Collected Poems of Thomas Parnell

Lovely lasting Peace of Mind,
Sweet delight of Human Kind,
Heav'nly born, and bred on high,
To crown the Fav'rites of the Sky
With more of Happiness below,
Than Victors in a Triumph know:
Whither, O whither art thou fled,
To lay thy meek contented Head?
What happy Region dost thou please
To make the Seat of Calms and Ease?

Ambition searches all its Sphere
Of Pomp and State to find thee there.
Encreasing Avarice wou'd find
Thy Presence in its Gold enshrin'd.
The bold Advent'rer ploughs his way
Through Rocks amidst the foaming Sea
To gain thy Love, and then perceives
Thou wer't not in the Rocks and Waves.
The silent Heart whom Grief assails,
Treads soft and lonesome o'er the Vales,
Sees Daizies open, Rivers run,
And seeks (as I have vainly done)
Amusing Thought; but learns to know
That Solitude's a Nurse of Woe.
No real Happiness is found
In trailing Purple o'er the Ground:
Or in a Soul exalted high

112

To range the Circuit of the Sky,
Converse with Stars above, and know
All Nature in its Forms below;
The Rest it seeks in seeking dies,
And Doubts at last for Knowledge rise.

Lovely lasting Peace appear;
This World it self, if thou art here,
Is once again with Eden bless'd,
And Man contains it in his Breast.

'Twas thus, as under Shade I stood,
I sung my Wishes to the Wood,
And, lost in Thought, no more perceiv'd
The Branches whisper as they wav'd;
It seem'd as if the quiet Place
Confess'd the Presence of the Grace,
When thus she spoke—Go rule thy Will,
Bid thy wild Passions all be still,
Know God—and bring thy Heart to know
The Joys which from Religion flow;
Then ev'ry Grace shall prove its Guest,
And I'll be there to crown the rest.

Oh! by yonder Mossie Seat,
In my Hours of sweet Retreat,
Might I thus my Soul employ
With sense of Gratitude and Joy,
Rais'd, as Ancient Prophets were,
In heav'nly Vision, Praise, and Pray'r,
Pleasing all Men, hurting none,
Pleas'd and bless'd with God alone.

Then, while the Gardens take my Sight,
With all the Colours of Delight,
While Silver Waters glide along,
To please my Ear, and court my Song;
I'll lift my Voice, and tune my String,
And Thee, great source of nature , sing.

The Sun that walks his airy Way,
To light the World, and give the Day;
The Moon that shines with borrow'd Light,

113

The Stars that gild the gloomy Night,
The Seas that roll unnumber'd Waves,
The Wood that spreads its shady Leaves,
The Field whose Ears conceal the Grain,
The yellow Treasure of the Plain;
All of these, and all I see,
Wou'd be sung, and sung by me,
They speak their Maker as they can,
But want and ask the Tongue of Man.

Go search among your idle Dreams
Your busie or your vain Extreams,
And find a Life of equal Bliss,
Or own the next begun in this.

Song.

My Days have been so wondrous Free,
The little Birds that flie
With careless Ease from Tree to Tree,
Were but as bless'd as I.

Ask gliding Waters, if a Tear
Of mine encreas'd their Stream?
Or ask the flying Gales, if ere
I lent a Sigh to them?

But now my former Days retire,
And I'm by Beauty caught,
The tender Chains of sweet Desire
Are fix'd upon my Thought.

An eager Hope within my Breast
Does ev'ry Doubt controul,
And charming Nancy stands confest
The Fav'rite of my Soul.

Ye Nightingales ye twisting Pines,
Ye Swains that haunt the Grove,
Ye gentle Ecchoes, breezy Winds,
Ye close Retreats of Love;

114

With all of Nature, all of Art,
Assist the dear Design;
O teach a young unpractis'd Heart
To make Her ever Mine.

The very Thought of Change I hate,
As much as of Despair;
And hardly covet to be great,
Unless it be for Her.

'Tis true, the Passion in my Mind
Is mix'd with soft Distress;
Yet while the Fair I love is kind,
I cannot wish it Less.

To a YOUNG LADY, ON Her Translation of the Story of Phoebus and Daphne, from Ovid.

In Phœbus Wit (as Ovid said)
Enchanting Beauty woo'd;
In Daphne Beauty coily fled,
While vainly Wit pursu'd.

But when you trace what Ovid writ,
A diff'rent Turn we view;
Beauty no longer flies from Wit,
Since both are joyn'd in You.

Your Lines the wondrous Change impart,
From whence our Lawrels spring;
In Numbers fram'd to please the Heart,
And merit what they Sing.

Methinks thy Poet's gentle Shade
Its Wreath presents to Thee;
What Daphne owes you as a Maid,
She pays you as a Tree.

115

Anacreontick.

I

Gay Bacchus liking Estcourt's Wine,
A noble Meal bespoke;
And for the Guests that were to Dine,
Brought Comus, Love, and Joke.

II

The God near Cupid drew his Chair,
And Joke near Comus plac'd;
Thus Wine makes Love forget its Care,
And Mirth exalts a Feast.

III

The more to please the sprightly God,
Each sweet engaging Grace
Put on some Cloaths to come abroad,
And took a Waiters Place.

IV

Then Cupid nam'd at every Glass
A Lady of the Sky;
While Bacchus swore he'd Drink the Lass,
And had it Bumper high.

116

V

Fat Comus tost his Brimmers o're,
And always got the most;
For Joke took care to fill him more,
When-e'er he mist the Toast.

VI

They call'd, and drank at every Touch,
Then fill'd, and drank again;
And if the Gods can take too much,
'Tis said, they did so then.

VII

Free Jests run all the Table round,
And with the Wine conspire,
(While they by sly Reflection wound,)
To set their Heads on Fire.

VIII

Gay Bacchus little Cupid stung,
By reck'ning his Deceits;
And Cupid mock'd his stammering Tongue,
With all his staggering Gaits.

IX

Joke droll'd on Comus' greedy Ways,
And Tales without a Jest;
While Comus call'd his witty Plays,
But Waggeries at Best.

117

X

Such Talk soon set 'em all at Odds;
And, had I Homer's Pen,
I'd sing ye, how they drunk, like Gods,
And how they fought, like Men.

XI

To part the Fray, the Graces fly,
Who make 'em soon agree;
And had the Furies selves been nigh,
They still were Three to Three.

XII

Bacchus appeas'd, rais'd Cupid up,
And gave him back his Bow;
But kept some Darts to stir the Cup,
Where Sack and Sugar flow.

XIII

Joke taking Comus' rosie Crown,
In Triumph wore the Prize,
And thrice, in Mirth, he pusht him down,
As thrice he strove to rise.

XIV

Then Cupid sought the Myrtle Grove,
Where Venus did recline,
And Beauty close embracing Love,
They join'd to Rail at Wine.

118

XV

And Comus loudly cursing Wit,
Roll'd off to some Retreat,
Where boon Companions gravely sit,
In fat unweildy State.

XVI

Bacchus and Joke, who stay behind,
For one fresh Glass prepare;
They Kiss, and are exceeding kind,
And Vow to be sincere.

XVII

But part in Time, whoever hear
This our Instructive Song;
For tho' such Friendships may be dear,
They can't continue long.

University of Virginia Library

Poems from Steele's Poetical Miscellanies

A Hymn on Contentment.