 | New Poems by George Crabbe |  |
Again we change—this Page contains
A cottage with its happy Swains,
About it Meadows, Groves and Springs,
With all the beauties Summer brings,
And here are Verses meant to prove
That such are the retreats of Love—
I cannot tell—to me it seems
These are a kind of pleasant dreams,
For love had rather take his lot
Within a parlour than a cot;
He dwells beside the cheerful blaze,
And on the splendid carpet plays—
He takes a large well furnished room,
And loves a comfortable home—
Love no objection makes to dine
On Savory food with generous Wine.
He sometimes has his pensive hours
In shady walks and silent bowers,
But oftener he desires to be
With gay and pleasant Company.
Soft music he no doubt approves
From birds, who warbling fill their groves,
But he prefers a lively air
From Ladies sitting in his chair.
Love is, in short, though free and wild,
A taught and an observing child.
He sometimes speaks with scorn enough
Of wealth—but put him to the proof—
And you shall find he lives to eat—
No Patriarch better—savoury Meat,
And would sigh deeply to be fed
On skim-milk cheese and barley bread.
To sing of Love I then decline,
The rural Cupid is not mine,
But left to them who better know
Where he delights to bend his bow.
Then turn we to another page,
And see what there our mind engage.
Say then what comes—a Riddle, the delight
Of infant Bards when they begin to write,
And shall I now resume that early task,
Or teach my sober Muse to wear a mask?
Come! let us try, but we shall ill succeed,
The mask will drop as you begin to read—
A cottage with its happy Swains,
About it Meadows, Groves and Springs,
With all the beauties Summer brings,
And here are Verses meant to prove
That such are the retreats of Love—
I cannot tell—to me it seems
These are a kind of pleasant dreams,
For love had rather take his lot
Within a parlour than a cot;
He dwells beside the cheerful blaze,
And on the splendid carpet plays—
He takes a large well furnished room,
And loves a comfortable home—
Love no objection makes to dine
On Savory food with generous Wine.
He sometimes has his pensive hours
In shady walks and silent bowers,
But oftener he desires to be
With gay and pleasant Company.
Soft music he no doubt approves
From birds, who warbling fill their groves,
But he prefers a lively air
From Ladies sitting in his chair.
Love is, in short, though free and wild,
A taught and an observing child.
He sometimes speaks with scorn enough
Of wealth—but put him to the proof—
And you shall find he lives to eat—
No Patriarch better—savoury Meat,
And would sigh deeply to be fed
On skim-milk cheese and barley bread.
To sing of Love I then decline,
83
But left to them who better know
Where he delights to bend his bow.
Then turn we to another page,
And see what there our mind engage.
Say then what comes—a Riddle, the delight
Of infant Bards when they begin to write,
And shall I now resume that early task,
Or teach my sober Muse to wear a mask?
Come! let us try, but we shall ill succeed,
The mask will drop as you begin to read—
| New Poems by George Crabbe | |