The Poetical Works Of James Grainger :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Poetical Works Of James Grainger

... With Memoirs Of His Life And Writings, By Robert Anderson ... And An Index Of The Linnean Names Of Plants, &c. By William Wright

Granger, James (1723-1776)

II.

VOL. II.

LYRIC POEMS.

LOVE ELEGIES.

THREE ELEGIES WRITTEN FROM ITALY.

ELEGY.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

TRANSLATIONS FROM OVID.

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LOVE ELEGIES.

THREE ELEGIES WRITTEN FROM ITALY.

ELEGY I.TO ROSALIND.

Non mihi Mæonidem—non cura Maronem,
Vincere, si fiam notus amore sat est.
Sannazar.

I

Bear me, some God, to Scotia's distant plains,
Her fir-crown'd mountains let me once more view,
Though there in savage pomp, wild Winter reigns,
I long to bid Italian Springs adieu!

II

I thought to glide adown life's gentle stream,
Secure from Fortune's ever-veering gales,
With you and Solitude in bowers to dream,
With you and Echo talk in fairy vales.

III

What though no trees upon thy banks, O Tay,
Breathe rich perfumes, or with the citron glow?
There I and Rosalind were wont to stray;
There now my Charmer sinks oppress'd with woe.

IV

Not far B** his shaggy summit rears,
Where Pan oft touches his melodious quill;
What time the hind unyokes his droughty steers,
The thrush nor chants, nor flows the list'ning rill:

V

One morning here I haply met my fair,
And, faltering, told with what excess I lov'd;
She blushing smil'd, and bade me not despair—
And here my passion she at last approv'd.

VI

The Medicean Venus I have seen,
Ausonia's noblest boast, the pride of art;
Ye Loves! how far more winning was her mien,
When she approv'd the offering of my heart!

VII

Enamour'd then we trod the woodland scene,
How pleasing, Nature, was thy savage dress!
Thy Groves of orange, thy Valdarnos green,
Thy Baias, Italy, delight me less.

VIII

On all her steps attendant Beauty smil'd,
'Twas more than Tempe wheresoe'er she went;
It seem'd an Enna what was erst a wild,
And Eurus from his wings Sabæa sent.

IX

When Noon in Leo rode and hush'd the wind,
And the tir'd mower of refreshment lack'd,
We read love-tales the bloomy broom behind,
We kiss'd the lovely fictions into fact.

X

Nor yet did dalliance all our hours consume,
We talk'd whence rivers draw their humid store,
Whence winter-storms, and whence the purple bloom,
When July wanders all our uplands o'er.

XI

I taught my lovely mistress all I knew.—
Then, then I liv'd.—Ah me, how chang'd my fate!
Why, Rosalind, so nobly born were you?
Oh why, my parents, of so mean a state?

XII

Without my love, what boots it me to know,
Where Maro wrote, or patriot Tully fell,

Where Delia's lover met the muse of woe,
Or drink with Fancy at Blandusia's well.

XIII

Though Art and Nature strive to cheat my care,
Nature and Art employ their charms in vain;
Though Music's power essays each soothing air,
Not Music's soothing airs subdue my pain.

XIV

As late at Naso's Urn in tears I stood,
And scatter'd myrtles on the hallow'd ground,
An instantaneous horror chill'd my blood,
As burst these accents from the tomb profound:

XV

“Thanks, amorous Briton, whose religious hand
“This grateful offering on my shade bestows:
“Though Fortune force thee from thy native land,
“Fortune shall cease your union to oppose.”

At Formia in Campania. It is now called Mola. His tomb is shown in a garden.

Tibullus.

Horace.

Near Rome.

ELEGY II.TO THE SAME.

------ Mutat via longa puellas
Quantus in exiguo tempore perit amor.
Proper.

I

'Tis done!—at last the mighty struggle's o'er,
I tear thee, perjur'd trait'ress, from my heart;
Between us rise new Alps, new Oceans roar,
I feel not now the slightest pang to part.

II

The nuptial bed ten thousand fiends prepare,
The nuptial torch ten thousand furies light;
Your every day be rack'd with heart-felt care,
My shade, my injur'd shade, your dreams affright.

III

Was it for this, when Chloe sought my hand,
Chloe the wealthy, virtuous, and the fair,
That I refus'd to tie the nuptial band,
That I denied my friends' united pray'r?

IV

When sickness dimm'd your radiant eyes of late,
And wept your parents,—wept your friends around,
My skill (Love gave it virtue) baffled fate;
Vain shriek'd the owl, and vain the house-dog howl'd.

V

Did you not clasp me to your panting heart,
When the rough Boatswain bade me haste away?
And must, (you cried with tears) and must we part?
My first, sole lov'd, my Damon! stop one day!

VI

What most we wish, how easy we believe!
I long had known, esteem'd, ador'd the maid:
Fool!—did not Delia thus her love deceive,
Though for his safety to the Gods she pray'd.

VII

Yet simple Truth her manners seem'd to guide,
Yet Constancy was still her favourite theme;
Gold's slavish martyrs, Gods, how she'd deride!
How choose with me a cottage and a stream!

VIII

And yet to leave me for illiberal gain,
Ere on your cheeks my parting kiss was dry!
Ere thrice the Moon had swell'd her subject main!
Ere I beheld your myrtles, Italy!

IX

The wretch's name, eternal curses blast,
Who first disclos'd to man the bright decoy;
And, O accurs'd be he, who first amass'd
The gold that robs the lover of his joy.

X

Yet since in vain the Wealthy never sigh,
Since Love and Beauty are the prize of Gain,
To hoard up wealth, all ways, all means, I'll try,
All means are sacred, if I gold obtain.

XI

Ah me, since Rosalind's another's prize,
Since she has basely left unwealthy me,
Her heart or treasure I alike despise,
From both alike with just abhorrence flee.

XII

And can I coolly thus my love resign?
Impassive see her in another's arms?
If vows can bind her heart, her all is mine,
That, that, ye Gods, my frigid bosom warms.

XIII

Come, Expedition, hoist the loosen'd sail;
And come, Red Vengeance, bare the fatal steel;
Ye Gods she injur'd, give a prosperous gale;
The least remorse my bosom cannot feel.

XIV

What! could I see her breathless corse, unmov'd?
See deathful darkness veil her beauteous eyes?
Eyes that beyond my soul so late I lov'd,
And in my heart no soft compunctions rise?

XV

All-powerful Gods, the bloody deed avert!
Where late Love triumph'd, Vengeance cannot dwell!
The deed was foreign to my soften'd heart!
Still, still, I feel, poor Damon loves too well.

XVI

Beneath yon myrtle's soft entwining shade,
Behold two lovers, exquisitely blest!
Each swain, but me, enjoys his plighted maid!
Each brow, but mine, in cheerful smiles is dress'd!

XVII

Yet, yet, may endless blessings crown her head!
May Fortune still on all her actions smile!
A numerous offspring grace her genial bed,
As Rosalinda fair, without her guile!

XVIII

While I outcast, an exile and forlorn,
In some more distant clime shall pour my sighs,
My fate, too merciless, for ever mourn,
Till welcome Death seal up my wearied eyes.

ELEGY III. TO THE SAME.

[With myrtle-wreaths my joyous temples bind!]

Ite triumphales circum mea tempora lauri
Vicimus.
Ovid.

I

With myrtle-wreaths my joyous temples bind!
I'm more than recompens'd for all my pain!
Hence, cares and doubts, I give you to the wind!
Love's still a God, and guards the constant swain!

II

She's mine, she's mine, yet Rosalind is mine;
In vain her father pray'd, and chid, and swore;
In vain her mercenary friends combine,
And Gripus proffer'd all his unsun'd ore.

III

Can you forgive the strains my passion drew?
Tear, doom them victims to the sea or flame.
By female manners, fool! to judge of you!
The curs'd remembrance clouds my face with shame.

IV

Yet, trust me, Fair one, when I thought you lost,
When Fancy drew you in another's arms,
The slave of Av'rice; when I menac'd most,
I could have died with joy to save your charms.

V

Though poor, and forc'd from home, from you to fly,
Friendless, in foreign climes, though doom'd to moan,
With grateful homage I absolve the Sky,
I should not else your matchless faith have known.

VI

But though no longer I at fate repine,
Sure what Love whispers, I to Love may pray,
From Force and Fraud keep Rosalinda mine,
And from the Tiber waft me to the Tay.

ELEGY.

[Hence, Love! I'll be no more Melinda's slave!]

[_]

Having quarrelled with Melinda , the following Elegy, which was sent to a common Friend, happily effected a reconciliation.

Hei mihi quod nullis amor est medicabilis herbis.

I

Hence, Love! I'll be no more Melinda's slave!
Her eyes (false stars) shall pilot me no more!
'Tis time my weather-beaten bark to save,
My sails full time to furl, and make the shore.

II

I sued, sued humbly; was deny'd access;—
I wrote; my letters back unop'd she sent;
Each word, each action, show'd intense distress;
Nor word nor action taught her to relent.

III

Is this my recompence, ungrateful fair?
Thy bloom, by me, the youth of Albion know!
A bloom, nor Time nor Sickness can impair;
The rose ne'er withers that the Muses blow.

IV

It now, my Friend, contents my inmost heart,
That thy skill triumph'd o'er my late disease;
Though then I curs'd (blame Love) thy friendly art,
Spurn'd Reason's dictates, and rejected Ease.

V

Her every caprice should I fond adore?
Her follies deify? her faults commend?
When she talk'd idly, must I hymn her lore?
Or false arraign'd me, should I not defend?

VI

Henceforth to books I'll dedicate my time;
A serious student, fly the giddy gay;
Peruse the sages of each scienc'd clime;
Cull out the graces of each ethic lay.

VII

Yes, I will read the bards, who lash the fair;
Who, foes to Love, the genuine woman shew;
The bard who sung Belinda's ravish'd hair,
The sage who wanton Messalina drew.

VIII

What joy, when morning dawns, to mount my steed,
And with sagacious hounds the hare pursue?
On L---'s banks entrap the finny breed?
Or, dress'd an archer, twang the fatal yew?

IX

What joy, with Friendship in my bower reclin'd,
Where Tay and Earn their mingled waters roll,
With rosy wreaths my careless brow to bind,
And drown Remembrance in the jocund bowl?

X

But most thy volume, Nature! I'll explore;
And Newton, thy sole secretary, read;
By Nature's works, to Nature's Parent soar,
The heart improving, while the mind I feed.

XI

These, these secur'd, must ascertain my rest;
Must fence my heart from Love's tyrannic sway:
Who seek abroad for Joy, can ne'er be blest,
The slave of Female whim can ne'er be gay.

XII

Yet, yet I find, that something's wanting still;
In spite of friends, and hounds, I'm unemploy'd,
The brook's less pleasing, and less green the hill,
And O! how soon with Satire am I cloy'd!

XIII

Ah! 'twas Melinda gave the hills their green!
Thou, L--- , stol'st thy clearness from her eyes!
Her look taught Friendship its enticing mien!
Her voice lent music to the hounds' full cries!

XIV

The torrent Softness pours upon my mind!
I'm your's, incens'd Melinda! your's again!
Once more my loosen'd canvas courts the Wind!
Your slave, once more I stem Love's adverse main!

Rivers near which this Elegy was written.

See Note on former page.