Miscellaneous poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

In Days of Yore, a lovely Country Maid
Rang'd o'er these Lawns, and thro' these Forests stray'd;
Modest her Pleasures, matchless was her Frame,
Peerless her Face, and Sally was her Name:
By no frail Vows her young Desires were bound;
No Shepherd yet the Way to please her found.
Thoughtless of Love, the beauteous Nymph appear'd;
Nor hop'd its Transports, nor its Torments fear'd:

But careful fed her Flocks, and grac'd the Plain,
She lack'd no Pleasure, and she felt no Pain.

She view'd our Motions, when we toss'd the Ball,
And smil'd to see us take, or ward a Fall;
'Till once our Leader chanc'd the Nymph to spy,
And drank in Poyson from her lovely Eye.
Now pensive grown, he shun'd the long-lov'd Plains,
His darling Pleasures, and his favour'd Swains,
Sigh'd in her Absence, sigh'd when she was near,
Then big with Hope, and now dismay'd with Fear:
At length, with falt'ring Tongue, he press'd the Dame
For some Returns to his unpity'd Flame;
But she disdain'd his Suit, despis'd his Care,
His Form unhandsome, and his bristled Hair;
Forward she sprung, and with an eager Pace,
The God pursu'd, nor fainted in the Race;
Swift as the frighted Hind the Virgin flies,
When the Woods eccho to the Hunters Cries:

Swift as the fleetest Hound, her Flight he trac'd,
When o'er the Lawns the frighted Hind is chac'd;
The Winds, which sported with her flowing Vest,
Display'd new Charms, and heighten'd all the rest:
Those Charms display'd, increas'd the God's Desire,
What cool'd her Bosom, set his Breast on Fire:
With equal Speed for different Ends they move,
Fear lent the Virgin Wings, the Shepherd Love:
Panting at length, thus in her Flight she pray'd,
Be quick, ye Pow'rs, and save a wretched Maid,
Protect my Honour, shelter me from Shame,
Beauty and Life with Pleasure I disclaim.

She said—The Pow'rs, in Pity to the Fair,
Direct her weary'd Steps, and grant her Pray'r.
To fenny Marshes now her Course she bends;
Now on her Neck the rushing God impends;
Now he prepares to clasp her in his Arms,
And in his Fancy revels in her Charms;

When on a serpent Riv'let's miry Brink,
Down to the Bosom he beheld her sink;
He caught her by th'expanded Arms, and those
Sudden he felt a circling Rind inclose;
Her Hair he grasp'd, but that his Sense deceives,
He fills his Hands with slender Twigs and Leaves;
The Part which downward sunk became a Root,
Her Arms on either Side like Branches shoot;
To outward View the Virgin ceas'd to be,
But still her Life lay latent in the Tree:
The grateful Tree yet loves the watry Glade,
Or casts o'er purling Streams its pleasing Shade:
Next to the Reed in Place as next in Fame,
And from the lovely Sally takes its Name:
Yet in Remembrance of the Nymphs Disdain,
Her useless Beauty, and his fruitless Pain,
Tho' ev'ry Spring her budding Blossoms shoot,
The barren Tree continues void of Fruit.

This monstrous Change the Love-sick God amaz'd,
Silent he stood, and at the Wonder gaz'd;
At length his Words broke out, and thus he said:
Thou canst not crown my Love, but shalt my Head,
In all my Pleasures thou shalt mix, and raise
Eternal Trophies to thy Virtue's Praise;
O'er all the Land thy Stock shall be display'd,
Adorn my Suppliants, and my Altars shade;
Each Victim's Brow shall with thy Leaves be crown'd,
And with thy Twiggs his tender Limbs be bound:
Erected Goals on ev'ry Football Green,
Torn from thy blooming Boughs, shall still be seen:
From my Example, each succeeding Swain,
Whom cruel Nymphs permit to sigh in vain,
With thee shall shade his drooping Head, and wear
Thy Verdant Leaves; an Emblem of Despair!

This said: He fram'd a Garland for his Brow,
Which long he wore, and see he wears it now.

He ceas'd. In Tears the pitying Goddess fate,
And sighing cry'd, All must submit to Fate;
But let the Swains now re-assume their Play,
And Chance or Merit end the doubtful Fray:
Too sensibly your Griefs afflict my Breast,
To marr your Pleasures, or your Rights contest:
Whence you may learn, when Rage and Threatnings fail,
Soft soothing Arts on Female Minds prevail.

The warlike Leaders, now their Stations change,
And round the Field their gallant Forces range;
Big with their Hopes, expectant of the Prize,
Lusk's Champions their dishearten'd Foe despise.

Unhappy Mortals! Whose unthinking Mind
Swells with the Present, to the Future blind,

Pleas'd without Reason, vain without Success;
Small Joys exalt you, and small Griefs depress:
Sudden these Hopes shall be for ever crost,
And all your Honours, with the Prize, be lost.

First Paddy struck the Ball, John stopt its Course,
And sent it backward with redoubled Force;
Dick met, and meeting smote the light Machine,
Reptile it ran, and skim'd along the Green,
'Till Terence stop'd—with gentle Strokes he trolls,
(Th'obedient Ball in short Excursions rolls)
Then swiftly runs, and drives it o'er the Plain;
Follow the rest, and chace the flying Swain.

So have I seen, upon a Frosty Day,
(By Fowlers frighted, or in quest of Prey)
Skim thro' the Air, whole Covies of Curlew,
One only leading, while the rest pursue.

Paddy, whose fleeter Pace out-stript the rest,
Came up, and caught the Champion by the Vest;
Between his Legs, an artful Crook he twin'd,
And almost fell'd him, e're he look'd behind.
Norah with Horror saw the destin'd Wile,
Grew pale, and blush'd, and trembled for a while;
But when she saw him grasp the Warriour's Hand,
And Face to Face the grappling Rivals stand,
What diff'ring Pangs her anxious Bosom tear,
Now flush'd with Hope, now chill'd with sudden Fear!
Paddy, to see the Champion disengag'd,
From so well form'd a Trip, with Fury rag'd,
Bounds to pursue the Ball; but Terence stopt,
Athwart him flung his Leg, and down he dropt.

So some tall Pine, which many Years had stood,
The Pride of Trees, and Mistress of the Wood,

Braves for a while the Strokes, and seems to foil
The piercing Axe, and mock the Peasant's Toil;
'Till lop'd at length by one fell dext'rous Wound,
It falls, and spreads its Ruins all around.

Terence, unmindful of the Danger past,
A side-long Glance at his lov'd Norah cast,
There saw her Pleasure mix'd with her Surprize,
Glow on her Cheeks, and sparkle in her Eyes:
He saw; and with uncommon Joy inspir'd,
Rush'd on the Foe, and from her Sight retir'd.

Mean while, the sturdy Neal the Football caught,
And to his Friends with Strokes repeated brought;
The Warriours now disperse: Between them all,
Flies to and fro the repercussive Ball:
'Till Terence came, thus secretly he pray'd,
Propitious Pan, lend thy directive Aid;
And on thy Altar, if my Aims succeed,
A Lamb, the whitest of my Flock, shall bleed.

The God consents—one Kick he softly stole,
And with the other drove it thro' the Goal.
Lusk's Champions droop, loud Acclamations rise,
And the shrill Clamours pierce the vaulted Skies;
Joy smiles on ev'ry Face, all Heads are bare,
While Clouds of Hats fly in the wanton Air.

Thus o'er some ancient Rook'ry, thro' the Sky
The feather'd Race in wild Confusion fly;
When mimick Thunder breaks the ambient Air,
All screaming rise, and for the Flight prepare;
In Crowds they soar, the leaden Death to shun,
Darken the Day, and intercept the Sun.

While others claim their well-contended Prize,
Terence alone to his dear Norah flies,
Clasps the lov'd Fair One in his eager Arms,
And thus with softest Elocution warms:
Joy of my Life, and Pleasure of my Youth,
Behold this Mark, this Witness of my Truth!

No Prize but you, was worth such hard Pursuit;
And for no other would your Swain dispute:
For you all Hardships I could learn to bear,
For you, with Joy, I'll leap the Stools next Year.
Then quickly yield, nor kill me with Delay;
For Love and Life are fleeter than the Day.
Silent she stood. The pressing loving Swain,
Gaz'd on her Eyes, and read her Meaning plain;
He saw the Passion, which she could not speak,
Pant on her Breast, and flush upon her Cheek:
Thence takes the Hint, pursues his first Intent,
And from her Silence argues her Consent;
Leads to the Nuptial Bow'r the willing Maid,
No Jointure settled, and no Portion paid;
No glowing Jewels from her Bosom glare,
Shine on her Hands, or glitter in her Hair;
No Robes of White her native Charms adorn,
Nor gaudy Silks are by the Virgin worn;
But sweetly artless, innocently gay,
Her sparkling Eyes, a cheerful Light display;

The Crimson Blushes on her Cheeks outvie
The Golden Streaks that paint the Western Sky.

What Monarch's Envy might not Terence move,
So crown'd with Conquest, and so blest with Love?

The Nymph Syrinx was turn'd into a Reed, as she fled from Pan. See Ovid Met. Lib. 1.