly obey,
And leaving toil and poverty behind,
Ran forth by different ways the blissful boon to find.

LXIII

Nor tedious was the search; for every where,
As nigh great Custom's royal tow'rs the Knight
Pass'd through th'adjoining hamlets, mote he hear
The merry voice of festival Delight

Saluting the return of morning bright
With matin-revels, by the mid-day hours
Scarce ended; and again with dewy night,
In cover'd theatres, or leafy bow'rs
Offering her evening-vows to Pleasure's joyous pow'rs.

LXIV

And ever on the way mote he espy
Men, women, children, a promiscuous throng
Of rich, poor, wise and simple, low and high,
By land, by water, passing aye along
With mummers, anticks, musick, dance and song,
To Pleasure's numerous temples, that beside
The glistening streams, or tufted groves among,
To every idle foot stood open wide,
And every gay desire with various joys supplied.

LXV

For there each heart with diverse charms to move,
The sly inchantress summoned all her train:
Alluring Venus, queen of fragrant love,
The boon companion Bacchus loud and vain,
And tricking Hermes, god of fraudful gain,
Who, when blind Fortune throws, directs the die,
And Phœbus tuning his soft Lydian strain
To wanton motions, and the lover's sigh,
And thought-beguiling shew, and masking revelry.

LXVI

Unmeet associates there for noble youth,
Who to true honour meaneth to aspire;
And for the works of virtue, faith, and truth
Would keep his manly faculties entire.
The which avizing well, the cautious sire
From that soft siren land of Pleasaunce vain,
With timely haste was minded to retire,
Or ere the sweet contagion mote attain
His son's unpractic'd heart, yet free from vicious stain.

LXVII

So turning from that beaten road aside,
Through many a devious path at length he paced,
As that experienc'd Palmer did him guide,
'Till to a mountain hoare they come at last;
Whose high-rais'd brows with silvan honours graced,
Majestically frown'd upon the plain,
And over all an aweful horrour cast.
Seem'd as those villas gay it did disdain,
Which spangled all the vale like Flora's painted train.

LXVIII

The hill ascended strait, ere-while they came
To a tall grove, whose thick-embow'ring shade,
Impervious to the sun's meridian flame
Ev'n at mid-noon a dubious twilight made;

Like to that sober light, which disarray'd
Of all its gorgeous robe, with blunted beams,
Through windows dim with holy acts pourtray'd,
Along some cloister'd abby faintly gleams,
Abstracting the rapt thought from vain earth-musing themes.

LXIX

Beneath this high o'er-arching canopy
Of clust'ring oaks, a silvan colonnade,
Aye list'ning to the native melody
Of birds sweet-echoing through the lonely shade,
On to the centre of the grove they stray'd;
Which, in a spacious circle opening round,
Within it's shelt'ring arms securely laid,
Disclos'd to sudden view a vale profound,
With Nature's artless smiles and tranquil beauties crown'd.

LXX

There, on the basis of an ancient pile,
Whose cross surmounted spire o'erlook'd the wood,
A venerable Matron they ere-while
Discover'd have, beside a murm'ring flood
Reclining in right sad and pensive mood.
Retir'd within her own abstracted breast
She seem'd o'er various woes by turns to brood;
The which her changing chear by turns exprest,
Now glowing with disdain, with grief now over-kest.

LXXI

Her thus immers'd in anxious thought profound
When-as the Knight perceiv'd, he nearer drew;
To weet what bitter bale did her astound,
And whence th'occasion of her anguish grew.
For that right noble Matron well he knew;
And many perils huge, and labours sore
Had for her sake endured; her vassal true,
Train'd in her love, and practiced evermore
Her honour to respect, and reverence her lore.

LXXII

O dearest drad! he cried, fair island queen!
Mother of heroes! empress of the main!
What means that stormy brow of troublous teen?
Sith heav'n-born Peace, with all her smiling train
Of sciences and arts, adorns thy reign
With wealth and knowledge, splendour and renown?
Each port how throng'd! how fruitful every plain!
How blithe the country! and how gay the town!
While Liberty secures and heightens every boon!

LXXIII

Awaken'd from her trance of pensive woe
By these fair flattering words, she rais'd her head;
And bending on the Knight her frowning brow,
Mock'st thou my sorrows, Fairy Son? she said.

Or is thy judgment by thy heart misled
To deem that certain, which thy hopes suggest?
To deem them full of lise and lustihead,
Whose cheeks in Hebe's vivid tints are drest,
And with Joy's careless mien, and dimpled smiles imprest?

LXXIV

Thy unsuspecting heart how nobly good
I know, how sanguine in thy country's cause!
And mark'd thy virtue, singly how it stood
Th'assaults of mighty Custom, which o'er-awes
The faint and timorous mind, and oft withdraws
From Reason's lore th'ambitious and the vain
By the sweet lure of popular applause,
Against their better knowledge, to maintain
The lawless throne of Vice, or Folly's childish reign.

LXXV

How vast his influence! how wide his sway!
Thy self ere-while by proof didst understand:
And saw'st, as through his realms thou took'st thy way,
How Vice and Folly had o'er-spread the land.
And can'st thou then, O Fairy's Son, demand
The reason of my woe? or hope to ease
The throbbings of my heart with speeches bland,
And words more apt my sorrows to increase,
The once-dear names of Wealth, and Liberty, and Peace?

LXXVI

Peace, Wealth, and Liberty, that noblest boon,
Are blessings only to the wise and good.
To weak and vicious minds their worth unknown,
And thence abused but serve to furnish food
For riot and debauch, and fire the blood
With high-spiced luxury; whence strife, debate,
Ambition, envy, Faction's vip'rous brood,
Contempt of order, manners profligate;
The symptoms of a foul, diseased and bloated state.

LXXVII

Ev'n Wit and Genius, with their learned train
Of Arts and Muses, though from heav'n above
Descended, when their talents they prophane
To varnish folly, kindle wanton love,
And aid excentrick sceptic Pride to rove
Beyond cœlestial Truth's attractive sphere,
This moral system's central sun, aye prove
To their fond votaries a curse severe,
And only make mankind more obstinately err.

LXXVIII

And stand my sons herein from censure clear?
Have They consider'd well, and understood
The use and import of those blessings dear,
Which the great Lord of Nature hath bestow'd

As well to prove, as to reward the good?
Whence are these torrents then, these billowy seas
Of vice, in which, as in his proper flood,
The fell leviathan licentious plays,
And upon ship-wreck'd faith, and sinking virtue preys?

LXXIX

To you, ye Noble, Opulent and Great!
With friendly voice I call, and honest zeal!
Upon your vital influences wait
The health and sickness of the common-weal;
The maladies you cause, yourselves must heal.
In vain to the unthinking harden'd crowd
Will Truth and Reason make their just appeal;
In vain will sacred Wisdom cry aloud;
And Justice drench in vain her vengeful sword in blood.

LXXX

With You must reformation first take place:
You are the head, the intellectual mind
Of this vast body politick; whose base,
And vulgar limbs, to drudgery consign'd,
All the rich stores of Science have resign'd
To You, that by the craftsman's various toil,
The sea-worn mariner, and sweating hind,
In peace and affluence maintain'd, the while
You, for yourselves and them, may dress the mental soil.

LXXXI

Bethink you then, my children, of the trust
In you repos'd: ne let your heav'n-born mind
Consume in pleasure, or unactive rust;
But nobly rouse you to the task assign'd,
The godlike task to teach and mend mankind:
Learn that ye may instruct: to virtue lead
Yourselves the way: the herd will crowd behind,
And gather precepts from each worthy deed:
“Example is a lesson, that all men can read.

LXXXII

But if (to All or Most I do not speak)
In vain and sensual habits now grown old,
The strong Circæan charm you cannot break,
Nor re-assume at will your native mould,
Yet envy not the state, you could not hold;
And take compassion on the rising age:
In them redeem your errours manifold;
And by due discipline and nurture sage,
In Virtue's lore betimes your docile sons engage.

LXXXIII

You chiefly, who like me in secret mourn
The prevalence of Custom lewd and vain;
And you, who, though by the rude torrent borne
Unwillingly along you yield with pain

To his behests, and act what you disdain,
Yet nourish in your hearts the gen'rous love
Of piety and truth, no more restrain
The manly zeal; but all your sinews move
The present to reclaim, the future race improve!

LXXXIV

Eftsoons by your joint efforts shall be quell'd
Yon haughty Giant, who so proudly sways
A sceptre by repute alone upheld;
Who where he cannot dictate strait obeys.
Accustom'd to conform his flattering phrase
To numbers and high-plac'd authority,
Your party he will join, your maxims praise,
And drawing after all his menial fry,
Soon teach the general voice your act to ratify.

LXXXV

Ne for th'atchievement of this great emprize
The want of means or counsel may ye dread.
From my Twin-Daughters' fruitful wombs shall rise
A race of letter'd sages, deeply read
In Learning's various writ: by whom y-led
Through each well cultur'd plot, each beauteous grove,
Where antique Wisdom whilom wont to tread,
With mingled glee and profit may ye rove,
And cull each virtuous plant, each tree of knowledge prove.

LXXXVI

Yourselves with virtue thus and knowledge fraught
Of what, in ancient days of good or great
Historians, bards, philosophers have taught;
Join'd with whatever else of modern date
Maturer judgment, search more accurate
Discover'd have of Nature, Man, and God,
May by new laws reform the time-worn state
Of cell-bred discipline, and smoothe the road
That leads through Learning's vale to Wisdom's bright abode.

LXXXVII

By you invited to her secret bow'rs
Then shall Pædîa reascend her throne
With vivid laurels girt and fragrant flow'rs;
While from their forked mount descending down
Yon supercilious pedant train shall own
Her empire paramount, ere long by Her
Y-taught a lesson in their schools unknown,
“To Learning's richest treasures to prefer
“The knowledge of the world, and man's great business there.

LXXXVIII

On this prime science, as the final end
Of all her discipline, and nurturing care,
Her eye Pædîa fixing aye shall bend
Her every thought and effort to prepare

Her tender pupils for the various war,
Which Vice and Folly shall upon them wage,
As on the perilous march of life they fare
With prudent lore fore-arming every age
Gain'st Pleasure's treacherous joys, and Pain's embattled rage.

LXXXIX

Then shall my youthful sons, to Wisdom led
By fair example and ingenuous praise,
With willing feet the paths of Duty tread;
Through the world's intricate or rugged ways
Conducted by Religion's sacred rays;
Whose soul-invigorating influence
Shall purge their minds from all impure allays
Of sordid selfishness and brutal sense,
And swell th'ennobled heart with blest benevolence.

XC

Then also shall this emblematick pile,
By magick whilom fram'd to sympathize
With all the fortunes of this changeful isle,
Still, as my sons in fame and virtue rise,
Grow with their growth, and to th'applauding skies
It's radiant cross up-lift; the while, to grace
The multiplying niches, fresh supplies
Of worthies shall succeed, with equal pace
Aye following their sires in virtue's glorious race.

XCI

Fir'd with th'idea of her future fame
She rose majestick from her lowly sted;
While from her vivid eyes a sparkling flame
Out-beaming, with unwonted light o'erspread
That monumental pile; and as her head
To every front she turn'd, discover'd round
The venerable forms of heroes dead;
Who for their various merit erst renown'd,
In this bright fane of glory shrines of honour found.

XCII

On these that royal dame her ravish'd eyes
Would often feast; and ever as she spy'd
Forth from the ground the length'ning structure rise
With new-plac'd statues deck'd on every side,
Her parent-breast would swell with gen'rous pride.
And now with her in that sequester'd plain,
The Knight awhile constraining to abide,
She to the Fairy Youth with pleasure fain
Those sculptur'd chiefs did shew, and their great lives explain .

The End of the First CANTO.

Areeds, counsels.

This tree grew in the Altis, or sacred grove of Olympick Jupiter at Olympia, having, as the Eleans pretended, been originally planted there by Hercules. It was esteemed sacred, and from that were taken the Olympick crowns. See Pausanias. Eliac. and the Dissertation on the Olympick Games.

Guerdons, rewards.

Palmer, pilgrim. The person here signified is Mr. Locke. characteriz'd by his works.

Sted, place, station,

Alse, also, further.

Mote, might.

Aye, ever.

Ne, nor.

Ensues, follows,

Thews, manners.

Fain, earnest, eager.

Brakes, briars.

Lond, land.

Empight, placed.

Erst, formerly.

Hight, called, named.

Dight, drest.

Emprize, enterprize, attempt.

All, used frequently by the old English poets for all-though.

Whilom, formerly.

Drad, dreadful.

Faitour, doer, from faire to do, and fait deed, commonly used by Spenser in a bad sense.

Seely, simple.

Teen, pain, grief.

Astounded, astonish'd.

Muchel, much.

Lear, learning

Albe, although.

Mated, amaz'd, scared.

Parnasse, Parnassus.

Singults, sighs.

While-ere, formerly.

Sov'ran, for sovereign.

The Lacedemonians in order to make their children hardy and endure pain with constancy and courage, were accustomed to cause them to be scourged very severely. And I myself (says Plutarch, in his life of Lycurgus) have seen several of them endure whipping to death, at the foot of the altar of Diana surnamed Orthia.

Lay, mead, trouble, misfortune, &c.

Embay'd, bathed, dipt.

Stour,

Wend arrear, move backwards.

Fone, foes.

Bet, beat; bray'd, resounded,

Trenchant, cutting.

Gride, cut, hack.

Pight, placed.

Nould he algates, would not by any means.

Fay, fairy.

Welkin, sky.

Hests, behests, precepts, commands.

Or ere, before.

Over-kest, for over-cast.

Sith, since.

Lustihead, strong health, vigour.

Mould, shape, form.

I cannot forbear taking occasion from these words to make my acknowledgements to the writers of Biographia Britannica, for the pleasure and profit I have lately received from perusing the two first volumes of that useful and entertaining work, of which the monumental structure above-mentioned, decorated with the statues of great and good men, is no improper emblem. This work, which contains the lives of the most eminent persons, who have flourished in Great Britain and Ireland, from the earliest ages, down to the present time, appears to me, as far as it has hitherto gone, to be executed with great spirit, accuracy, and judgment; and deserves, in my opinion, to be encouraged by all, who have at heart the honour of their country, and that of their particular families and friends; and who can any ways assist the ingenious and laborious authors, to render as perfect as possible, a design so apparently calculated to serve the publick, by setting in the truest and fullest light the characters of persons already generally, though perhaps too indistinctly known; and retrieving from obscurity and oblivion, examples of private and retired merit, which, though less glaring and ostentatious than the former, are not, however, of a less extensive or less beneficial influence. To those, who may happen not to have seen this repository of British glory, I cannot give a better idea of it, than in the following lines of Virgil:

Hic manus ob patriam pugnando vulnera passi;
Quique sacerdotes casti, dum vita manebat;
Quique pii vates & Phœbo digna locuti;
Inventas aut qui vitam excoluere per artes;
Quique sui memores alios fecere merendo.

Virg. Æn. L. 6.

Phædîa is a Greek word, signifying Education.

PENSHURST.

INSCRIBED TO WILLIAM PERRY, Esq; AND The Honourable Mrs. Elizabeth Perry. By the late Mr. F. Coventry.

Genius of Penshurst old!
Who saw'st the birth of each immortal oak,
Here sacred from the stroke;
And all thy tenants of yon turrets bold,
Inspir'st to arts or arms;
Where Sidney his Arcadian landscape drew,
Genuine from thy Doric view;
And patriot Algernon unshaken rose
Above insulting foes;
And Saccharissa nurs'd her angel charms.

O suffer me with sober tread
To enter on thy holy shade;
Bid smoothly-gliding Medway stand,
And wave his sedgy tresses bland,
A stranger let him kindly greet,
And pour his urn beneath my feet.
And see where Perry opes his door
To land me on the social floor;
Nor does the heiress of these shades deny
To bend her bright majestic eye,
Where Beauty shines, and Friendship warm,
And Honour in a female form.
With them in aged groves to walk,
And lose my thoughts in artless talk,
I shun the voice of Party loud,
I shun loose Pleasure's idle crowd,
And monkish academic cell,
Where Science only feigns to dwell,
And court, where speckled Vanity
Apes her tricks in tawdry die,
And shifts each hour her tinsel hue,
Still furbelow'd in follies new.
Here Nature no distortion wears,
Old Truth retains his silver hairs,
And Chastity her matron step,
And purple Health her rosy lip.
Ah! on the virgin's gentle brow
How Innocence delights to glow!

Unlike the town-dame's haughty air,
The scornful eye and harlot's stare;
But bending mild the bashful front
As modest Fear is ever wont:
Shepherdesses such of old,
Doric bards enamour'd told,
While the pleas'd Arcadian vale
Echo'd the enchanting tale.

But chief of Virtue's lovely train,
A pensive exile on the plain,
No longer active now to wield
Th'avenging sword, protecting shield,
Here thoughtful-walking Liberty
Remembers Britons once were free.
With her would Nobles old converse,
And learn her dictates to rehearse,
Ere yet they grew refin'd to hate
The hospitable rural seat,
The spacious hall with tenants stor'd,
Where Mirth and Plenty crown'd the board;
Ere yet their Lares they forsook,
And lost the genuine British look,
The conscious brow of inward merit,
The rough, unbending, martial spirit,
To clink the chain of Thraldom gay,
And court-idolatry to pay;
To live in city smoaks obscure,
Where morn ne'er wakes her breezes pure,

Where darkest midnight reigns at noon,
And fogs eternal blot the sun.

But come, the minutes flit away,
And eager Fancy longs to stray:
Come, friendly Genius! lead me round
Thy sylvan haunts and magic ground;
Point every spot of hill or dale,
And tell me, as we tread the vale,
“Here mighty Dudly once wou'd rove,
“To plan his triumphs in the grove:
“There looser Waller, ever gay,
“With Sacchariss in dalliance lay;
“And Philip, side-long yonder spring,
“His lavish carols wont to sing.”
Hark! I hear the echoes call,
Hark! the rushing waters fall;
Lead me to the green retreats,
Guide me to the Muses' seats,
Where ancient bards retirement chose,
Or ancient lovers wept their woes.
What Genius points to yonder oak?
What rapture does my soul provoke?

There let me hang a garland high,
There let my Muse her accents try;
Be there my earliest homage paid,
Be there my latest vigils made:
For thou wast planted in the earth
The day that shone on Sidney's birth.
That happy time, that glorious day
The Muses came in concert gay;
With harps in tune, and ready song,
The jolly Chorus tript along;
In honour of th'auspicious morn,
To hail an infant genius born:
Next came the Faun, in order meet,
The Satyrs next with cloven feet,
The Dryads swift that roam the woods,
The Naiads green that swim the floods;
Sylvanus left his silent cave,
Medway came dropping from the wave;
Vertumnus led his blushing spouse,
And Ceres shook her wheaten brows,
And Mars with milder look was there,
And laughing Venus grac'd the rear.
They join'd their hands in festive dance,
And bade the smiling babe advance;
Each gave a gift; Sylvanus last
Ordain'd, when all the pomp was past,
Memorial meet, a tree to grow,
Which might to future ages shew,

That on select occasion rare,
A troop of Gods assembled there:
The Naiads water'd well the ground,
And Flora twin'd a wood-bine round:
The tree sprung fast in hallow'd earth,
Co-æval with th'illustrious birth

Thus let my feet unwearied stray;
Nor satisfied with one survey,
When morn surveys with doubtful light,
And Phebe pales her lamp of night,
Still let me wander forth anew,
And print my footsteps on the dew,
What time the swain with ruddy cheek
Prepares to yoke his oxen meek,
And early drest in neat array
The milk-maid chanting shrill her lay,
Comes abroad with milking pail;
And the sound of distant flail
Gives the ear a rough good-morrow,
And the lark from out his furrow
Soars upright on matin wings,
And at the gate of heaven sings.

But when the sun with fervid ray
Drives upwards to his noon of day,
And couching oxen lay them down
Beneath the beechen umbrage brown;
Then let me wander in the hall,
Round whose antique-visag'd wall

Hangs the armour Britons wore,
Rudely cast in days of yore.
Yon sword some heroe's arm might wield,
Red in the ranks of Chalgrave's field,
Where ever-glorious Hampden bled,
And Freedom tears of sorrow shed.
Or in the gallery let me walk,
Where living pictures seem to talk,
Where Beauty smiles serenely fair,
And Courage frowns with martial air;
Tho' whiskers quaint the face disguise,
And habits odd to modern eyes.
Behold what kings in Britain reign'd,
Plantagenets with blood distain'd,
And valiant Tudor's haughty race,
And Stuarts, England's worst disgrace.
The Norman first, with cruel frown,
Proud of his new-usurped crown,
Begins the list; and many more,
Stern heroes form'd of roughest ore.
See victor Henry there advance,
Ev'n in his look he conquers France;
And murd'rer Richard, justly slain
By Richmond's steel on Bosworth plain;
See the tyrant of his wives,
Prodigal of fairest lives,
And laureat Edward nurs'd in arts,
Minerva school'd his kingly parts:

But ah! the melancholy Jane,
A soul too tender for a queen!
She sinks beneath imperial sway,
The dear-bought scepter of a day!
And must she mount the scaffold drear?
Hard-hearted Mary, learn to spare!
Eliza next salutes the eye;
Exalt the song to Liberty,
The Muse repeats the sacred name,
Eliza fills the voice of fame.
From thence a baser age began,
The royal ore polluted ran,
Till foreign Nassau's valiant hand
Chac'd holy tyrants from the land:
Downward from hence descend apace
To Brunswick's high, illustrious race;
And see the canvas speaks them brave,
An injur'd nation born to save,
Active in Freedom's righteous cause,
And conscious of a just applause.

But chiefly pleas'd, the curious eye,
With nice discernment loves to try
The labour'd wonders, passing thought,
Which warm Italian pencils wrought;
Fables of love, and stories old,
By Greek or Latian poets told;
How Jove committed many a rape,
How young Acteon lost his shape;

Or what celestial pen-men writ,
Or what the painter's genuine wit
From Fancy's store-house could devise;
Where Raphael claims the highest prize.
Madonas here decline the head,
With fond maternal pleasure fed,
Or lift their lucid eyes above,
Where more is seen than holy love.
There temples stand display'd within,
And pillars in long order seen,
And roofs rush forward to the sight,
And lamps affect a living light.
Or landscapes tire the trav'ling eye,
The clouds in azure volumes fly,
The distant trees distinguish'd rise,
And hills look little in the skies.

When day declines, and ev'ning cool
Begins her gentle, silent rule,
Again, as Fancy points the way,
Benignant leader, let me stray:
And wilt thou, Genius, bring along
(So shall my Muse exalt her song)
The Lord who rules this ample scene,
His Consort too with gracious mien,
Her little offspring prattling round,
While Echo lisps their infant sound.
And let Good-nature, born to please,
Wait on our steps, and graceful Ease;

Nor Mirth be wanting as we walk,
Nor Wit to season sober talk;
Let gay Description too attend,
And Fable told with moral end,
And Satire quick that comes by stealth,
And flowing Laughter, friend to Health.
Meanwhile Attention loves to mark
The deer that crop the shaven park,
The steep-brow'd hill, or forest wild,
The sloping lawns, and zephyrs mild,
The clouds that blush with ev'ning red,
Or meads with silver fountains fed,
The fragrance of the new-mown hay,
And black-bird chanting on the spray;
The calm farewel of parting light,
And Ev'ning sad'ning into Night.

Nor wearied yet my roving feet,
Tho' Night comes on amain, retreat;
But still abroad I walk unseen
Along the star-enlighten'd green;
Superior joys my soul invite,
Lift, lift to heav'n the dazzled sight.
Lo, where the moon enthron'd on high,
Sits steady empress of the sky,
Enticing nations to revere,
And proudly vain of pagan fear;
Or where thro' clouds she travels fast,
And seems on journey bent in haste,

While thousand hand-maid stars await,
Attendant on their queen of state.
'Tis now that in her high controul,
Ambitious of a foreign rule,
She stirs the Ocean to rebel,
And factious waters fond to swell
Guides to battle in her carr,
'Gainst her sister Earth to war.
Thus let me muse on things sublime,
Above the flight of modern rhyme,
And call the soul of Newton down,
Where it sits high on starry throne,
Inventing laws for worlds to come,
Or teaching comets how to roam:
With him I'd learn of every star,
But sour-ey'd Pedantry be far,
And Ignorance in garb of Sense,
With terms of art to make pretence.

Hail happy soil! illustrious earth!
Which gav'st so many heroes birth;
Which never wand'ring poet trod,
But felt within th'inspiring God!
In these transporting, solemn shades,
First I salute th'Aonian maids.
Ah lead me, Genius, to thy haunts,
Where Philomel at ev'ning chants,
And as my oaten pipe resounds,
Give musick to the forming sounds.

A simple shepherd, yet unknown,
Aspires to snatch an ivy crown,
On daring pinions bold to soar,
Tho' here thy Waller sung before,
And Johnson dipt his learned pen,
And Sidney pour'd his fancy-flowing strain.

Sir Philip Sidney.

Algernon Sidney.

An oak in Penshurst park, planted the day Sir Philip Sidney was born, of which Ben Johnson speaks in the following manner:

That taller tree, which of a nut was set,
At his great birth, where all the Muses met.

TO THE Hon. Wilmot Vaughan, Esq; in Wales.

By the Same.

Ye distant realms that hold my friend
Beneath a cold ungenial sky,
Where lab'ring groves with weight of vapours bend,
Or raving winds o'er barren mountains fly;
Restore him quick to London's social clime,
Restore him quick to friendship, love and joy;
Be swift, ye lazy steeds of Time,
Ye moments, all your speed employ.
Behold November's glooms arise,
Pale suns with fainter glory shine,
Dark gathering tempests blacken in the skies,
And shiv'ring woods their sickly leaves resign.
Is this a time on Cambrian hills to roam,
To court disease in Winter's baleful reign,
To listen to th'Atlantic foam,
While rocks repel the roaring main,

While horror fills the region vast,
Rheumatic tortures Eurus brings,
Pregnant with agues flies the northern blast,
And clouds drop quartans from their flagging wings:
Dost thou explore Sabrina's fountful source,
Where huge Plinlimmon's hoary height ascends:
Then downward mark her vagrant course,
Till mix'd with clouds the landscape ends?
Dost thou revere the hallow'd soil
Where Druids old sepulchred lie;
Or up cold Snowden's craggy summits toil,
And muse on ancient savage liberty?
Ill suit such walks with bleak autumnal air,
Say, can November yield the joys of May?
When Jove deforms the blasted year,
Can Wallia boast a chearful day?
The town expects thee.—Hark, around,
Thro' every street of gay resort,
New chariots rattle with awak'ning sound,
And crowd the levees, and besiege the court.
The patriot, kindling as his wars ensue,
Now fires his soul with liberty and fame,
Marshals his threat'ning tropes anew,
And gives his hoarded thunders aim.
Now seats their absent lords deplore,
Neglected villas empty stand,
Capacious Gro'venor gathers all its store,
And mighty London swallows up the land.

See sportive Vanity her flights begin,
See new-blown Folly's plenteous harvest rise,
She mimick beauties dye their skin,
And harlots roll their venal eyes.
Fashions are set, and fops return,
And young coquettes in arms appear;
Dreaming of conquest, how their bosoms burn,
Trick'd in the new fantastry of the year.
Fly then away, nor scorn to bear a part
In this gay scene of folly amply spread:
Follies well us'd refine the heart,
And pleasures clear the studious head;
By grateful interchange of mirth
The toils of study sweeter grow,
As varying seasons recommend the earth,
Nor does Apollo always bend his bow.

AN EPISTLE ADDRESS'D TO Sir THOMAS HANMER, On his Edition of Shakespear's Works.

By Mr. WILLIAM COLLINS.

SIR,

While born to bring the Muse's happier days,
A patriot's hand protects a poet's lays:
While nurs'd by you she sees her myrtles bloom,
Green and unwither'd o'er his honour'd tomb:
Excuse her doubts, if yet she fears to tell
What secret transports in her bosom swell:
With conscious awe she hears the critic's fame,
And blushing hides her wreath at Shakespear's name.

Hard was the lot those injur'd strains endur'd,
Unown'd by Science, and by years obscur'd,
Fair Fancy wept; and echoing sighs confess'd
A fixt despair in ev'ry tuneful breast.
Not with more grief th'afflicted swains appear,
When wintry winds deform the plenteous year;
When ling'ring frosts the ruin'd seats invade
Where Peace resorted, and the Graces play'd.

Each rising art by just gradation moves,
Toil builds on toil, and age on age improves:
The Muse alone unequal dealt her rage,
And grac'd with noblest pomp her earliest stage.
Preserv'd thro' time, the speaking scenes impart
Each changeful wish of Phædra's tortur'd heart:
Or paint the curse, that mark'd the Theban's reign,
A bed incestuous, and a father slain.
With kind concern our pitying eyes o'erflow,
Trace the sad tale, and own another's woe.

To Rome remov'd, with wit secure to please,
The Comic sisters kept their native ease.
With jealous fear declining Greece beheld
Her own Meander's art almost excell'd!
But ev'ry Muse essay'd to raise in vain
Some labour'd rival of her Tragic strain;
Ilyssus' laurels, tho' transferr'd with toil,
Droop'd their fair leaves, nor knew th'unfriendly soil.

As arts expir'd, resistless Dulness rose;
Goths, priests, or Vandals,—all were Learning's foes.
Till Julius first recall'd each exil'd maid,
And Cosmo own'd them in th'Etrurian shade:
Then deeply skill'd in love's engaging theme,
The soft Provencial pass'd to Arno's stream:
With graceful ease the wanton lyre he strung,
Sweet flow'd the lays—but love was all he sung.
The gay description could not fail to move;
For, led by nature, all are friends to love.

But heav'n, still various in its works, decreed
The perfect boast of time should last succeed.
The beauteous union must appear at length,
Of Tuscan fancy, and Athenian strength:
One greater Muse Eliza's reign adorn,
And ev'n a Shakespear to her fame be born!

Yet ah! so bright her morning's opening ray,
In vain our Britain hop'd an equal day!
No second growth the western isle could bear,
At once exhausted with too rich a year.
Too nicely Johnson knew the critic's part;
Nature in him was almost lost in art.
Of softer mold the gentle Fletcher came,
The next in order, as the next in name.
With pleas'd attention 'midst his scenes we find
Each glowing thought, that warms the female mind;

Each melting sigh, and ev'ry tender tear,
The lover's wishes and the virgin's fear.
His ev'ry strain the Smiles and Graces own;
But stronger Shakespear felt for Man alone:
Drawn by his pen, our ruder passions stand
Th'unrival'd picture of his early hand.

With gradual steps, and slow, exacter France
Saw Art's fair empire o'er her shores advance:
By length of toil a bright perfection knew,
Correctly bold, and just in all she drew.
Till late Corneille, with Lucan's spirit fir'd,
Breath'd the free strain, as Rome and He inspir'd:
And classic judgment gain'd to sweet Racine
The temp'rate strength of Maro's chaster line.

But wilder far the British laurel spread,
And wreaths less artful crown our poet's head.
Yet He alone to ev'ry scene could give
Th'historian's truth, and bid the manners live.
Wak'd at his call I view, with glad surprize,
Majestic forms of mighty monarchs rise.

There Henry's trumpets spread their loud alarms,
And laurel'd Conquest waits her hero's arms.
Here gentler Edward claims a pitying sigh,
Scarce born to honours, and so soon to die!
Yet shall thy throne, unhappy infant, bring
No beam of comfort to the guilty king:
The time shall come, when Glo'ster's heart shall bleed
In life's last hours, with horror of the deed:
When dreary visions shall at last present
Thy vengeful image in the midnight tent,
Thy hand unseen the secret death shall bear,
Blunt the weak sword, and break th'oppressive spear.

Where-e'er we turn, by Fancy charm'd, we find
Some sweet illusion of the cheated mind.
Oft, wild of wing, she calls the soul to rove
With humbler nature, in the rural grove;
Where swains contented own the quiet scene,
And twilight fairies tread the circled green:
Dress'd by her hand, the Woods and Vallies smile,
And Spring diffusive decks th'inchanted isle.

O more than all in pow'rful genius blest,
Come, take thine empire o'er the willing breast!
Whate'er the wounds this youthful heart shall feel,
Thy songs support me, and thy morals heal!

There ev'ry thought the poet's warmth may raise,
There native musick dwells in all the lays.
O might some verse with happiest skill persuade
Expressive Picture to adopt thine aid!
What wond'rous draughts might rise from ev'ry page!
What other Raphaels charm a distant age!

Methinks ev'n now I view some free design,
Where breathing Nature lives in ev'ry line:
Chaste and subdu'd the modest lights decay,
Steal into shades, and mildly melt away.
—And see, where Anthony in tears approv'd,
Guard the pale relicks of the chief he lov'd:
Over the cold corse the warrior seems to bend,
Deep sunk in grief, and mourns his murder'd friend!
Still as they press, he calls on all around,
Lifts the torn robe, and points the bleeding wound.

But who is he, whose brows exalted bear
A wrath impatient, and a fiercer air?
Awake to all that injur'd worth can feel,
On his own Rome he turns th'avenging steel.
Yet shall not War's insatiate fury fall,
(So heav'n ordains it) on the destin'd wall.
See the fond mother 'midst the plaintive train
Hung on his knees, and prostrate on the plain!

Touch'd to the soul, in vain he strives to hide
The son's affection, in the Roman's pride:
O'er all the man conflicting passions rise,
Rage grasps the sword, while Pity melts the eyes.

Thus, gen'rous Critick, as thy Bard inspires,
The sister Arts shall nurse their drooping fires;
Each from his scenes her stores alternate bring,
Blend the fair tints, or wake the vocal string:
Those Sibyl-leaves, the sport of ev'ry wind,
(For poets ever were a careless kind)
By thee dispos'd, no farther toil demand,
But, just to Nature, own thy forming hand.

So spread o'er Greece, th'harmonious whole unknown,
Ev'n Homer's numbers charm'd by parts alone.
Their own Ulysses scarce had wander'd more,
By winds and water cast on ev'ry shore:
When rais'd by Fate, some former Hanmer join'd
Each beauteous image of the boundless mind:
And bade, like thee, his Athens ever claim
A fond alliance with the Poet's name.

The Œdipus of Sophocles.

Julius II. the immediate predecessor of Leo X.

Their characters are thus distinguished by Dryden.

About the time of Shakespear, the poet Hardy was in great repute in France. He wrote, according to Fontenelle, six hundred plays. The French poets after him applied themselves in general to the correct improvement of the stage, which was almost totally disregarded by those of our own country, Johnson excepted.

The favourite author of the elder Corneille.

Tempus erit Turno, magno cum optaverit emptum
Intactum pallanta, &c.

See the tragedy of Julius Cæsar.

Coriolanus. See Mr. Spence's dialogue on the Odyssey.

A SONG FROM SHAKESPEAR's CYMBELINE. Sung by Guiderus and Arviragus over Fidele, supposed to be dead.

By the Same.

I

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb
Soft maids, and village hinds shall bring
Each op'ning sweet, of earliest bloom,
And rifle all the breathing Spring.

II

No wailing ghost shall dare appear
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove:
But shepherd lads assemble here,
And melting virgins own their love.

III

No wither'd witch shall here be seen,
No goblins lead their nightly crew:
The female fays shall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew!

IV

The red-breast oft at ev'ning hours
Shall kindly lend his little aid:
With hoary moss, and gather'd flow'rs,
To deck the ground where thou art laid.

V

When howling winds, and beating rain,
In tempests shake the sylvan cell:
Or 'midst the chace on ev'ry plain,
The tender thought on thee shall dwell.

VI

Each lonely scene shall thee restore,
For thee the tear be duly shed:
Belov'd, till life could charm no more;
And mourn'd, till Pity's self be dead.

ELEGY To Miss D--- W---D.

In the Manner of Ovid. By the late Mr. HAMMOND.

O say, thou dear possessor of my breast,
Where now's my boasted liberty and rest!
Where the gay moments which I once have known,
O where that heart I fondly thought my own!
From place to place I solitary roam,
Abroad uneasy, nor content at home.
I scorn the beauties common eyes adore,
The more I view them, feel thy worth the more;
Unmov'd I hear them speak, or see them fair,
And only think on thee—who art not there.
In vain would books their formal succour lend,
Nor wit, nor wisdom can relieve their friend;
Wit can't deceive the pain I now endure,
And wisdom shews the ill without the cure.

When from thy sight I waste the tedious day,
A thousand schemes I form, and things to say;
But when thy presence gives the time I seek,
My heart's so full, I wish, but cannot speak.

And cou'd I speak with eloquence and ease,
Till now not studious of the art to please,
Cou'd I, at woman who so oft exclaim,
Expose (nor blush) thy triumph and my shame,
Abjure those maxims I so lately priz'd,
And court that sex I foolishly despis'd,
Own thou hast soften'd my obdurate mind,
And thou reveng'd the wrongs of womankind:
Lost were my words, and fruitless all my pain,
In vain to tell thee all I write in vain;
My humble sighs shall only reach thy ears,
And all my eloquence shall be my tears.

And now (for more I never must pretend)
Hear me not as thy lover, but thy friend;
Thousands will fain thy little heart ensnare,
For without danger none like thee are fair;
But wisely chuse who best deserves thy flame,
So shall the choice itself become thy fame;
Nor yet despise, tho' void of winning art,
The plain and honest courtship of the heart:
The skilful tongue in love's persuasive lore,
Tho' less it feels, will please and flatter more,
And meanly learned in that guilty trade
Can long abuse a fond, unthinking maid.

And since their lips, so knowing to deceive,
Thy unexperienc'd youth might soon believe,
And since their tears in false submission drest
Might thaw the icy coldness of thy breast,
O! shut thine eyes to such deceitful woe;
Caught by the beauty of thy outward show,
Like me they do not love, whate'er they seem,
Like me—with passion founded on esteem.

Answer to the foregoing Lines.

By the late Lord HERVEY.

Too well these lines that fatal truth declare,
Which long I've known, yet now I blush to hear.
But say, what hopes thy fond ill-fated love,
What can it hope, tho' mutual it shou'd prove?
This little form is fair in vain for you,
In vain for me thy honest heart is true;
For wou'd'st thou fix dishonour on my name,
And give me up to penitence and shame;
Or gild my ruin with the name of wife,
And make me a poor virtuous wretch for life:
Cou'd'st thou submit to wear the marriage chain,
(Too sure a cure for all thy present pain)

No saffron robe for us the godhead wears,
His torch inverted, and his face in tears.
Tho' ev'ry softer wish were amply crown'd,
Love soon wou'd cease to smile where Fortune frown'd;
Then wou'd thy soul my fond consent deplore,
And blame what it sollicited before;
Thy own exhausted would reproach my truth,
And say I had undone thy blinded youth;
That I had damp'd Ambition's nobler flame,
Eclips'd thy talents, and obscur'd thy fame;
To madrigals and odes that wit confin'd,
That wou'd in senates or in courts have shin'd.
Gloriously active in thy country's cause,
Asserting freedom, and enacting laws.

Or say, at best, that negatively kind
You only mourn'd, and silently repin'd;
The jealous dæmons in my own fond breast
Wou'd all these thoughts incessantly suggest,
And all that sense must feel, tho' pity had supprest.
Yet added grief my apprehension fills
(If there can be addition to those ills)
When they shall cry, whose harsh reproof I dread,
“'Twas thy own deed, thy folly on thy head!”
Age knows not to allow for thoughtless youth,
Nor pities tenderness, nor honours truth;
Holds it romantic to confess a heart,
And say those virgins act a wiser a wiser part

Who hospitals and bedlams wou'd explore
To find the rich, and only dread the poor;
Who legal prostitutes, for int'rest sake,
Clodios and Timons to their bosoms take,
And, if avenging heav'n permit increase,
People the world with folly and disease.
Those, titles, deeds, and rent-rolls only wed,
Whilst the best bidder mounts the venal bed,
And the grave aunt and formal sire approve
This nuptial sale, this auction of their love.
But if regard to worth or sense be shown,
That poor degenerate child her friends disown,
Who dares to deviate by a virtuous choice
From her great name's hereditary vice.

These scenes my prudence ushers to my mind,
Of all the storms and quicksands I must find,
If I embark upon this summer sea,
Where Flatt'ry smooths, and Pleasure gilds the way.
Had our ill fate ne'er blown thy dang'rous flame
Beyond the limits of a friend's cold name,
I might upon that score thy heart receive,
And with that guiltless name my own deceive;
That commerce now in vain you recommend,
I dread the latent lover in the friend;
Of ignorance I want the poor excuse,
And know, I both must take, or both refuse.

Hear then the safe, the firm resolve I make,
Ne'er to encourage one I must forsake.

Whilst other maids a shameless path pursue,
Neither to int'rest, nor to honour true,
And proud to swell the triumph of their eyes,
Exult in love from lovers they despise;
Their maxims all revers'd I mean to prove,
And tho' I like the lover, quit the love.

EPISTLES in the Manner of Ovid.

MONIMIA to PHILOCLES. By the Same.

Since language never can describe my pain,
How can I hope to move when I complain?
But such is woman's frenzy in distress,
We love to plead, tho' hopeless of redress.

Perhaps, affecting ignorance, thou'lt say,
From whence these lines? whose message to convey?
Mock not my grief with that feign'd cold demand,
Too well you know the hapless writer's hand:
But if you force me to avow my shame,
Behold it prefac'd with Monimia's name.

Lost to the world, abandon'd and forlorn,
Expos'd to infamy, reproach, and scorn,

To mirth and comfort lost, and all for you,
Yet lost, perhaps, to your remembrance too,
How hard my lot! what refuge can I try,
Weary of life, and yet afraid to die!
Of hope, the wretch's last resort, bereft,
By friends, by kindred, by my lover, left.
Oh! frail dependence of confiding fools!
On lovers oaths, or friendship's sacred rules,
How weak in modern heats, too late I find,
Monimia's faln, and Philocles unkind!
To these reflections, each slow wearing day,
And each revolving night a constant prey,
Think what I suffer, nor ungentle hear
What madness dictates in my fond despair;
Grudge not this short relief, (too fast it flies)
Nor chide that weakness I myself despise.
One moment sure may be at least her due,
Who sacrific'd her all of life for you.
Without a frown this farewel then receive,
For, 'tis the last my hapless love shall give;
Nor this I wou'd, if reason cou'd command,
But what restriction reins a lover's hand?
Nor prudence, shame, nor pride, nor int'rest sways,
The hand implicitly the heart obeys:
Too well this maxim has my conduct shewn,
Too well that conduct to the world is known.

Oft have I writ, and often to the flame
Condemn'd this after-witness of my shame;

Oft in my cooler recollected thought,
Thy beauties, and my fondness half forgot,
(How short those intervals for reason's aid!)
Thus to myself in anguish have I said.

Thy vain remonstrance, foolish maid, give o'er,
Who act the wrong, can ne'er that wrong deplore.
Then sanguine hopes again delusive reign,
I form'd thee melting, as I tell my pain.
If not of rock thy flinty heart is made,
Nor tygers nurs'd thee in the desart shade,
Let me at least thy cold compassion prove,
That slender sustenance of greedy love:
Tho' no return my warmer wishes find,
Be to the wretch, tho' not the mistress, kind;
Nor whilst I court my melancholy state,
Forget 'twas love, and thee, that wrought my fate.
Without restraint habituate to range,
The paths of pleasure; can I bear this change?
Doom'd from the world unwilling to retire,
In bloom of life, and warm with young desire,
In lieu of roofs with regal splendor gay,
Condemn'd in distant wilds to drag the day;
Where beasts of prey maintain their savage court,
Or human brutes (the worst of brutes) resort.
Yes, yes, the change I cou'd unsighing see,
For none I mourn, but what I find in thee,
There center all my woes, thy heart estrang'd,
I weep my lover, not my fortune, chang'd;

Bless'd with thy presence, I could all forget,
Nor gilded palaces in huts regret,
But exil'd thence, superfluous is the rest,
Each place the same, my hell is in my breast;
To pleasure dead, and living but to pain,
My only sense to suffer, and complain.

As all my wrongs distressful I repeat,
Say, can thy pulse with equal cadence beat?
Can'st thou know peace? is conscience mute within?
That upright delegate for secret sin;
Is nature so extinguish'd in thy heart,
That not one spark remains to take my part?
Not one repentant throb, one grateful sigh?
Thy breast unruffled, and unwet thy eye?
Thou cool betrayer, temperate in ill!
Thou nor remorse, nor thought humane can'st feel:
Nature has form'd thee of the rougher kind,
And education more debas'd thy mind,
Born in an age when guilt and fraud prevail,
When Justice sleeps, and Int'rest holds the scale;
Thy loose companions a licentious crew,
Most to each other, all to us untrue,
Whom chance, or habit mix, but rarely choice,
Nor leagu'd in friendship, but in social vice,
Who indigent of honour, or of shame,
Glory in crimes which others blush to name;
By right or wrong disdaining to be mov'd,
Unprincipled, unloving, and unlov'd.

The fair who trusts their prostituted vows,
If not their falshood, still their boasts expose;
Nor knows the wisest to elude the harm,
Ev'n she whose prudence shuns the tinsel charm
They know to slander, though they fail to warm:
They make her languish in fictitious flame,
Affix some specious slander on her name,
And baffled by her virtue, triumph o'er her fame.

These are the leaders of thy blinded youth,
These vile seducers laugh'd thee out of truth;
Whose scurril jests all solemn ties profane,
Or Friendship's band, or Hymen's sacred chain;
Morality as weakness they upbraid,
Nor e'en revere Religion's hallow'd head;
Alike they spurn divine and human laws,
And treat the honest like the christian cause.
Curse on that tongue whose vile pernicious art
Delights the ear but to corrupt the heart,
That takes advantage of the chearful hour,
When weaken'd Virtue bends to Nature's pow'r,
And would the goodness of the soul efface,
To substitute dishonour in her place.

With such you lose the day in false delights,
In lewd debauch you revel out the nights,
(O fatal commerce to Monimia's peace!)
Their arguments convince because they please;
Whilst sophistry for reason they admit,
And wander dazzled by the glare of wit,

Wit that on ill a specious lustre throws,
And in false colours ev'ry object shows,
That gilds the wrong, depreciating the right,
And hurts the judgment, while it feasts the sight;
So in the prism to the deluded eye
Each pictur'd trifle takes a rainbow dye,
With borrow'd charms the shining prospect glows,
And truth revers'd the faithless mirror shows,
Inverted scenes in bright confusion lie,
The lawns impending o'er the nether sky;
No just, no real images we meet,
But all the gaudy vision is deceit.

Oft I revolve in this distracted mind
Each word, each look, that spoke my charmer kind;
But oh! how dear their memory I pay!
What pleasures past can present cares allay?
Of all I love for ever dispossess'd:
Ah! what avails to think I once was bless'd?
Hard disposition of unequal fate!
Mix'd are our joys, and transient are their date;
Nor can reflection bring them back again,
Yet brings an after-sting to ev'ry pain.

Thy fatal letters, oh immoral youth,
Those perjur'd pledges of fictitious truth,
Dear as they were no second joy afford,
My cred'lous heart once leap'd at ev'ry word,
My glowing bosom throbb'd with thick-heav'd sighs,
And floods of rapture gush'd into my eyes:

When now repeated (for thy theft was vain,
Each treasur'd syllable my thoughts retain)
Far other passions rule, and diff'rent care,
My joys and grief, my transports and despair.

Why dost thou mock the ties of constant love?
But half its joys the faithless ever prove,
They only taste the pleasures they receive,
When sure the noblest is in those we give.
Acceptance is the heav'n which mortals know,
But 'tis the bliss of angels to bestow.
Oh! emulate, my love, that task divine,
Be thou that angel, and that heav'n be mine.
Yes, yet relent, yet intercept my fate:
Alas! I rave, and sue for new deceit.
As soon the dead shall from the grave return,
As love extinguish'd with new ardor burn.
Oh! that I dar'd to act a Roman part,
And stab thy image in this faithful heart,
Where riveted for life secure you reign,
A cruel inmate, author of my pain:
But coward-like irresolute I wait
Time's tardy aid, nor dare to rush on fate;
Perhaps may linger on life's latest stage,
Survey thy cruelties, and fall by age:
No—grief shall swell my sails, and speed me o'er
(Despair my pilot) to that quiet shore
Where I can trust, and thou betray no more.

Might I but once again behold thy charms,
Might I but breathe my last in those dear arms,
On that lov'd face but fix my closing eye,
Permitted where I might not live to die,
My soften'd fate I wou'd accuse no more;
But fate has no such happiness in store.
'Tis past, 'tis done—what gleam of hope behind,
When I can ne'er be false, nor thou be kind?
Why then this care?—'tis weak—'tis vain—farewel—
At that last word what agonies I feel!
I faint—I die—remember I was true—
'Tis all I ask—eternally—adieu!—

FLORA to POMPEY.

By the Same.

Pompey, when he was very young, fell in love with Flora, a Roman courtezan, who was so very beautiful that the Romans had her painted to adorn the temple of Castor and Pollux. Geminius (Pompey's friend) afterwards fell in love with her too; but she, prepossessed with a passion for Pompey, would not listen to Geminius. Pompey, in compassion to his friend, yielded him his mistress, which Flora took so much to heart, that she fell dangerously ill upon it; and in that sickness is supposed to write the following letter to Pompey.

Ere death these closing eyes for ever shade,
(That death thy cruelties have welcome made)
Receive, thou yet lov'd man! this one adieu,
This last farewel to happiness and you.
My eyes o'erflow with tears, my trembling hand
Can scarce the letters form, or pen command:
The dancing paper swims before my sight,
And scarce myself can read the words I write.

Think you behold me in this lost estate,
And think yourself the author of my fate:
How vast the change! your Flora's now become
The gen'ral pity, not the boast of Rome.
This form, a pattern to the sculptor's art,
This face, the idol once of Pompey's heart,

(Whose pictur'd beauties Rome thought fit to place
The sacred temples of her gods to grace)
Are charming now no more; the bloom is fled,
The lillies languid, and the roses dead.
Soon shall some hand the glorious work deface,
Where Grecian pencils tell what Flora was:
No longer my resemblance they impart,
They lost their likeness, when I lost thy heart.

Oh! that those hours could take their turn again,
When Pompey, lab'ring with a jealous pain,
His Flora thus bespoke: “Say, my dear love!
“Shall all these rivals unsuccessful prove?
“In vain, for ever, shall the Roman youth
“Envy my happiness, and tempt thy truth?
“Shall neither tears nor pray'rs thy pity move?
“Ah! give not pity, 'tis akin to love.
“Would Flora were not fair in such excess,
“That I might fear, tho' not adore her less.”

Fool that I was, I sought to ease that grief,
Nor knew indiff'rence follow'd the relief:
Experience taught the cruel truth too late,
I never dreaded, till I found my fate.
'Twas mine to ask if Pompey's self could hear,
Unmov'd, his rival's unsuccessful pray'r;
To make thee swear he'd not thy pity move;
Alas! such pity is no kin to love.

'Twas thou thyself (ungrateful as thou art!)
Bade me unbend the rigour of my heart:

You chid my faith, reproach'd my being true,
(Unnat'ral thought!) and labour'd to subdue
The constancy my soul maintain'd for you;
To other arms your mistress you condemn'd,
Too cool a lover, and too warm a friend.

How could'st thou thus my lavish heart abuse,
To ask the only thing it could refuse?
Nor yet upbraid me, Pompey, what I say,
For 'tis my merit that I can't obey;
Yet this alledg'd against me as a fault,
Thy rage fomented, and my ruin wrought.
Just gods! what tye, what conduct can prevail
O'er fickle man, when truth like mine can fail?

Urge not, to gloss thy crime, the name of friend,
We know how far those sacred laws extend;
Since other heroes have not blush'd to prove
How weak all passions when oppos'd to love:
Nor boast the virtuous conflict of thy heart
When gen'rous pity took Geminius' part;
'Tis all heroic fraud, and Roman art.
Such flights of honour might amuse the crowd,
But by a mistress ne'er can be allow'd;
Keep for the senate, and the grave debate,
That infamous hypocrisy of state:
There words are virtue, and your trade deceit.

No riddle is thy change, nor hard t'explain;
Flora was fond, and Pompey was a man:

No longer then a specious tale pretend,
Nor plead fictitious merit to your friend:
By nature false, you follow'd her decree,
Nor gen'rous are to him, but false to me.

You say you melted at Geminius' tears,
You say you felt his agonizing cares:
Gross artifice, that this from him could move,
And not from Flora, whom you say you love:
You could not bear to hear your rival sigh,
Yet bear unmov'd to see your mistress die.
Inhuman hypocrite! nor thus can he
My wrongs, and my distress, obdurate, see.
He, who receiv'd, condemns the gift you made,
And joins with me the giver to upbraid,
Forgetting he's oblig'd, and mourning I'm betray'd.
He loves too well that cruel gift to use,
Which Pompey lov'd too little to refuse:
Fain would he call my vagrant lord again,
But I the kind ambassador restrain;
I scorn to let another take my part,
And to myself will owe or lose thy heart.

Can nothing e'er rekindle love in thee?
Can nothing e'er extinguish it in me?
That I could tear thee from this injur'd breast!
And where you gave my person, give the rest,
At once to grant and punish thy request.
That I could place thy worthy rival there!
No second insult need my fondness fear;

He views not Flora with her Pompey's eyes,
He loves like me, he doats, despairs, and dies.

Come to my arms, thou dear deserving youth!
Thou prodigy of man! thou man with truth!
For him, I will redouble every care,
To please, for him, these faded charms repair;
To crown his vows, and sharpen thy despair.

Oh! 'tis illusion all! and idle rage!
No second passion can this heart engage;
And shortly, Pompey, shall thy Flora prove,
Death may dissolve, but nothing change her love.

ARISBE to MARIUS Junior.

From Fontenelle. By the Same.

When Marius was expelled from Rome by Sylla's faction, and retired into Africa, his son (who accompany'd him) fell into the hands of Hiempsal king of Numidia, who kept him prisoner. One of the mistresses of that king fell in love with Marius junior, and was so generous to contrive and give him his liberty, though by that means she sacrificed her love for ever. 'Twas after he had rejoin'd his father, that she writ him the following letter.

I

Of all I valued, all I lov'd, bereft,
Say, has my heart this little comfort left?
That you the mem'ry of its truth retain,
And think with grateful pity on my pain?

II

Tho' but with life my sorrows can have end,
(For death alone can join me to my friend)
Yet think not I repent I set you free,
I mourn your absence, not your liberty.

III

Before my Marius left Numidia's coast,
Each day I saw him; scarce an hour was lost:
Now months and years must pass, nay life shall prove
But one long absence from the man I love.

IV

Painful reflection! poyson to my mind!
Was it but mortal too, it would be kind:
But mad with grief I search the palace round,
And in that madness dream you're to be found.

V

Would'st thou believe it? to those walls I fly
Where thou wert captive held; there frantick cry,
These fetters sure my vagrant's flight restrain'd;
Alas! these setters I myself unchain'd.

VI

The live-long day I mourn, I loath the light,
And wait impatient each returning night:
What, tho' the horrid gloom augment my grief?
'Tis grateful still, for I disclaim relief.

VII

That coz'ner hope intrudes not on my woe;
One only interval my sorrows know;
When dreams, the kind reversers of my pain,
Bring back my charming fugitive again.

VIII

Yet there's a grief surpassing all the rest;
A jealous dæmon whispers in my breast,
Marius was false, for liberty alone
The show of love the hypocrite put on.

IX

Then I reflect (ah! would I could forget!)
How much your thoughts on war and Rome were set.
How little passion did that conduct prove!
Too strong thy reason, but too weak thy love.

X

Thy sword, 'tis true, a father's cause demands;
But 'twas a mistress gave it to thy hands:
To love, and duty just, give each their part,
His be the arm, and mine be all thy heart.

XI

But what avail these thoughts? fond wretch, give o'er!
Marius, or false, or true, is thine no more:
Since Fate has cast the lot, and we must part,
Why should I wish to think I had his heart?

XII

Yes: let me cherish that remembrance still;
That thought alone shall soften ev'ry ill;
To tell my soul, his love, his truth was such,
All was his due, nor have I done too much.

XIII

Deceitful comfort! let me not persuade
My cred'lous heart its fondness was repaid;
It makes my soul with double anguish mourn
Those joys, which never, never must return.

XIV

Perhaps ev'n you what most I wish oppose,
And in the Roman all the lover lose:
I'm a Numidian, and your soul disdains
To bear th'inglorious weight of foreign chains.

XV

Can any climate then so barb'rous prove,
To stand excluded from the laws of Love?
His empire's universal, unconfin'd,
His proxy beauty, and his slaves mankind.

XVI

Nor am I a Numidian but by name,
For I can int'rest for my love disclaim:
My virtue shows what 'twas the gods design'd,
By chance on Africk's clay they stamp'd a Roman mind.

XVII

Not all the heroes which your Rome can boast,
So much for fame, as I for you have lost:
Yourself I lost: oh! grateful, then confess,
My tryal greater, tho' my glory less.

XVIII

Yes, partial gods! inflicters of my care!
Be witness what I felt, what grief, what fear!
When full of stifled woes the night he fled,
No sigh I dar'd to breathe, no tear to shed.

XIX

Whilst men of faith approv'd, a chosen crew,
Firm to their trust, and to their mistress true,
With care too punctual my commands obey,
And in one freight my life and thee convey.

XX

The harder task was mine; condemn'd to bear
With brow serene, my agonizing care;
To mix in idle talk, to force a smile,
A king and jealous lover to beguile.

XXI

Think in that dreadful interval of fate,
All I held dear, thy safety in debate,
Think what I suffer'd, whilst my heart afraid
Suggests a thousand times, that's all betray'd.

XXII

A thousand times revolving in my mind
The doubtful chance; oh! Love! said I, be kind:
Propitious to my scheme, thy vot'ry aid,
And be my fondness by success repaid.

XXIII

Now bolder grown, with sanguine hopes elate,
My fancy represents thy smiling fate;
The guards deceiv'd, and ev'ry danger o'er,
The winds already waft him from the shore.

XXIV

These pleasing images anew impart
Life to my eyes, and gladness to my heart;
Dispel the gloomy fears that cloud my face,
And charm the little flutterer to peace.

XXV

But now the king, or tasteless to my charms,
Or weary of an absent mistress' arms,
His own apartment seeks, and grateful rest;
That courted stranger to the careful breast.

XXVI

Whilst I, by hopes and fears alternate sway'd,
Impatient ask the slaves if I'm obey'd.
'Tis done, they cry'd, and struck me with despair;
For what I long'd to know, I dy'd to hear.

XXVII

Fantastick turn of a distracted mind;
I blam'd the gods for having been too kind;
Curs'd the success they granted to my vows,
And this assistant hand that fill'd my woes.

XXVIII

Such was my frenzy in that hour of care,
And such th'injustice of my bold despair;
That even those, ungrateful I upbraid,
Whose fatal diligence my will obey'd.

XXIX

Scarce, Marius, did thyself escape my rage;
(Most lov'd of men!) when fears of black presage
Describe thy heart so fond of liberty,
It never gave one parting throb for me.

XXX

At every step you should have turn'd your eye,
Dropt a regretful tear, and heav'd a sigh;
The nature of the grace I shew'd was such,
You not deserv'd it, if it pleas'd too much.

XXXI

A lover would have linger'd as he fled,
And oft in anguish to himself have said,
Farewel for ever! Ah! yet more he'd done,
A lover never would have fled alone.

XXXII

To force me from a hated rival's bed,
Why comes not Marius at an army's head?
Oh! did thy heart but wish to see that day,
'Twould all my past, and future woes o'er-pay.

XXXIII

But vain are all these hopes: preserve thy breast
From falshood only, I forgive the rest:
Too happy, if no envy'd rival boast
Those joys Arisbe for her Marius lost.

ROXANA to USBECK.

From Les Lettres Persannes. By the Same.

Roxana, one of Usbeck's wives, was found (whilst he was in Europe) in bed with her lover, whom she had privately let into the seraglio. The guardian eunuch who discovered them, had the man murdered on the spot, and her close guarded till be received instructions from his master how to dispose of her. During that interval she swallowed poyson, and is supposed to write the following letter whilst she is dying.

Think not I write my innocence to prove,
To sue for pity, or awake thy love:
No mean defence expect, or abject pray'rs;
Thou know'st no mercy, and I know no tears:
I laugh at all thy vengeance has decreed,
Avow the fact, and glory in the deed.

Yes, tyrant! I deceiv'd thy spies and thee:
Pleas'd in oppression, and in bondage free:
The rigid agents of thy cruel laws
By gold I won to aid my juster cause:
With dextrous skill eluded all thy care,
And acted more than jealousy could fear:
To wanton bow'rs this prison-house I turn'd,
And bless'd that absence which you thought I mourn'd.

But short those joys allow'd by niggard Fate,
Yet so refin'd, so exquisitely great,
That their excess compensated their date.

I die: already in each burning vein
I feel the poys'nous draught, and bless the pain:
For what is life unless its joys we prove?
And where is joy, depriv'd of what we love?

Yet, ere I die, this justice I have paid
To my dear murder'd lover's injur'd shade:
Those sacrilegious instruments of power,
Who wrought that ruin these sad eyes deplore,
Already with their blood their crimes attone,
And for his life have sacrific'd their own.

Thee, tho' restraint and absence may defend
From my revenge, my curses still attend:
Despair like mine, barbarian! be thy part,
Remorse afflict, and sorrow sting thy heart.

Nor think this hate commencing in my breast,
Tho' prudence long its latent force suppress'd;
I knew those wrongs that I was forc'd to bear,
And curs'd those chains Injustice made me wear.

For could'st thou hope Roxana to deceive
With idle tales, which only fools believe?
Poor abject souls in superstition bred,
In ign'rance train'd, by prejudice misled;
Whom hireling dervises by proxy teach
From those whose false prerogative they preach.

100

Didst thou imagine me so weak of mind,
Because I murmur'd not, I ne'er repin'd,
But hugg'd my chain, and thought my jaylor kind?
That willingly those laws I e'er obey'd,
Which Pride invented, and Oppression made?
And whilst self-licens'd through the world you rove,
To quicken appetite by change in love;
Each passion sated, and each wish possess'd
That Lust can urge, or Fancy can suggest:
That I should mourn thy loss with fond regret,
Weep the misfortune, and the wrong forget?

Could I believe that heav'n this beauty gave,
(Thy transient pleasure, and thy lasting slave;)
Indu'd with reason, only to fulfil
The harsh commands of thy capricious will?
No, Usbeck, no, my soul disdain'd those laws;
And tho' I wanted pow'r t'assert my cause,
My right I knew; and still those pleasures sought,
Which Justice warranted, and Nature taught:
On Custom's senseless precepts I refin'd,
I weigh'd what heav'n, I knew what man design'd,
And form'd by her own rules my free-born mind.

Thus whilst this wretched body own'd thy pow'r,
Doom'd, unredress'd, its hardships to deplore;
My soul subservient to herself alone,
And Reason independent on her throne,
Contemn'd thy dictates, and obey'd their own.

101

Yet thus far to my conduct thanks are due,
At least I condescended to seem true;
Endeavour'd still my sentiments to hide,
Indulg'd thy vanity, and sooth'd thy pride.
Tho' this submission to a tyrant paid,
Whom not my duty, but my fears obey'd,
If rightly weigh'd, would more deserve thy blame,
Who call it Virtue, but prophane her name:
For to the world I should have own'd that love,
Which all impartial judges must approve:
You urg'd a right to tyrannize my heart,
Which he solliciting, assail'd by art,
Whilst I, impatient of the name of slave,
To force refus'd, what I to merit gave.

Oft, as thy slaves this wretched body led
To the detested pleasures of thy bed;
In those soft moments, consecrate to joy,
Which extacy and transport should employ;
Clasp'd in your arms, you wonder'd still to find
So cold my kisses, so compos'd my mind:
But had thy cheated eyes discern'd aright,
You'd found aversion, where you sought delight.

Not that my soul incapable of love,
No charms could warm, no tenderness could move;
For him, whose love my every thought possess'd,
A fiercer passion fill'd this constant breast,
Than truth e'er felt, or falshood e'er possess'd.

102

This stile unusual to thy pride appears,
For truth's a stranger to the tyrant's ears;
But what have I to manage or to dread?
Nor threats alarm, nor insults hurt the dead;
No wrongs they feel, no miseries they find;
Cares are the legacies we leave behind:
In the calm grave no Usbecks we deplore,
No tyrant husband, no oppressive pow'r.
Alas! I faint—Death intercepts the rest:
The venom'd drug is busy in my breast:
Each nerve's unstrung: a mist obscures the day:
My senses, strength, and ev'n my hate decay:
Tho' rage awhile the ebbing spirits stay'd,
'Tis past—they sink beneath the transient aid.
Take then, inhuman wretch! my last farewel;
Pain be thy portion here, hereafter, hell:
And when our prophet shall my fate decree,
Be any curse my punishment, but thee.

103

EPILOGUE design'd for Sophonisba, And to have been spoken by Mrs. Oldfield.

By the Same.

Before you sign poor Sophonisba's doom,
In her behalf petitioner I come;
Not but our author knows, whate'er I say,
That I could find objections to his play.
This double marriage for her country's good,
I told him never would be understood,
And that ye all would say, 'twas flesh and blood.
Had Carthage only been in madam's head,
Her champion never had been in her—bed:
For could the ideot think a husband's name
Would make him quit his interest, friends and fame;
That he would risque a kingdom for a wife,
And act dependent in a place for life?
Yet when stern Cato shall condemn the fair,
Whilst publick good she thunder'd in your ear,
If private interest had a little share.
You know, she acted not against the laws
Of those old-fashion'd times; that in her cause

104

Old Syphax could no longer make a stand,
And Massinissa woo'd her sword in hand.
But did not take the way to whet that sword;
Heroes fight coldly when wives give the word.
She should have kept him keen, employ'd her charms
Not as a bribe, but to reward his arms;
Have told him when Rome yielded she would yield,
And sent him fresh, not yawning, to the field.
She talk'd it well to rouse him to the fight,
But like Penelope, when out of sight,
All she had done by day, undid by night.
Is this your wily Carthaginian kind?
No English woman had been half so kind.
What from a husband's hand could she expect
But ratsbane, or that common fate, neglect
Perhaps some languishing soft fair may say,
Poyson's so shocking—but consider pray,
She fear'd the Roman, he the marriage chain;
All other means to free them both were vain.
Let none then Massinissa's conduct blame,
He first his love consulted, then his fame.
And if the fair one with too little art,
Whilst seemingly she play'd a patriot-part,
Was secretly the dupe of her own heart;
Forgive a fault she strove so well to hide,
Nor be compassion to her fate deny'd,
Who liv'd unhappily, and greatly dy'd.

105

An Imitation of the Eleventh Ode of the First Book of Horace.

By the Same.

Forbear, my dear Stephen, with a fruitless desire
Into truths which are better conceal'd to enquire;
Perhaps many years are allow'd us by Fate,
Or next winter perhaps is the last of their date:
Let the credulous fools whom astrologers cheat,
Exult or despond, as they vary deceit;
Who anticipate care, their own pleasure destroy,
And invite disappointment who build upon joy;
All ills unforeseen we the easiest endure,
What avails to foresee, unless foresight could cure?
And from ills by their art how can wretches be freed,
When that art must be false, or those ills be decreed?
From reflection and hope little comfort we find,
To possession alone let thy thoughts be confin'd;
To-day's all the treasure poor mortals can boast,
For to-morrow's not gained, and yesterday's lost;
Even now whilst I write, time steals on our youth,
And a moment's cut off from my friendship and truth:
Then seize the swift blessing, enjoy the dear now,
And take, not expect, what hereafter 'll bestow.

106

A LOVE LETTER.

By the Same.

What shall I say to fix thy wav'ring mind,
To chase thy doubts, and force thee to be kind?
What weight of argument can turn the scale,
If intercession from a lover fail?
By what shall I conjure thee to obey
This tender summons, nor prolong thy stay?
If unabated in this constant breast
That passion burns which once thy vows profess'd;
If absence has not chill'd the languid flame,
Its ardour and its purity the same;
Indulge those transports, and no more controul
The dictates of thy fond consenting soul;
By no vain scruple be thy purpose sway'd,
And only Love implicitly obey'd:
Let inclination this debate decide,
Nor be thy prudence, but thy heart thy guide:
But real prudence never can oppose
What Love suggests, and Gratitude avows:
The warm dear raptures which thy bosom move,
'Tis virtue to indulge, 'tis wisdom to improve:
For think how few the joys allow'd by Fate,
How mix'd the cup, how short their longest date!

107

How onward still the stream of pleasure flows!
That no reflux the rapid current knows!
Not ev'n thy charms can bribe the ruthless hand
Of rigid Time, to stay his ebbing sand;
Fair as thou art, that beauty must decay;
The night of age succeeds the brightest day:
That check where Nature's sweetest garden blows,
Her whitest lily, and her warmest rose;
Those eyes, those meaning ministers of Love,
Who, what thy lips can only utter, prove;
These must resign their lustre, those their bloom,
And find with meaner charms one common doom:
Pass but a few short years, this change must be;
Nor one less dreadful shalt thou mourn in me:
For tho' no chance can alienate my flame,
While thine to feed the lamp, shall burn the same,
Yet shall the stream of years abate that fire,
And cold esteem succeed to warm desire:
Then on thy breast unraptur'd shall I dwell,
Nor feel a joy beyond what I can tell.
Or say, should sickness antedate that woe,
And intercept what Time would else allow;
If pain should pall my taste to all thy charms,
Or Death himself should tear me from thy arms;
How would'st thou then regret with fruitless truth,
The precious squander'd hours of health and youth?
Come then, my love, nor trust the future day,
Live whilst we can, be happy whilst we may:

108

For what is life unless its joys we prove?
And what is happiness but mutual love?
Our time is wealth no frugal hand can store,
All our possession is the present hour,
And he who spares to use it, ever poor.
The golden now is all that we can boast;
And that (like snow) at once is grasp'd and lost.
Haste, wing thy passage then, no more delay,
But to these eyes their sole delight convey.
Not thus I languish'd for thy virgin charms,
When first surrender'd to these eager arms,
When first admitted to that heav'n, thy breast,
To mine I strain'd that charming foe to rest;
How leaps my conscious heart, whilst I retrace
The dear idea of that strict embrace?
When on thy bosom quite entranc'd I lay,
And love unsated the short night away;
Whilst half reluctant you, and half resign'd,
Amidst fears, wishes, pain and pleasure join'd,
Now holding off, now growing to my breast,
By turns reprov'd me, and by turns caress'd.
Oh! how remembrance throbs in every vein!
I pant, I sicken for that scene again;
My senses ach, I can no word command,
And the pen totters in my trembling hand.
Farewel, thou only joy on earth I know,
And all that man can taste of heav'n below.

109

VERSES to Dr. George Rogers, on his taking the Degree of Doctor in Physic at Padua, in the Year 1664.

By Mr. WALLER.

When as of old the earth's bold children strove,
With hills on hills, to scale the throne of Jove;
Pallas and Mars stood by their sovereign's side,
And their bright arms in his defence employ'd:
While the wise Phœbus, Hermes, and the rest,
Who joy in peace and love the Muses best,
Descending from their so distemper'd seat,
Our groves and meadows chose for their retreat.
There first Apollo tried the various use
Of herbs, and learn'd the virtue of their juice,
And fram'd that art, to which who can pretend
A juster title than our noble friend,
Whom the like tempest drives from his abode,
And like employment entertains abroad?
This crowns him here; and, in the bays so earn'd,
His country's honour is no less concern'd;
Since it appears, not all the English rave,
To ruin bent: some study how to save.
And as Hippocrates did once extend
His sacred art, whole cities to amend;

110

So we, brave friend, suppose that thy great skill,
Thy gentle mind, and fair example will,
At thy return, reclaim our frantic isle,
Their spirits calm; and peace again shall smile.

Edm. Waller, Anglus Patavii, typis Pauli Frambotti.

This little poem was, among several others on the same occasion, printed by Dr. Rogers, with his inaugural exercise at Padua; and afterwards in the same manner re-published by him at London, together with his Harveian oration before the college of physicians, in the year 1682; while Mr. Waller was yet living.

VIRGIL's Tomb. Naples 1741.

------ Tenues ignavo Pollio chordas
Pulso; Maroneique redens in margine templi
Suæ animum, & magni tumulis adcanto magistri.
Stat.

I came, great bard, to gaze upon thy shrine,
And o'er thy relicks wait th'inspiring Nine:
For sure, I said, where Maro's ashes sleep,
The weeping Muses must their vigils keep:
Still o'er their fav'rite's monument they mourn,
And with poetic trophies grace his urn:
Have placed the shield and martial trumpet here;
The shepherd's pipe, and rural honours there:
Fancy had deck'd the consecrated ground,
And scatter'd never-fading roses round.
And now my bold romantic thought aspires
To hear the echo of celestial lyres;
Then catch some sound to bear delighted home,
And boast I learnt the verse at Virgil's tomb;
Or stretch'd beneath thy myrtle's fragrant shade,
With dreams extatic hov'ring o'er my head,

111

See forms august, and laurel'd ghosts ascend,
And with thyself, perhaps, the long procession end.

I came—but soon the phantoms disappear'd;
Far other scenes, than wanton Hope had rear'd;
No faery rites, no funeral pomp I found;
No trophied walls with wreaths of laurel round:
A mean unhonour'd ruin faintly show'd
The spot where once thy mausoleum stood:
Hardly the form remain'd; a nodding dome
O'ergrown with moss is now all Virgil's tomb.
'Twas such a scene as gave a kind relief
To memory, in sweetly-pensive grief:
Gloomy, unpleasing images it wrought;
No musing, soft complacency of thought:
For Time had canker'd all, and worn away
Ev'n the last, mournful graces of decay:
Oblivion, hateful goddess, sate before,
And cover'd with her dusky wings the door:
No silver harps I heard, no Muse's voice,
But birds obscene in horrid notes rejoice:
Fancy recoil'd, and with his tinsel train,
Forsook the chearless scene; no more remain
The warm ambitious hopes of airy youth;
Severe Reflection came, and frowning Truth:
Away each glitt'ring gay idea fled,
And bade a melancholy train succeed,
That form'd, or seem'd to form, a mournful call
In feeble echoes mutt'ring round the wall.

112

Seek not the Muses here! th'affrighted maids
Have fled Parthenope's polluted shades:
Her happy shores, the seats of joy and ease,
Their fav'rite mansions once, no longer please:
No longer, as of old, in transport lost,
The sisters rove along th'enchanted coast;
They turn with horror from each much-lov'd stream,
And loath the fields that were their darling theme:
The tuneful names themselves once fondly gave
To ev'ry swelling hill, and mossy cave,
So pleasing then, are only heard with sighs;
And each sad echo bids their sorrow rise.

Yet Nature smiles, as when their Virgil sung,
Nor 'midst a fairer scene his lyre was strung;
Still bloom the sweets of his elysium here,
And the same charms in ev'ry grove appear.
But ah! in vain indulgent suns prevail;
Health and delight in ev'ry balmy gale
Are wafted now in vain: small comfort bring
To weeping eyes the beauties of the spring.
To groaning slaves those fragrant meads belong,
Where Tully dictated, and Maro sung.
Long since, alas! those golden days are flown,
Where here each Science wore its proper crown;
Pale Tyranny had laid their altars low,
And rent the laurel from the Muse's brow:
What wonder then 'midst such a scene to see
The Arts expire with bleeding Liberty?

113

Pensive and sad, each fair angelic form
Droops, like the wearied dove beneath a storm:
Far other views the poet's thought engage,
Than the warm glories of th'Augustan age.
Can mis'ry bid th'imagination glow?
Or genius brighten 'midst domestic woe?
To see desponding wretches round him pine,
Horace had wept beneath the Alban vine.
Sad sits the bard amidst his country's tears,
And sighs, regardless of the wreaths he wears.
Did ever Want and Famine sweetly sing?
The fetter'd hand uncouthly strikes the string.
Lo! stern Oppression lifts her iron rod,
And Ruin waits th'imperious harpy's nod:
Black Desolation, and destructive War,
Rise at the signal, and attend her car.
From the dire pomp th'affrighted shepherd flies,
And leaves his flock the rav'nous soldier's prize.
Where now are all the nymphs that blest the plains?
Where, the full chorus of contented swains?
The songs of love, of liberty and peace,
Are heard no more; the dance and tabor cease:
To the soft oaten pipe, and past'ral reed,
The din of arms, and clarion's blast succeed:
Dire shapes appear in ev'ry op'ning glade;
And Furies howl where once the Muses stray'd?

Is this the queen of realms, for arts renown'd?
This captive maid, that weeps upon the ground!

114

Alas! how chang'd!—dejected and forlorn!
The mistress of the world become the scorn!
Around stand Rapine, Horror and Despair;
And Ign'rance, dark ally of barb'rous War:
She, at th'usurping Vandal's dread command,
Displays her gloomy banner o'er the land:
Beneath its chilling shade neglected lies
Each sister Art; and unlamented dies.
Lo! Sculpture lets her useless chissel fall;
While on some ruin'd temple's broken wall
Sad Architecture sits; and sees with shame
Mis-shapen piles usurp her injur'd name:
Music and Verse, unhappy twins! belong
To antique Masque, and weak unmanly Song:
The gath'ring deluge swells on ev'ry side,
And monkish Superstition swells the tide.
By the resistless torrent overborn
Floats ev'ry Virtue, from its basis torn:
Fair Learning droops, the sick'ning Arts decay;
And ev'ry laurel fades, and ev'ry bay.
All is confus'd, no traces now are seen
To shew what wretched Italy has been.

Thus once Vesuvius, crown'd with circling wood,
Parthenope, thy beauteous neighbour stood:
Perpetual Spring cloath'd the fair mountain's side;
And what is now thy terror, was thy pride.
Sudden th'imprison'd flames burst forth; and laid
On smoaky heaps each shrieking Dryad's shade:

115

Now deep in ashes sinks the myrtle bow'r,
O'er beds of flow'rs sulphureous torrents roar;
And exil'd demi-gods their ruin'd seats deplore.

The LINK. A Ballad.

Ye ladies that live in the city or town,
Fair Winton or Alresford so fine and so gay;
And ye neat country lasses in clean linen gown,
As neat and as blithe and as pretty as they:
Come away strait to Ovington, for you can't think
What a charming new walk there is made on the Link.

Look how lovely the prospect, the meadows how green,
The fields and the woods, in the vale or the hill:
The trees, and the cotage that peeps out between,
The clear stream that runs bubbling in many a rill,
That will show your fair face as you stand on the brink,
And murmurs most sweetly all under the Link.

How pleasant the morning, how clear the blue sky,
How pure the fresh air, and how healthy the place!
Your heart goes a pit-a-pat light as a fly,
And the blood circles briskly, and glows in your face:
Wou'd you paint your fair cheeks with the rose and the pink?
Throw your washes away, take a walk on the Link.

116

After dinner the 'squire ere the ladies retreat,
Marches off with some friends that will ply the brisk glass;
Gives us liquor enough, and a good pleasant seat,
And damns your fine taste, and your finical lass:
Al fresco, my lads, we'll carouse and we'll drink,
Take your bottle each man, and away to the Link.

Not so gentle Collin, whom love holds in thrall,
To Molly he steals all in silence away;
And when nought can be heard but the rude water-fall,
And the woodbine breathes sweetest at close of the day,
He takes her soft hand, and he tips her the wink,
Come, my dear, let us take a cool walk on the Link.

But, O ye fair maidens, be sure have a care,
Nor lay yourselves open to love's cruel dart;
Of the hour and the place and the season beware,
And guard well each passage that leads to your heart;
Sly Cupid will steal in at some little chink,
If you walk in the evening too late on the Link.

Ye poets so lofty, who love to retire
From the noise of the town to the stream and the wood;
Who in epics and tragics, with marvellous fire,
Utter sounds by mere mortals not well understood:
Here mouthe your loud strain, and here ply pen and ink,
Quit Parnassus and Pindus, and come to the Link.

117

And come you, who for thought are at little expence,
Who indite gentle pastoral, ballad, or song;
You see with smooth numbers, and not too much sense,
How the verses run easy and glibly along;
And the rhime at the close how it falls with a clink,
So kind are the Muses that sport on the Link.

THE SQUIRE of DAMES. A POEM. In SPENSER's Stile.

[_]

ADVERTISEMENT.

In the seventh Canto of the Legend of Chastity, in Spenser's Fairy Queen, the Squire of Dames tells Satyrane, that by order of his mistress Columbel (after having served the ladies for a year) he was sent out a second time, not to return till he could find three hundred women incapable of yielding to any temptation. The bad success he met with in the course of the three years, which is slightly touch'd upon by Spenser, is the foundation of the following poem.

118

PROLOGUE.

I

Hard is the heart that never knew to love,
Ne felt the pleasing anguish of desire.
Ye British maids, more fair than Venus' dove,
For you alone I tune my humble lyre;
Adopt me, nymphs, receive me in your quire,
Make me your bard; for that is all my care:
Then shall I envy not that aged sire,
Who doth for court his annual song prepare:
I lever myrtle wreath than Kesar's laurel wear.

II

Think not because I write of Columbel
I thence would blast the sex with impious tale;
Transactions vile of foreign stronds I tell,
Ne 'gainst a British female would I rail
For all the wealth that rolls on Indian grail.
Here, beauty, truth, and chastity are found:
Eleonora here, with visage pale,
Did suck the poison from her Edward's wound,
And Anna's nuptial faith shall stond for aye renown'd.

III

See the fair swans on Thamis' lovely tide,
The which do trim their pennons silver bright,
In shining ranks they down the waters ride;
Oft have mine eyes devour'd the gallant sight.

119

Then cast thy looks with wonder and delight,
Where yon sweet nymphs enjoy the ev'ning air,
Some daunce along the green, like fairies light,
Some flow'rets cull to deck their flowing hair;
Then tell me, soothly, swain, which sight thou deem'st most fair.

IV

To you, bright stars, that sparkle on our isle,
I give my life, my fortune, and my fame;
For my whole guerdon grant me but a smile,
A smile from you is all I hope or claim;
Nor age's ice my ardent zeal shall tame,
To my life's end I shall your names adore,
Not hermit's bosoms feel so pure a flame,
Warm'd by approval I more high shall soar:
Receive my humble lays, my heart was yours before.

V

Should you consent, I'll quit my shepherd's grey,
And don more graceful and more costly gear,
My crook and scrip I'll throw with scorn away,
And in a samite garment streit appear.
Farewell, ye groves, which once I held so dear;
Farewell, ye glens, I other joys pursue;
Then shall the world your matchless pow'r revere,
And own what wonders your sweet smiles can do,
That could a simple clown into a bard transmew.

120

CANTO I.

ARGUMENT.

The Squire of Dames to Satyrane
His history doth tell,
With all the toils he underwent
To gain his Columbel.

I

The Squire of Dames his tale thus 'gan to tell;
Sith you command my tongue, sir Satyrane,
I now will all declare that me befell
The cause of muchel scath and dol'rous pain,
Ne shall thy gentle eye from tears refrain.
Me Columbel commanded far to go
'Till I should full three hundred nymphs attain,
Whose hearts should aye with Virtue's lessons glow,
And to all swains but one cry out for ever, No.

II

To find the fortilage that ne'er will yield
Is not an easy matter, good sir Knight;
Troy town, they say, is now a grass-grown field,
That long withstood the force of Grecian might;

121

And castles fall tho' deep in earth empight;
Ne ought so strong is found but what may fail,
The sun at last shall lose his glorious light,
And vows or bribes o'er women may prevail;
Their hearts are made of flesh, and mortal flesh is frail.

III

With heavy heart, and full of cark I go
And take my congé of my blooming maid,
I kiss'd her hond, and, louting very low,
To her behest at length myself array'd:
The fair we love expects to be obey'd,
Altho' she bid us with the kestrel fly;
So forth I prick, tho' much by doubt dismay'd,
The hard experiment resolv'd to try:
For she was wond'rous fair, and much in love was I.

IV

A grove I reach'd, where tuneful throstles sung,
The linnet here did ope his little throat,
His twitting jests around the cuckoo flung,
And the proud goldfinch show'd his painted coat,
And hail'd us with no inharmonious note:
The robin eke here tun'd his sonnet shrill,
And told the soothing ditty all by rote,
How he with leaves his pious beak did fill,
To shroud those pretty babes, whom Sib unkind would kill.

122

V

And many a fair Narcissus deck'd the plain,
That seem'd anew their passions to admire;
Here Ajax told his dolors o'er again,
And am'rous Clytie sicken'd with desire;
Here the blown rose her odors sweet did spire;
Thro' the dun grove a murm'ring river led
His chrystal streams that wound in many a gyre;
The baleful willow all the banks bespread,
And ever to the breeze ycurl'd his hoary head.

VI

Soon to the grove there came a lovely maid,
For maiden sure she did to me appear,
In plain check-laton was the nymph array'd,
Her sparkling eyes stood full of many a tear,
And she bewept the absence of her dear.
Alas! should beauty be to woe allay'd?
Beauty, methinks, should meet with better cheer,
Content should never wander from her side;
Good luck, I pray to heav'n, the face that's fair betide.

VII

“Ah! woe is me, she cry'd, since Colin's fled,
“Whose gentle presence did these plains adorn,
“Soon was he ravish'd from the nuptial bed,
“Torn from these arms, from his dear leman torn!

123

“O grief! far sharper than the pointed thorn,
“I saw him ill-bestad by martial band.
“Alas the day that ever I was born!
“Where roves my Colin, on what foreign strand,
“Arraught from Laura's eyes, and his dear native land?

VIII

“Alas! he only knew to prune the vine,
“Or thro' the earth to urge the biting share,
“To twist the bower with fragrant eglantine,
“Where free from heat we shun'd the noon-tide air,
“Or to the mart to lead his fleecy care.
“And is it fit in hacqueton and mail
“The youth for war's grim terrors should prepare!
“His voice outsung the love-lorn nightingale,
“And destly could he daunce, or pipe along the dale.

IX

“The gos-hawk fierce may pounce the trembling dove,
“The savage wolf may tear the bounding fawn,
“But sparrows mild are form'd sor feats of love,
“And kids dew not with blood the flow'ry lawn;
“Then how shall he, in whom all graces dawn,
“In the red field the cruel paynim kill?
“For scenes like these find men of hellish spawn.
“'Tis his with joy the virgin's heart to fill,
“And not on foreign shore his foemen's blood to spill.

124

X

“No days of bliss my sorrows shall aslake,
“For him I'll ever drop the dol'rous tear.
“Adieu the circled green, the buxom wake,
“Since Colin's gone I taste of nought but drear.
“Stretch me, ye maidens, stretch me on the bier,
“And let thy grave-stone these true words adorn:
“A wretched maiden lies intombed here,
“Who saw a shepherd brighter than the morn,
“Then pin'd her heart away, and dy'd of love forlorn.”

XI

Much was I grieved at her piteous plaint,
And greeted to myself, O happy Squire!
At length, tho' late, thou hast found out a saint,
Who, but for Colin, feels no warm desire.
Perdie, quoth Satyrane, I her admire;
No lozel lose shall here discover'd be.
The other answer'd with his cheeks on fire,
Now by my hallidom you soon shall see
That words may with the heart full often ill agree.

XII

I, nought accoy'd, came up unto the fair,
And swore to love her all my length of life;
Then offer'd her to gorgeous domes to bear,
Where haidegives are daunc'd to harp and fife.

125

She soon forgot she was another's wife,
And granted with me to desert the plain.
Are such ensamples emong women rife?
If so, my Columbel I ne'er shall gain,
But hunt around the world, and find my labours vain.

XIII

My lips I 'gan to royne in fell despite,
And forth I rushed from her false embrace,
Thro' the thick wood I wander'd day and night,
Ne met I living creature face to face:
At length a rising city far I trace;
Thither in hopes my hasty steps I bend.
Perchaunce, thought I, true Virtue may embrace
The courtly dome, and from the country wend.
Thus, where the least expect, we often find a friend.

XIV

At e'en the town I reach'd, and eke a hall,
Which waxen tapers made as light as day;
Fair jovisaunce sat on the face of all,
And to the daunce the sprightly minstrels play,
Each seem'd as sportive as the wanton jay.
The dame, who own'd the house, was passing old,
And had, it seems, that morning dealt away
To her kind grandson many bags of gold,
Who took a bonnibel to haven and to hold.

126

XV

The bride was named Viola the fair,
The loaded rosiere is not half so sweet.
Aye, aye, quoth I, ensamples are but rare
To find so many charms in one discreet;
With you, fair lass, I mean not now to treat.
The springal was in wholesom lustihed,
And him by name of Pamphilus they greet;
He was to doughty chevisance ybred,
Yet oft in courtly halls the active measure led.

XVI

The auncient dame they do Avara call,
And much she hobbled as she trod the ground;
Yet many angels in her crumenal,
If fair report speaks true, were always found.
Where riches flow there virtues too abound.
Her pannikel was as a badger grey,
And, as she walk'd the company around,
It nodded with such force, that, by my fay,
I thought it meant to fly from her old crag away.

XVII

The lofty roof was fretted o'er with gold,
And all around, the walls depeinten were
With many histories of times of old,
Which brought not muchel credit to the fair.

127

There Leda held her swan, with shoulders bare,
And here the dame of Ephesus was found,
Lick other dames, whom my kind tongue shall spare,
And here stood Helen for her charms renown'd,
Who soon her lord forsook, when she a leman found.

XVIII

And many a beauteous dame and courtly knight
Came there the nuptials to celebrate:
Some vers'd to wing from bow the nimble flight,
Some the near foe with brondir'n to amate;
Me too they welcome to the hall of state;
With bel acoil they wished me to take
A round or two, and chuse me out a mate:
But my fond love which nothing could aslake,
Caus'd me to slight them all, for Columbella's sake.

XIX

And now to artful steps the floor rebounds,
In graceful ease the shining beavys move,
The noice like thunder at a distance sounds,
Mean time I sat beneath a proud alcove,
And told Avara gentle tales of love.
Thought I, in eld the passions are more tame,
And here by craft I may successful prove;
For she perforce must now be void of blame
As wise Ulysses' wife, Penelopé by name.

128

XX

Ne wants she gelt, which oft the mind misleads
To actions which it otherwise would shun.
The courtier lythe, if right report areeds,
Will unawhap'd to seize his vantage run;
And so will most men underneath the sun,
Or be they patriot call'd, or bard, or knight;
But when they once the gilded prize have won,
They seek to clear their name, with shame bedight:
Befits to scour the steel, when rust offends the sight.

XXI

At ev'ry word I said she look'd askaunce,
Then said, in unsoot whispers, Fye! Sir, fye!
And turn'd as tho' she seem'd to mind the daunce,
Nathless on me she cast a languid eye:
Blist by thy form, my liefest life, quoth I,
Cast your belgards upon an humble slave;
From love, alass! in vain my heart would fly;
Then with a word thy quailing leman save,
For if you frown, perdie, you doom me to the grave.

XXII

It hap'd by chaunce she saw a golden heart
With flaming diamonds around beset;
This, the whole guerdon of my tedious smart,
I, on a time, from Columbel did get.

129

As simple birds are caught in fowler's net,
And 'cause they see no danger none they fear,
Ev'n so Avara her eyen here did set,
And turned round and whisper'd in mine ear,
Give me that di'mond heart, and be mine leman dear.

XXIII

I started from the couch where I was pight,
And thus I her bespake with muchel rage,
Avaunt, thou faytor false, thou imp of night!
I hate myself, that I should thus engage,
On any terms, to treat with wrizled age.
So, forth I flung, and left the frowy witch
To share her bed with coachman, groom or page;
The castle too I quit, mine ire was sich,
And out I set again, tho' night was dark as pitch.

XXIV

But did I here relate, Sir Satyrane,
The many weary miles I've travelled,
What dangers I've assoil'd, yet all in vain,
(For, by my truth, but ill my days I've sped)
Your hair would stand upright upon your head.
Three hundred virtuous females side by side,
By me to Columbella must be led:
Can you direct me where for such to ride?
I cannot, in good sooth, the courteous knight reply'd.

130

XXV

The Squire pursu'd his tale; 'Tis now three years
Since curst Avara's visage first I saw;
Convents I've try'd, but there the luscious freers
The fair-fac'd nuns to fornication draw;
Nor palaces are free from Cupid's law;
His darts are fiercer than the levin-brond;
Few, very few, there 'scape his mighty paw,
And those in golden palls, who proudly stond,
Had lever kiss their love's, than Keysar's royal hond.

XXVI

Fair Jenny of the mill I strove to win,
And her benempt Pastora of the dale;
But they bilive agreed with me to sin;
One ask'd an owch, and one a watchet veil.
Some wish o'er ev'ry female to prevail;
My hope, my conquest is to be deny'd.
The stage I've try'd, but there my projects fail;
For there is scarce a single wedded bride
But doth her husband's noul with horns of ront provide.

XXVII

As couthful fishers at the benty brook,
By various arts assot the seely fry,
Now wriggling worms, now paste conceals the hook,
And now they hide it with a colour'd fly;

131

This takes the perch, and that the tench's eye;
So diff'rent nymphs a diff'rent charm invites,
Some yield for vantage, some for vanity,
A song this one, a daunce that maid delights:
Man throws the wimble bait, and greedy woman bites.

XXVIII

With sorrow overhent, the other day
I laid my weary limbs adown to rest,
Where a tall beech o'erspread the dusky way;
My noyous thoughts a dream awhile suppress'd,
Oft weighty truths are in this garb ydress'd.
Grant that it so may happy unto me;
Then joyous once again shall sooth this breast,
My pining soul shall be from anguish free,
And I shall taste true bliss, dear Columbel, with thee.

XXIX

Methought I saw a figure fair and tall,
And gentle smiles sat dimpling on her face,
Yet seemed of a beauty nought at all,
'Till much beholding did improve each grace;
At length she seem'd too fair for human race.
Her kirtle white might vie with winter snows,
Ne could you ought of her fair bosom trace,
Nought but her face would she to sight expose,
No modest maiden wends, the frannion muchel shows.

132

XXX

With visage bland, methought she hail'd me oft;
“Ne fear, quoth she, a female's mild request.
“The bark by tempests that is whirl'd aloft,
“At length, the tempest o'er, enjoyeth rest.
“My name is Chastity, tho' out of quest
“With modern dames, yet thou shalt still survey
“A clime where beauty is with virtue blest.
“Good fortune speed you on your happy way;
“Go, gentle Squire of Dames, and here no longer stay.

XXXI

“To Fairy lond your instant journey bend,
“There Columbel may find her will obey'd;
“There Chastity may boast of many a friend,
“She visits there each rosy-featur'd maid.
“Go on, nor be by former toils affray'd:
“Go where yon oaks display their verdant pride,
“'Till, from the mountains torn and stripp'd of shade,
“On Neptune's billows they triumphant ride,
“Protect their happy lond, and conquer all beside.

XXXII

“Hail happy lond! for arms and arts renown'd,
“For blooming virgins free from loose desire;
“A Drake, a Bacon, there a birth-place found,
“And chaste Eliza time shall e'er admire:

133

“The hero wields the sword and poet's lyre:
“This Sidney knew, who still with lustre shines,
“For whom Dan Spenser wak'd the warbling quire,
“And many more whose names might grace his lines;
“There round the warriour's palm the lover's myrtle twines.”

XXXIII

At this I woke, and now resolve to brave
The utmost perils for my Columbel;
For, know, I mean to cross the briny wave,
Where Albion's chalky cliffs the sea repel:
And, if no mage have laid a magick spell,
Perchaunce my lot may be at length to find
Three hundred nymphs, who wicked love can quell;
If not, I must desert all womankind,
And, what me most amates, leave Columbel behind.

XXXIV

The Squire of Dames surceased here his say,
And forth he yode to seek the British isle,
Sir Satyrane prick'd on his dapple-grey,
Ne ought foreswonk he travell'd many a mile
To spend his days in hardiment and toil:
But first in courteous guise they bid farewell,
As well befits men bred in courtly soil.
Now how the Squire has sped, or ill, or well,
A future canto may, perhaps, at leisure tell.

134

XXXV

For see, how Phœbus welketh in the west,
My oxen from their yoke I must untye,
The collar much has chauf'd their tender chest,
Who labours much the sweets of rest should try.
To their warm nests the daws and ravens fly
Deep in the ruin'd dome or dusky wood;
And beasts and birds fast lock'd in slumber lye,
Save the fell bat, that flutters out for food,
And the soothsaying owl, with her unlovely brood.

CANTO II.

ARGUMENT.

The Squire he lights on Bon-vivant,
Who wons in Fairy soil,
Then views in Merlin's magick glass
A sight that ends his toil.

I

To gain the point to which our soul aspires
We nourish toil, and reek hard labour sweet;
For this, thro' Greenland's frosts, or India's fires,
The hardy sailors death and dangers meet;

135

And the prow chieftain, bolder than discreet,
In blood imbru'd pursues the martial fray,
And lovers eke thro' life's loud tempests beat,
Led on by hope, that never-dying ray;
Hope wantons in their breast, and strews with flow'rs the way.

II

And sure of all mankind the Squire of Dames
Shall stand the first ensample of true love,
Who aye, untouch'd by any foreign flames,
Preserv'd his passion for his gentle dove;
Blush, modern youths, whose pulses quickly move,
Fondly you glote upon the witching fair;
Yet, when a sweet enjoyment once you prove,
You leave the nymph intangled in the snare,
Her tears flow trickling down, her singults pierce the air.

III

Oh think of transports which ye whilom tasted,
And let the glad remembrance charm your mind,
Be not the fruits of joyment quickly wasted,
And to your heart her happy image bind:
Think what she merits who whilear was kind,
Nor by inconstancy her peace destroy;
Inconstancy, that monster fell and blind:
That vainly fond of ev'ry passing toy,
Treads down its late delight, and poisons rapt'rous joy.

136

IV

Return we now unto our gentle youth,
Whose little bark daunc'd lightly on the main,
His breast divided atween joy and ruth;
Now gay ideas wanton in his brain,
Now woe-begon his heart is rent in twain,
On his success depends his Columbel;
And now he hopes, and now desponds again;
The various turns of mind, when thoughts rebel,
Sure pen mote ne'er describe, and none but lovers tell.

V

Methinks I see him on the beachy strond,
Where Neptune's waves affrap the sturdy pier;
His hardy steed neighs at the sight of lond,
In all adventures a most faithful seer;
And thro' that city he doth quickly steer,
Which Ethelbert to holy Austin gave:
The kings of Kent did erst inhabit here,
Here haughty Becket sunk into the grave,
Here thro' the smiling meads, Stoure rolls his dimpling wave.

VI

Long travell'd he, ne ventur'd to assay
The nymphs he met, for much he was affraid
To bribes or pray'rs few women would cry nay;
At flatt'ry's tongue full oft will virtue fade;

137

What shall he do? to win his lovely maid
He must three hundred virtuous females find,
Perdie, quoth he, my fortune be essay'd,
I'll boldly try the strength of womankind:
For craven heart, they say, ne'er won fair lady's mind.

VII

So on he prick'd, and from a rising ground
Discern'd before him, in a distant vale,
A castle fair: and auncient oaks around
Did to the breeze their lofty heads avail;
A silver stream refresh'd the fragrant dale;
Their ledden loud fat oxen did repeat,
And nibbling sheep display'd their fleeces pale,
The woodbine shed an odor matchless sweet,
And to their patient dams the frisking lambkins bleat.

VIII

To that same castle our advent'rer yode,
The merry birds him welcom'd on the way,
An hundred flow'rs aumail'd the winding road,
And all was bright, and all was passing gay,
You would have sworn it was the month of May.
Withouten drad he thunders at the gate,
Who wons within, or giant, knight or fay,
Shall ne'er, in sooth, our imp of fame amate:
Unto the summons loud the portal opens streit.

138

IX

And forth there issued the seneschal,
Of middle age he was, if right I ween,
He was in personage both plump and tall,
Ne seemed he to taste of dol'rous teen,
Ne wrinkle deep was on his forehead seen,
But jovisaunce sat basking on his brow,
At every word he spoke, he smil'd at-ween,
His temples were ycrown'd with myrtle bough,
And virelays he song with matchless grace, I vow.

X

“Whoe'er thou art, thrice welcome to these plains,
“Where bitter dole ne'er shows her hateful head,
“Good-fellowship wons here, and free from pains
“Both youth and eld the paths of pleasure tread;
“Catch flying bliss, ne be by ought foresaid;
“Think that this life is but a little span;
“Then laugh, and sport, and shun all dreryhed,
“Thy rolling days in present pleasures plan,
“Come, spend thy hours in joy, thou son of mortal man.

XI

“Know'st thou my name! I am l'Allegro hight,
“Let me conduct thee to our jovial hall,
“Where Bon-vivant in revels spends the night,
“Who bids a hearty welcome unto all,

139

“Or wear he red cross-stoles, or paynim pall.”
With that he lad him with a courtly air
Into a chamber deck'd for feast and ball;
And tho' no tedes or tapers glimmer'd there,
Yet all within was bright, as all without was fair.

XII

As at the close of an hot summer's day,
When Phœbus in the west deserts the sky,
Bright streams of light along the æther play,
And tho' his fi'ry orb forsake our eye,
The beamy gushes gild each object nigh;
The painted meads are ting'd with golden light,
And rivers roll their glitt'ring waters by;
So in this house of joy with ease you might
Perceive celestial rays, that cherish'd human fight.

XIII

The Squire of Dames his jolly host salew'd,
And Bon-vivant his hond in friendship press'd;
“Come, sit thee down, and taste our choicest food;
“We entertake, quoth he, no vulgar guest.
“Enur'd to toil, come taste the sweets of rest,
“Doff thy hard arms, this samite garment wear,
“This better far than mail shall bind thy breast,
“This coronal shall deck thy auburn hair;
“Push the brisk goblet round, and drown intruding care.

140

XIV

“For us the lark attunes his morning song,
“For us the spring depeints her ev'ry flow'r,
“To sooth our sleep yon fountain purls along,
“And oaks to shade us, twine into a bow'r,
“The pensive bard sits many a watchful hour,
“In ditty sweet, to carol forth our praise:
“While valour spends his days in dole and stour,
“We, wiser we, undying trophies raise
“To ever-blooming bliss, ne reek what wisdom says.

XV

“With sprightly notes we make the welkin ring,
“In mazy daunce we tread the chequer'd ground,
“To yielding nymphs transported shepherds sing,
“Ne hard misfare emongst our train is found.
“The simple swain, who looks with cark astoun'd
“Because his leman ill rewards his care,
“Oh, let him stond to all a lout renown'd,
“Ne gibing scorn her twitting bords forbear;
“Are there not other nymphs less coy, and full as fair?”

XVI

At this the Squire wex'd pale, “Ne eath it is,
“Most courteous knight, he cry'd, far to remove
“The thoughts of her in whom we place all bliss.”
Quoth Bon-vivant, “What, then thou art in love?”

141

“That I am so these many singults prove,”
Return'd the Squire. L'Allegro then reply'd,
“Thou'dst better wend to yonder willow grove,
“Where shoals of lovers hanging side by side,
“Feed the vile carrion crows, and highten female pride.”

XVII

With that he brast into a scornful laugh,
And much abash'd appear'd our constant Squire;
The others sportful the brisk vintage quaff.
While thus the springal. “Yes, I do aspire
“To love the fairest of the female quire.
“Three hundred virtuous damsels in this isle
“I came to find.” “Perdie, your odd desire,
“Quoth Bon-vivant, will ask thee muchel toil;
“And thou shalt travel too full many a weary mile.

XVIII

“'Tis not enough the conduct of the fair
“Is form'd by frowning virtue's strictest leer:
“The blatant-beast does here in pieces tear
“The fame of those ybred in school severe;
“His rankling tongue throughout the rolling year
“With baleful venom ev'ry thing consumes;
“Where beauty's splendor gilds our northern sphere
“He slyly creeps, and to destruction dooms
“The honour of the spring, and wisdom's early blooms.

XIX

“The brindled lyon in the lonely wood
“Hides his grim aspect from the sight of men;

142

“The pardelis and libbard's spotted brood
“Reside contented in sequester'd den;
“Not so the blatant-beast, he lives in ken
“Of the proud city or well-peopled town;
“Thence with detested fury he will ren,
“Ne spare the prelate's lawn, or monarch's crown:
“All fares alike with him, for all he tumbleth down.

XX

“What then avails it to be fair or wise?
“Or what avails it to be warlike knight?
“Where-e'er the monster casts his fi'ry eyes,
“Each grace, each virtue sickens at the sight.
“Then goodly Squire, until the morning's light
“Quaff the thick darkness of the night away;
“And, when the morn shall rise, in arms bedight
“Proceed, and luck attend you on your way;
“Algates we wish in truth with us you'd ever stay.”

XXI

The Squire agrees, but vows, when rising morn
Shall gild the glitt'rand portals of the east,
Himself he will in habergeon adorn,
And seek around the isle the blatant-beast:
Mean while in buxom mirth they spend the feast.
Ill fares the mortal man too much who knows;
Oft shall he wish himself from thought releast;
The fatal knowledge in his bosom glows,
And mars his golden rest, and murders soft repose.

143

XXII

Sir Chaunticleer now ey'd the rising day,
And call'd dame Partlet from her vetchy bed;
Now wakeful Phospher spreads his gleamy ray,
And the pale moon conceal'd her silver head;
The cattle brouze the lawn with dew bespread,
While ev'ry bird from out the buskets flies.
Then to the field our lover issued;
But sleep had seal'd l'Allegro's drousy eyes,
And Bon-vivant also in downy slumber lies.

XXIII

Our Squire, withouten drad, pursu'd his way,
And look'd around to spy this monster fell,
And many a well conceited roundelay
He sung in honour of his Columbel:
Mote he, perchaunce, destroy this spawn of hell,
How easy were the task to him assign'd?
The lond of Fairy doth each lond excel;
View there the paragons of womankind;
View the bright virgins there, and leave thy heart behind.

XXIV

Ah! lever should'st thou try the females there
Than thus unwise another course pursue;
There ev'ry nymph is innocent as fair:
Try what I here advance, you'll find it true.
Hard is our fate while bliss in hopes we sew,
Some deadly fiend to blast our joy appears;
Contentment sweet, alas, is known to few.

144

Thus for awhile the sun the welkin chears,
But soon he hides his head, and melts in dropping tears.

XXV

Life is a scene of conteck and distress,
Ne is it longer than a winter's day;
And shall we make our few enjoyments less?
Far from my cot, thou blatant-beast away.
No husband's noul will I with horns array,
Ne shall my tongue its venom'd malice wreak
On tuneful bards, whom laurel crowns apay;
Ne will I 'gainst the comely matron speak,
Or draw one pearly drop down beauty's rosy cheek.

XXVI

The Squire of Dames rode on with muchel tine,
And, as he cast askaunce his greedy look,
He saw empight beneath an auncient pine
A hoary shepherd leaning on his crook;
His falling tears increas'd the swelling brook:
And he did sigh as he would break his heart.
“O thou deep-read in sorrow's baleful book,
“The Squire exclaim'd, areed thy burning smart;
“Our dolors grow more light when we the tale impart.”

XXVII

To whom the swain reply'd, “O gentle youth,
“Yon fruitful meads my num'rous herds possess'd,
“My days roll'd on unknown to pain or ruth,
“And one fair daughter my old age ybless'd.

145

“Oh, had you seen her for the wake ydress'd
“With kirtle ty'd with many a colour'd string,
“Thy tongue to all the world had then confess'd
“That she was sheener than the pheasant's wing,
“And, when she rais'd her voice, ne lark so soot could sing.

XXVIII

“In virtue's thews I bred the lovely maid,
“And she right well the lessons did pursue;
“Too wise she was to be by man betray'd;
“But the curst blatant-beast her form did view,
“And round our plains did spread a tale untrue,
“That Rosabella, spurning marriage band,
“Had felt those pangs which virgin never knew,
“And that Sir Topas my poor girl trepann'd;
“He, who in sable stole doth in our pulpit stand.

XXIX

“Nay, more, the hellish monster has invented,
“How a young swain on Shannon's banks yborn
“(Had not my care the deep-laid plot prevented)
“Would from my arms my Rosabel have born.
“Have I not cause to weep from rising morn
“'Till Phœbus welketh in the western main,
“To see my dearling's fame thus vildly torn?
“Have I not cause to nourish endless pain?”
At this he deeply sigh'd, and wept full sore again.

XXX

“Curst be this blatant-beast, reply'd the Squire,
“That thus infects your sea-begirted isle;

146

“Shew me his face, that I may wreak mine ire
“Upon this imp of hell, this monster vile.”
“Away from hence not passing sure a mile,
“Might I advise you, you had better wend,”
Return'd the swain, “Deep-read in magick-style
“There Merlin wons, sue him to be your friend;
“And lest you miss your way, myself will you attend.”

XXXI

Together now they seek the hermitage
Deep in the covert of a dusky glade,
Where in his dortour wons the hoary sage.
The moss-grown trees did form a gloomy shade,
Their rustling leaves a solemn musick made,
And fairies nightly tripp'd the aweful green,
And if the tongue of fame have truth display'd,
Full many a spectre was at midnight seen,
Torn from his earthly grave, a horrid sight! I ween.

XXXII

Ne rose, ne vi'let glads the chearless bow'r,
Ne fringed pink from earth's green bosom grew:
But hemlock dire, and ev'ry baleful flow'r
Might here be found, and knots of mystick rue.
Close to the cell sprong up an auncient yew,
And store of imps were on its boughs ypight,
At his behests they from its branches flew,
And, in a thousand various forms bedight,
Frisk'd to the moon's pale wain, and revell'd all the night.

147

XXXIII

Around the cave a clustring ivy spread
In wide embrace his over-twining arms,
Within, the walls with characters bespread
Declar'd the pow'rful force of magick charms.
Here drugs were plac'd destructive of all harms,
And books that deep futurity could scan:
Here stood a spell that of his rage disarms
The mountain lyon 'till he yields to man;
With many secrets more, which scarce repeat I can.

XXXIV

The Squire of Dames deep enters in the cell:
What will not valiant heart for beauty dare?
His borrel fere here bids his friend farewell,
And home he wends renewing cark and care.
When, louting low with a becoming air,
The youth cry'd out, “O thrice renowned mage,
“Vouchsafe to cure me of my black dispair;
“For thou not only art grown wise thro' age,
“But art of mortal man by far the wisest sage.”

XXXV

Then Merlin with a look benign reply'd,
(For he was bred with ev'ry courteous thew)
“I know to make fair Columbel your bride
“The blatant-beast you thro' the lond pursue;
“The fate of empires now demands my view,
“And for awhile denys my presence here;
“Soon in this cell I'll thee again salew,

148

“What most thou lik'st partake withouten fear,
“Share all my cave affords, nor think I grudge my chear.

XXXVI

“Yet mark my counsel, open not that door,
“Lest thou repent thy follies when too late,
“Ten thousand pangs shall make thy heart full sore,
“For horror scouls behind that heben gate,
“And future ills shall thy dear peace amate;
“There stands a mirror, wrought by magick leer,
“In which are read the dark decrees of fate,
“And whom you wish to see will streit appear,
“Devoid of art's false mask, to human eye-sight clear.

XXXVII

“Ah how unlike the godlike man he seem'd
“In this my glass the patriot I've descry'd,
“By the vile rabblement a saint esteem'd?
“He's oft a wretch compos'd of sloth and pride:
“And Kesars too, not seldom deify'd,
“With other men their vice and follies share;
“And by my mirror if the nymph be try'd,
“It will without reserve the truth declare,
“Ne flatter head that's crown'd, ne flatter face that's fair.

XXXVIII

“Once more let me advise thee, gentle Squire,
“Forbear to look at this same magick glass;
“Do not too rashly into fate enquire—
“But I to foreign stronds awhile must pass.”

149

Th'unweeting youth cry'd to himself, “Alas!
“Would I could know the lot to me assign'd.”
“Patience, quoth Merlin, doth all things surpass.”
Then to his car were winged dragons join'd,
With which he sails thro' air, and far outstrips the wind.

XXXIX

And now the Squire surveys the lonesome cave,
His wav'ring mind is in a whirlwind tost,
And now the mirror he resolves to brave,
And now he finds his boasted courage lost.
At length determin'd whatsoe'er it cost,
To see the glass, he darts into the cell;
And, lest his eyes by vild retrait be crost,
Thrice he invokes his lovely Columbel.
As Adam fell of yore, the Squire of Dames yfell.

XL

The heben doors full widely he display'd,
And saw the lovely queen of all his heart,
Fair as the lilly in the watry glade,
Bright as the morn, and bright withouten art,
Thro' ev'ry vein he feels a thrillant smart:
For the dear maid lay on her bed undress'd,
And, may I unreprov'd the truth impart,
She hugg'd a lusty stripling to her breast,
Whom she full closely clipp'd, and wantonly caress'd.

XLI

“O faytor false, O wicked imp of night!
Exclaim'd the Squire astound, “ah! wealaway!

150

“Let Erebus in pitchy stole bedight
“With foulest sprites the sons of men affray,
“And blot for ever the fair face of day.
“Ye haggard sisters, sound my passing-bell;
“Oh! ne'er believe, ye youths, what women say.
“O losel loose, O impious Columbel!”
Then like a stean to earth full heavily he fell.

XLII

There shall we leave him, for my leaky boat
Lets in the water, and I must recure
Her much-worn hulk, that scarcely now can float,
And moor'd in harbour she shall ride secure;
Then if I can a pilot wise procure,
Mayhap I may again hoist forth my sail,
And other hardy voyages endure
Thro' shelves and shallows: now the adverse gale
Gives me some time to rest, and lond with joy I hail.

151

On the Death of a Lady's Owl.

By the Same.

The Owl expires! death gave the dreadful word,
And lovely Anna weeps her fav'rite bird.
Ye feather'd choir in willing throngs repair,
And sooth the sorrows of the melting fair;
In sounds of woe the dear-departed greet,
With cypress strew, ye doves, the green retreat;
The fateful raven tolls the passing bell,
The solemn dirge be sung by Philomel;
Sir Chanticlear, a chief os hardy race,
Shall guard from kites and daws the sacred place.
With your just tears a bard shall mix his own,
And thus, in artless verse, inscribe the stone.

EPITAPH.

Interr'd within this little space
The bird of wisdom lies;
Learn hence, how vain is ev'ry grace,
How fruitless to be wise.

Can mortal stop the arm of Death
Who ne'er compassion knew?
He Venus' lover robb'd of breath,
He, Anna's darling slew.

152

Ah happy bird, to raise those sighs
Which man could ne'er obtain!
Ah happy bird, to cloud those eyes
That fir'd each kneeling swain!

Thrice bless'd thy life, her joy, her bliss,
Thrice bless'd thy happy doom;
She gave thee many a melting kiss,
She wept upon thy tomb.

Adonis.

The VANITY of Human Wishes.

THE Tenth Satire of JUVENAL. IMITATED By Mr. SAMUEL JOHNSON.

Let observation with extensive view,
Survey mankind, from China to Peru;
Remark each anxious toil, each eager strife,
And watch the busy scenes of crowded life;
Then say how hope and fear, desire and hate,
O'erspread with snares the clouded maze of fate,
Where wav'ring man, betray'd by vent'rous pride,
To tread the dreary paths without a guide;

153

As treach'rous phantoms in the mist delude,
Shuns fancied ills, or chases airy good.
How rarely reason guides the stubborn choice,
Rules the bold hand, or prompts the suppliant voice,
How nations sink, by darling schemes oppress'd,
When vengeance listens to the fool's request.
Fate wings with ev'ry wish th'afflictive dart,
Each gift of nature, and each grace of art,
With fatal heat impetuous courage glows,
With fatal sweetness elocution flows,
Impeachment stops the speaker's pow'rful breath,
And restless fire precipitates on death.

But scarce observ'd the knowing and the bold,
Fall in the gen'ral massacre of gold;
Wide-wasting pest! that rages unconfin'd,
And crowds with crimes the records of mankind;
For gold his sword the hireling ruffian draws,
For gold the hireling judge distorts the laws;
Wealth heap'd on wealth, nor truth nor safety buys,
The dangers gather as the treasures rise.

Let hist'ry tell where rival kings command,
And dubious title shakes the madded land,
When statues glean the refuse of the sword,
How much more safe the vassal than the lord,
Low sculks the hind beneath the rage of pow'r,
And leaves the wealthy traytor in the Tow'r,

154

Untouch'd his cottage, and his slumbers sound,
Tho' confiscation's vulturs hover round.

The needy traveller, serene and gay,
Walks the wild heath, and sings his toil away.
Does envy seize thee? crush th'upbraiding joy,
Increase his riches and his peace destroy,
New fears in dire vicissitude invade,
The rustling brake alarms, and quiv'ring shade,
Nor light nor darkness bring his pain relief,
One shews the plunder, and one hides the thief.

Yet still one gen'ral cry the skies assails,
And gain and grandeur load the tainted gales;
Few know the toiling statesman's fear or care,
Th'insidious rival and the gaping heir.

Once more, Democritus, arise on earth,
With chearful wisdom and instructive mirth,
See motly life in modern trappings dress'd,
And feed with varied fools th'eternal jest:
Thou who couldst laugh where want enchain'd caprice,
Toil crush'd conceit, and man was of a piece;
Where wealth unlov'd without a mourner dy'd;
And scarce a sycophant was fed by pride;
Where ne'er was known the form of mock debate,
Or seen a new-made mayor's unwieldy state;
Where change of fav'rites made no change of laws,
And senates heard before thy judg'd a cause;

155

How wouldst thou shake at Britain's modish tribe,
Dart the quick taunt, and edge the piercing gibe?
Attentive truth and nature to decry,
And pierce each scene with philosophic eye.
To thee were solemn toys or empty shew,
The robes of pleasure and the veils of woe:
All aid the farce, and all thy mirth maintain,
Whose joys are causeless, or whose griefs are vain.

Such was the scorn that fill'd the sage's mind,
Renew'd at ev'ry glance on humankind;
How just that scorn ere yet thy voice declare,
Search every state, and canvass ev'ry prayer.

Unnumber'd suppliants crowd Preferment's gate;
Athirst for wealth, and burning to be great;
Delusive Fortune hears th'incessant call,
They mount, they shine, evaporate, and fall.
On ev'ry stage the foes of peace attend,
Hate dogs their flight, and insult mocks their end.
Love ends with hope, the sinking statesman's door
Pours in the morning worshipper no more;
For growing names the weekly scribbler lies,
To growing wealth the dedicator flies,
From every room descends the painted face,
That hung the bright Palladium of the place,
And smoak'd in kitchens, or in auctions sold,
To better features yields the frame of gold;

156

For now no more we trace in ev'ry line
Heroic worth, benevolence divine:
The form distorted justifies the fall,
And detestation rids th'indignant wall.

But will not Britain hear the last appeal,
Sign her foes doom, or guard her fav'rites zeal;
Tho' Freedom's sons no more remonstrance rings,
Degrading nobles and controuling kings;
Our supple tribes repress their patriot throats,
And ask no questions but the price of votes;
With weekly libels and septennial ale,
Their wish is full to riot and to rail.

In full-blown dignity, see Wolsey stand,
Law in his voice, and fortune in his hand:
To him the church, the realm, their pow'rs consign,
Thro' him the rays of regal bounty shine,
Still to new heights his restless wishes tow'r,
Claim leads to claim, and pow'r advances pow'r;
'Till conquest unresisted ceas'd to please,
And rights submitted, left him none to seize.
At length his sov'reign frowns—the train of state
Mark the keen glance, and watch the sign to hate.
Where-e'er he turns he meets a stranger's eye,
His suppliants scorn him, and his followers fly;
At once is lost the pride of aweful state,
The golden canopy, the glitt'ring plate,
The regal palace, the luxurious board,
The liv'ried army, and the menial lord.

157

With age, with cares, with maladies oppress'd,
He seeks the refuge of monastic rest.
Grief aids disease, remember'd folly stings,
And his last sighs reproach the faith of kings.

Speak thou, whose thoughts at humble peace repine,
Shall Wolsey's wealth, with Wolsey's end be thine?
Or liv'st thou now, with safer pride content,
The wisest justice on the banks of Trent?
For why did Wolsey near the steeps of fate,
On weak foundations raise th'enormous weight?
Why but to sink beneath Misfortune's blow,
With louder ruin to the gulphs below?

What gave great Villiers to th'assassin's knife,
And fix'd disease on Harley's closing life?
What murder'd Wentworth, and what exil'd Hyde,
By kings protected, and to kings ally'd?
What but their wish indulg'd in courts to shine,
And pow'r too great to keep, or to resign?

When first the college rolls receive his name,
The young enthusiast quits his ease for fame;
Thro' all his veins the fever of renown
Spreads from the strong contagion of the gown;
O'er Bodley's dome his future labours spread,
And Bacon's mansion trembles o'er his head.

158

Are these thy views? proceed illustrious youth,
And virtue guard thee to the throne of Truth!
Yet should thy soul indulge the gen'rous heat,
'Till captive Science yields her last retreat;
Should Reason guide thee with her brightest ray,
And pour on misty Doubt resistless day;
Should no false Kindness lure to loose delight,
Nor Praise relax, nor Difficulty fright;
Should tempting Novelty thy cell refrain,
And Sloth effuse her opiate fumes in vain;
Should Beauty blunt on fops her fatal dart,
Nor claim the triumph of a letter'd heart;
Should no Disease thy torpid veins invade,
Nor Melancholy's phantoms haunt thy shade;
Yet hope not life from grief or danger free,
Nor think the doom of man revers'd for thee:
Deign on the passing world to turn thine eyes,
And pause awhile from letters, to be wise;
There mark what ills the scholar's life assail,
Toil, envy, want, the patron, and the jail.
See nations slowly wise, and meanly just,
To buried merit raise the tardy bust.
If dreams yet flatter, once again attend,
Here Lydiat's life, and Galileo's end.

Nor deem, when Learning her last prize bestows,
The glitt'ring eminence exempt from woes;
See when the vulgar 'scape, despis'd or aw'd,
Rebellion's vengeful talons seize on Laud.

159

From meaner minds, tho' smaller fines content
The plunder'd palace or sequester'd rent;
Mark'd out by dangerous parts he meets the shock,
And fatal Learning leads him to the block:
Around his tomb let Art and Genius weep,
But hear his death, ye blockheads, hear and sleep.

The festal blazes, the triumphal show,
The ravish'd standard, and the captive foe,
The senate's thanks, the gazette's pompous tale,
With force resistless o'er the brave prevail.
Such bribes the rapid Greek o'er Asia whirl'd,
For such the steady Romans shook the world;
For such in distant lands the Britons shine,
And stain with blood the Danube or the Rhine;
This pow'r has praise, that virtue scarce can warm,
'Till fame supplies the universal charm.
Yet Reason frowns on War's unequal game,
Where wasted nations raise a single name,
And mortgag'd states their grandsires wreaths regret,
From age to age in everlasting debt;
Wreaths which at last the dear-bought right convey
To rust on medals, or on stones decay.

On what foundation stands the warrior's pride,
How just his hopes let Swedish Charles decide;
A frame of adamant, a soul of fire,
No dangers fright him, and no labours tire;

160

O'er love, o'er fear extends his wide domain,
Unconquer'd lord of pleasure and of pain;
No joys to him pacific scepters yield,
War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field;
Behold surrounding kings their pow'r combine,
And one capitulate, and one resign;
Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in vain;
“Think nothing gain'd, he cries, till nought remain,
“On Moscow's walls till Gothic standards fly,
“And all be mine beneath the polar sky.”
The march begins in military state,
And nations on his eye suspended wait;
Stern Famine guards the solitary coast,
And Winter barricades the realm of Frost;
He comes, not want and cold his course delay;—
Hide, blushing Glory, hide Pultowa's day:
The vanquish'd hero leaves his broken bands,
And shews his miseries in distant lands;
Condemn'd a needy supplicant to wait,
While ladies interpose, and slaves debate.
But did not Chance at length her error mend?
Did no subverted empire mark his end?
Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound?
Or hostile millions press him to the ground?
His fall was destin'd to a barren strand,
A petty fortress, and a dubious hand;
He left the name, at which the world grew pale,
To point a moral, or adorn a tale.

161

All times their scenes of pompous woes afford,
From Persia's tyrant to Bavaria's lord.
In gay hostility, and barb'rous pride,
With half mankind embattled at his side,
Great Xerxes comes to seize the certain prey,
And starves exhausted regions in his way;
Attendant Flatt'ry counts his myriads o'er,
'Till counted myriads sooth his pride no more;
Fresh praise is try'd 'till madness fires his mind,
The waves he lashes, and enchains the wind;
New pow'rs are claim'd, new pow'rs are still bestow'd,
'Till rude resistance lops the spreading god;
The daring Greeks deride the martial show,
And heap their vallies with the gaudy foe;
Th'insulted sea with humbler thoughts he gains,
A single skiff to speed his flight remains;
Th'incumber'd oar scarce leaves the dreaded coast
Thro' purple billows and a floating host.

The bold Bavarian, in a luckless hour,
Tries the dread summits of Cesarean pow'r,
With unexpected legions bursts away,
And sees defenceless realms receive his sway;
Short sway! fair Austria spreads her mournful charms,
The queen, the beauty, sets the world in arms;
From hill to hill the beacons rousing blaze
Spreads wide the hope of plunder and of praise;

162

The fierce Croatian, and the wild Hussar,
And all the sons of ravage crowd the war;
The baffled prince in honour's flatt'ring bloom
Of hasty greatness sinds the fatal doom,
His foes derision, and his subjects blame,
And steals to death from anguish and from shame.

Enlarge my life with multitude of days,
In health, in sickness, thus the suppliant prays;
Hides from himself his state, and shuns to know,
That life protracted is protracted woe.
Time hovers o'er, impatient to destroy,
And shuts up all the passages of joy:
In vain their gifts the bounteous seasons pour,
The fruit autumnal, and the vernal flow'r,
With listless eyes the dotard views the store,
He views, and wonders that they please no more;
Now pall the tasteless meats, and joyless wines,
And Luxury with sighs her slave resigns.
Approach, ye minstrels, try the soothing strain,
And yield the tuneful lenitives of pain:
No sounds alas would touch th'impervious ear,
Tho' dancing mountains witness Orpheus near,
Nor lute nor lyre his feeble pow'rs attend,
Nor sweeter musick of a virtuous friend,
But everlasting dictates crowd his tongue,
Perversely grave or positively wrong.

163

The still returning tale, and ling'ring jest,
Perplex the fawning niece and pamper'd guest,
While growing hopes scarce awe the gath'ring sneer,
And scarce a legacy can bribe to hear;
The watchful guests still hint the last offence,
The daughter's petulance, the son's expence,
Improve his heady rage with treach'rous skill,
And mould his passions 'till they make his will.

Unnumber'd maladies his joints invade,
Lay siege to life and press the dire blockade,
But unextinguish'd Av'rice still remains,
And dreaded losses aggravate his pains;
He turns, with anxious heart and cripled hands,
His bonds of debt, and mortgages of lands;
Or views his coffers with suspicious eyes,
Unlocks his gold, and counts it 'till he dies.

But grant, the virtues of a temp'rate prime
Bless with an age exempt from scorn or crime;
An age that melts in unperceiv'd decay,
And glides in modest innocence away;
Whose peaceful day Benevolence endears,
Whose night congratulating Conscience chears;
The gen'ral fav'rite, as the gen'ral friend;
Such age there is, and who could wish its end?

Yet ev'n on this her load Misfortune flings,
To press the weary minutes flagging wings:
New sorrow rises as the day returns,
A sister sickens, or a daughter mourns.

164

Now kindred Merit fills the sable bier,
Now lacerated friendship claims a tear.
Year chases year, decay pursues decay,
Still drops some joy from with'ring life away;
New forms arise, and diff'rent views engage,
Superfluous lags the vet'ran on the stage,
'Till pitying Nature signs the last release,
And bids afflicted worth retire to peace.

But few there are whom hours like these await,
Who set unclouded in the gulphs of Fate.
From Lydia's monarch should the search descend,
By Solon caution'd to regard his end,
In life's last scene what prodigies surprise,
Fears of the brave, and follies of the wise?
From Marlb'rough's eyes the streams of dotage flow,
And Swift expires a driv'ler and a show.

The teeming mother, anxious for her race,
Begs for each birth the fortune of a face:
Yet Vane could tell what ills from beauty spring;
And Sedley curs'd the form that pleas'd a king.
Ye nymphs of rosy lips and radiant eyes,
Whom Pleasure keeps too busy to be wise,
Whom Joys with soft varieties invite,
By day the frolick, and the dance by night,
Who frown with vanity, who smile with art,
And ask the latest fashion of the heart,

165

What care, what rules your heedless charms shall save,
Each nymph your rival, and each youth your slave?
Against your fame with fondness hate combines,
The rival batters, and the lover mines.
With distant voice neglected Virtue calls,
Less heard and less, the faint remonstrance falls;
Tir'd with contempt, she quits the slipp'ry reign,
And Pride and Prudence take her seat in vain.
In crowd at once, where none the pass defend,
The harmless Freedom, and the private Friend.
The guardians yield, by force superior ply'd;
By Int'rest, Prudence; and by Flatt'ry, Pride.
Now beauty falls betray'd, despis'd, distress'd,
And hissing Infamy proclaims the rest.

Where then shall Hope and Fear their objects find?
Must dull Suspence corrupt the stagnant mind?
Must helpless man, in ignorance sedate,
Roll darkling down the torrent of his fate?
Must no dislike alarm, no wishes rise,
No cries attempt the mercies of the skies?
Enquirer, cease, petitions yet remain,
Which heav'n may hear, nor deem religion vain.
Still raise for good the supplicating voice,
But leave to heav'n the measure and the choice.
Safe in his pow'r, whose eyes discern afar
The secret ambush of a specious pray'r.

166

Implore his aid, in his decisions rest,
Secure whate'er he gives, he gives the best.
Yet when the sense of sacred presence fires,
And strong devotion to the skies aspires,
Pour forth thy fervours for a healthful mind,
Obedient passions, and a will resign'd;
For love, which scarce collective man can fill;
For patience sov'reign o'er transmuted ill;
For faith that panting for a happier seat,
Counts death kind Nature's signal of retreat:
These goods for man the laws of heav'n ordain,
These goods he grants, who grants the pow'r to gain;
With these celestial Wisdom calms the mind,
And makes the happiness she does not find.

Ver. 1–12.

Ver. 13–22.

Ver. 23–27.

Ver. 28–55.

Ver. 56–107.

Ver. 108–113.

Ver. 114–132.

There is a tradition, that the study of friar Bacon, built on an arch over the bridge, will fall, when a man greater than Bacon shall pass under it.

Ver. 133–146.

Ver. 147–167.

Ver. 168–187.

Ver. 188–288.

Ver. 289–345.

Ver. 346–366.

The TEARS of OLD MAY-DAY.

Led by the jocund train of vernal hours
And vernal airs, uprose the gentle May;
Blushing she rose, and blushing rose the flow'rs
That sprung spontaneous in the genial ray.

Her locks with heav'n's ambrosial dews were bright,
And am'rous zephyrs flutter'd on her breast:
With ev'ry shifting gleam of morning light
The colours shifted of her rainbow vest.

167

Imperial ensigns grac'd her smiling form,
A golden key, and golden wand she bore;
This charms to peace each sullen eastern storm,
And that unlocks the Summer's copious store.

Onward in conscious majesty she came,
The grateful honours of mankind to taste;
To gather fairest wreaths of future fame,
And blend fresh triumphs with her glories past.

Vain hope! no more in choral bands unite
Her virgin vot'ries, and at early dawn,
Sacred to May and Love's mysterious rite,
Brush the light dew-drops from the spangled lawn.

To her no more Augusta's wealthy pride
Pours the full tribute from Potosi's mine;
Nor fresh-blown garlands village maids provide,
A purer off'ring, at her rustic shrine.

No more the Maypole's verdant height around
To Valour's games th'ambitious youth advance:
No merry bells and tabors' sprightlier sound
Wake the loud carol, and the sportive dance.

168

Sudden in pensive sadness droop'd her head,
Faint on her cheeks the blushing crimson dy'd—
“O! chaste victorious triumphs, whither fled?
“My maiden honours, whither gone?” she cry'd.

Ah! once to fame and bright dominion born,
The Earth and smiling Ocean saw me rise,
With time coeval and the star of morn,
The first, the fairest daughter of the skies.

Then, when at heav'n's prolific mandate sprung
The radiant beam of new-created day,
Celestial harps, to airs of triumph strung,
Hail'd the glad dawn, and angels call'd me MAY.

Space in her empty regions heard the sound,
And hills, and dales, and rocks, and vallies rung;
The sun exulted in his glorious round,
And shouting planets in their courses sung.

For ever then I led the constant year;
Saw Youth, and Joy, and Love's enchanting wiles;
Saw the mild Graces in my train appear,
And infant Beauty brighten in my smiles.

No Winter frown'd. In sweet embrace ally'd,
Three sister Seasons danc'd th'eternal green;
And Spring's retiring softness gently vy'd
With Autumn's blush, and Summer's lofty mien.

169

Too soon, when man prophan'd the blessings giv'n,
And Vengeance arm'd to blot a guilty age,
With bright Astrea to my native heav'n
I fled, and flying saw the Deluge rage:

Saw bursting clouds eclipse the noontide beams,
While sounding billows from the mountains roll'd,
With bitter waves polluting all my streams,
My nectar'd streams, that flow'd on sands of gold.

Then vanquish'd many a sea-girt isle and grove,
Their forests floating on the wat'ry plain:
Then, fam'd for arts and laws deriv'd from Jove,
My Atalantis sunk beneath the main.

No longer bloom'd primeval Eden's bow'rs,
Nor guardian dragons watch'd the Hesperian steep:
With all their fountains, fragrant fruits and flow'rs,
Torn from the continent to glut the deep.

No more to dwell in sylvan scenes I deign'd,
Yet oft descending to the languid earth,
With quick'ning pow'rs the fainting mass sustain'd,
And wak'd her slumb'ring atoms into birth.

And ev'ry echo caught my raptur'd name,
And ev'ry virgin breath'd her am'rous vows,
And precious wreaths of rich immortal fame,
Show'r'd by the Muses, crown'd my lofty brows.

170

But chief in Europe, and in Europe's pride,
My Albion's favour'd realms, I rose ador'd;
And pour'd my wealth to other climes deny'd,
From Amalthea's horn with plenty stor'd.

Ah me! for now a younger rival claims
My ravish'd honours, and to her belong
My choral dances, and victorious games,
To her my garlands and triumphal song.

O say what yet untasted bounties flow,
What purer joys await her gentler reign?
Do lillies fairer, vi'lets sweeter blow?
And warbles Philomel a softer strain?

Do morning suns in ruddier glory rise?
Does ev'ning fan her with serener gales?
Do clouds drop fatness from the wealthier skies?
Or wantons Plenty in her happier vales?

Ah! no: the blunted beams of dawning light
Skirt the pale orient with uncertain day;
And Cynthia, riding on the car of night,
Thro' clouds embattled faintly wins her way.

Pale, immature, the blighted verdure springs,
Nor mounting juices feed the swelling flow'r;
Mute all the groves, nor Philomela sings
When Silence listens at the midnight hour.

171

Nor wonder, man, that Nature's bashful face,
And op'ning charms her rude embraces fear:
Is she not sprung of April's wayward race,
The sickly daughter of th'unripen'd year?

With show'rs and sunshine in her fickle eyes,
With hollow smiles proclaiming treach'rous peace;
With blushes, harb'ring in their thin disguise
The blast that riots on the Spring's increase.

Is this the fair invested with my spoil
By Europe's laws, and Senates' stern command?
Ungen'rous Europe, let me fly thy soil,
And waft my treasures to a grateful land:

Again revive on Asia's drooping shore
My Daphne's groves, or Lycia's ancient plain:
Again to Afric's sultry sands restore
Embow'ring shades, and Lybian Ammon's fane:

Or haste to northern Zembla's savage coast,
There hush to silence elemental strife;
Brood o'er the region of eternal Frost,
And swell her barren womb with heat and life.

Then Britain—here she ceas'd. Indignant grief,
And parting pangs her fault'ring tongue supprest:
Veil'd in an amber cloud, she sought relief,
And tears, and silent anguish told the rest.

Alluding to the country custom of gathering May-dew.

The plate garlands of London.

See Plato.

172

SONG for RANELAGH.

By Mr. W. Whitehead.

I

Ye belles, and ye flirts, and ye pert little things,
Who trip in this frolicksome round,
Pray tell me from whence this indecency springs,
The sexes at once to confound:
What means the cock'd hat, and the masculine air,
With each motion design'd to perplex?
Bright eyes were intended to languish, not stare,
And softness the test of your sex.

II

The girl who on beauty depends for support,
May call ev'ry art to her aid:
The bosom display'd, and the petticoat short,
Are samples she gives of her trade.
But you, on whom Fortune indulgently smiles,
And whom Pride has preserv'd from the snare;
Should slily attack us, with coyness and wiles,
Not with open and insolent air.

173

III

The Venus whose statue delights all mankind
Shrinks modestly back from the view,
And kindly shou'd seem by the artist design'd
To serve as a model for you.
Then learn with her beauties to copy her air,
Nor venture too much to reveal;
Our fancies will paint what you cover with care,
And double each charm you conceal.

IV

The blushes of Morn, and the mildness of May,
Are charms which no art can procure;
Oh! be but yourselves, and our homage we pay,
And your empire is solid and sure.
But if Amazon like you attack your gallants,
And put us in fear of our lives,
You may do very well for sisters and aunts,
But believe me you'll never be wives.

The Benedicite Paraphrased.

By the Rev. Mr. Merrick.

I

Ye works of God, on him alone,
In earth his footstool, heaven his throne,
Be all your praise bestow'd;
Whose hand the beauteous fabrick made,
Whose eye the finish'd work survey'd,
And saw that all was good.

174

II

Ye angels, that with loud acclaim
Admiring view'd the new-born frame,
And hail'd th'eternal King;
Again proclaim your Maker's praise,
Again your thankful voices raise,
And touch the tuneful string.

III

Praise him, ye bless'd ætherial plains,
Where, in full majesty, he deigns
To fix his aweful throne:
Ye waters, that above him roll,
From orb to orb, from pole to pole,
Oh! make his praises known!

IV

Ye thrones, dominions, virtues, pow'rs,
Join ye your joyful songs with ours,
With us your voices raise;
From age to age extend the lay,
To heav'n's eternal Monarch pay
Hymns of eternal praise.

V

Cœlestial orb!—whose pow'rful ray
Opes the glad eyelids of the day,
Whose influence all things own;
Praise him, whose courts effulgent shine
With light, as far excelling thine,
As thine the paler moon.

175

VI

Ye glitt'ring planets of the sky,
Whose lamps the absent sun supply,
With him the song pursue;
And let himself submissive own,
He borrows from a brighter Sun,
The light he lends to you.

VII

Ye show'rs, and dews, whose moisture shed,
Calls into life the op'ning seed,
To him your praises yield;
Whose influence wakes the genial birth,
Drops fatness on the pregnant earth,
And crowns the laughing field.

VIII

Ye winds that oft tempestuous sweep
The ruffled surface of the deep,
With us confess your God;
See, thro' the heav'ns, the King of kings,
Up-borne on your expanded wings,
Come flying all abroad.

IX

Ye floods of fire, where-e'er ye flow,
With just submission humbly bow
To his superior pow'r;
Who stops the tempest on its way,
Or bids the flaming deluge stray,
And gives it strength to roar.

176

X

Ye summer's heat, and winter's cold,
By turns in long succession roll'd,
The drooping world to chear;
Praise him, who gave the sun and moon,
To lead the various seasons on,
And guide the circling year.

XI

Ye frosts, that bind the wat'ry plain,
Ye silent show'rs of fleecy rain,
Pursue the heav'nly theme:
Praise him who sheds the driving snow,
Forbids the harden'd waves to flow,
And stops the rapid stream.

XII

Ye days and nights, that swiftly born,
From morn to eve, from eve to morn,
Alternate glide away;
Praise him, whose never-varying light,
Absent, adds horror to the night,
But present gives the day.

XIII

Light,—from whose rays all beauty springs,
Darkness,—whose wide-expanded wings
Involve the dusky globe:
Praise him, who, when the heav'ns he spread,
Darkness his thick pavilion made,
And light his regal robe.

177

XIV

Praise him, ye light'nings, as ye fly,
Wing'd with his vengeance thro' the sky,
And red with wrath divine;
Praise him, ye clouds, that wand'ring stray,
Or fix'd by him in close array,
Surround his aweful shrine.

XV

Exalt, O earth! thy heav'nly King,
Who bids the plants, that form the spring,
With annual verdure bloom;
Whose frequent drops of kindly rain,
Prolific swell the rip'ning grain,
And bless thy fertile womb.

XVI

Ye mountains, that ambitious rise,
And heave your summits to the skies,
Revere his aweful nod;
Think how you once affrighted fled,
When Jordan sought his fountain-head,
And own'd th'approaching God.

XVII

Ye trees, that fill the rural scene,
Ye flowers, that o'er th'enamel'd green
In native beauty reign,
O! praise the Ruler of the skies,
Whose hand the genial sap supplies,
And clothes the smiling plain.

178

XVIII

Ye secret springs, ye gentle rills,
That murm'ring rise among the hills,
Or fill the humble vale;
Praise him, at whose almighty nod
The rugged rock dissolving flow'd,
And form'd a springing well.

XIX

Praise him, ye floods, and seas profound,
Whose waves the spacious earth surround,
And roll from shore to shore;
Aw'd by his voice, ye seas, subside,
Ye floods, within your channels glide,
And tremble and adore.

XX

Ye whales, that stir the boiling deep,
Or in its dark recesses sleep,
Remote from human eye;
Praise him, by whom ye all are fed,
Praise him, without whose heavenly aid
Ye languish, faint, and die.

XXI

Ye birds, exalt your Maker's name,
Begin, and with th'important theme
Your artless lays improve;
Wake with your songs the rising day,
Let musick sound on ev'ry spray,
And fill the vocal grove.

179

XXII

Praise him, ye beasts, that nightly roam
Amid the solitary gloom,
Th'expected prey to seize;
Ye slaves of the laborious plough,
Your stubborn necks submissive bow,
And bend your weary'd knees.

XXIII

Ye sons of men, his praise display,
Who stampt his image on your clay,
And gave it pow'r to move;
Yet that in Judah's confines dwell,
From age to age successive tell
The wonders of his love.

XXIV

Let Levi's tribe the lay prolong,
'Till angels listen to the song,
And bend attentive down;
Let wonder seize the heav'nly train,
Pleas'd, while they hear a mortal strain,
So sweet, so like their own.

XXV

And you, your thankful voices join,
That oft at Salem's sacred shrine
Before his altars kneel;
Where thron'd in majesty he dwells,
And from the mystick cloud reveals
The dictates of his will.

180

XXVI

Ye spirits of the just and good,
That, eager for the blest abode,
To heav'nly mansions soar;
O! let your songs his praise display,
'Till heav'n itself shall melt away,
And time shall be no more.

XXVII

Praise him, ye meek and humble train,
Ye saints, whom his decrees ordain
The boundless bliss to share;
O! praise him, 'till ye take your way
To regions of eternal day,
And reign for ever there.

XXVIII

Let us, what now impassive stand,
Aw'd by the tyrant's stern command,
Amid the fiery blaze;
While thus we triumph in the flame,
Rise, and our Maker's love proclaim,
In hymns of endless praise.

181

An ODE to FANCY.

By the Same.

Fancy, whose delusions vain
Sport themselves with human brain;
Rival thou of Nature's pow'r,
Can'st, from thy exhaustless store,
Bid a tide of sorrow flow,
And whelm the soul in deepest woe:
Or in the twinkling of an eye,
Raise it to mirth and jollity.
Dreams and shadows by thee stand,
Taught to run at thy command,
And along the wanton air,
Flit like empty Gossimer.
Thee, black Melancholy of yore
To the swift-wing'd Hermes bore:
From the mixture of thy line,
Different natures in thee join,
Which thou chusest to express
By the variance of thy dress.

182

Now like thy sire thou lov'st to seem
Light and gay with pinions trim,
Dipt in all the dyes that glow
In the bend of Iris' bow:
Now like thy mother drear and sad,
(All in mournful vestments clad,
Cypress weeds and sable stole,)
Thou rushest on th'affrighted soul.
Oft I feel thee coming on,
When the night hath reach'd her noon,
And darkness, partner of her reign,
Round the world hath bound her chain,
Then with measur'd step and slow,
In the church-yard path I go,
And while my outward senses sleep,
Lost in contemplation deep,
Sudden I stop, and turn my ear,
And list'ning hear, or think I hear.
First a dead and sullen sound
Walks along the holy ground;
Then thro' the gloom alternate break
Groans, and the shrill screech-owl's shriek.
Lo! the moon hath hid her head,
And the graves give up their dead:
By me pass the ghastly crowds,
Wrapt in visionary shrouds;
Maids, who died with love forlorn,
Youths, who fell by maidens' scorn,

183

Helpless sires and matrons old
Slain for sordid thirst of gold,
And babes who owe their shorten'd date
To cruel step-dames ruthless hate;
Each their sev'ral errands go,
To haunt the wretch that wrought their woe:
From their sight the caitiff flies,
And his heart within him dies;
While a horror damp and chill
Thro' his frozen blood doth thrill,
And his hair for very dread
Bears itself upon his head.
When the early breath of day
Hath made the shadows flee away;
Still possess'd by thee I rove
Bosom'd in the shelt'ring grove,
There, with heart and lyre new strung,
Meditate the lofty song.
And if thou my voice inspire,
And with wonted frenzy fire,
Aided by thee I build the rhyme
Such, as nor the flight of time,
Nor wasting flame, nor eating show'r,
Nor lightning's blast can e'er devour.
Or if chance some moral page
My attentive thoughts engage,
On I walk, with silent tread,
Under the thick-woven shade,

184

While the thrush, unheeded by,
Tunes her artless minstrelsy.
List'ning to their sacred lore,
I think on ages long past o'er,
When Truth and Virtue hand in hand
Walk'd upon the smiling land.
Thence my eyes on Britain glance,
And, awaken'd from my trance,
While my busy thoughts I rear,
Oft I wipe the falling tear.
When the night again descends
And her shadowy cone extends,
O'er the fields I walk alone,
By the silence of the moon.
Hark! upon my left I hear
Wild musick wand'ring in the air;
Led by the sound I onward creep,
And thro' the neighb'ring hedge I peep;
There I spy the Fairy band
Dancing on the level land,
Now with step alternate bound,
Join'd in one continu'd round,
Now their plighted hands unbind,
And such tangled mazes wind
As the quick eye can scarce pursue,
And wou'd have puzzled that fam'd clue,
Which led th'Athenian's unskill'd feet
Thro' the Labyrinth of Crete.

185

At the near approach of day,
Sudden the musick dies away,
Wasting in the sea of air,
And the phantoms disappear,
All (as the glow-worm waxes dim)
Vanish like a morning dream,
And of their revels leave no trace,
Save the ring upon the grass.
When the elphin show is fled,
Home I haste me to my bed;
There if thou with magick wand
On my temples take thy stand,
I see in mix'd disorder rise
All that struck my waking eyes:
So when I stand, and round me gaze,
Where the fam'd Lodona strays;
On the woods and thickets brown,
That its sedgy margin crown,
And watch the vagrant clouds that fly
Thro' the vast desart of the sky,
When adown I cast my look
On the smooth unruffled brook,
(While its current clear doth run,
And holds its mirrour to the sun,)
There I see th'inverted scene
Fall, and meet the eye again.

117

The MONKIES, a TALE.

By the Same.

Whoe'er with curious eye has rang'd
Thro' Ovid's tales, has seen
How Jove, incens'd, to monkies chang'd
A tribe of worthless men.

Repentant soon th'offending race
Intreat the injur'd pow'r,
To give them back the human face,
And reason's aid restore.

Jove, sooth'd at length, his ear inclin'd,
And granted half their pray'r;
But t'other half he bade the wind
Disperse in empty air.

Scarce had the thund'rer giv'n the nod
That shook the vaulted skies,
With haughtier air the creatures strode,
And stretch'd their dwindled size.

187

The hair in curls luxuriant now
Around their temples spread;
The tail that whilom hung below,
Now dangled from the head.

The head remains unchang'd within,
Nor alter'd much the face;
It still retains its native grin,
And all its old grimace.

Thus half transform'd and half the same,
Jove bade them take their place,
(Restoring them their ancient claim)
Among the human race.

Man with contempt the brute survey'd,
Nor would a name bestow;
But woman lik'd the motley breed,
And call'd the thing a Beau.

188

An Epitaph. Thus Translated.

By the Same.

Thee, Pæta, death's relentless hand
Cut off in earliest bloom,
Oh! had the fates for me ordain'd
To share an equal doom;

With joy this busy world I'd leave,
This hated light resign,
To lay me in the peaceful grave,
And be for ever thine:

Do thou, if Lethe court thy lip,
To taste its stream forbear:
Still in thy soul his image keep,
Who hastes to meet thee there.

Safe o'er the dark and dreary shore,
In quest of thee I'll roam,
Love with his lamp shall run before,
And break the circling gloom.

189

VERSES sent to Dean Swift on his Birth-day, with Pine's Horace finely bound.

Written by Dr. J. Sican.

[Horace speaking.]

You've read, Sir, in poetic strain,
How Varus and the Mantuan swain
Have on my birth-day been invited
(But I was forc'd in verse to write it)
Upon a plain repast to dine,
And taste my old Campanian wine;
But I, who all punctilio's hate,
Tho' long familiar with the great,
Nor glory in my reputation,
Am come without an invitation,
And tho' I'm us'd to right Falernian,
I'll deign for once to taste Iernian;
But fearing that you might dispute
(Had I put on a common suit,)
My breeding and my politesse,
I visit in a birth-day dress;

190

My coat of purest Turkey-red,
With gold embroid'ry richly spread;
To which, I've sure as good pretensions,
As Irish lords who starve on pensions.
What tho' proud ministers of state
Did at your antichamber wait;
What tho' your Oxfords, and your St. Johns,
Have at your Levee paid attendance;
And Peterborough and great Ormond,
With many chiefs who now are dormant,
Have laid aside the general's staff
And public cares, with you to laugh;
Yet I some friends as good can name,
Nor less the darling sons of fame;
For sure my Pollio and Mecænas
Were as good statesman, Mr. Dean, as
Either your Bolingbroke or Harley,
Tho' they made Lewis beg a parley:
And as for Mordaunt your lov'd hero,
I'll match him with my Drusus Nero.
You'll boast perhaps your fav'rite Pope,
But Virgil is as good I hope.
I own indeed I can't get any
To equal Helsham and Delany;
Since, Athens brought forth Socrates,
A Grecian Isle Hippocrates;
Since, Tully liv'd before my time,
And Galen bless'd another clime.

191

You'll plead perhaps to my request,
To be admitted as a guest,
Your hearing's bad—but why such fears?
I speak to eyes, and not to ears;
And for that reason, wisely took
The form you see me in, a book.
Attack'd, by slow-devouring moths,
By rage of barb'rous Huns and Goths:
By Bentley's notes, my deadliest foes,
By Creech's rhimes and Dunster's prose;
I found my boasted wit and fire
In their rude hands almost expire:
Yet still they but in vain assail'd,
For had their violence prevail'd,
And in a blast destroy'd my fame,
They wou'd have partly miss'd their aim;
Since all my spirit in thy page
Defies the Vandals of this age.
'Tis yours to save these small remains
From future pedants muddy brains,
And fix my long-uncertain fate,
You best know how,—which way?—translate.

192

VERSES written in a GARDEN.

By Lady M. W. M.

See how that pair of billing doves
With open murmurs own their loves;
And heedless of censorious eyes,
Pursue their unpolluted joys:
No fears of future want molest
The downy quiet of their nest;
No int'rest join'd the happy pair,
Securely blest in Nature's care,
While her dear dictates they pursue:
For constancy is nature too.

Can all the doctrine of our schools,
Our maxims, our religious rules,
Can learning to our lives ensure
Virtue so bright, or bliss so pure?
The great Creator's happy ends,
Virtue and pleasure ever blends:
In vain the church and court have try'd
Th'united essence to divide;
Alike they find their wild mistake,
The pedant priest, and giddy rake.

193

AN ANSWER to a LOVE-LETTER.

By the Same.

Is it to me, this sad lamenting strain:
Are heaven's choicest gifts bestow'd in vain?
A plenteous fortune, and a beauteous bride,
Your love rewarded, gratify'd your pride:
Yet leaving her—'tis me that you pursue
Without one single charm, but being new.
How vile is man! how I detest their ways
Of artful falshood, and designing praise!
Tasteless, an easy happiness you slight,
Ruin your joy, and mischief your delight.
Why should poor pug (the mimic of your kind)
Wear a rough chain, and be to box confin'd?
Some cup, perhaps, he breaks, or tears a fan,—
While roves unpunish'd the destroyer, man.
Not bound by vows, and unrestrain'd by shame,
In sport you break the heart, and rend the fame.
Nor that your art can be successful here,
Th'already plunder'd need no robber fear:

194

Nor sighs, nor charms, nor flatteries can move,
Too well secur'd against a second love.
Once, and but once, that devil charm'd my mind;
To reason deaf, to observation blind;
I idly hop'd (what cannot love persuade!)
My fondness equal'd, and my love repay'd;
Slow to distrust, and willing to believe,
Long hush'd my doubts, and did myself deceive:
But oh! too soon—this tale would ever last;
Sleep, sleep, my wrongs, and let me think 'em past.
For you, who mourn with counterfeited grief,
And ask so boldly like a begging thief,
May soon some other nymph inflict the pain,
You know so well with cruel art to feign.
Tho' long you sported have with Cupid's dart,
You may see eyes, and you may feel a heart.
So the brisk wits, who stop the evening coach,
Laugh at the fear that follows their approach;
With idle mirth, and haughty scorn despise
The passenger's pale cheek, and staring eyes:
But seiz'd by Justice, find a fright no jest,
And all the terror doubled in their breast.

195

In Answer to a LADY who advised RETIREMENT.

By the Same.

You little know the heart that you advise;
I view this various scene with equal eyes:
In crowded courts I find myself alone,
And pay my worship to a nobler throne.
Long since the value of this world I know,
Pity the madness, and despise the show.
Well as I can my tedious part I bear,
And wait for my dismission without fear.
Seldom I mark mankind's detested ways,
Not hearing censure, nor affecting praise;
And, unconcern'd, my future state I trust
To that sole Being, merciful and just.

196

An Address of the Statues at Stowe, to Lord Cobham, on his Return to his Gardens.

From every Muse and every art thy own,
Thy bow'rs our theatres, thy mind our throne!
Hail! to thy virtues manumiz'd from state;
Hail! to thy leisure to be wisely great.

Fetter'd by duties and to forms enslav'd,
How timely have thy years a remnant sav'd!
To taste that freedom which thy sword maintain'd,
And lead in letter'd ease, a life unpain'd:
So Scipio (Carthage fall'n) resign'd his plume,
And smil'd at the forgetfulness of Rome.
O greatly bless'd! whose evening sweetest shines,
And, in unclouded slowness, calm declines!
While free reflection with reverted eye,
Wan'd from hot noon-tide and a troubled sky,
Divides life well: the largest part, long known
Thy country's claim; the last and best thy own.

Here while detach'd, thy self-supported soul
Resumes dominion and escapes controul;
Moves with a grandeur, monarchs wish in vain,
Above all fears, storms, dangers, hopes or pain;

197

A glance sometimes from thy safe summit show,
And see the dusty world look dim below:
Thro' the dark throng discern huge slaves of pride
Should'ring unheeded Happiness aside;
Thwarted and push'd and lab'ring into name,
And dignify'd with all the dirt of fame;
Then with a smile superior, turn away,
And lop th'exub'rance of some straggling spray;
Wind thro' thy mazes to serene delight,
And from the bursting bubbles shade thy sight.

Yet where thou shin'st, like heav'n behind a cloud,
Moving like light, all piercing, tho' not loud;
The Muse shall find thee in thy blest retreat,
And breathe this honest wish at Cobham's feet:
Fresh as thy lakes, may all thy pleasures flow!
And breezy like thy groves, thy passions blow!
Wide as thy fancy, be thy spreading praise!
And long and lovely as thy walks, thy days!

198

An ODE ON THE DEATH of Mr. PELHAM.

By Mr. Garrick.

An honest man's the noblest work of God!
Pope.

Let others hail the rising sun,
I bow to that whose course is run,
Which sets in endless night;
Whose rays benignant bless'd this isle,
Made peaceful Nature round us smile
With calm, but cheerful light.

No bounty past provokes my praise,
No future prospects prompt my lays,
From real grief they flow;
I catch th'alarm from Britain's fears,
My sorrows fall with Britain's tears,
And join a nation's woe.

199

See—as you pass the crowded street,
Despondence clouds each face you meet,
All their lost friend deplore:
You read in every pensive eye,
You hear in ev'ry broken sigh,
That Pelham is no more.

If thus each Briton be alarm'd,
Whom but his distant influence warm'd,
What grief their breasts must rend,
Who in his private virtues bless'd,
By Nature's dearest tyes possess'd
The Husband, Father, Friend!

What! mute ye bards?—no mournful verse,
No chaplets to adorn his hearse,
To crown the good and just?
Your flowers in warmer regions bloom,
You seek no pensions from the tomb,
No laurels from the dust.

When pow'r departed with his breath,
The sons of Flatt'ry fled from death:
Such insects swarm at noon.
Not for herself my Muse is griev'd,
She never ask'd, nor e'er receiv'd,
One ministerial boon.

200

Hath some peculiar strange offence,
Against us arm'd Omnipotence,
To check the nation's pride?
Behold th'appointed punishment!
At length the vengeful bolt is sent,
It fell—when Pelham dy'd!

Uncheck'd by shame, unaw'd by dread,
When Vice triumphant rears her head,
Vengeance can sleep no more;
The evil angel stalks at large,
The good submits, resigns his charge,
And quits th'unhallow'd shore.

The same sad morn to church and state,
(So for our sins 'twas fix'd by fate)
A double stroke was giv'n;
Black as the whirlwinds of the north,
St. J---n's fell Genius issu'd forth,
And Pelham fled to heav'n!

By angels watch'd in Eden's bow'rs,
Our parents pass'd their peaceful hours,
Nor guilt nor pain they knew;
But on the day which usher'd in
The hell-born train of mortal sin,
The heav'nly guards withdrew.

201

Look down, much honour'd shade, below,
Still let thy pity aid our woe;
Stretch out thy healing hand;
Resume those feelings, which on earth
Proclaim'd thy patriot love and worth,
And sav'd a sinking land.

Search with thy more than mortal eye,
The breasts of all thy friends: descry
What there has got possession.
See if thy unsuspecting heart,
In some for truth mistook not art,
For principle, profession.

From these, the pests of human kind,
Whom royal bounty cannot bind,
Protect our parent King:
Unmask their treach'ry to his sight,
Drag forth the vipers into light,
And crush them ere they sting.

If such his trust and honours share,
Again exert thy guardian care,
Each venom'd heart disclose;
On Him, on Him, our all depends,
Oh save him from his treach'rous friends,
He cannot fear his foes.

202

Whoe'er shall at the helm preside,
Still let thy prudence be his guide,
To stem the troubled wave;
But chiefly whisper in his ear,
“That George is open, just, sincere,
“And dares to scorn a knave.”

No selfish views t'oppress mankind,
No mad ambition fir'd thy mind,
To purchase fame with blood;
Thy bosom glow'd with purer heat;
Convinc'd that to be truly great,
Is only to be good.

To hear no lawless passion's call,
To serve thy King, yet feel for all,
Such was thy glorious plan!
Wisdom with gen'rous love took part,
Together work thy head and heart,
The Minister and Man.

Unite, ye kindred sons of worth;
Strangle bold faction in its birth;
Be Britain's weal your view!
For this great end let all combine,
Let virtue link each fair design,
And Pelham live in you.

The 6th of March, 1754, was remarkable for the publication of the works of a late Lord, and the death of Mr. Pelham.

203

VERSES Written at Mountauban in France, 1750.

By the Rev. Mr. Joseph Warton.

Tarn, how delightful wind thy willow'd waves,
But ah! they fructify a land of slaves!
In vain thy bare-foot, sun-burnt peasants hide
With luscious grapes yon' hill's romantic side;
No cups nectareous shall their toils repay,
The priest's, the soldier's, and the fermier's prey:
Vain glows this sun in cloudless glory drest,
That strikes fresh vigour thro' the pining breast;
Give me, beneath a colder, changeful sky,
My soul's best, only pleasure, Liberty!
What millions perish'd near thy mournful flood
When the red papal tyrant cry'd out—“Blood!
Less fierce the Saracen, and quiver'd Moor,
That dash'd thy infants 'gainst the stones of yore.
Be warn'd ye nations round; and trembling see
Dire superstition quench humanity!

204

By all the chiefs in Freedom's battles lost;
By wise and virtuous Alfred's aweful ghost;
By old Galgacus' scythed, iron car,
That swiftly whirling thro' the walks of war,
Dash'd Roman blood, and crush'd the foreign throngs:
By holy Druids' courage-breathing songs;
By fierce Bonduca's shield, and foaming steeds;
By the bold peers that met on Thames's meads;
By the fifth Henry's helm, and lightning spear,
O Liberty, my warm petition hear;
Be Albion still thy joy! with her remain,
Long as the surge shall lash her oak-crown'd plain!

Alluding to the persecutions of the protestants, and the wars of the Saracens, carried on in the Southern provinces of France.

The Revenge of AMERICA.

By the Same.

When fierce Pisarro's legions flew
O'er ravag'd fields of rich Peru,
Struck with his bleeding people's woes,
Old India's aweful Genius rose.
He sat on Andes' topmost stone,
And heard a thousand nations groan;
For grief his feathery crown he tore,
To see huge Plata foam with gore;

205

He broke his arrows, stampt the ground,
To view his cities smoaking round.

What woes, he cry'd, hath lust of gold
O'er my poor country widely roll'd;
Plunderers proceed! my bowels tear,
But ye shall meet destruction there;
From the deep-vaulted mine shall rise
Th'insatiate fiend, pale Avarice!
Whose steps shall trembling Justice fly,
Peace, Order, Law, and Amity!
I see all Europe's children curst
With lucre's universal thirst:
The rage that sweeps my sons away,
My baneful gold shall well repay.

The Dying INDIAN.

By the Same.

The dart of Izdabel prevails! 'twas dipt
In double poison—I shall soon arrive
At the blest island, where no tigers spring
On heedless hunters; where anana's bloom
Thrice in each moon; where rivers smoothly glide,
Nor thundering torrents whirl the light canoe

206

Down to the sea; where my forefathers feast
Daily on hearts of Spaniards!—O my son,
I feel the venom busy in my breast,
Approach, and bring my crown, deck'd with the teeth
Of that bold christian who first dar'd deflour
The virgins of the sun; and, dire to tell!
Robb'd Pachacamac's altar of its gems!
I mark'd the spot where they interr'd this traitor,
And once at midnight stole I to his tomb,
And tore his carcase from the earth, and left it
A prey to poisonous flies. Preserve this crown
With sacred secrecy: if e'er returns
Thy much-lov'd mother from the desart woods
Where, as I hunted late; I hapless lost her,
Cherish her age. Tell her I ne'er have worship'd
With those that eat their God. And when disease
Preys on her languid limbs, then kindly stab her
With thine own hands, nor suffer her to linger,
Like christian cowards, in a life of pain.
I go! great Copac beckons me! farewell!

207

ODE occasion'd by Reading Mr. West's Translation of Pindar.

By the Same.

I.

1

Albion exult! thy sons a voice divine have heard,
The man of Thebes hath in thy vales appear'd!
Hark! with fresh rage and undiminish'd fire,
The sweet enthusiast smites the British lyre;
The sounds that echoed on Alphéus' streams,
Reach the delighted ear of listening Thames;
Lo! swift across the dusty plain
Great Theron's foaming coursers strain!
What mortal tongue e'er roll'd along
Such full impetuous tides of nervous song?

2

The fearful, frigid lays of cold and creeping Art,
Nor touch, nor can transport th'unfeeling heart;
Pindar, our inmost bosom piercing, warms
With glory's love, and eager thirst of arms:
When Freedom speaks in his majestic strain,
The patriot-passions beat in every vein:
We long to sit with heroes old,
'Mid groves of vegetable gold,
Where Cadmus and Achilles dwell,
And still of daring deeds and dangers tell.

208

3

Away, enervate bards, away,
Who spin the courtly, silken lay,
As wreaths for some vain Louis' head,
Or mourn some soft Adonis dead:
No more your polish'd lyrics boast,
In British Pindar's strength o'erwhelm'd and lost:
As well might ye compare
The glimmerings of a waxen flame,
(Emblem of verse correctly tame)
To his own Ætna's sulphur-spouting caves,
When to heav'n's vault the fiery deluge raves,
When clouds and burning rocks dart thro' the troubled air.

II.

1

In roaring cataracts down Andes' channel'd steeps
Mark how enormous Orellana sweeps!
Monarch of mighty floods! supremely strong,
Foaming from cliff to cliff he whirls along,
Swoln with an hundred hills' collected snows:
Thence over nameless regions widely flows,
Round fragrant isles, and citron-groves,
Where still the naked Indian roves,
And safely builds his leafy bow'r,
From slavery far, and curst Iberian pow'r;

209

2

So rapid Pindar flows.—O parent of the lyre,
Let me for ever thy sweet sons admire!
O ancient Greece, but chief the bard whose lays
The matchless tale of Troy divine emblaze;
And next Euripides, soft Pity's priest,
Whose melts in useful woes the bleeding breast;
And him, who paints th'incestuous king,
Who soul amaze and horror wring;
Teach me to taste their charms refin'd,
The richest banquet of th'enraptur'd mind:

3

For the blest man, the muse's child ,
On whose auspicious birth she smil'd,
Whose soul she form'd of purer fire,
For whom she tun'd a golden lyre,
Seeks not in fighting fields renown:
No widows' midnight skrieks, nor burning town,
The peaceful poet please;
Nor ceaseless toils for sordid gains,
Nor purple pomp, nor wide domains,
Nor heaps of wealth, nor power, nor statesman's schemes,
Nor all deceiv'd Ambition's feverish dreams,
Lure his contented heart from the sweet vale of ease.

See 2. Olym. Od.

Alluding to the French and Italian lyric poets.

See 1. Pyth. Od.

Hor. Od. 3. L. 4.

210

THE PLEASURES of MELANCHOLY. Written in the Year 1745.

By Mr. Thomas Warton.

Mother of musings, Contemplation sage,
Whose grotto stands upon the topmost rock
Of Teneriff: 'mid the tempestuous night,
On which, in calmest meditation held,
Thou hear'st with howling winds the beating rain
And drifting hail descend; or if the skies
Unclouded shine, and thro' the blue serene
Pale Cynthia rolls her silver-axled car,
Whence gazing stedfast on the spangled vault
Raptur'd thou sit'st, while murmurs indistinct
Of distant billows sooth thy pensive ear
With hoarse and hollow sounds; secure, self-blest,
There oft thou listen'st to the wild uproar
Of fleets encount'ring, that in whispers low
Ascends the rocky summit, where thou dwell'st
Remote from man, conversing with the spheres!
O lead me, queen sublime, to solemn glooms
Congenial with my soul; to cheerless shades,

211

To ruin'd seats, or twilight cells and bow'rs,
Where thoughtful Melancholy loves to muse,
Her fav'rite midnight haunts. The laughing scenes
Of purple Spring, where all the wanton train
Of Smiles and Graces seem to lead the dance
In sportive round, while from their hands they show'r
Ambrosial blooms and flow'rs, no longer charm;
Tempe, no more I court thy balmy breeze,
Adieu green vales! ye broider'd meads, adieu!

Beneath yon ruin'd abbey's moss-grown piles
Oft let me sit, at twilight hour of eve,
Where thro' some western window the pale moon
Pours her long-levell'd rule of streaming light;
While sullen sacred silence reigns around,
Save the lone screech-owl's note, who builds his bow'r
Amid the mould'ring caverns dark and damp,
Or the calm breeze, that rustles in the leaves
Of flaunting ivy, that with mantle green
Invests some wasted tow'r. Or let me tread
In neighb'ring walk of pines, where mus'd of old
The cloyster'd brother: thro' the gloomy void
That far extends beneath their ample arch
As on I pace, religious horror wraps
My soul in dread repose. But when the world
Is clad in Midnight's raven-colour'd robe,
'Mid hollow charnels let me watch the flame
Of taper dim, shedding a livid glare
O'er the wan heaps; while airy voices talk

212

Along the glimm'ring walls: or ghostly shape
At distance seen, invites with beck'ning hand
My lonesome steps, thro' the far-winding vaults.
Nor undelightful is the solemn noon
Of night, when haply wakeful from my couch
I start: lo, all is motionless around!
Roars not the rushing wind; the sons of men
And every beast in mute oblivion lie;
All nature's hush'd in silence and in sleep.
O then how fearful is it to reflect,
That thro' the still globe's aweful solitude,
No being wakes but me! 'till stealing sleep
My drooping temples bathes in opiate dews.
Nor then let dreams, of wanton folly born,
My senses lead thro' flowery paths of joy;
But let the sacred Genius of the night
Such mystic visions send, as Spenser saw,
When thro' bewild'ring Fancy's magic maze,
To the fell house of Busyrane, he led
Th'unshaken Britomart; or Milton knew,
When in abstracted thought he first conceiv'd
All heav'n in tumult, and the Seraphim
Come tow'ring, arm'd in adamant and gold.

Let others love soft summer's ev'ning smiles,
As, list'ning to the distant water-fall,
They mark the blushes of the streaky west;
I choose the pale December's foggy glooms.
Then, when the sullen shades of ev'ning close,

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Where thro' the room a blindly-glimm'ring gleam
The dying embers scatter, far remote
From Mirth's mad shouts, that thro' th'illumin'd roof
Resound with festive echo, let me sit,
Blest with the lowly cricket's drowsy dirge.
Then let my thought contemplative explore
This fleeting state of things, the vain delights,
The fruitless toils, that still our search elude,
As thro' the wilderness of life we rove.
This sober hour of silence will unmask
False Folly's smiles, that like the dazzling spells
Of wily Comus cheat th'unweeting eye
With blear illusion, and persuade to drink
That charmed cup, which Reason's mintage fair
Unmoulds, and stamps the monster on the man.
Eager we taste, but in the luscious draught
Forget the pois'nous dregs that lurk beneath.

Few know that elegance of soul refin'd,
Whose soft sensation feels a quicker joy
From Melancholy's scenes, than the dull pride
Of tasteless splendor and magnificence
Can e'er afford. Thus Eloise, whose mind
Had languish'd to the pangs of melting love,
More genuine transport found, as on some tomb
Reclin'd, she watch'd the tapers of the dead;
Or thro' the pillar'd iles, amid pale shrines
Of imag'd saints, and intermingled graves,
Mus'd a veil'd votaress: than Flavia feels,

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As thro' the mazes of the festive ball,
Proud of her conquering charms, and beauty's blaze,
She floats amid the silken sons of dress,
And shines the fairest of th'assembled fair.

When azure noon-tide cheers the dædal globe,
And the blest regent of the golden day
Rejoices in his bright meridian bow'r,
How oft my wishes ask the night's return,
That best befriends the melancholy mind!
Hail, sacred Night! thou too shalt share my song!
Sister of Ebon-scepter'd Hecat, hail!
Whether in congregated clouds thou wrap'st
Thy viewless chariot, or with silver crown
Thy beaming head encirclest, ever hail!
What tho' beneath thy gloom the sorceress-train,
Far in obscured haunt of Lapland-moors,
With rhymes uncouth the bloody cauldron bless;
Tho' Murder wan, beneath thy shrouding shade
Summons her slow-ey'd vot'ries to devise
Of secret slaughter, while by one blue lamp
In hideous conf'rence sits the listening band,
And start at each low wind, or wakeful sound:
What tho' thy stay the pilgrim curseth oft,
As all benighted in Arabian wastes
He hears the wilderness around him howl
With roaming monsters, while on his hoar head
The black-descending tempest ceaseless beats;
Yet more delightful to my pensive mind

215

Is thy return, than bloomy morn's approach,
Ev'n then, in youthful prime of opening May,
When from the portals of the saffron east
She sheds fresh roses, and ambrosial dews.
Yet not ungrateful is the morn's approach,
When dropping wet she comes, and clad in clouds,
While thro' the damp air scowls the louring south,
Blackening the landscape's face, that grove and hill
In formless vapours undistinguish'd swim:
Th'afflicted songsters of the sadden'd groves
Hail not the sullen gloom; the waving elms
That hoar thro' time, and rang'd in thick array,
Enclose with stately row some rural hall,
Are mute, nor echo with the clamors hoarse
Of rooks rejoicing on their airy boughs;
While to the shed the dripping poultry crowd,
A mournful train; secure the village-hind
Hangs o'er the crackling blaze, nor tempts the storm;
Fix'd in th'unfinish'd furrow rests the plough:
Rings not the high wood with enliv'ning shouts
Of early hunter: all is silence drear;
And deepest sadness wraps the face of things.

Thro' Pope's soft song tho' all the Graces breathe,
And happiest art adorn his Attic page;
Yet does my mind with sweeter transport glow,
As at the root of mossy trunk reclin'd,
In magic Spenser's wildly-warbled song
I see deserted Una wander wide

216

Thro' wasteful solitudes, and lurid heaths
Weary, forlorn; than when the fated fair,
Upon the bosom bright of silver Thames,
Launches in all the lustre of brocade,
Amid the splendors of the laughing Sun.
The gay description palls upon the sense,
And coldly strikes the mind with feeble bliss.

Ye Youths of Albion's beauty-blooming isle,
Whose brows have worn the wreath of luckless love,
Is there a pleasure like the pensive mood,
Whose magic wont to sooth your soften'd souls?
O tell how rapturous the joy, to melt
To Melody's assuasive voice; to bend
Th'uncertain step along the midnight mead,
And pour your sorrows to the pitying moon,
By many a slow trill from the bird of woe
Oft interrupted; in embowering woods
By darksome brook to muse, and there forget
The solemn dulness of the tedious world,
While Fancy grasps the visionary fair:
And now no more th'abstracted ear attends
The water's murm'ring lapse, th'entranced eye
Pierces no longer thro' th'extended rows
Of thick-rang'd trees; 'till haply from the depth
The woodman's stroke, or distant-tinkling team,
Or heifer rustling thro' the brake alarms
Th'illuded sense, and mars the golden dream.

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These are delights that absence drear has made
Familiar to my soul, e'er since the form
Of young Sapphira, beauteous as the Spring,
When from her vi'let-woven couch awak'd
By frolic Zephyr's hand, her tender cheek
Graceful she lifts, and blushing from her bow'r,
Issues to cloath in gladsome-glist'ring green
The genial globe, first met my dazzled sight:
These are delights unknown to minds profane,
And which alone the pensive soul can taste.

The taper'd choir, at the late hour of pray'r,
Oft let me tread, while to th'according voice
The many-sounding organ peals on high,
The clear slow-dittyed chaunt, or varied hymn,
'Till all my soul is bath'd in ecstasies,
And lap'd in Paradise. Or let me sit
Far in sequester'd iles of the deep dome,
There lonesome listen to the sacred sounds,
Which, as they lengthen thro' the Gothic vaults,
In hollow murmurs reach my ravish'd ear.
Nor when the lamps expiring yield to night,
And solitude returns, would I forsake
The solemn mansion, but attentive hear
The due clock swinging slow with sweepy sway,
Measuring Time's flight with momentary sound.

Nor let me fail to cultivate my mind
With the soft thrillings of the tragic Muse,
Divine Melpomene, sweet Pity's nurse,

218

Queen of the stately step, and flowing pall.
Now let Monimia mourn with streaming eyes
Her joys incestuous, and polluted love:
Now let soft Juliet in the gaping tomb
Print the last kiss on her true Romeo's lips,
His lips yet reeking from the dreadly draught.
Or Jaffeir kneel for one forgiving look.
Nor seldom let the Moor of Desdemone
Pour the misguided threats of jealous rage.
By soft degrees the manly torrent steals
From my swoln eyes; and at a brother's woe
My big heart melts in sympathizing tears.

What are the splendors of the gaudy court,
Its tinsel trappings, and its pageant pomps?
To me far happier seems the banish'd Lord
Amid Siberia's unrejoycing wilds
Who pines all lonesome, in the chambers hoar
Of some high castle shut, whose windows dim
In distant ken discover trackless plains,
Where Winter ever whirls his icy car;
While still-repeated objects of his view,
The gloomy battlements, and ivied spires
That crown the solitary dome, arise;
While from the topmost turret the slow clock,
Far heard along th'inhospitable wastes,
With sad-returning chime awakes new grief;
Ev'n he far happier seems than is the proud,
The potent Satrap whom he left behind

219

'Mid Moscow's golden palaces, to drown
In ease and luxury the laughing hours.

Illustrious objects strike the gazer's mind
With feeble bliss, and but allure the sight,
Nor rouze with impulse quick th'unfeeling heart.
Thus seen by shepherd from Hymettus' brow,
What dædal landscapes smile! here balmy groves,
Resounding once with Plato's voice, arise,
Amid whose umbrage green her silver head
Th'unfading olive lifts; her vine-clad hills
Lay forth their purple store, and sunny vales
In prospect vast their level laps expand,
Amid whose beauties glistering Athens tow'rs.
Tho' thro' the blissful scenes Ilissus roll
His sage-inspiring flood, whose winding marge
The thick-wove laurel shades; tho' roseate Morn
Pour all her splendors on th'empurpled scene;
Yet feels the hoary Hermit truer joys,
As from the cliff that o'er his cavern hangs
He views the piles of fall'n Persepolis
In deep arrangement hide the darksome plain.
Unbounded waste! the mould'ring obelisc
Here, like a blasted oak, ascends the clouds;
Here Parian domes their vaulted halls disclose
Horrid with thorn, where lurks th'unpitying thief,
Whence flits the twilight-loving bat at eve,
And the deaf adder wreathes her spotted train,
The dwellings once of elegance and art.

220

Here temples rise, amid whose hallow'd bounds
Spires the black pine, while thro' the naked street,
Once haunt of tradeful merchants, springs the grass:
Here columns heap'd on prostrate columns, torn
From their firm base, increase the mould'ring mass.
Far as the sight can pierce, appear the spoils
Of sunk magnificence! a blended scene
Of moles, fanes, arches, domes, and palaces,
Where, with his brother Horror, Ruin sits.

O come then, Melancholy, queen of thought!
O come with saintly look, and stedfast step,
From forth thy cave embower'd with mournful yew,
Where to the distant curfeu's solemn sound
List'ning thou sitt'st, and with thy cypress bind
Thy votary's hair, and seal him for thy son.
But never let Euphrósyne beguile
With toys of wanton mirth my fixed mind,
Nor in my path her primrose-garland cast.
Tho' 'mid her train the dimpled Hebe bare
Her rosy bosom to th'enamour'd view;
Tho' Venus, mother of the Smiles and Loves,
And Bacchus, ivy-crown'd, in citron-bow'r
With her on nectar-streaming fruitage feast:
What tho' 'tis her's to calm the low'ring skies,
And at her presence mild th'embattel'd clouds
Disperse in air, and o'er the face of heav'n
New day diffusive gleam at her approach;
Yet are these joys that Melancholy gives,

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Than all her witless revels happier far;
These deep-felt joys, by Contemplation taught.

Then ever, beauteous Contemplation, hail!
From thee began, auspicious maid, my song,
With thee shall end: for thou art fairer far
Than are the nymphs of Cirrha's mossy grot;
To loftier rapture thou canst wake the thought,
Than all the fabling Poet's boasted pow'rs.
Hail, queen divine! whom, as tradition tells,
Once, in his ev'ning-walk a Druid found,
Far in a hollow glade of Mona's woods;
And piteous bore with hospitable hand
To the close shelter of his oaken bow'r.
There soon the sage admiring mark'd the dawn
Of solemn musing in your pensive thought;
For when a smiling babe, you lov'd to lie
Oft deeply list'ning to the rapid roar
Of wood-hung Meinai, stream of Druids old,
That lav'd his hallow'd haunt with dashing wave.

Belinda. See Rape of the Lock.

A SONNET; written at W---de in the Absence of ---.

By the Same.

W---de, thy beechen slopes with waving grain
Border'd, thine azure views of wood and lawn,
Whilom could charm, or when the joyous Dawn
'Gan Night's dun robe with flushing purple stain,

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Or Evening drove to fold her woolly train;
Her fairest landscapes whence my Muse has drawn,
Too free with servile courtly phrase to fawn,
Too weak to try the Buskin's stately strain;
Yet now no more thy slopes of beech and corn
Nor prospects charm, since He far-distant strays
With whom I trac'd their sweets each eve and morn,
From Albion far, to cull Hesperian bays;
In this alone they please, howe'er forlorn,
That still they can recall those happier days.

On BATHING.

A SONNET. By the Same.

When late the trees were stript by Winter pale,
Fair Health, a Dryad-maid in vesture green,
Rejoyc'd to rove 'mid the bleak sylvan scene,
On airy uplands caught the fragrant gale,
And ere fresh morn the low-couch'd lark did hail
Watching the sound of earliest horn was seen.
But since gay Summer, thron'd in chariot sheen,
Is come to scorch each primrose sprinkled dale,

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She chuses that delightful cave beneath
The crystal treasures of meek Isis' stream;
And now all glad the temperate air to breathe,
While cooling drops distil from arches dim,
Binding her dewy locks with sedgy wreath
She sits amid the quire of Naiads trim.

To Lady H---y.

By Mr. de Voltaire.

H---y would you know the passion
You have kindled in my breast,
Trifling is the inclination
That by words can be express'd.

In my silence see the lover,
True love is by silence known;
In my eyes you'll best discover
All the power of your own.

On Sir Robert Walpole's Birth-day, August the 26th.

By the Honourable Mr. D---ton.

All hail, auspicious day, whose wish'd return
Bids every breast with grateful ardor burn,

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While pleas'd Britannia that great man surveys
The Prince may trust, and yet the People praise:
One bearing greatest toils with greatest ease,
One born to serve us, and yet born to please;
His soul capacious, yet his judgment clear,
His tongue is flowing, and his heart sincere:
His counsels guide, his temper cheers our isle,
And smiling gives three kingdoms cause to smile.
August, how bright thy golden scenes appear,
Thou fairest daughter of the various year,
On thee the sun with all his ardor glows,
On thee in dowry all its fruits bestows,
The greatest Prince, the foremost son of fame,
To thee bequeath'd the glories of his name;
Nature and Fortune thee their darling chose,
Nor could they grace thee more, 'till Walpole rose.
By steps to mighty things Fate makes her way,
The sun and Cæsar but prepar'd this day.

The Lawyer's Farewell to his Muse.

Written in the Year 1744.

As, by some tyrant's stern command,
A wretch forsakes his native land,
In foreign climes condemn'd to roam
An endless exile from his home;

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Pensive he treads the destin'd way,
And dreads to go, nor dares to stay;
'Till on some neighb'ring mountain's brow
He stops, and turns his eyes below;
There, melting at the well-known view,
Drops a last tear, and bids adieu:
So I, thus doom'd from thee to part,
Gay queen of Fancy and of Art,
Reluctant move, with doubtful mind,
Oft stop, and often look behind.

Companion of my tender age,
Serenely gay, and sweetly sage,
How blithsome were we wont to rove
By verdant hill, or shady grove,
Where fervent bees, with humming voice,
Around the honey'd oak rejoice,
And aged elms with aweful bend
In long cathedral walks extend!
Lull'd by the lapse of gliding floods,
Cheer'd by the warbling of the woods,
How blest my days, my thoughts how free,
In sweet society with thee!
Then all was joyous, all was young,
And years unheeded roll'd along:
But now the pleasing dream is o'er,
These scenes must charm me now no more,
Lost to the field, and torn from you,—
Farewel!—a long, a last adieu.

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Me wrangling courts, and stubborn Law,
To smoak, and crowds, and cities draw;
There selfish Faction rules the day,
And Pride and Av'rice throng the way:
Diseases taint the murky air,
And midnight conflagrations glare;
Loose Revelry and Riot bold
In frighted streets their orgies hold;
Or, when in silence all is drown'd,
Fell Murder walks her lonely round:
No room for peace, no room for you,
Adieu, celestial Nymph, adieu!

Shakespear no more thy sylvan son,
Nor all the art of Addison,
Pope's heav'n-strung lyre, nor Waller's ease,
Nor Milton's mighty self must please:
Instead of these, a formal band
In furs and coifs around me stand;
With sounds uncouth and accents dry
That grate the soul of harmony,
Each pedant sage unlocks his store
Of mystic, dark, discordant lore;
And points with tott'ring hand the ways
That lead me to the thorny maze.

There, in a winding, close retreat,
Is Justice doom'd to fix her seat,
There, fenc'd by bulwarks of the Law,
She keeps the wond'ring world in awe,

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And there, from vulgar sight retir'd,
Like eastern queens is more admir'd.

O let me pierce the secret shade
Where dwells the venerable maid!
There humbly mark, with rev'rent awe,
The guardian of Britannia's Law,
Unfold with joy her sacred page,
(Th'united boast of many an age,
Where mix'd, yet uniform, appears
The wisdom of a thousand years)
In that pure spring the bottom view,
Clear, deep, and regularly true,
And other doctrines thence imbibe
Than lurk within the sordid scribe;
Observe how parts with parts unite
In one harmonious rule of right;
See countless wheels distinctly tend
By various laws to one great end;
While mighty Alfred's piercing soul
Pervades, and regulates the whole.

Then welcome business, welcome strife,
Welcome the cares, the thorns of life,
The visage wan, the pore-blind sight,
The toil by day, the lamp at night,
The tedious forms, the solemn prate,
The pert dispute, the dull debate,
The drowsy bench, the babling Hall,
For thee, fair Justice, welcome all!

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Thus tho' my noon of life be past,
Yet let my setting sun, at last,
Find out the still, the rural cell,
Where sage Retirement loves to dwell!
There let me taste the homefelt bliss
Of innocence, and inward peace;
Untainted by the guilty bribe;
Uncurs'd amid the harpy-tribe;
No orphan's cry to wound my ear;
My honour, and my conscience clear;
Thus may I calmly meet my end,
Thus to the grave in peace descend!

By Miss Cooper (now Mrs. Madan) in her Brother's Coke upon Littleton.

O thou, who labour'st in this rugged mine,
May'st thou to gold th'unpolish'd ore refine!
May each dark page unfold its haggard brow!
Doubt not to reap, if thou canst bear to plough.
To tempt thy care, may each revolving night,
Purses and maces swim before thy sight!
From hence in times to come, advent'rous deed!
May'st thou essay, to look and speak like Mead.
When the black bag and rose no more shall shade
With martial air the honours of thy head;

229

When the full wig thy visage shall enclose,
And only leave to view they learned nose:
Safely may'st thou defy beaux, wits, and scoffers;
While tenants, in fee simple, stuff thy coffers.

SOLITUDE.

An ODE. By Dr. Grainger.

I.

O solitude, romantic Maid,
Whether by nodding towers you tread,
Or haunt the desart's trackless gloom,
Or hover o'er the yawning tomb,
Or climb the Andes' clifted side,
Or by the Nile's coy source abide,
Or starting from your half-year's sleep
From Hecla view the thawing deep,
Or Tadmor's marble wastes survey,
Or in yon roofless cloyster stray;
You, Recluse, again I woo,
And again your steps pursue.

II.

Plum'd Conceit himself surveying,
Folly with her shadow playing,
Purse-proud, elbowing Insolence,
Bloated empirick, puff'd Pretence,

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Noise that thro' a trumpet speaks,
Laughter in loud peals that breaks,
Intrusion with a fopling's face,
(Ignorant of time and place)
Sparks of fire Dissention blowing,
Ductile, court-bred Flattery, bowing,
Restraint's stiff neck, Grimace's leer,
Squint-ey'd Censure's artful sneer,
Ambition's buskins steep'd in blood,
Fly thy presence, Solitude.

III.

Sage Reflection bent with years,
Conscious Virtue void of fears,
Muffled Silence, wood-nymph shy,
Meditation's piercing eye,
Halcyon Peace on moss reclin'd,
Retrospect that scans the mind,
Rapt earth-gazing Resvery,
Blushing artless Modesty,
Health that snuffs the morning air,
Full-ey'd Truth with bosom bare,
Inspiration, Nature's child,
Seek the solitary wild.

IV.

You with the tragic Muse retir'd
The wise Euripides inspir'd,

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You taught the sadly-pleasing air
That Athens sav'd from ruins bare.
You gave the Cean's tears to flow,
And unlock'd the springs of woe;
You penn'd what exil'd Naso thought,
And pour'd the melancholy note.
With Petrarch o'er Valcluse you stray'd,
When Death snatch'd his long-lov'd maid;
You taught the rocks her loss to mourn,
Ye strew'd with flowers her virgin urn.
And late in Hagley you were seen,
With bloodshed eyes, and sombre mien,
Hymen his yellow vestment tore,
And Dirge a wreath of cypress wore.
But chief your own the solemn lay
That wept Narcissa young and gay,
Darkness clap'd her sable wing,
While you touch'd the mournful string,
Anguish left the pathless wild,
Grim-fac'd Melancholy smil'd,
Drowsy Midnight ceas'd to yawn,
The starry host put back the dawn,
Aside their harps ev'n Seraphs flung
To hear thy sweet complaint, O Young.

In the island Salamis.

See Plutarch in the life of Lysander.

Simonides.

Laura, twenty years, and ten after her death.

Monody on the death of Mrs. Lyttelton.

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V.

When all Nature's hush'd asleep,
Nor Love nor Guilt their vigils keep,
Soft you leave your cavern'd den,
And wander o'er the works of men,
But when Phosphor brings the dawn
By her dappled coursers drawn,
Again you to the wild retreat
And the early huntsman meet,
Where as you pensive pace along,
You catch the distant shepherd's song,
Or brush from herbs the pearly dew,
Or the rising primrose view.
Devotion lends her heaven-plum'd wings,
You mount, and Nature with you sings.
But when mid-day fervors glow,
To upland airy shades you go,
Where never sunburnt woodman came,
Nor sportsman chas'd the timid game;
And there beneath an oak reclin'd,
With drowsy waterfalls behind,
You sink to rest.
'Till the tuneful bird of night
From the neighb'ring poplars height
Wake you with her solemn strain,
And teach pleas'd Echo to complain.

VI.

With you roses brighter bloom
Sweeter every sweet perfume,

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Purer every fountain flows
Stronger every wilding grows.

VII.

Let those toil for gold who please,
Or for fame renounce their ease.
What is fame? an empty bubble,
Gold? a transient, shining trouble.
Let them for their country bleed,
What was Sidney's, Raleigh's meed?
Man's not worth a moment's pain,
Base, ungrateful, fickle, vain.
Then let me, sequester'd fair,
To your Sibyl grot repair,
On yon hanging cliff it stands
Scoop'd by Nature's salvage hands,
Bosom'd in the gloomy shade
Of cypress not with age decay'd.
Where the owl still-hooting sits,
Where the bat incessant flits,
There in loftier strains I'll sing
Whence the changing seasons spring,
Tell how storms deform the skies,
Whence the waves subside and rise,
Trace the comet's blazing tail,
Weigh the planets in a scale;
Bend, great God, before thy shrine,
The bournless macrocosm's thine.

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VIII.

Save me! what's yon shrouded shade?
That wanders in the dark-brown glade.
It beckons me!—vain fears adieu,
Mysterious ghost, I follow you.
Ah me! too well that gait I know,
My youth's first firiend, my manhood's woe!
Its breast it bares! what! stain'd with blood?
Quick let me stanch the vital flood.
Oh spirit, whither art thou flown?
Why left me comfortless alone?
O Solitude, on me bestow
The heart-felt harmony of woe,
Such, such, as on th'Ausonian shore,
Sweet Dorian Moschus trill'd of yore:
No time should cancel thy desert,
More, more, than Bion was, thou wert.

See Idyll.

Alluding to the death of a friend.

IX.

O goddess of the tearful eye,
The never-ceasing stream supply.
Let us with Retirement go
To charnels, and the house of woe,
O'er Friendship's herse low-drooping mourn,
Where the sickly tapers burn,
Where Death and nun-clad Sorrow dwell,
And nightly ring the solemn knell.

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The gloom dispels, the charnel smiles,
Light flashes thro' the vaulted iles.
Blow silky soft, thou western gale,
O goddess of the desert, hail!
She bursts from yon cliff-riven cave,
Insulted by the wintry wave;
Her brow an ivy garland binds,
Her tresses wanton with the winds,
A lion's spoils, without a zone,
Around her limbs are careless thrown;
Her right hand wields a knotted mace,
Her eyes roll wild, a stride her pace;
Her left a magic mirror holds,
In which she oft herself beholds.
O goddess of the desart, hail!
And softer blow, thou western gale!

Since in each scheme of life I've fail'd,
And disappointment seems entail'd;
Since all on earth I valued most,
My guide, my stay, my friend is lost;
You, only you, can make me blest,
And hush the tempest in my breast.
Then gently deign to guide my feet
To your hermit-trodden seat,
Where I may live at last my own,
Where I at last may die unknown.
I spoke, she twin'd her magic ray,
And thus she said, or seem'd to say.

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Youth, you're mistaken, if you think to find
In shades a medicine for a troubled mind;
Wan Grief will haunt you wheresoe'er you go,
Sigh in the breeze, and in the streamlet flow,
There pale Inaction pines his life away,
And, satiate, curses the return of day:
There naked Frenzy laughing wild with pain,
Or bares the blade, or plunges in the main:
There Superstition broods o'er all her fears,
And yells of dæmons in the Zephyr hears.
But if a hermit you're resolv'd to dwell,
And bid to social life a last farewell;
'Tis impious.—
God never made an independent man,
'Twould jarr the concord of his general plan:
See every part of that stupendous whole,
“Whose body Nature is, and God the soul;”
To one great end, the general good, conspire,
From matter, brute, to man, to seraph, fire.
Should man thro' Nature solitary roam,
His will his sovereign, every where his home,
What force wou'd guard him from the lion's jaw?
What swiftness wing him from the panther's paw?
Or should Fate lead him to some safer shore,
Where panthers never prowl, nor lions roar;
Where liberal Nature all her charms bestows,
Suns shine, birds sing, flowers bloom, and water flows,

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Fool, dost thou think he'd revel on the store,
Absolve the care of Heaven, nor ask for more?
Tho' waters flow'd, flow'rs bloom'd, and Phœbus shone,
He'd sigh, he'd murmur that he was alone.
For know, the Maker on the human breast
A sense of kindred, country, man, imprest;
And social life to better, aid, adorn,
With proper faculties each mortal's born.

Tho' Nature's works the ruling mind declare,
And well deserve enquiry's serious care,
The God (whate'er Misanthrophy may say)
Shines, beams in man with most unclouded ray.
What boots it thee to fly from pole to pole?
Hang o'er the sun, and with the planets roll?
What boots thro' space's furthest bourns to roam?
If thou, O man, a stranger art at home.
Then know thyself, the human mind survey,
The use, the pleasure will the toil repay.
Hence Inspiration plans his manner'd lays,
Hence Homer's crown, and Shakespear hence thy bays.
Hence he, the pride of Athens and the shame,
The best and wisest of mankind became.
Nor study only, practise what you know,
Your life, your knowledge, to mankind you owe.
With Plato's olive wreath the bays entwine:
Those who in study, shou'd in practice shine.
Say, does the learned Lord of Hagley's shade,
Charm man so much by mossy fountains laid,

238

As when arouz'd, he stems Corruption's course,
And shakes the senate with a Tully's force?
When Freedom gasp'd beneath a Cæsar's feet,
Then publick Virtue might to shades retreat;
But where she breathes, the least may useful be,
And Freedom, Britain, still belong to thee.
Tho' man's ungrateful, or tho' Fortune frown;
Is the reward of worth a song, or crown?
Nor yet unrecompens'd are Virtue's pains,
Good Allen lives, and bounteous Brunswick reigns.
On each condition disappointments wait,
Enter the hut, and force the guarded gate.
Nor dare repine, tho' early Friendship bleed,
From love, the world, and all its cares he's freed.
But know, Adversity's the child of God;
Whom Heaven approves of most, most feel her rod.
When smooth old Ocean and each storm's asleep,
Then Ignorance may plough the watery deep;
But when the dæmons of the tempest rave,
Skill must conduct the vessel thro' the wave.
Sidney, what good man envies not thy blow?
Who wou'd not wish Anytus for a foe?
Intrepid Virtue triumphs over Fate,
The good can never be unfortunate.
And be this maxim graven in thy mind,
The height of virtue is to serve mankind.

But when old age has silver'd o'er thy head,
When memory fails, and all thy vigour's fled,

239

Then may'st thou seek the stillness of retreat,
Then hear aloof the human tempest beat,
Then will I greet thee to my woodland cave,
Allay the pangs of age, and smooth thy grave.

One of the accusers of Socrates.

An ODE To the Right Honourable Stephen Poyntz, Esq; &c. &c.

By the Honourable Sir Charles Han. Williams, Kt. of the Bath.

Sensere quid mens rite, quid indoles
Nutrita faustis sub penetralibus
Posset ------
Doctrina sed vim promovet insitam,
Rectique cultus pectora roborant.
Hor. Od. 4. Lib. 4.

I

Whilst William's deeds and William's praise
Each English breast with transport raise,
Each English tongue employ;
Say, Poyntz, is thy elated heart
Assumes not a superior part,
A larger share of joy?

240

II

But that thy country's high affairs
Employ thy time, demand thy cares,
You shou'd renew your flight;
You only shou'd this theme pursue—
Who can for William feel like you?
Or who like you can write?

III

Then to rehearse the Hero's praise,
To paint this sunshine of his days,
The pleasing task be mine—
To think on all thy cares o'erpaid,
To view the Hero you have made,
That pleasing part be thine.

IV

Who first should watch, and who call forth
This youthful Prince's various worth,
You had the publick voice;
Wisely his royal Sire consign'd
To you, the culture of his mind,
And England blest the choice.

V

You taught him to be early known
By martial deeds of courage shewn:
From this, near Mona's flood,
By his victorious Father led,
He flesh'd his maiden sword, he shed,
And prov'd th'illustrious blood.

241

VI

Of Virtue's various charms you taught,
With happiness and glory fraught,
How her unshaken pow'r
Is independent of success;
That no defeat can make it less,
No conquest make it more,

VII

This, after Tournay's fatal day,
'Midst sorrow, cares, and dire dismay,
Brought calm, and sure relief;
He scrutiniz'd his noble heart,
Found Virtue had perform'd her part,
And peaceful slept the Chief.

VIII

From thee he early learnt to feel
The Patriot's warmth for England's weal;
(True Valour's noblest spring)
To vindicate her Church distrest;
To fight for Liberty opprest;
To perish for his King.

IX

Yet say, if in thy fondest scope
Of thought, you ever dar'd to hope
That bounteous heaven so soon
Would pay thy toils, reward thy care,
Consenting bend to ev'ry pray'r,
And all thy wishes crown?

242

X

We saw a wretch with trait'rous aid,
Our King's and Church's rights invade:
And thine, fair Liberty!
We saw thy Hero fly to war,
Beat down Rebellion, break her spear,
And set the nation free.

XI

Culloden's field, my glorious theme,
My rapture, vision, and my dream,
Gilds the young Hero's days:
Yet can there be one English heart
That does not give thee, Poyntz, thy part,
And own thy share of praise?

XII

Nor is thy fame to thee decreed
For life's short date: when William's head,
For victories to come,
The frequent laurel shall receive:
Chaplets for thee our sons shall weave,
And hang 'em on thy tomb.

243

ODE on the Death of Matzel, a favourite Bull-finch, address'd to Mr. St---pe, to whom the Author had given the Reversion of it when he left Dresden.

By the Same.

I

Try not my St---pe, 'tis in vain
To stop your tears, to hide your pain,
Or check your honest rage;
Give sorrow and revenge their scope,
My present joy, your future hope,
Lies murder'd in his cage.

II

Matzel's no more, ye graces, loves,
Ye linnets, nightingales and doves,
Attend th'untimely bier;
Let ev'ry sorrow be exprest,
Beat with your wings each mournful breast,
And drop the nat'ral tear.

III

In height of song, in beauty's pride,
By fell Grimalkin's claws he died—
But vengeance shall have way;
On pains and tortures I'll refine;
Yet, Matzel, that one death of thine,
His nine will ill repay.

244

IV

For thee, my bird, the sacred Nine,
Who lov'd thy tuneful notes, shall join
In thy funereal verse:
My painful task shall be to write
Th'eternal dirge which they indite,
And hang it on thy hearse.

V

In vain I lov'd, in vain I mourn
My bird, who never to return
Is fled to happier shades,
Where Lesbia shall for him prepare
The place most charming, and most fair
Of all th'Elysian glades.

VI

There shall thy notes in cypress grove
Sooth wretched ghosts that died for love;
There shall thy plaintive strain
Lull impious Phædra's endless grief,
To Procris yield some short relief,
And soften Dido's pain.

VII

'Till Proserpine by chance shall hear
Thy notes, and make thee all her care,
And love thee with my love;
While each attendant's soul shall praise
The matchless Matzel's tuneful lays,
And all his songs approve.

245

MARTIALIS EPIGRAMMA. Lib. vi. Ep. 24. Imitated.

By the Same.

Come, Chloe, and give me sweet kisses,
For sweeter sure never girl gave:
But why in the midst of my blisses
Do you ask me how many I'd have?
I'm not to be stinted in pleasure,
Then pr'ythee my charmer be kind,
For whilst I love thee above measure,
To numbers I'll ne'er be confin'd.
Count the bees that on Hybla are playing,
Count the flow'rs that enamel its fields,
Count the flocks that on Tempe are straying,
Or the grain that rich Sicily yields;
Go number the stars in the heaven,
Count how many sands on the shore,
When so many kisses you've given
I still shall be craving for more.
To a heart full of love let me hold thee,
To a heart which, dear Chloe, is thine;
With my arms I'll for ever enfold thee,
And twist round thy limbs like a vine.

246

What joy can be greater than this is?
My life on thy lips shall be spent;
But the wretch that can number his kisses
With few will be ever content.

The Progress of DISCONTENT.

A POEM. Written at Oxford in the Year 1746.

When now mature in classic knowledge,
The joyful youth is sent to college,
His father comes, a vicar plain,
At Oxford bred—in Anna's reign,
And thus in form of humble suitor
Bowing accosts a reverend tutor.
“Sir, I'm a Glo'stershire divine,
“And this my eldest son of nine;
“My wife's ambition and my own
“Was that this child should wear a gown:
“I'll warrant that his good behaviour
“Will justify your future favour:
“And for his parts, to tell the truth,
“My son's a very forward youth;
“Has Horace all by heart—you'd wonder—
“And mouths out Homer's Greek like thunder.
“If you'd examine—and admit him,
“A scholarship would nicely fit him:

247

“That he succeeds 'tis ten to one;
“Your vote and interest, Sir!—'Tis done.”

Our pupil's hopes, tho' twice defeated,
Are with a scholarship compleated:
A scholarship but half maintains,
And college rules are heavy chains:
In garret dark he smokes and puns,
A prey to discipline and duns;
And now intent on new designs,
Sighs for a fellowship—and fines.

When nine full tedious winters past,
That utmost wish is crown'd at last:
But the rich prize no sooner got,
Again he quarrels with his lot:
“These fellowships are pretty things,
“We live indeed like petty kings:
“But who can bear to waste his whole age
“Amid the dullness of a college,
“Debarr'd the common joys of life,
“And that prime bliss—a loving wife!
“O! what's a table richly spread
“Without a woman at its head!
“Would some snug benefice but fall,
“Ye feasts, ye dinners! farewel all!
“To offices I'd bid adieu,
“Of dean, vice præs.—of bur
“Come joys, that rural quiet yields,
“Come, tythes, and house, and fruitful fields!”

248

Too fond of liberty and ease
A patriot's vanity to please,
Long time he watches, and by stealth,
Each frail incumbent's doubtful health;
At length—and in his fortieth year,
A living drops—two hundred clear!
With breast elate beyond expression,
He hurries down to take possession,
With rapture views the sweet retreat—
“What a convenient house! how neat!
“For fuel here's sufficient wood:
“Pray God the cellars may be good!
“The garden—that must be new plann'd—
“Shall these old-fashion'd yew-trees stand?
“O'er yonder vacant plot shall rise
“The flow'ry shrub of thousand dies:—
“Yon' wall, that feels the southern ray,
“Shall blush with ruddy fruitage gay;
“While thick beneath its aspect warm
“O'er well-rang'd hives the bees shall swarm,
“From which, ere long, of golden gleam
“Metheglin's luscious juice shall stream:
“This aukward hut o'er-grown with ivy,
“We'll alter to a modern privy:
“Up yon' green slope, of hazels trim,
“An avenue so cool and dim,
“Shall to an arbour, at the end,
“In spite of gout, intice a friend.

249

“My predecessor lov'd devotion—
“But of a garden had no notion.”

Continuing this fantastic farce on,
He now commences country parson.
To make his character entire,
He weds—a cousin of the 'squire;
Not over-weighty in the purse,
But many doctors have done worse:
And tho' she boast no charms divine,
Yet she can carve, and make birch wine.

Thus fixt, content he taps his barrel,
Exhorts his neighbours not to quarrel:
Finds his church-wardens have discerning
Both in good liquor and good learning;
With tythes his barns replete he sees,
And chuckles o'er his surplice fees;
Studies to find out latent dues,
And regulates the state of pews;
Rides a sleek mare with purple housing,
To share the monthly club's carousing;
Of Oxford pranks facetious tells,
And—but on Sundays—hears no bells;
Sends presents of his choicest fruit,
And prunes himself each sapless shoot,
Plants colliflow'rs, and boasts to rear
The earliest melons of the year;
Thinks alteration charming work is,
Keeps Bantam cocks, and feeds his turkies;

250

Builds in his copse a favourite bench,
And stores the pond with carp and tench.—

But ah! too soon his thoughtless breast
By cares domestic is opprest;
And a third butcher's bill, and brewing,
Threaten inevitable ruin:
For children fresh expences yet,
And Dicky now for school is fit.
“Why did I sell my college life
“(He cries) for benefice and wife?
“Return, ye days! when endless pleasure
“I found in reading, or in leisure!
“When calm around the common room
“I puff'd my daily pipe's perfume!
“Rode for a stomach, and inspected
“At annual bottlings, corks selected:
“And din'd untax'd, untroubled, under
“The pourtrait of our pious founder!
“When impositions were supply'd
“To light my pipe—or sooth my pride—
“No cares were then for forward peas
“A yearly-longing wife to please:
“My thoughts no christ'ning dinner crost,
“No children cry'd for butter'd toast;
“And ev'ry night I went to bed,
“Without a Modus in my head!”

Oh! trifling head, and fickle heart!
Chagrin'd at whatsoe'er thou art;

251

A dupe to follies yet untry'd,
And sick of pleasures, scarce enjoy'd!
Each prize possess'd, thy transport ceases,
And in pursuit alone it pleases.

The FIRE-SIDE.

By Dr. COTTON.

I

Dear Chloe, while the busy crowd,
The vain, the wealthy, and the proud,
In Folly's maze advance;
Tho' singularity and pride
Be call'd our choice, we'll step aside,
Nor join the giddy dance.

II

From the gay world we'll oft retire
To our own family and fire,
Where love our hours employs;
No noisy neighbour enters here,
No intermeddling stranger near,
To spoil our heart-felt joys.

252

III

If solid happiness we prize,
Within our breast this jewel lies;
And they are fools who roam:
The world has nothing to bestow,
From our own selves our joys must flow,
And that dear hut, our home.

IV

Of rest was Noah's dove bereft,
When with impatient wing she left
That safe retreat, the ark;
Giving her vain excursion o'er,
The disappointed bird once more
Explor'd the sacred bark.

V

Tho' fools spurn Hymen's gentle pow'rs,
We, who improve his golden hours,
By sweet experience know,
That marriage, rightly understood,
Gives to the tender and the good
A paradise below.

VI

Our babes shall richest comforts bring,
If tutor'd right, they'll prove a spring,
Whence pleasures ever rise:
We'll form their minds with studious care,
To all that's manly, good, and fair,
And train them for the skies.

253

VII

While they our wisest hours engage,
They'll joy our youth, support our age,
And crown our hoary hairs:
They'll grow in virtue ev'ry day,
And thus our fondest loves repay,
And recompense our cares.

VIII

No borrow'd joys! they're all our own,
While to the world we live unknown,
Or by the world forgot:
Monarchs! we envy not your state,
We look with pity on the great,
And bless our humbler lot.

IX

Our portion is not large indeed,
But then, how little do we need,
For Nature's calls are few!
In this the art of living lies,
To want no more than may suffice,
And make that little do.

X

We'll therefore relish with content
Whate'er kind Providence has sent,
Nor aim beyond our pow'r;
For if our stock be very small,
'Tis prudence to enjoy it all,
Nor lose the present hour.

254

XI

To be resign'd, when ills betide,
Patient, when favours are deny'd,
And pleas'd with favours giv'n;
Dear Chloe, this is wisdom's part,
This is that incense of the heart,
Whose fragrance smells to heav'n.

XII

We'll ask no long protracted treat,
(Since winter life is seldom sweet;)
But when our feast is o'er,
Grateful from table we'll arise,
Nor grudge our sons with envious eyes,
The relicks of our store.

XIII

Thus hand in hand thro' life we'll go,
Its checker'd paths of joy and woe
With cautious steps we'll tread;
Quit its vain scenes without a tear,
Without a trouble or a fear,
And mingle with the dead.

XIV

While Conscience, like a faithful friend,
Shall thro' the gloomy vale attend,
And cheer our dying breath;
Shall, when all other comforts cease,
Like a kind angel whisper peace,
And smooth the bed of death.

255

TO-MORROW.

By the Same.

Pereunt et Imputantur.

To-morrow, didst thou say!
Methought I heard Horatio say, To-morrow.
Go to—I will not hear of it—To-morrow!
'Tis a sharper, who stakes his penury
Against thy plenty—who takes thy ready cash,
And pays thee nought but wishes, hopes, and promises,
The currency of ideots.—Injurious bankrupt,
That gulls the easy creditor!—To-morrow!
It is a period no where to be found
In all the hoary registers of Time,
Unless perchance in the fool's calendar.
Wisdom disclaims the word, nor holds society
With those who own it. No, my Horatio,
'Tis Fancy's child, and Folly is its father;
Wrought of such stuff as dreams are; and baseless
As the fantastic visions of the evening.

But soft, my friend—arrest the present moments;
For be assur'd, they all are arrant tell-tales;
And tho' their flight be silent, and their path

256

Trackless, as the wing'd couriers of the air,
They post to heav'n, and there record thy folly.
Because, tho' station'd on th'important watch,
Thou, like a sleeping, faithless centinel,
Didst let them pass unnotic'd, unimprov'd.
And know, for that thou slumber'dst on the guard,
Thou shalt be made to answer at the bar
For ev'ry fugitive: and when thou thus
Shalt stand impleaded at the high tribunal
Of hood-wink'd Justice, who shall tell thy audit!

Then stay the present instant, dear Horatio;
Imprint the marks of wisdom on its wings.
'Tis of more worth than kingdoms! far more precious
Than all the crimson treasures of life's fortune.
Oh! let it not elude thy grasp, but like
The good old patriarch upon record,
Hold the fleet angel-fast, until he bless thee.

On Lord Cobham's Gardens.

By the Same.

It puzzles much the sages' brains,
Where Eden stood of yore;
Some place it in Arabia's plains,
Some say, it is no more.

257

But Cobham can these tales confute,
As all the curious know;
For he has prov'd beyond dispute,
That paradise is Stow.

To a Child of Five Years old.

By the Same.

Fairest flow'r, all flow'rs excelling,
Which in Eden's garden grew;
Flow'rs of Eve's imbower'd dwelling ,
Are, my Fair-one, types of you.
Mark, my Polly, how the roses
Emulate thy damask cheek;
How the bud its sweets discloses,
Buds thy opening bloom bespeak.
Lilies are, by plain direction,
Emblems of a double kind;
Emblems of thy fair complexion,
Emblems of thy fairer mind.
But, dear girl, both flow'rs and beauty
Blossom, fade, and die away;
Then pursue good sense and duty,
Evergreens, that ne'er decay.

Alluding to Milton's description of Eve's bower.

258

Father Francis's Prayer.

Written in Lord Westmorland's Hermitage.

Ne gay attire, ne marble hall,
Ne arched roof, ne pictur'd wall;
Ne cook of Fraunce, ne dainty board,
Bestow'd with pypes of perigord;
Ne power, ne such like idle fancies,
Sweet Agnes grant to father Francis;
Let me ne more myself deceive;
Ne more regret the toys I leave;
The world I quit, the proud, the vain,
Corruption's and Ambition's train;
But not the good, perdie nor fair,
'Gainst them I make ne vow, ne pray'r;
But such aye welcome to my cell,
And oft, not always, with me dwell;
Then cast, sweet Saint, a circle round,
And bless from fools this holy ground;
From all the foes to worth and truth,
From wanton old, and homely youth;

259

The gravely dull, and pertly gay,
Oh banish these; and by my fay,
Right well I ween that in this age,
Mine house shall prove an hermitage.

An Inscription on the Cell.

Beneath these moss-grown roots, this rustick cell,
Truth, Liberty, Content, sequester'd dwell;
Say you, who dare our hermitage disdain,
What drawing-room can boast so fair a train?

An Inscription in the Cell.

Sweet bird that sing'st on yonder spray,
Pursue unharm'd thy sylvan lay;
While I beneath this breezy shade,
In peace repose my careless head;
And joining thy enraptur'd song,
Instruct the world-enamour'd throng,
That the contented harmless breast
In solitude itself is blest.

260

To the Right Hon. Henry Pelham, Esq

The humble Petition of the worshipful company of Poets and News-writers,

Sheweth,

THAT your honour's petitioners (dealers in rhymes,
And writers of scandal, for mending the times)
By losses in bus'ness, and England's well-doing,
Are sunk in their credit, and verging on ruin.

That these, their misfortunes, they humbly conceive,
Arise not from dulness, as some folks believe,
But from rubs in their way, that your honour has laid,
And want of materials to carry on trade.

That they always had form'd high conceits of their use,
And meant their last breath should go out in abuse;
But now (and they speak it with sorrow and tears)
Since your honour has sate at the helm of affairs,
No party will join 'em, no faction invite
To heed what they say, or to read what they write;
Sedition, and Tumult, and Discord are fled,
And Slander scarce ventures to lift up her head—
In short, publick bus'ness is so carry'd on,
That their country is sav'd, and the patriots undone.

261

To perplex 'em still more, and sure famine to bring
(Now satire has lost both its truth and its sting)
If, in spite of their natures, they bungle at praise,
Your honour regards not, and nobody pays.

YOUR Petitioners therefore most humbly entreat
(As times will allow, and your honour thinks meet)
That measures be chang'd, and some cause of complaint
Be immediately furnish'd, to end their restraint;
Their credit thereby, and their trade to retrieve,
That again they may rail, and the nation believe.

Or else (if your wisdom shall deem it all one)
Now the parliament's rising, and bus'ness is done,
That your honour would please, at this dangerous crisis,
To take to your bosom a few private vices,
By which your petitioners, haply, might thrive,
And keep both themselves and contention alive.

In compassion, good Sir! give 'em something to say,
And your honour's petitioners ever shall pray.

262

An ODE Performed in the Senate-House at Cambridge July 1, 1749, At the Installation of his Grace Thomas Holles Duke of Newcastle, Chancellor of the University.

By Mr. Mason, Fellow of Pembroke-Hall.

Set to Musick by Mr. Boyce, Composer to his Majesty.

------ canit errantem Permessi ad flumina Gallum
Aonas in montes ut duxerit una sororum;
Utque viro Phœbi chorus assurrexerit omnis.
Virgil.

[I.]

Recitative.

Here all thy active fires diffuse,
Thou genuine British Muse;
Hither descend from yonder orient sky,
Cloth'd in thy heav'n-wove robe of harmony.

263

Air I.

Come, imperial queen of song;
Come with all that free-born grace,
Which lifts thee from the servile throng,
Who meanly mimic thy majestic pace;
That glance of dignity divine,
Which speaks thee of celestial line;
Proclaims thee inmate of the sky,
Daughter of Jove and Liberty.

II.

Recitative.

The elevated soul, who feels
Thy aweful impulse, walks the fragrant ways
Of honest unpolluted praise:
He with impartial justice deals
The blooming chaplets of immortal lays:
He flies above ambition's low career;
And nobly thron'd in Truth's meridian sphere,
Thence, with a bold and heav'n-directed aim,
Full on fair Virtue's shrine he pours the rays of fame.

III.

Air II.

Goddess! thy piercing eye explores
The radiant range of Beauty's stores,
The steep ascent of pine-clad hills,
The silver slope of falling rills,
Catches each lively-colour'd grace,
The crimson of the wood-nymph's face,
The verdure of the velvet lawn,
The purple in the eastern dawn,
Or all those tints, which rang'd in vivid glow
Mark the bold sweep of the celestial bow.

264

IV. Recitative.

But chief she lifts her tuneful transports high,
When to her intellectual eye
The mental beauties rise in moral dignity:
The sacred zeal for Freedom's cause,
That fires the glowing Patriot's breast;
The honest pride that plumes the Hero's crest,
When for his country's aid the steel he draws;
Or that, the calm, yet active heat,
With which mild Genius warms the Sage's heart,
To lift fair Science to a loftier seat,
Or stretch to ampler bounds the wide domain of art.

Air III.

These, the best blossoms of the virtuous mind,
She culls with taste refin'd;
From their ambrosial bloom
With bee-like skill she draws the rich perfume,
And blends the sweets they all convey,
In the soft balm of her mellifluous lay.

V. Recitative.

Is there a clime, where all these beauties rise
In one collected radiance to her eyes?
Is there a plain, whose genial soil enhales
Glory's invigorating gales,
Her brightest beams where Emulation spreads,
Her kindliest dews where Science sheds,
Where every stream of Genius flows,
Where ev'ry flower of Virtue glows?
Thither the Muse exulting flies,
There she loudly cries—

265

Chorus I.

All hail, all hail,
Majestic Granta! hail thy aweful name,
Dear to the Muse, to Liberty, to Fame.

VI.

Recitative.

You too, illustrious Train, she greets
Who first in these inspiring seats
Caught the bright beams of that ætherial fire,
Which now sublimely prompts you to aspire
To deeds of noblest note: whether to shield
Your country's liberties, your country's laws;
Or in Religion's hallow'd cause
To hurl the shafts of reason, and to wield
Those heav'nly-temper'd arms, whose rapid force
Arrests base Falshood in her impious course,
And drives rebellious Vice indignant from the field.

VII. Air IV.

And now she tunes her plausive song
To you her sage domestic throng;
Who here, at Learning's richest shrine,
Dispense to each ingenuous youth
The treasures of immortal Truth,
And open Wisdom's golden mine.

Recitative.

Each youth inspir'd by your persuasive art,
Clasps the dear form of virtue to his heart;
And feels in his transported soul
Enthusiastic raptures roll,
Gen'rous as those the sons of Cecrops caught
In hoar Lycæum's shades from Plato's fire-clad thought.

266

[VIII.]

Air V.

O Granta! on thy happy plain
Still may these Attic glories reign:
Still mayst thou keep thy wonted state,
In unaffected grandeur great;

Recitative.

Great as this illustrious hour,
When He, whom George's well-weigh'd choice
And Albion's general voice
Have lifted to the fairest heights of pow'r,
When He appears, and deigns to shine
The leader of thy learned line;
And bids the verdure of thy olive bough
'Mid all his civic chaplets twine,
And add fresh glories to his honour'd brow.

IX. Air VI.

Haste then, and amply o'er his head
The graceful foliage spread;
Mean while the Muse shall snatch the trump of Fame,
And lift her swelling accents high,
To tell the world that Pelham's name
Is dear to Learning as to Liberty.

Full Chorus.
The Muse shall snatch the trump of Fame,
And lift her swelling accents high,
To tell the world that Pelham's name
Is dear to Learning as to Liberty.

267

ODE to an ÆOLUS's Harp.

Sent to Miss SHEPHEARD. By the Same.

Yes, magic lyre! now all compleat
Thy slender frame responsive rings,
While kindred notes with undulation sweet
Accordant wake from all thy vocal strings.
Go then to her, whose soft request
Bade my blest hands thy form prepare;
Ah go, and sweetly sooth her tender breast
With many a warble wild, and artless air.
For know, full oft, while o'er the mead
Bright June extends her fragrant reign,
The Fair shall place thee near her slumb'ring head
To court the gales that cool the sultry plain;
Then shall the Sylphs, and Sylphids bright,
Mild Genii all, to whose high care
Her virgin charms are giv'n, in circling flight
Skim sportive round thee in the fields of air.
Some, flutt'ring 'mid thy trembling strings,
Shall catch the rich melodious spoil,
And lightly brush thee with their purple wings
To aid the zephyrs in their tuneful toil;

268

While others check each ruder gale,
Expel rough Boreas from the sky,
Nor let a breeze its heaving breath exhale,
Save such as softly pant, and panting die.
Then, as thy swelling accents rise,
Fair Fancy waking at the sound,
Shall paint bright visions on her raptur'd eyes,
And waft her spirits to enchanted ground,
To myrtle groves, Elysian greens,
'Mid which some fav'rite youth shall rove,
Shall meet, shall lead her thro' the glitt'ring scenes,
And all be music, extacy, and love.

This instrument appears to have been invented by Kircher: who has given a very accurate description of it in his Musurgia. After having been neglected above an hundred years, it was again accidentally discovered by Mr. Oswald. See Vol. III. p. 4. of this Miscellany.

ODE to HEALTH.

By Mr. Duncombe, Fellow of Corpus Christi College, Cambridge.

Non est vivere, sed valere, vita.
Martial.

I

Health! to thee thy vot'ry owes
All the blessings life bestows,
All the sweets the summer yields,
Melodious woods, and clover'd fields;
By thee he tastes the calm delights
Of studious days and peaceful nights:
By thee his eye each scene with rapture views;
The Muse shall sing thy gifts, for they inspire the Muse.

269

II

Does increase of wealth impart
Transports to a bounteous heart?
Does the sire with smiles survey
His prattling children round him play?
Does love with mutual blushes streak
The swain's and virgin's artless cheek?
From Health these blushes, smiles and transports flow;
Wealth, children, love itself, to Health their relish owe.

III

Nymph! with thee, at early Morn,
Let me brush the waving corn;
And, at Noon-tide's sultry hour,
O bear me to the wood-bine bow'r!
When Evening lights her glow-worm, lead
To yonder dew-enamell'd mead;
And let me range at Night those glimm'ring groves,
Where stillness ever sleeps, and Contemplation roves.

IV

This my tributary lay,
Grateful at thy shrine I pay,
Who for sev'n whole years hast shed
Thy balmy blessings o'er my head;
O! let me still enamour'd view
Those fragrant lips of rosy hue,
Nor think there needs th'allay of sharp disease,
To quicken thy repast, and give it pow'r to please.

270

V

Now by swiftest Zephyrs drawn,
Urge thy chariot o'er the lawn;
In yon gloomy grotto laid,
Palemon asks thy kindly aid;
If goodness can that aid engage,
O hover round the virtuous sage:
Nor let one sigh for his own suff'rings rise;
Each human suff'ring fills his sympathizing eyes.

VI

Venus from Æneas' side
With successful efforts try'd
To extract th'envenom'd dart,
That baffled wise Iapis' art,
If thus, Hygeia, thou couldst prove
Propitious to the queen of love,
Now on thy favour'd Heberden bestow
Thy choicest healing pow'rs, for Pallas asks them now.

VII

What tho', banish'd from the fight,
To the hero's troubled sight,
Ranks on ranks tumultuous rose
Of flying friends and conqu'ring foes;
He only panted to obtain
A laurel wreath for thousands slain;
On nobler views intent, the Sage's mind
Pants to delight, instruct, and humanise mankind.

Author of Clarissa.

271

A VERNAL ODE.

Sent to his Grace the Lord Archbishop of Canterbury, March 12, 1754. By FRANCIS FAWKES, A. M.

I

Bright God of day, whose genial power
Revives the buried seed,
That spreads with foliage every bower,
With verdure every mead,
Bid all thy vernal breezes fly,
Diffusing mildness thro' the sky;
Give the soft season to our drooping plains,
Sprinkled with rosy dews, and salutary rains.

II

Enough has Winter's hand severe
Hurl'd all his terrors round,
Chill'd the fair dawning of the year,
And whiten'd all the ground:
Give but thy vital beams to play,
The frozen scenes will melt away;
And, mix in sprightly dance, the blooming Hours
Will 'wake the drowsy Spring, and Spring awake the flowers.

272

III

Let Health, gay daughter of the skies,
On Zephyr's wings descend,
And scatter pleasures as she flies
Where Surry's downs extend;
There Herring wooes her friendly power,
There may she all her roses shower,
To heal that shepherd all her balms employ,
So will she sooth our fears, and give a nation joy.

IV

Ah me! that Virtue's godlike friends
So soon are claim'd by Fate!
Lo! Pelham to the grave descends,
The bulwark of the state:
When will fair Truth his equal find
Among the best of human kind?
Long be the fatal day with mourning kept!
Augustus sigh'd sincere, and all the worthy wept.

V

Thy delegate, kind heaven, restore
To health, and safely keep;
Let good Augustus sigh no more,
No more the worthy weep:
And still upon the royal head
The riches of thy blessings shed:
Establish'd with his counsellors around,
Long be his prosp'rous reign, and all with glory crown'd.

The Right Honourable Henry Pelham, Esq; died on the 6th of March 1754.

273

An AUTUMNAL ODE.

By the Same.

I

Yet once more, glorious God of day,
While beams thine orb serene,
O let me warbling court thy stay
To gild the fading scene!
Thy rays invigorate the Spring,
Bright Summer to perfection bring,
The cold, inclement days of Winter cheer,
And make th'Autumnal months the mildest of the year.

II

Ere yet the russet foliage fall,
I'll climb the mountain's brow,
My friend, my Hayman, at thy call,
To view the scene below:
How sweetly pleasing to behold
Forests of vegetable gold!
How mix'd the many-chequer'd shades between
The tawny mellowing hue, and the gay vivid green!

274

III

How splendid all the sky! how still!
How mild the dying gale!
How soft the whispers of the rill
That winds along the dale!
So tranquil Nature's works appear,
It seems the Sabbath of the year;
As if, the Summer's Labour past, she chose
This season's sober calm for blandishing repose.

IV

Such is of well-spent life the time,
When busy days are past,
Man verging gradual from his prime,
Meets sacred Peace at last:
His flowery Spring of pleasures o'er,
And Summer's full-blown pride no more,
He gains pacific Autumn, meek and bland,
And dauntless braves the stroke of Winter's palsy'd hand.

V

For yet awhile, a little while,
Involv'd in wint'ry gloom,
And lo! another Spring shall smile,
A Spring eternal bloom;
Then shall he shine, a glorious guest,
In the bright mansions of the blest,
Where due rewards on Virtue are bestow'd,
And reap the golden fruits of what his Autumn sow'd.

275

A SONG.

[Away, let nought to love displeasing]

I

Away, let nought to love displeasing
My Winifreda, move thy fear,
Let nought delay the heav'nly blessing,
Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy care.

II

What tho' no grants of royal donors
With pompous titles grace our blood,
We'll shine in more substantial honours,
And to be noble we'll be good.

III

What tho' from Fortune's lavish bounty
No mighty treasures we possess,
We'll find within our pittance plenty,
And be content without excess.

IV

Still shall each kind returning season
Sufficient for our wishes give,
For we will live a life of reason,
And that's the only life to live.

V

Our name, whilst virtue thus we tender,
Shall sweetly sound where'er 'tis spoke,
And all the great ones much shall wonder,
How they admire such little folk.

276

VI

Thro' youth and age in love excelling,
We'll hand in hand together tread,
Sweet smiling Peace shall crown our dwelling,
And babes, sweet smiling babes, our bed.

VII

How should I love the pretty creatures,
Whilst round my knees they fondly clung,
To see 'em look their mother's features,
To hear 'em lisp their mother's tongue.

VIII

And when with envy Time transported
Shall think to rob us of our joys,
You'll in your girls again be courted,
And I go wooing in my boys.

The GENIUS.

An ODE, written in 1717, on occasion of the Duke of Marlborough's Apoplexy.

I

Aweful here, Marlb'rough, rise:
Sleepy charms I come to break:
Higher turn thy languid eyes:
Lo! thy Genius calls: awake!

277

II

Well survey this faithful plan,
With records thy life's great story;
'Tis a short, but crowded span,
Full of triumphs, full of glory.

III

One by one thy deeds review,
Sieges, battles, thick appear;
Former wonders, lost in new,
Greatly fill each pompous year.

IV

This is Blenheim's crimson field,
Wet with gore, with slaughter stain'd!
Here retiring squadrons yield,
And a bloodless wreath is gain'd!

V

Ponder in thy godlike mind
All the wonders thou hast wrought;
Tyrants, from their pride declin'd,
Be the subject of thy thought!

VI

Rest thee here, while life may last:
Th'utmost bliss, to man allow'd,
Is to trace his actions past,
And to own them great and good.

VII

But 'tis gone—a mortal born!
Swift the fading scenes remove—
Let them pass with noble scorn,
Thine are worlds, which roll above.

278

VIII

Poets, prophets, heroes, kings,
Pleas'd, thy ripe approach foresee;
Men, who acted wond'rous things,
Tho' they yield in fame to thee.

IX

Foremost, in the patriot-band,
Shining with distinguish'd day,
See thy friend, Godolphin stand!
See! he beckons thee away.

X

Yonder seats and fields of light
Let thy ravish'd thought explore;
Wishing, panting for thy flight!
Half an angel; man no more.

Translations from Horace.

By Mr. Marriott, of Trinity-Hall, Cambridge.

Book I. Ode XVIII. Invitation to his Mistress.

Oft Faunus leaves Arcadia's plain,
And to the Sabine hill retreats:
He guards my flocks from rushing rain,
From piercing winds, and scorching heats.

279

Where lurks the thyme, or shrubs appear,
My wanton kids securely play;
My goats no pois'nous serpent fear,
Safe wand'ring thro' the woodland way.

No hostile wolf the fold invades;
Ustica's pendent rocks rebound
My song; and all the sylvan shades,
By Echo taught, return the sound.

The gods my verse propitious hear,
My head from every danger shield:
For you, o'erflows the bounteous year,
And Plenty's horn hath heap'd my field.

Responsive to the Teian string,
Within the sun-defended vale,
Here, softly warbling you shall sing
Each tender, tuneful, am'rous tale.

No rival, here, shall burst the bands
That wreathe my charmer's beauteous hair,
Nor seize her weakly struggling hands;
But Love and Horace guard the fair.

280

Ode VI. Book II. Imitated.

Bevil, that with your friend would roam,
Far from your England's happier home,
Should e'er the Fates that friend detain
In gayer France, or graver Spain;

Know, all my wish is to retreat,
When age shall quench my youthful heat,
In Kentish shades sweet peace to find,
And leave the sons of care behind.

But should this pleasing hope be vain,
May I fair Windsor's seat attain,
Where Leddon's gentle waters glide,
And flocks adorn its flowery side.

Sweet groves, I love your silent shades:
Your russet lawns, and op'ning glades,
With fam'd Italia's plains may vie
Your fertile fields, and healthful sky.

Here, let our eve of life be spent;
Here, friend shall live with friend content:
Here, in cold earth my limbs be laid;
And here thy generous tear be paid.

281

Book II. Ode XII. Translated.

The wars of Numantia and Hannibal dire,
On land, or on ocean the fighting,
Mæcenas, ne'er suited my peaceable lyre,
In subjects much softer delighting.

You love not of centaurs embattled to hear,
Nor of giants, a tale of such wonder,
Who shook all the skies, made Jupiter fear,
'Till drove by Alcides and thunder.

In prose, my good patron, more nobly you write,
As your topic than these is much better,
How Cæsar with glory can govern and fight,
And lead haughty kings in his fetter.

Alone my gay Muse of Licinnia would sing,
The constant, good-natur'd, and pretty,
So graceful to dance with the maids in a ring,
So sparkling, so merry, and witty.

While you play with her hair that is carelessly curl'd,
While this way, now that way she twitches,
Of your teazing so kindly complaining, no world
Could bribe for one lock with its riches.

282

Thus blest with the nymph, how transporting the joy!
Who whimsical, wanton, amuses;
Who pleasingly forward, or prettily coy,
Oft snatches the kiss she refuses.

To a LADY making a Pin-Basket.

By the same.

While objects of a parent's care,
With joy your fond attention share,
Madam, accept th'auspicious strain;
Nor rise your beauteous work in vain.
Oft be your second race survey'd,
And oft a new pin-basket made.

When marriage was in all its glory,
So poets, madam, tell the story,
Ere Plutus damp'd love's purer flame,
Or Smithfield bargains had a name,
In heav'n a blooming youth and bride
At Hymen's altars were ally'd;
When Cupid had his Psyché won,
And, all her destin'd labours done,
The cruel Fates their rage relented,
And mamma Venus had consented.

At Jove's command, and Hermes' call,
The train appear'd to fill the hall,
And gods, and goddesses were drest,
To do them honour, in their best.

283

The little rogues now pass'd the row,
And look'd, and mov'd I don't know how,
And, ambling hand in hand, appear
Before the mighty thunderer.
Low at his throne they bent the knee;
He smil'd the blushing pair to see,
Lay'd his tremendous bolt aside,
And strok'd their cheeks, and kiss'd the bride.

Says Juno, since our Jove's so kind,
My dears, some present I must find,
In greatest pleasures, greatest dangers,
We and the sex were never strangers;
With bounteous hand my gifts I spread,
Presiding o'er the marriage-bed.
Soon, for the months are on the wing,
To you a daughter fair I bring,
And know, from this your nuptial morn
Shall Pleasure, smiling babe, be born.
But for the babe we must prepare;
That too shall be your Juno's care.
Apollo from his golden lyre,
Shall first assist us with the wire;
Vulcan shall make the silver pin.
The basket thus we shall begin,
Where we may put the child's array,
And get it ready by the day.
The nymphs themselves with flowers shall dress it,
Pallas shall weave, and I will bless it.

284

Captain CUPID.

By the Same.

Erst, in Cythera's sacred shade,
When Venus clasp'd the god of war,
The laughing loves around them play'd,
One bore the shield, and one the spear.

The little warriors Cupid led,
The shining baldric grac'd his breast,
The mighty helmet o'er his head
Nodded its formidable crest.

Hence oft', to win some stubborn maid,
Still does the wanton God assume
The martial air, the gay cockade,
The sword, the shoulder-knot and plume.

Phyllis had long his power defy'd,
Resolv'd her conquests to maintain;
His fruitless art each poet try'd:
Each shepherd tun'd his pipe in vain.

'Till Cupid came, a captain bold:
Of trenches and of palisadoes
He talk'd; and many a tale he told
Of battles, and of ambuscadoes.

285

How oft' his godship had been drunk;
What melting maids he had undone;
How oft' by night had storm'd a punk,
Or bravely beat a saucy dun.

He swore, drank, whor'd, sung, danc'd with spirit,
And o'er each pleasing topic ran;
'Till Phyllis sigh'd, and own'd his merit,
The Captain's sure a charming man.

Ye bards, on verse let Phœbus doat,
Ye shepherds, leave your pipes to Pan,
Nor verse nor pipe will Phyllis note.
The Captain is the charming man.

ODE on Ambition.

By the Same.

The mariner, when first he sails,
While his bold oars the sparkling surface sweep,
With new delight, transported hails
The blue expanded skies, and level deep.

Such young Ambition's fearless aim,
Pleas'd with the gorgeous scene of wealth and power,
In the gay morn of early fame,
Nor thinks of evening storm, and gloomy hour.

286

Life's opening views bright charms reveal,
Feed the fond wish, and fan the youthful fire.
But woes unknown those charms conceal,
And fair illusions cheat our fierce desire.

There Envy shows her sullen mien,
With changeful colour, grinning smiles of hate:
There Malice stabs, with rage serene;
In deadly silence, treacherous Friendships wait.

High on a mountain's lofty brow,
'Mid clouds and storms, has Glory fix'd her seat;
Rock'd by the roaring winds that blow,
The lightnings blast it, and the tempests beat.

Within the sun-gilt vale beneath,
More moderate Hope with sweet Contentment dwells,
While gentler breezes round them breathe,
And softer showers refresh their peaceful cells.

To better genius ever blind,
That points to each in varied life his share,
Man quits the path by heaven design'd,
To search for bliss among the thorns of care.

Our native powers we scorn to know;
With stedfast error still the wrong pursue;
Instruct our forward ills to grow;
While sad successes but our pain renew.

287

In vain heaven tempers life with sweet,
With flowers the way, that leads us home, bestrews,
If dupes to passion, and deceit,
We drink the bitter, and the rugged chuse.

Few can on Grandeur's stage appear,
Each lofty part with true applause sustain,
No common virtue safe can steer,
Where rocks unnumber'd lurk beneath the main.

Then happiest he, whose timely hand
To cool Discretion has the helm resign'd;
Enjoys the calm, in sight of land,
From changing tides secure, and trustless wind.

ODE to FANCY.

By the Same.

I

Gilding with brighter beams the vernal skies,
Now hastes the car of day to rise.
Youth, and Mirth, and Beauty leads
In golden reins the sprightly steeds,
With wanton Love that rolls his sparkling eyes.

288

Morpheus, no more
Thy poppies, cropt on Lethe's margin, shed
Around thy languid poet's head.
Thou drowsy god,
'Tis time to break thy leaden rod,
And give thy slumbers o'er.
But come, thou woodland Nymph, along,
Mistress of the vocal song,
Fancy ever fair and free;
Whether on the mountains straying,
Or on beds of roses playing,
Daughter of sweet Liberty.

II.

Through all the ivy-circled cave
Soft music at thy birth was heard to sound.
The graces danc'd thy bower around,
And gently dipt thee in the silver wave.
With blossoms fair thy cradle drest,
And rock'd their smiling babe to rest.
To kiss thy lips, the bees, a murmuring throng,
With busy wings, unnumber'd flew;
For thee, from every flower their tribute drew,
And lull'd thy slumbers with an airy song.
Come in thy heav'nly woven vest,
That Iris' hand has ting'd in every dye,
With which she paints the sky,
Flowing o'er thy zoneless breast.

289

III.

Me, sweet enchantress, deign to bear
O'er the seas, and thro' the air;
O'er the plains extended wide,
O'er misty hills, and curling clouds we ride,
Now mounting high, now sinking low,
Thro' hail and rain, and vapours go;
Where is treasur'd up the snow:
Where sleeps the thunder in its cell;
Where the swift-wing'd light'nings dwell;
Or where the blust'ring storms are taught to blow.
Now tread the milky way;
Unnumber'd worlds that float in æther spy,
Among the glittering planets stray,
To the lunar orbit fly,
And mountains, shores, and seas descry.
Now catch the music of the spheres;
Which, since the birth of time,
Have, in according chime,
And fair proportion, rolling round,
With each diviner sound
Attentive Silence, pierc'd thy list'ning ears;
Unheard by all, but those alone
Whom to wisdom's secret throne
The Muse, with heav'n-taught guidance, deigns to bring,
To trace the sacred paths with hallowed feet;
Or, Fancy, who the mystic shade,
In thy airy car, pervade,
Where Plato's raptur'd spirit holds its solemn seat.

290

IV.

But, Fancy, downward urge thy flight.
On some mountain's towering height,
With hoary frosts eternal crown'd,
Rapt with dusky vapours round,
Let me fix my stedfast feet.
I feel, I feel the fanning gales;
The wat'ry mists beneath retreat.
The noontide ray now darts its heat,
And pours its glories o'er the vales.
Glittering to the dancing beams,
Urging their stubborn way the rocks among,
I hear, and see a thousand streams
Foam, and roar, and rush along.
But to the plains descended,
Their sudden rage is ended.
Now lost in deep recess of darksome bowers,
Again now sparkling thro' the meads
Vested soft with vernal flowers,
Reflecting the majestic towers,
Its peaceful flood the roving channel leads.
There the rural cots are seen.
From whose low roof the curling smoke ascends,
And dims with blueish volumes all the green.
There some forest far extends
Its groves embrown'd with lengthen'd shade;
Embosom'd where some Gothic seat,
Of monarchs once retreat;

291

In wild magnificence array'd,
The pride of ancient times presents,
And lifts, in contrast fair display'd,
Its sun-reflecting battlements.

V.

Near, some imperial city seems to reign,
Triumphant o'er the subject land;
With domes of art Vitruvian crown'd.
See gleam her gilded spires around,
Her gates in aweful grandeur stand.
Equal to shine in peace, or war sustain;
Her mighty bulwarks threat the plain
With many a work of death, and armed mound.
Where rolls her wealthy river deep and wide,
Tall groves of crowded masts arise;
Their streamers waving to the skies,
The banks are white with swelling sails,
And distant vessels stem the tide,
Circling thro' pendant cliffs, and watery dales.
The russet hills, the valleys green beneath,
The sallows brown, and dusky heath,
The yellow corn, empurpled vine,
In union soft their tints combine,
And, Fancy, all engage thine eye
With a sweet variety.
While clouds the fleeting clouds pursue,
In mutual shade, and mutual light,
The changing landscape meets the sight;
'Till the ken no more can view;

292

And heaven appears to meet the ground;
The rising lands, and azure distance drown'd
Amid the gay horizon's golden bound.

VI.

Such are the scenes that oft invite
To feed thee, Fancy, with delight.
All that nature can create,
Beauteous, aweful, new and great,
Sweet enthusiast, is thy treasure,
Source of wonder, and of pleasure;
Every sense to transport winning,
Still unbounded and beginning.
Then, Fancy, spread thy wings again;
Unlock the caverns of the main.
Above, beneath, and all around:
Let the tumbling billows spread;
'Till the coral floor we tread,
Exploring all the wealth that decks the realms profound;
There, gather gems that long have glow'd
In the vast, unknown abode,
The jasper vein'd, the saphire blue,
The ruby bright with crimson hue,
Whate'er the bed resplendent paves,
Or decks the glittering roofs on high,
Thro' whose translucent arch are seen the rolling waves.
Fancy, these shall clasp thy vest,
With these thy lovely brows be drest,
In every gay, and various dye.

293

But hark!—the seas begin to roar,
The whistling winds assault my ear,
The lou'ring storms around appear—
Fancy, bear me to the shore.
There in thy realms, bright goddess, deign
Secure to fix thy votary's feet:
O give to follow oft thy train:
Still with accustom'd lay thy power to greet;
To dwell with Peace, and sport with thee,
Fancy, ever fair and free.

An Address to his Elbow-chair, new cloath'd.

By the late Wm. Somervile, Esq; Author of the Chace.

My dear companion, and my faithful friend!
If Orpheus taught the listening oaks to bend;
If stones and rubbish, at Amphion's call,
Danc'd into form, and built the Theban wall;
Why should'st not thou attend my humble lays,
And hear my grateful harp resound thy praise?

294

True, thou art spruce and fine, a very beau;
But what are trappings, and external show?
To real worth alone I make my court;
Knaves are my scorn, and coxcombs are my sport.

Once I beheld thee far less trim and gay;
Ragged, disjointed, and to worms a prey;
The safe retreat of every lurking mouse;
Derided, shun'd; the lumber of my house!
Thy robe, how chang'd from what it was before!
Thy velvet robe, which pleas'd my sires of yore!
Tis thus capricious Fortune wheels us round;
Aloft we mount—then tumble to the ground.
Yet grateful then, my constancy I prov'd;
I knew thy worth; my friend in rags I lov'd!
I lov'd thee, more; nor like a courtier, spurn'd
My benefactor, when the tide was turn'd.

With conscious shame, yet frankly, I confess,
That in my youthful days—I lov'd thee less.
Where vanity, where pleasure call'd, I stray'd;
And every wayward appetite obey'd.
But sage experience taught me how to prize
Myself; and how, this world: she bade me rise
To nobler flights, regardless of a race
Of factious emmets; pointed where to place
My bliss, and lodg'd me in thy soft embrace.

Here on thy yielding down I sit secure;
And, patiently, what heav'n has sent, endure;

295

From all the futile cares of business free;
Not fond of life, but yet content to be:
Here mark the fleeting hours; regret the past;
And seriously prepare, to meet the last.

So safe on shore the pension'd sailor lies;
And all the malice of the storm defies:
With ease of body blest, and peace of mind,
Pities the restless crew he left behind;
Whilst, in his cell, he meditates alone
On his great voyage, to the world unknown.

Written towards the close of Mr. Somervile's life.

SONG.

By the Same.

[As o'er Asteria's fields I rove]

[I.]

As o'er Asteria's fields I rove,
The blissful seat of peace and love,
Ten thousand beauties round me rise,
And mingle pleasure with surprize.

By nature blest in every part,
Adorn'd with every grace of art,
This paradise of blooming joys
Each raptur'd sense, at once, employs.

296

II.

But when I view the radiant queen,
Who form'd this fair enchanting scene;
Pardon ye grots! ye crystal floods!
Ye breathing flow'rs! ye shady woods!

Your coolness now no more invites;
No more your murmuring stream delights;
Your sweets decay, your verdure's flown;
My soul's intent on her alone.

ODE to a Friend wounded in a Duel.

How long shall tyrant Custom bind
In slavish chains the human mind?
How long shall false fantastic Honour draw
The vengeful sword, with fury fell,
And ranc'rous Malice dark as hell,
In spight of Reason's rule, and Nature's eldest law?

Too many gallant youths have bled;
Too much of British blood been shed
By Britons' swords, and that foul monster's laws:
Youths that might else have nobly dar'd;
More glorious wounds and dangers shar'd
For Britain's just defence, and virtue's injur'd cause.

297

So when the fierce Cadmean youth
Sprung from the dragon's venom'd tooth,
Each chief arose in shining armour drest:
With rage inspir'd, the furious band
Soon found a ready foe at hand,
And plung'd the pointed steel each in a brother's breast.

Has Britain then no other foes,
That thus her sons their lives expose
To private war, and feuds, and civil fray?
Does Spain insult her flag no more?
Does Lewis yet his thoughts give o'er
Of universal rule, and arbitrary sway?

'Tis Britons' to support the law;
'Tis theirs ambitious kings to awe,
And equal rights of empire to maintain.
For this our fathers, brave and stout,
At Agincourt and Cressy fought,
And heap'd fam'd Blenheim's field with mountains of the slain.

How will the Gallic monarch smile,
To see the sons of Albion's isle
Their country's blood with ruthless weapons drain!
Themselves avenge the glorious day
When Marlb'rough swept whole hosts away,
And sent the frighted Danube purple to the main!

298

O say, in this inglorious strife
Thy arm had robb'd thy friend of life,
What pangs, what anguish had thy bosom prov'd?
How hadst thou curs'd the cruel deed,
That caus'd the gallant youth to bleed,
Pierc'd by thy guilty sword, and slain by him he lov'd?

How did the fair Maria blame
Thy high-bred spirit's eager flame,
That courting danger slighted her soft love?
Far other wreaths for thee she twin'd;
Far other cares for thee design'd;
And for the laurel crown, the myrtle chaplet wove.

If not for her's, for Britain's sake,
Forbear thy precious life to stake;
Nor taint thy honour with so foul a deed.
One day thy country may require
Thy gallant arm and martial fire:
Then may'st thou bravely conquer, or as bravely bleed.

299

ODE to NIGHT.

The busy cares of day are done;
In yonder western cloud the sun
Now sets, in other worlds to rise,
And glad with night the nether skies.
With ling'ring pace the parting day retires,
And slowly leaves the mountain tops, and gilded spires.

Yon azure cloud, enrob'd with white,
Still shoots a gleam of fainter light:
At length descends a browner shade;
At length the glimm'ring objects fade:
'Till all submit to Night's impartial reign,
And undistinguish'd darkness covers all the plain.

No more the ivy-crowned oak
Resounds beneath the wood-man's stroke.
Now Silence holds her solemn sway;
Mute is each bush, and ev'ry spray:
Nought but the sound of murm'ring rills is heard,
Or from the mould'ring tow'r, Night's solitary bird.

300

Hail sacred hour of peaceful rest!
Of pow'r to charm the troubled breast!
By thee the captive slave obtains
Short respite from his galling pains;
Nor sighs for liberty, nor native soil;
But for a while forgets his chains, and sultry toil.

No horrors hast thou in thy train,
No scorpion lash, no clanking chain.
When the pale murd'rer round him spies
A thousand grisly forms arise,
When shrieks and groans arouse his palsy'd fear,
'Tis guilt alarms his soul, and conscience wounds his ear.

The village swain whom Phillis charms,
Whose breast the tender passion warms,
Wishes for thy all-shadowing veil,
To tell the fair his love-sick tale:
Nor less impatient of the tedious day,
She longs to hear his tale, and sigh her soul away.

Oft by the covert of thy shade
Leander woo'd the Thracian maid;
Thro' foaming seas his passion bore,
Nor fear'd the ocean's thund'ring roar.
The conscious virgin from the sea-girt tow'r
Hung out the faithful torch to guide him to her bow'r.

301

Oft at thy silent hour the sage
Pores on the fair instructive page;
Or rapt in musings deep, his soul
Mounts active to the starry pole:
There pleas'd to range the realms of endless night,
Numbers the stars, or marks the comet's devious light.

Thine is the hour of converse sweet,
When sprightly wit and reason meet:
Wit, the fair blossom of the mind,
But fairer still with reason join'd.
Such is the feast thy social hours afford,
When eloquence and Granville join the friendly board.

Granville, whose polish'd mind is fraught
With all that Rome or Greece e'er taught;
Who pleases and instructs the ear,
When he assumes the critic's chair,
Or from the Stagyrite or Plato draws
The arts of civil life, the spirit of the laws.

O let me often thus employ
The hour of mirth and social joy!
And glean from Granville's learned store
Fair science and true wisdom's lore.
Then will I still implore thy longer stay,
Nor change thy festive hours for sunshine and the day.

302

Written upon leaving a Friend's House in Wales.

By the Rev. Dr. M.

The winds were loud, the clouds deep-hung;
And dragg'd their sweepy trains along
The dreary mountain's side;
When, from the hill, one look to throw
On Towy's rambling flood below,
I turn'd my horse—and sigh'd.

But soon the gusts of sleet and hail
Flew thick across the darken'd vale,
And blurr'd the face of day:
Forlorn and sad, I jogg'd along;
And tho' Tom cry'd, “You're going wrong,”
Still wander'd from my way.

The scenes, which once my fancy took,
And my aw'd mind with wonder struck,
Pass'd unregarded, all!
Nor black Trecarris' steepy height,
Nor waste Trecastle gave delight;
Nor clamorous Hondy's fall.

303

Did the bleak day then give me pain?
The driving snow, or pelting rain,
Or sky with tempests fraught?
No! these unheeded rag'd around:
Nought in them so much Mine I found,
As claim'd one wandering thought.

Far other cares engross'd my mind,
Cares for the joys I left behind,
In Newton's happy groves!
Yet not because its woods disclose
Or grots or lawns more sweet than those
Which Pan at noon-day loves;

But that, beside its social hearth
Dwells every joy, which youthful mirth
Or serious age can claim:
The man too whom my soul first knew,
To virtue and to honour true;
And friendship's sacred name.

O Newton, could these pensive lays
In worthy numbers scan thy praise,
Much gratitude would say;
But that the Muse, ingenuous maid,
Of flattery seems so much afraid,
She'll scarce her duty pay.

Brecknock, Oct. 16, 1749.

Newton is the name of a seat belonging to Sir John Price.

304

DENNIS to Mr. THOMSON,

Who had procured him a Benefit Night.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Reflecting on thy worth, methinks I find
Thy various Seasons in their author's mind.
Spring opes her blossoms, various as thy Muse,
And, like thy soft compassion, sheds her dews.
Summer's hot drought in thy expression glows,
And o'er each page a tawny ripeness throws.
Autumn's rich fruits th'instructed reader gains,
Who tastes the meaning purpose of thy strains.
Winter—but that no semblance takes from thee:
That hoary season yields a type of me.
Shatter'd by time's bleak storms I withering lay,
Leafless, and whitening in a cold decay!
Yet shall my propless ivy, pale and bent,
Bless the short sunshine which thy pity lent.

305

SONG. 1753.

I

How easy was Colin, how blithe and how gay!
Ere he met the fair Chloris, how sprightly his lay!
So graceful her form, so accomplish'd her mind,
Sure pity, he thought, with such charms must be join'd!

II

Whenever she danc'd, or whenever she sung,
How just was her motion, how sweet was her tongue!
And when the youth told her his passionate flame,
She allow'd him to fancy her heart felt the same.

III

With ardour he press'd her to think him sincere,
But alas! she redoubled each hope and each fear;
She would not deny, nor she would not approve,
And she neither refus'd him, nor gave him her love.

IV

Now cheer'd by complacence, now froze by disdain,
He languish'd for freedom, but languish'd in vain:
'Till Thyrsis, who pity'd so helpless a slave,
Eas'd his heart of its pain by the counsel he gave.

V

Forsake her, said he, and reject her awhile;
If she love you, she soon will return with a smile:

306

You can judge of her passion by absence alone,
And by absence will conquer her heart or—your own.

VI

This advice he pursu'd; but the remedy prov'd
Too fatal, alas, to the fair one he lov'd;
Which cur'd his own passion, but left her in vain
To sigh for a heart she could never regain.

I. S. H.

The BULFINCH in Town.

By a Lady of Quality.

Hark to the blackbird's pleasing note:
Sweet usher of the vocal throng!
Nature directs his warbling throat,
And all that hear, admire the song.

Yon' bulfinch, with unvary'd tone,
Of cadence harsh, and accent shrill,
Has brighter plumage to attone
For want of harmony and skill.

Yet, discontent with nature's boon,
Like man, to mimick art he flies;
On opera-pinions hoping soon
Unrival'd he shall mount the skies.

307

And while, to please some courtly fair,
He one dull tune with labour learns,
A well-gilt cage remote from air,
And faded plumes, is all he earns!

Go, hapless captive! still repeat
The sounds which nature never taught;
Go, listening fair! and call them sweet,
Because you know them dearly bought.

Unenvy'd both! go hear and sing
Your study'd musick o'er and o'er;
Whilst I attend th'inviting spring,
In fields where birds unfetter'd soar.

SONG.

Written in Winter 1745. By the Same.

I

The sun, his gladsome beams withdrawn,
The hills all white with snow,
Leave me dejected and forlorn!
Who can describe my woe?

308

But not the sun's warm beams could cheer,
Nor hills, tho' e'er so green,
Unless my Damon should appear,
To beautify the scene.

II

The frozen brooks and pathless vales,
Disjoin my love and me!
The pining bird his fate bewails
On yonder leafless tree!
But what to me are birds or brooks
Or any joy that's near?
Heavy the lute, and dull the books,
While Damon is not here!

III

The Laplander, who, half the year,
Is wrapt in shades of night,
Mourns not, like me, his winter drear;
Nor wishes more for light.
But what were light without my love,
Or objects e'er so fine?
The flowery meadow, field, or grove,
If Damon be not mine?

IV

Each moment, from my dear away,
Is a long age of pain;
Fly swift, ye hours, be calm the day,
That brings my love again!

309

O haste and bring him to my arms;
Nor let us ever part:
My breast shall beat no more alarms,
When I secure his heart.

Written to a near Neighbour in a tempestuous Night, 1748.

By the Same.

I

You bid my Muse not cease to sing,
You bid my ink not cease to flow;
Then say it ever shall be spring,
And boisterous winds shall never blow:
When you such miracles can prove,
I'll sing of friendship, or of love.

II

But now, alone, by storms opprest,
Which harshly in my ears resound;
No cheerful voice with witty jest,
No jocund pipe to still the sound;
Untrain'd beside in verse-like art,
How shall my pen express my heart?

310

III

In vain I call th'harmonious Nine,
In vain implore Apollo's aid;
Obdurate, they refuse a line,
While spleen and care my rest invade,
Say, shall we Morpheus next implore,
And try if dreams befriend us more?

IV

Wisely at least he'll stop my pen,
And with his poppies crown my brow:
Better by far in lonesome den
To sleep unheard of—than to glow
With treach'rous wildfire of the brain,
Th'intoxicated poet's bane.

Written at a Ferme Ornee near Birmingham; August 7th, 1749.

By the Same.

'Tis Nature here bids pleasing scenes arise,
And wisely gives them Cynthio, to revise:
To veil each blemish; brighten every grace;
Yet still preserve the lovely Parent's face.
How well the bard obeys, each valley tells;
These lucid streams, gay meads, and lonely cells;

311

Where modest art in silence lurks conceal'd:
While Nature shines, so gracefully reveal'd,
That she triumphant claims the total plan;
And, with fresh pride, adopts the work of man.

The GOLDFINCHES. An Elegy.

By Mr. Jago.

------ Ingenuas didicisse fideliter artes
Emollit mores, nec sinit esse feros.

To you, whose groves protect the feather'd quires,
Who lend their artless notes a willing ear,
To you, whom pity moves, and taste inspires,
The Doric strain belongs; O Shenstone, hear.

'Twas gentle spring, when all the tuneful race,
By nature taught, in nuptial leagues combine:
A goldfinch joy'd to meet the warm embrace,
And hearts and fortunes with her mate to join.

Thro' Nature's spacious walks at large they rang'd,
No settled haunts, no fix'd abode their aim;
As chance or fancy led, their path they chang'd,
Themselves in every vary'd scene, the same.

312

'Till on a day to weighty cares resign'd,
With mutual choice, alternate, they agreed,
On rambling thoughts no more to turn their mind,
But settle soberly, and raise a breed.

All in a garden, on a currant-bush,
With wond'rous art they built their waving seat:
In the next orchat liv'd a friendly thrush,
Nor distant far, a woodlark's soft retreat.

Here blest with ease, and in each other blest,
With early songs they wak'd the sprightly groves,
'Till time matur'd their bliss, and crown'd their nest
With infant pledges of their faithful loves.

And now what transport glow'd in either's eye!
What equal fondness dealt th'allotted food!
What joy each other's likeness to descry,
And future sonnets in the chirping brood!

But ah! what earthly happiness can last?
How does the fairest purpose often fail?
A truant-school-boy's wantonness could blast
Their rising hopes, and leave them both to wail.

The most ungentle of his tribe was he;
No gen'rous precept ever touch'd his heart:
With concords false, and hideous prosody
He scrawl'd his task, and blunder'd o'er his part.

313

On barb'rous plunder bent, with savage eye
He mark'd where wrapt in down the younglins lay,
Then rushing seiz'd the wretched family,
And bore them in his impious hands away.

But how shall I relate in numbers rude
The pangs for poor Chrysomitris decreed!
When from a neighb'ring spray aghast she view'd
The savage ruffian's inauspicious deed!

So wrapt in grief some heart-struck matron stands,
While horrid flames surround her children's room!
On heav'n she calls, and wrings her trembling hands,
Constrain'd to see, but not prevent their doom.

“O grief of griefs! with shrieking voice she cry'd,
“What sight is this that I have liv'd to see?
“O! that I had a maiden-goldfinch died,
“From love's false joys, and bitter sorrows free!

“Was it for this, alas! with weary bill,
“Was it for this, I pois'd th'unwieldy straw?
“For this I pick'd the moss from yonder hill?
“Nor shun'd the pond'rous chat along to draw?

“Was it for this, I cull'd the wool with care;
“And strove with all my skill our work to crown?
“For this, with pain I bent the stubborn hair;
“And lin'd our cradle with the thistle's down?

314

“Was it for this my freedom I resign'd;
“And ceas'd to rove from beauteous plain to plain?
“For this I sate at home whole days confin'd,
“And bore the scorching heat, and pealing rain?

“Was it for this, my watchful eyes grow dim?
“The crimson roses on my cheek turn pale?
Pale is my golden plumage, once so trim;
“And all my wonted spirits 'gin to fail.

‘O plund'rer vile! O more than weezel fell!
“More treach'rous than the cat with prudish face!
“More fierce than kites with whom the furies dwell!
“More pilf'ring than the cuckow's prowling race!

“For thee may plumb or goosb'ry never grow,
“No juicy currant cool thy clammy throat:
“But bloody birch-twigs work thee shameful woe,
“Nor ever goldfinch cheer thee with her note.”

Thus sang the mournful bird her piteous tale,
The piteous tale her mournful mate return'd:
Then side by side they sought the distant vale,
And there in silent sadness inly mourn'd.

Chrysomitris, it seems, is the name for a goldfinch.

315

The BLACKBIRDS. An Elegy.

By the same.

The sun had chas'd the mountain snow,
And kindly loos'd the frozen soil,
The melting streams began to flow,
And plowmen urg'd their annual toil.

'Twas then, amid the vocal throng
Whom nature wakes to mirth and love,
A blackbird rais'd his am'rous song,
And thus it echo'd thro' the grove.

O fairest of the feather'd train!
For whom I sing, for whom I burn,
Attend with pity to my strain,
And grant my love a kind return.

For see the wintry storms are flown,
And gentle Zephyrs fan the air;
Let us the genial influence own,
Let us the vernal pastime share.

The raven plumes his jetty wing
To please his croaking paramour;
The larks responsive ditties sing,
And tell their passion as they soar.

316

But trust me, love, the raven's wing
Is not to be compar'd with mine;
Nor can the lark so sweetly sing
As I, who strength with sweetness join.

O! let me all thy steps attend!
I'll point new treasures to thy sight;
Whether the grove thy wish befriend,
Or hedge-rows green, or meadows bright.

I'll shew my love the clearest rill
Whose streams among the pebbles stray,
These will we sip, and sip our fill,
Or on the flow'ry margin play.

I'll lead her to the thickest brake,
Impervious to the school-boy's eye;
For her the plaister'd nest I'll make,
And on her downy pinions lie.

When prompted by a mother's care,
Her warmth shall form th'imprisoned young;
The pleasing task I'll gladly share,
Or cheer her labours with my song.

To bring her food I'll range the fields,
And cull the best of every kind;
Whatever nature's bounty yields,
And love's assiduous care can find.

317

And when my lovely mate would stray
To taste the summer sweets at large,
I'll wait at home the live-long day,
And tend with care our little charge.

Then prove with me the sweets of love,
With me divide the cares of life;
No bush shall boast in all the grove
So fond a mate, so blest a wife.

He ceas'd his song. The melting dame
With soft indulgence heard the strain;
She felt, she own'd a mutual flame,
And hasted to relieve his pain.

He led her to the nuptial bower,
And nestled closely to her side;
The fondest bridegroom of that hour,
And she, the most delighted bride.

Next morn he wak'd her with a song,
“Behold, he said, the new-born day!
“The lark his matin peal has rung,
“Arise, my love, and come away.”

Together thro' the fields they stray'd,
And to the murm'ring riv'let's side;
Renew'd their vows, and hopp'd and play'd,
With honest joy, and decent pride.

318

When oh! with grief the Muse relates
The mournful sequel of my tale;
Sent by an order from the fates
A gunner met them in the vale.

Alarm'd the lover cry'd, My dear,
Haste, haste away, from danger fly;
Here, gunner, point thy thunder here;
O spare my love, and let me die.

At him the gunner took his aim;
His aim alas was all too true:
O! had he chose some other game!
Or shot—as he was wont to do!

Divided pair! forgive the wrong,
While I with tears your fate rehearse;
I'll join the widow's plaintive song,
And save the lover in my verse.

The RAKE.

By a Lady in New England.

------ Video meliora proboque,
Deteriora sequor.
Hor.

An open heart, a generous mind,
But passion's slave, and wild as wind:

319

In theory, a judge of right;
Tho' banish'd from its practice quite:
So loose, so prostitute of soul,
His nobler wit becomes the tool
Of every importuning fool:
A thousand virtues misapply'd;
While reason floats on passion's tide:
The ruin of the caste and fair;
The parent's curse, the virgin's snare:
Whose false example leads astray
The young, the thoughtless, and the gay:
Yet, left alone to cooler thought,
He knows, he sees, he feels his fault;
He knows his fault, he feels, he views,
Detesting what he most pursues:
His judgment tells him, all his gains
For fleeting joys, are lasting pains:
Reason with appetite contending,
Repenting still, and still offending:
Abuser of the gifts of nature,
A wretched, self-condemning creature,
He passes o'er life's ill-trod stage;
And dies, in youth, the prey of age!
The scorn, the pity of the wise,
Who love, lament him—and despise!

320

FLOWERS.

By ANTHONY WHISTLER, Esq;

------ Ego apis matinæ
More modoque,
Grata carpentis thyma.
Hor.

I

Let sages, with superfluous pains,
The learned page devour;
While Florio better knowledge drains
From each instructive flow'r.

II

His fav'rite Rose his fear alarms,
All opening to the sun;
Like vain coquettes, who spread their charms,
And shine, to be undone.

III

The Tulip, gaudy in its dress,
And made for nought but show,
In every sense, may well express
The glittering, empty beau!

IV

The Snow-drop first but peeps to light,
And fearful shews its head;
Thus modest merit shines more bright,
By self-distrust misled.

321

V

Th'Auric'la, which thro' labour rose,
Yet shines compleat by art,
The force of education shows;
How much it can impart.

VI

He marks the Sensitive's nice fit;
Nor fears he to proclaim,
If each man's darling vice were hit,
That he would act the same.

VII

Beneath each common hedge, he views
The Violet, with care;
Hinting we should not worth refuse,
Altho' we find it there.

VIII

The Tuberose that lofty springs,
Nor can support its height,
Well represents imperious kings,
Grown impotent by might.

IX

Fragrant, tho' pale, the Lily blows;
To teach the female breast,
How virtue can its sweets disclose
In all complexions drest.

322

X

To every bloom that crowns the year,
Nature some charm decrees;
Learn hence, ye nymphs, her face to wear,
Ye cannot fail to please.

SONG.

By the Same.

[While, Strephon, thus you teize one]

While, Strephon, thus you teize one,
To say, what won my heart;
It cannot sure be treason,
If I the truth impart.

'Twas not your smile, tho' charming;
'Twas not your eyes, tho' bright;
'Twas not your bloom, tho' warming;
Nor beauty's daz'ling light.

'Twas not your dress, tho' shining;
Nor shape, that made me sigh:
'Twas not your tongue, combining,
For that I knew—might lye.

No—'twas your generous nature;
Bold, soft; sincere, and gay:
It shone in every feature,
And stole my heart away.

323

The CABINET.

Or, Verses on Roman Medals. To Mr. W. By Mr. Graves.

I

Lo! the rich Casket's mimic dome!
Where cells in graceful rows
The triumphs of imperial Rome
In miniature disclose.

II

Less sacred far those tinsel shrines,
In which the sainted bones,
And relicks, modern Rome confines,
Of legendary drones.

III

In figur'd brass we here behold
From time's wide waste retriev'd,
What patriots firm or heroes bold
In peace or war atchiev'd.

IV

Or silver orbs, in series fair,
With titles deck'd around,
Present each Cæsar's face and air
With rays or laurels crown'd.

324

V

Ages to come shall hence be taught,
In lasting lines express'd,
How mighty Julius spoke or fought,
Or Cleopatra dress'd.

VI

Augustus here with placid mien,
Bids raging discord cease;
The gates of War close-barr'd are seen,
And all the world is peace.

VII

A race of tyrants then succeeds,
Who frown with brow severe;
Yet tho' we shudder at their deeds,
Ev'n Nero charms us here.

VIII

Thus did the blooming Titus look,
Delight of human kind:
Great Hadrian thus, whose death bespoke
His firm yet gentle mind.

IX

Aurelius too! thy stoic face
Indignant we compare
With young Faustina's wanton grace,
And meretricious air.

X

Each passion here and virtue shines
In liveliest emblems dress'd:
Less strong in Tully's ethic lines,
Or Plato's flights express'd.

325

XI

With heighten'd grace in verdant rust,
Each work of ancient art,
The temple, column, arch or bust
Their wonted charms impart.

XII

All-glorious Rome, thro' martial toil,
Beneath each zone obey'd,
Shew'd every province, trophy, spoil,
On current gold display'd.

XIII

Hence prodigals, that vainly spend,
Promote the great design;
And misers aid ambition's end,
Who treasure up the coin.

XIV

The peasant finds in every clime
The scientifick ore;
Whilst on the rich remains of time,
The learn'd with rapture pore.

XV

Each fading stroke they now retrace,
Each legend dark unfold:
Then in historic order place,—
And copper vies with gold.

XVI

Happy the sage! like you, my friend,
The evening of whose days
Heav'n grants in that fair vale to spend
Where Thames delighted strays.

326

XVII

To medals there and books of taste
Those moments you consign,
Which barren minds ignobly waste
On dogs, or cards, or wine.

XVIII

Whilst I 'mid rocks and savage woods
Enjoy these golden dreams;
Where Avon winds to mix her floods
With Bladud's healing streams.

Claverton near Bath, 1750.

PANACEA:

Or, The Grand Restorative. By the Same.

Welcome to Baiæ's streams, ye sons of spleen,
Who rove from spa to spa—to shift the scene.
While round the steaming fount you idly throng,
Come, learn a wholsome secret from my song.

Ye fair, whose roses feel th'approaching frost,
And drops supply the place of spirits lost:
Ye 'squires, who rack'd with gouts, at heav'n repine,
Condemn'd to water for excess in wine:
Ye portly cits, so corpulent and full,
Who eat and drink 'till appetite grows dull:

327

For whets and bitters then unstring the purse,
Whilst nature more opprest grows worse and worse:
Dupes to the craft of pill-prescribing leaches:
You nod or laugh at what the parson preaches:
Hear then a rhyming quack,—who spurns your wealth,
And gratis gives a sure receipt for health.
No more thus vainly roam o'er sea and land,
When lo! a sovereign remedy at hand:
'Tis Temperance—stale cant!—'Tis Fasting then;
Heaven's antidote against the sins of men.
Foul luxury's the cause of all your pain:
To scour th'obstructed glands, abstain! abstain!
Fast and take rest, ye candidates for sleep,
Who from high food tormenting vigils keep:
Fast and be fat—thou starveling in a gown:
Ye bloated, fast—'twill surely bring you down.
Ye nymphs that pine o'er chocolate and rolls,
Hence take fresh bloom, fresh vigour to your souls.
Fast and fear not—you'll need no drop nor pill:
Hunger may starve, excess is sure to kill.

328

The HEROINES, or Modern Memoirs,

By the Same.

In ancient times, some hundred winters past,
When British dames, for conscience sake, were chaste,
If some frail nymph, by youthful passion sway'd,
From virtue's paths unhappily had stray'd:
When banish'd reason re-assum'd her place,
The conscious wretch bewail'd her foul disgrace;
Fled from the world, and pass'd her joyless years
In decent solitude and pious tears;
Veil'd in some convent made her peace with heaven,
And almost hop'd—by Prudes to be forgiven.

Not so of modern wh---res th'illustrious train,
Renown'd Constantia, P---ton and V---ne;
Grown old in sin, and dead to amorous joy,
No acts of penance their great souls employ.
Without a blush behold each nymph advance,
The luscious Heroine of her own romance.
Each harlot triumphs in her loss of fame,
And boldly prints and publishes her shame.

1751.

329

The PARTING.

By the Same. Written some Years after Marriage.

I

The rising sun thro' all the grove
Diffus'd a gladsome ray:
My Lucy smil'd, and talk'd of love,
And every thing look'd gay.

II

But oh! the fatal hour was come
That forc'd me from my dear:
My Lucy then thro' grief was dumb,
Or spoke but by a tear.

III

Now far from her and bliss I roam,
All nature wears a change:
The azure sky seems wrapt in gloom,
And every place looks strange.

IV

Those flow'ry fields, this verdant scene,
Yon larks that towering sing,
With sad contrast increase my spleen
And make me loath the spring.

330

V

My books that wont to sooth my mind
No longer now can please:
There only those amusement find
That have a mind at ease.

VI

Nay life itself is tasteless grown
From Lucy whilst I stray:
Sick of the world I muse alone
And sigh the live-long day.

1748.

ODE to MEMORY. 1748.

By William Shenstone, Esq;

I

O memory! celestial maid!
Who glean'st the flow'rets cropt by time;
And, suffering not a leaf to fade,
Preserv'st the blossoms of our prime;
Bring, bring those moments to my mind
When life was new, and Lesbia kind.

331

II

And bring that garland to my sight,
With which my favour'd crook she bound;
And bring that wreath of roses bright
Which then my festive temples crown'd.
And to my raptur'd ear convey
The gentle things she deign'd to say.

III

And sketch with care the Muse's bow'r,
Where Isis rolls her silver tide;
Nor yet omit one reed or flow'r
That shines on Cherwell's verdant side;
If so thou may'st those hours prolong,
When polish'd Lycon join'd my song.

IV

The song it 'vails not to recite—
But sure, to sooth our youthful dreams,
Those banks and streams appear'd more bright
Than other banks, than other streams:
Or by thy softening pencil shewn,
Assume they beauties not their own?

V

And paint that sweetly vacant scene,
When, all beneath the poplar bough,
My spirits light, my soul serene,
I breath'd in verse one cordial vow;
That nothing should my soul inspire,
But friendship warm, and love entire.

332

VI

Dull to the sense of new delight,
On thee the drooping Muse attends;
As some fond lover, robb'd of sight,
On thy expressive pow'r depends;
Nor would exchange thy glowing lines,
To live the lord of all that shines.

VII

But let me chase those vows away
Which at ambition's shrine I made;
Nor ever let thy skill display
Those anxious moments, ill repaid:
Oh! from my breast that season rase,
And bring my childhood in its place.

VIII

Bring me the bells, the rattle bring,
And bring the hobby I bestrode;
When pleas'd, in many a sportive ring,
Around the room I jovial rode:
Ev'n let me bid my lyre adieu,
And bring the whistle that I blew.

IX

Then will I muse, and pensive say,
Why did not these enjoyments last?
How sweetly wasted I the day,
While innocence allow'd to waste?
Ambition's toils alike are vain,
But ah! for pleasure yield us pain.

333

The Princess ELIZABETH:

A Ballad, alluding to a Story recorded of her, when she was a Prisoner at Woodstock, 1554. By the Same.

Will you hear how once repining
Great Eliza captive lay?
Each ambitious thought resigning,
Foe to riches, pomp, and sway?

While the nymphs and swains delighted
Tript around in all their pride;
Envying joys by others slighted,
Thus the royal maiden cry'd.

Bred on plains, or born in vallies,
Who would bid those scenes adieu?
Stranger to the arts of malice,
Who would ever courts pursue?

Malice never taught to treasure,
Censure never taught to bear:
Love is all the shepherd's pleasure;
Love is all the damsel's care.

334

How can they of humble station
Vainly blame the pow'rs above?
Or accuse the dispensation
Which allows them all to love?

Love like air is widely given;
Pow'r nor chance can these restrain;
Truest, noblest gifts of heaven!
Only purest on the plain!

Peers can no such charms discover,
All in stars and garters drest,
As, on Sundays, does the lover
With his nosegay on his breast.

Pinks and roses in profusion,
Said to fade when Chloe's near;
Fops may use the same allusion,
But the shepherd is sincere.

Hark to yonder milk-maid singing,
Cheerly o'er the brimming pail;
Cowslips all around her springing
Sweetly paint the golden vale.

Never yet did courtly maiden
Move so sprightly, look so fair;
Never breast with jewels laden
Pour a song so void of care.

335

Would indulgent heav'n had granted
Me some rural damsel's part!
All the empire I had wanted
Then had been my shepherd's heart.

Then, with him, o'er hills and mountains,
Free from fetters, might I rove:
Fearless taste the crystal fountains;
Peaceful sleep beneath the grove.

Rusticks had been more forgiving;
Partial to my virgin bloom:
None had envy'd me when living;
None had triumph'd o'er my tomb.

ODE to a Young Lady,

Somewhat too sollicitous about her Manner of Expression. By the Same.

Survey, my fair! that lucid stream
Adown the smiling valley stray;
Would art attempt, or fancy dream,
To regulate its winding way?

336

So pleas'd I view thy shining hair
In loose dishevel'd ringlets flow:
Not all thy art, nor all thy care
Can there one single grace bestow.

Survey again that verdant hill,
With native plants enamel'd o'er;
Say, can the painter's utmost skill
Instruct one flow'r to please us more?

As vain it were, with artful dye,
To change the bloom thy cheeks disclose;
And oh may Laura, ere she try,
With fresh vermilion paint the rose.

Hark, how the wood-lark's tuneful throat
Can every study'd grace excel;
Let art constrain the rambling note,
And will she, Laura, please so well?

Oh ever keep thy native ease,
By no pedantic laws confin'd!
For Laura's voice is form'd to please,
So Laura's words be not unkind.

337

VERSES written towards the close of the Year 1748, to William Lyttelton, Esq;

By the Same.

How blithely pass'd the summer's day!
How bright was every flow'r!
While friends arriv'd, in circles gay,
To visit Damon's bow'r.

But now, with silent step, I range
Along some lonely shore;
And Damon's bow'r, alas the change!
Is gay with friends no more.

Away to crowds and cities borne
In quest of joy they steer;
Whilst I, alas! am left forlorn,
To weep the parting year!

O pensive Autumn! how I grieve
Thy sorrowing face to see!
When languid suns are taking leave
Of every drooping tree.

338

Ah let me not, with heavy eye,
This dying scene survey!
Haste, Winter, haste; usurp the sky;
Compleat my bow'r's decay.

Ill can I bear the motely cast
Yon' sickening leaves retain;
That speak at once of pleasure past,
And bode approaching pain.

At home unblest, I gaze around,
My distant scenes require;
Where all in murky vapours drown'd
Are hamlet, hill, and spire.

Tho' Thomson, sweet descriptive bard!
Inspiring Autumn sung;
Yet how should we the months regard,
That stopp'd his flowing tongue?

Ah luckless months, of all the rest,
To whose hard share it fell!
For sure he was the gentlest breast
That ever sung so well.

And see, the swallows now disown
The roofs they lov'd before;
Each, like his tuneful genius, flown
To glad some happier shore.

339

The wood-nymph eyes, with pale affright,
The sportsman's frantick deed;
While hounds and horns and yells unite
To drown the Muse's reed.

Ye fields with blighted herbage brown!
Ye skies no longer blue!
Too much we feel from fortune's frown,
To bear these frowns from you.

Where is the mead's unsullied green?
The zephyr's balmy gale?
And where sweet friendship's cordial mien,
That brighten'd every vale?

What tho' the vine disclose her dyes,
And boast her purple store;
Not all the vineyard's rich supplies
Can soothe our sorrows more.

He! he is gone, whose moral strain
Could wit and mirth refine;
He! he is gone, whose social vein
Surpass'd the pow'r of wine.

Fast by the streams he deign'd to praise,
In yon' sequester'd grove,
To him a votive urn I raise;
To him, and friendly love.

340

Yes there, my friend! forlorn and sad,
I grave your Thomson's name;
And there, his lyre; which fate forbad
To sound your growing fame.

There shall my plaintive song recount
Dark themes of hopeless woe;
And, faster than the dropping fount,
I'll teach mine eyes to flow.

There leaves, in spite of Autumn, green,
Shall shade the hallow'd ground;
And Spring will then again be seen,
To call forth flowers around.

But no kind suns will bid me share,
Once more, His social hour;
Ah Spring! thou never canst repair
This loss, to Damon's bow'r.

SONGS.

By the Same.

I. [In a vale fring'd with woodland, where grottos abound]

In a vale fring'd with woodland, where grottos abound,
And rivulets murmur, and echoes resound,
I vow'd to the Muses my time and my care;
Since neither could win me the smiles of my fair.

341

As freedom inspir'd me, I rang'd and I sung;
And Daphne's dear name never fell from my tongue
And if once a smooth accent delighted my ear,
I should wish, unawares, that my Daphne might hear

With sairest ideas my bosom I stor'd;
Allusions to none but the nymph I ador'd;
And the more I with study my fancy refin'd,
The deeper impressions she made on my mind.

Ah! whilst I the beauties of nature pursue,
I still must my Daphne's fair image renew:
The Graces have chosen with Daphne to rove,
And the Muses are all in alliance with Love.

II. Daphne's Visit.

Ye birds! for whom I rear'd the grove,
With melting lay salute my love:
My Daphne with your notes detain:
Or I have rear'd my grove in vain.

Ye flow'rs before her footsteps rise;
Display at once your brightest dyes;
That she your opening charms may see:
Or what were all your charms to me?

Kind Zephyr! brush each fragrant flow'r,
And shed its odours round my bow'r:
Or never more, O gentle wind,
Shall I, from thee, refreshment find.

342

Ye streams! if e'er your banks I lov'd,
If e'er your native sounds improv'd,
May each soft murmur soothe my fair:
Or oh! 'twill deepen my despair.

And thou, my grot! whose lonely bounds
The melancholy pine surrounds,
May Daphne praise thy peaceful gloom;
Or thou shalt prove her Damon's tomb.

III. The Rose-Bud.

See, Flavia, see that budding rose,
How bright beneath the bush it glows;
How safely there it lurks conceal'd;
How quickly blasted, when reveal'd!

The sun with warm attractive rays
Tempts it to wanton in the blaze:
A blast descends from eastern skies,
And all its blushing radiance dies.

Then guard, my fair! your charms divine;
And check the fond desire to shine
Where fame's transporting rays allure,
While here more happy, more secure.

The breath of some neglected maid
Shall make you sigh you left the shade:
A breath to beauty's bloom unkind,
As, to the rose, an eastern wind.

343

The nymph reply'd, “You first, my swain,
“Confine your sonnets to the plain;
“One envious tongue alike disarms,
“You, of your wit, me, of my charms.

“What is, unheard, the tuneful thrill?
“Or what, unknown, the poet's skill?
“What, unadmir'd, a charming mien,
“Or what the rose's blush, unseen?”

IV. Written in a Collection of Bacchanalian Songs.

Adieu, ye jovial youths, who join
To plunge old Care in floods of wine;
And, as your dazled eye-balls roll,
Discern him struggling in the bowl.

Nor yet is hope so wholly flown,
Nor yet is thought so tedious grown,
But limpid stream and shady tree
Retain, as yet, some sweets for me.

And see, thro' yonder silent grove,
See yonder does my Daphne rove:
With pride her foot-steps I pursue,
And bid your frantick joys adieu.

344

The sole confusion I admire,
Is that my Daphne's eyes inspire:
I scorn the madness you approve,
And value reason next to love.

V. Imitated from the French.

Yes, these are the scenes where with Iris I stray'd;
But short was her sway for so lovely a maid;
In the bloom of her youth to a cloister she run;
In the bloom of her graces, too fair for a nun!
Ill-grounded, no doubt, a devotion must prove
So fatal to beauty, so killing to love!

Yes, these are the meadows, the shrubs and the plains;
Once the scene of my pleasures, the scene of my pains;
How many soft moments I spent in this grove!
How fair was my nymph! and how fervent my love!
Be still tho', my heart; thine emotion give o'er;
Remember, the season of love is no more.

With her how I stray'd amid fountains and bow'rs,
Or loiter'd behind and collected the flow'rs!
Then breathless with ardor my fair-one pursu'd,
And to think with what kindness my garland she view'd!
But be still, my fond heart! this emotion give o'er;
Fain wouldst thou forget thou must love her no more.

345

RURAL INSCRIPTIONS.

By the Same.

[I.] On a Root-House.

Here in cool grot, and mossy cell,
We rural fays and faeries dwell:
Tho' rarely seen by mortal eye,
When the pale moon, ascending high,
Darts thro' yon' limes her quivering beams,
We frisk it near these crystal streams.

Her beams, reflected from the wave,
Afford the light our revels crave;
The turf, with daisies broider'd o'er,
Exceeds, we wot, the Parian floor;
Nor yet for artful strains we call,
But listen to the water's fall.

Would you then taste our tranquil scene,
Be sure your bosoms be serene;
Devoid of hate, devoid of strife,
Devoid of all that poisons life;
And much it 'vails you, in their place,
To graft the love of human race.

346

And tread with awe these favour'd bow'rs,
Nor wound the shrubs nor bruise the flow'rs;
So may your paths with sweets abound!
So may your couch with rest be crown'd!
But harm betide the wayward swain,
Who dares our hallow'd haunt profane!

Oberon.

II. In a shady Valley, near a running Water.

O! let me haunt this peaceful shade;
Nor let ambition e'er invade
The tenants of this leafy bow'r,
That shun her paths, and slight her pow'r.

Hither the plaintive halcyon flies
From social meads and open skies;
Pleas'd, by this rill, her course to steer,
And hide her saphire plumage here.

The trout, bedropt with crimson stains,
Forsakes the river's proud domains;
Forsakes the sun's unwelcome gleam,
To lurk within this humble stream.

And sure I heard the Naiad say,
“Flow, flow, my stream! this devious way;
“Tho' lovely soft thy murmurs are,
“Thy waters, lovely cool and fair!

347

“Flow, gentle stream! nor let the vain
“Thy small unsully'd stores disdain:
“Nor let the pensive sage repine,
“Whose latent course resembles thine.”

III. On a small Building in the Gothick Taste.

O you that bathe in courtly blysse!
Or toyle in fortune's giddye spheare!
Doo not too rashlye deeme amysse
Of him, that bydes contentid here.

Nor yet disdeigne the russet stoale,
Whyche o'er each carelesse lymbe he flyngs:
Nor yet deryde the beechen bowle,
In whyche he quaffs the lympid spryngs.

Forgyve hym, if, at eve or dawne,
Devoyde of worldlye carke he stray:
Or, all besyde some flowerye lawne,
He waste his inoffensive day.

So may He pardonne fraud and strife,
If such in courtlye haunt he see:
For faults there beene in busye lyfe,
From whyche these peacefull glennes are free.

348

A Pastoral BALLAD, in Four Parts.

Written 1743. By the Same.

Arbusta humilesque myricæ. Virg.

I. Absence.

I

Ye shepherds so cheerful and gay,
Whose flocks never carelessly roam;
Should Corydon's happen to stray,
Oh! call the poor wanderers home.
Allow me to muse and to sigh,
Nor talk of the change that ye find;
None once was so watchful as I:
—I have left my dear Phyllis behind.

II

Now I know what it is, to have strove
With the torture of doubt and desire;
What it is, to admire and to love,
And to leave her we love and admire.
Ah lead forth my flock in the morn,
And the damps of each ev'ning repell;
Alas! I am faint and forlorn:
—I have bade my dear Phyllis farewell.

349

III

Since Phyllis vouchsaf'd me a look,
I never once dreamt of my vine;
May I lose both my pipe and my crook,
If I knew of a kid that was mine.
I priz'd every hour that went by,
Beyond all that had pleas'd me before;
But now they are past, and I sigh;
And I grieve that I priz'd them no more.

IV

But why do I languish in vain?
Why wander thus pensively here?
Oh! why did I come from the plain,
Where I fed on the smiles of my dear?
They tell me, my favourite maid,
The pride of that valley, is flown;
Alas! where with her I have stray'd,
I could wander with pleasure, alone.

V

When forc'd the fair nymph to forego,
What anguish I felt at my heart!
Yet I thought—but it might not be so—
'Twas with pain that she saw me depart.
She gaz'd, as I slowly withdrew;
My path I could hardly discern;
So sweetly she bade me adieu,
I thought that she bade me return.

350

VI

The pilgrim that journeys all day
To visit some far-distant shrine,
If he bear but a relique away,
Is happy, nor heard to repine.
Thus widely remov'd from the fair,
Where my vows, my devotion, I owe,
Soft hope is the relique I bear,
And my solace wherever I go.

II. Hope.

I

My banks they are furnish'd with bees,
Whose murmur invites one to sleep;
My grottos are shaded with trees,
And my hills are white-over with sheep.
I seldom have met with a loss,
Such health do my fountains bestow;
My fountains all border'd with moss,
Where the hare-bells and violets grow.

II

Not a pine in my grove is there seen,
But with tendrils of woodbine is bound:
Not a beech's more beautiful green,
But a sweet-briar twines it around.
Not my fields, in the prime of the year,
More charms than my cattle unfold:
Not a brook that is limpid and clear,
But it glitters with fishes of gold.

351

III

One would think she might like to retire
To the bow'r I have labour'd to rear;
Not a shrub that I heard her admire,
But I hasted and planted it there.
O how sudden the jessamin strove
With the lilac to render it gay!
Already it calls for my love.
To prune the wild branches away.

IV

From the plains, from the woodlands and groves,
What strains of wild melody flow?
How the nightingales warble their loves
From thickets of roses that blow!
And when her bright form shall appear,
Each bird shall harmoniously join
In a concert so soft and so clear,
As—she may not be fond to resign.

V

I have found out a gift for my fair;
I have found where the wood-pigeons breed:
But let me that plunder forbear,
She will say 'twas a barbarous deed.
For he ne'er could be true, she aver'd,
Who could rob a poor bird of its young:
And I lov'd her the more, when I heard
Such tenderness fall from her tongue.

352

VI

I have heard her with sweetness unfold
How that pity was due to—a dove:
That it ever attended the bold,
And she call'd it the sister of love.
But her words such a pleasure convey,
So much I her accents adore,
Let her speak, and whatever she say,
Methinks I should love her the more.

VII

Can a bosom so gentle remain
Unmov'd, when her Corydon sighs?
Will a nymph that is fond of the plain,
These plains, and this valley despise?
Dear regions of silence and shade!
Soft scenes of contentment and ease!
Where I could have pleasingly stray'd,
If aught, in her absence, could please.

VIII

But where does my Phyllida stray?
And where are her grots and her bow'rs?
Are the groves and the valleys as gay,
And the shepherds as gentle as ours?
The groves may perhaps be as fair,
And the face of the valleys as fine;
The swains may in manners compare,
But their love is not equal to mine.

353

III. Solicitude.

I

Why will you my passion reprove?
Why term it a folly to grieve?
Ere I shew you the charms of my love,
She is fairer than you can believe.
With her mien she enamours the brave;
With her wit she engages the free;
With her modesty pleases the grave;
She is ev'ry way pleasing to me.

II

O you that have been of her train,
Come and join in my amorous lays;
I could lay down my life for the swain
That will sing but a song in her praise.
When he sings, may the nymphs of the town
Come trooping, and listen the while;
Nay on Him let not Phillida frown;
—But I cannot allow her to smile.

III

For when Paridel tries in the dance
Any favour with Phyllis to find,
O how, with one trivial glance,
Might she ruin the peace of my mind!
In ringlets He dresses his hair,
And his crook is be-studded around;
And his pipe—oh may Phyllis beware
Of a magic there is in the sound.

354

IV

'Tis His with mock passion to glow;
'Tis His in smooth tales to unfold,
“How her face is as bright as the snow,
“And her bosom, be sure, is as cold;
“How the nightingales labour the strain,
“With the notes of his charmer to vie;
“How they vary their accents in vain,
“Repine at her triumphs, and die.”

V

To the grove or the garden he strays,
And pillages every sweet;
Then, suiting the wreath to his lays
He throws it at Phyllis's feet.
“O Phyllis, he whispers, more fair,
“More sweet than the jessamin's flow'r!
“What are pinks, in a morn, to compare?
“What is eglantine after a show'r?

VI

“Then the lily no longer is white;
“Then the rose is depriv'd of its bloom;
“Then the violets die with despight,
“And the wood-bines give up their perfume.”
Thus glide the soft numbers along,
And he fancies no shepherd his peer;
—Yet I never should envy the song,
Were not Phyllis to lend it an ear.

355

VII

Let his crook be with hyacinths bound,
So Phyllis the trophy despise;
Let his forehead with laurels be crown'd,
So they shine not in Phillis's eyes.
The language that flows from the heart
Is a stranger to Paridel's tongue;
—Yet may she beware of his art,
Or sure I must envy the song.

IV. Disappointment.

I

Ye shepherds give ear to my lay,
And take no more heed of my sheep:
They have nothing to do, but to stray;
I have nothing to do, but to weep.
Yet do not my folly reprove;
She was fair—and my passion begun;
She smil'd—and I could not but love;
She is faithless—and I am undone.

II

Perhaps I was void of all thought;
Perhaps it was plain to foresee,
That a nymph so compleat would be sought
By a swain more engaging than me.
Ah! love ev'ry hope can inspire:
It banishes wisdom the while;
And the lip of the nymph we admire
Seems for ever adorn'd with a smile.

356

III

She is faithless, and I am undone;
Ye that witness the woes I endure,
Let reason instruct you to shun
What it cannot instruct you to cure.
Beware how ye loiter in vain
Amid nymphs of an higher degree:
It is not for me to explain
How fair, and how fickle they be.

IV

Alas! from the day that we met,
What hope of an end to my woes?
When I cannot endure to forget
The glance that undid my repose.
Yet time may diminish the pain:
The flow'r, and the shrub, and the tree,
Which I rear'd for her pleasure in vain,
In time may have comfort for me.

V

The sweets of a dew-sprinkled rose,
The sound of a murmuring stream,
The peace which from solitude flows,
Henceforth shall be Corydon's theme.
High transports are shewn to the sight,
But we are not to find them our own;
Fate never bestow'd such delight,
As I with my Phyllis had known.

357

VI

O ye woods, spread your branches apace;
To your deepest recesses I fly;
I would hide with the beasts of the chace;
I would vanish from every eye.
Yet my reed shall resound thro' the grove
With the same sad complaint it begun;
How she smil'd, and I could not but love;
Was faithless, and I am undone!

University of Virginia Library

IV. VOL. IV.

An ELEGY WRITTEN IN A Country Church Yard.

By Mr. Gray.

The EPITAPH.

HYMN to ADVERSITY.

By the Same,

EDUCATION. A POEM: IN TWO CANTOS.

Written in Imitation of the Style and Manner of SPENSER's Fairy Queen. Inscribed to Lady Langham, Widow of Sir John Langham, Bart. By GILBERT WEST, Esq;

CANTO I.

ARGUMENT.

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L

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