Poems on Various Subjects :: :: University of Virginia Library

Sure there are hours when the most joyous heart,
If from Reflection's pow'r not wholly clear,
Would from the banquet's noisy mirth depart,
To gurgling streams to lend a pensive ear;

And social souls relinquish for a while
(If trembling Conscience shrink not from the choice)
E'en Friendship's joys, or even Beauty's smile,
For silent Solitude's instructive voice.

For, where Reflection sways the feeling mind,
Or Fancy revels in luxuriant pow'r,
Articulation in each rill we find,
And gather morals from each budding flow'r.

Thus while I gaze upon that op'ning rose,
(In no embroider'd vestment proudly gay)
Which by the gaudy tulip sidelong grows,
The blushing blossom thus appears to say:

“Judge not, fond shepherd, by thy eye alone,
“Fix thy affections on intrinsic worth;
“Tho' other flow'rs more gaudy vestments own,
“No bud so sweet perfumes the teeming earth.

“Perennial charms 'tis only I can boast;
“From cankering age, and time, charm-blighting, free;
“My scent continues when my hue is lost.
“In me the emblem of fair Delia see.”

Yes, Delia's mind excels each outward grace—
Yet ne'er was virgin form more sweetly fair:
In her combine each charm of mien and face.
No sweeter bud perfumes the vernal air!

Yet Delia's mind excels each outward charm,
And, like thy scent, sweet blossom, shall remain:
The hand of Time shall polish, and not harm
The wit that rivets Cupid's roseate chain.

ELEGY II. The INVALID.

Tho' scarce I breathe (or breathe with toil and pain)
Intemp'rate pulses all unequal beat;
And tho' my fainting lungs can scarce sustain
Their wonted task, oppress'd with inward heat.

At sultry eve I court no fanning breeze,
Upon no river's cooling margin stray;
Nor seek refreshing shelter from the trees,
When bright Meridian darts his scorching ray.

Can Zephyr breathing thro' the poplar shade,
Can all the water in the Naiad's urns
Efface the image of my dearest maid?
Or quench Love's flame that in my bosom burns?

Yet let me strive to heal my bleeding heart.—
My waining health, ah! how shall I regain?
Verse may have pow'r to draw Love's venom'd dart;
And musick's charms may ease this feverish pain.

To rosy Health I'll tune my sober lyre,
Invoke her presence with a sprightly strain,
Till kindly she my bosom reinspire.—
Love mocks my toil, and says, “That toil were vain!”

With black Despair the Goddess scorns to dwell;
She seeks the breasts that jolly pastimes fire.—
My heart, alas! can by experience tell,
'Tis only Delia's smiles can Health inspire.

And why can Delia never, never smile?
Or with one distant hope relieve my care?
Why will she not my wretchedness beguile,
And banish, with responsive Love, Despair?

Content whole years I'll wear the servile chain,
And deem an age in sighs and tears well past,
If Delia'll pity my long-during pain,
And pay my sufferings with her love at last.

Oh shew me, then, one distant, cheerful ray,
And well contented I'll my course pursue:
The gleam of Hope shall 'luminate my way,
And bear me up Life's tedious journey thro'.

ELEGY III. DESPONDENCY.

Why sit I thus, to listless Grief a prey,
Nor lop my orchard's boughs, nor prune my vine?
While, chok'd with weeds, my promis'd crops decay,
And with'ring flow'rs, thro' lack of tending, pine.

No more my kids I gather from the rocks,
Or teach my lambs in verdant meads to roam;
But, quite neglectful of my pining flocks,
Within my dreary cottage sigh at home.

Pan yields no fleeces to my idle hand;
Gay Flora scorns to bless my slighted bow'r;
Ceres nor visits my uncultur'd land,
Nor feel my trees Pomona's fruitful pow'r.

Farewel, Oh Life! to all thy prudent cares;—
Let happier youths those busy cares employ;
Love, hopeless Love, my cheerless bosom tears.—
Why must I live forlorn of ev'ry joy?

Oh rouse me, Delia, with responsive Love!
Oh chace this langour with a gentle smile!
Rough Labour's active life o'erjoy'd I'll prove,
If Delia'll share the guerdon of my toil.

My goats I'll gather from unshelter'd rocks,
When scorching Leo fries the gaping ground;
While, in some water'd vale, the bleating flocks
My Delia tends, by poplars shaded round.

But when from heav'n unwholesome rains descend,
Or frigid blasts Earth's hoary bosom freeze,
Myself both goats and fleecy flocks will tend,
At home while Delia tastes indulgent ease.

For thee I'll gladly rise at early dawn,
To delve the glebe, or do the oxen's toil;
If thou'lt but cheer my heart at my return,
And pay my labours with a gracious smile.

The cow I'll milk, the brimming pale bring home,
And gather faggots from the neighb'ring wood,
And, numb'd and cramp'd with cold, when back I come
Thy fond concern shall warm my frozen blood.

ELEGY IV. The MUSE.

Farewel the transports of harmonious verse!
No more I sing of shepherds' happy loves;
No more each blossom's virtues I rehearse,
Or cull gay wreath's in Fancy's fertile groves.

Farewel the transports of the tuneful Muse!
My woes appear in ev'ry drooping lay:
If other subjects for my verse I chuse,
A love-lorn sigh wafts ev'ry thought away.

Awake, my Muse! shake off desponding Care;
On high Parnassus seek immortal fame:
In epic verse a lasting work prepare,
May place with Maro's my yet humble name!

Let trumpets sonorous bellow in the strain!
Let sanguine War in all its horrors rage!
Cleave heav'n's scar'd vault, and drench the thirsty plain,
While spreading Discord thunders thro' the page.

Sing mighty battles and great derring-does!
Let valiant Henry's conquests be thy choice!
—The vain attempt is blasted by my woes:
Love breathes a sigh dispels the trumpet's voice.

To livelier themes I'll turn my wanton song;
With rosy wreaths luxuriant grapes I'll twine:
To Bacchus' praise my lyricks shall belong;
With Bacchus buxom Venus shall combine.

Tune, tune, my lyre! I'll sing of drunken Mirth!
Let many a cup of mantling wine be quafft!—
—Ah vain essay! my spirits sink to earth:
Love drops a tear, and sours the wanton draught.

Why do my thoughts, their own tormenting foes,
Still turn to thee, my anguish to inflame?
Why does my Muse still ruminate my woes,
Still paint thy charms, still dwell on Delia's name?

Why, when I slumber, does she haunt me still?
Why, when I wake, is Delia still my theme?—
Has not Despair the pow'r Desire to kill?
Or does presumptuous Hope still fan my flame?

Dear cause of my all anguish! yes, my heart
Shall treasure up thy lov'd memorial still:
Tho' ev'ry tender line inflame my smart,
Thy virtuous charms the mournful page shall fill.

ELEGY V. The PERSON.

Come, Delia, come, and heal my bleeding heart!
Come, with sweet smiles, and banish fell Despair!
Why wilt thou heedless view thy lover's smart?
Ah, why reject his tender, faithful pray'r?

What tho' no orient blushes tinge my cheek,
Nor shine my eyes with wit's enliv'ning ray;
No curls Hesperient wanton in my neck,
Nor glossy lips the currant's hue display?

100

What tho' I've felt Misfortune's blighting hand,
And no far-grazing cattle call me lord;
No numerous fleeces whiten o'er the land,
Nor hives luxuriant honied sweets afford?

Yet want of wealth my fondness shall repay,
And cheerful toil shall multiply my store:
For thee thro' storms I'd plow my dang'rous way,
Or delve in gloomy mines for sordid ore.

Pleas'd o'er Numidia's burning sands I'd fly,
To chace the furious lion with my spear;
Or hunt hyænas 'neath the frigid sky,
The toil-bought guerdon would my Delia share.

Then come, my love, nor slight my lowly state;
Nor yet the plainness of my person scorn:
My ceaseless toil shall force a boon from Fate,
And cheerful health my person shall adorn.

101

ELEGY VI. The LARK.

The hapless youth who feels a real flame,
(So cruel Love, capricious god! decrees)
Long mourns, neglected by the lovely dame,
And long, enanguish'd, seeks in vain to please.

The fading langour of his mournful eye,
The faultering accent, trembling on his tongue;
The bosom heaving with the painful sigh,
The head propended as he droops along:

The dress neglected, and the slighted air,
(The faithful indicates of fervent love)
Disgust the fancy of the thoughtless fair,
And the preventions of his fortune prove.

While the false youth, with bless'd indifference gay,
(Who insincerely boasts bright Beauty's pow'r)
Oft bears the virgin's captive heart away,
And on her soft affections steals each hour.

102

His sprightly converse wins the list'ning ear;
Thoughts unimpassion'd point the happy way
T'improve each chance with brisk, assiduous care,
And the unguarded, flatter'd heart betray.

For me, the strong emotions of my mind,
My fond affection, my respectful fears,
Perplex my fancy, and my judgment blind:
Confus'd, I tremble when my love appears.

Thus I, perhaps, oppress'd by fear and grief,
Neglect each pleasing, softly soothing art;
With fruitless sighs, thus vainly seek relief,
And vainly strive to gain my Delia's heart.

Yet think, my Delia (thou, of all the fair,
With sensibility and sense adorn'd
In blest extreme, like Heav'n's peculiar care!)
You cause the grief for which your lover's scorn'd.

Oh then, thy lovely face with smiles array!
Think not my sadness speaks a sullen heart,
Or mournful words a peevish mind display:
I sink, alas! beneath Love's hopeless dart!

103

What tho' no sprightly wit adorns my tongue,
To bandy jocund laughter round the room?
What tho' I gaily chaunt no mirthful song;
But o'er my converse wear a sadd'ning gloom?

I once was cheerful as the new-born day,
Emerging gaily from the laughing east;
As blithe and sportive as the frolic May,
With choral birds and gaudy flow'rets drest.

Yon captur'd Lark, whose waining life decays,
Thro' the blue welkin while he wont to rove,
With dulcet pipe would hail Aurora's rays
With hymns of gratitude, and songs of love.

But darkling now, in close confinement pent,
His head he droops, and hangs his fainting wings:
His bosom pierc'd with dreary Discontent,
No more, alas! the mattin warbler sings.

My spirits thus, encag'd by black Despair,
Sink, inly fainting, in my love-lorn heart.
Give me but Hope, no lev'rock shall compare
With me, in gaiety or tuneful art.

104

For thee I'll fondly pen the tender lay,
And, while 'tis warbled by thy dulcet voice,
No feather'd tenant of the blooming spray
Shall with more perfect gratitude rejoice.

ELEGY VII. The CONSOLATION.

Did tuneful Hammond, skill'd in classic lore,
Sigh in soft verse, in vain, for love's return?
Did he, in vain, in softest strains deplore,
Condemn'd unpitied to a timeless urn?

And did his Delia listen while his strain
Made all the charms of Tibullus his own?
And was his learning and his genius vain
To chace from Delia's brow th'obdurate frown

Then ah what hope, what distant hope have I
To woo my lovelier Delia to these arms,
With verse expressive of the heaving sigh,
Which speaks my pains and her transcendent charms?

105

To me the deathless classics never taught
To breathe in artful notes the love-lorn care.
To me no aid laborious science brought:
Love and the Muse my only tutors are!

Thro' academic groves I never rov'd;
Meonides for me ne'er tun'd his shell;
Anacreon, Sappho, ne'er my verse improv'd;
Nor he who knew the arts of love so well.

Simple my thoughts, my language void of art,
And, like my person, rude and unrefin'd:
More fit to seek some rustic damsel's heart,
Than woo fair Delia's all-accomplish'd mind.

Then cease fond verse, nor seek again her ear:
In pensive silence I'll my pipe forego.—
Yet no, the Muse my drooping heart shall cheer,
And balmy verse shall lull the poignant woe.

Bless'd be the hour when first the love of song
Stole on my heart, and fir'd my youthful mind:
For verse can soothe whom Love and Fortune wrong,
And Passion's force in friendly fetters bind.

106

Then tho' blind Fortune, deity unkind!
Nor my more cruel fair, their frowns abate;
Yet will I still retain a grateful mind,
Nor Heav'n accuse, nor murmur at my fate.

For when, to hear some runnel bubble soft,
Pensive I stretch'd upon the verdant plain,
Me, yet a boy, the Muse would tutor oft,
And Love instruct and meliorate the strain.

Ovid.

ELEGY VIII. The EXECRATION.

TO A FRIEND.

1786.

Curs'd be the Muse! and curs'd the fatal hour
When first I listen'd to her syren tongue!
Resign'd my bosom to her pleasing pow'r,
And by her tuneful influence was undone.

107

Curs'd be the love of Science, which pervades,
With wild, enthusiast ardour, all my heart!
Oh happier they whom torpid Dulness shades,
Who plodding ply some low mechanic art!

Oh had the fates, low mould'ring in the dust
Untimely laid me, ere th'aspiring flame
Of ambient Fancy o'er me shining first,
Inspir'd and fill'd me with the love of fame!

Happy is he whose servile, grov'ling mind,
Nor sensibility nor spirit knows!
Who, all joys to appetite confin'd,
With pity throbs not, nor refinement glows!

But ah! ere yet ten sportive years had run—
Oh years of bliss!—swift o'er my youthful head,
With rhimes uncouth, ambitious, I begun
To shew the flame which late so widely spread.

E'en then sequester'd oft would I retire,
With mimick pencil or instructive book,
And to refining arts, e'en then, aspire;—
My sports neglected, and my mates forsook.

108

Tho' arts unfriendly long the flame supprest;
Tho' cold Misfortune chill'd my progress long,
And damp'd the ardour of my youthful breast,
Nought could destroy the sacred love of song.

Still as I grew, I nurs'd the embrio fire,
Which prompts the soul to knowledge and to fame;
Which to refinement makes us still aspire,
Expands the heart, and doubles feeling's claim.

Oh foolish man! What is Refinement? say.
Or what is Science? Fame and Knowledge what?
That thus you throw soft peace and rest away,
And, for Opinion, blast your tranquil lot?

—Yes, grov'ling joys contented I resign;—
For Sensibility and Fame forego
Low-thoughted transports: be the bosom mine
That feels from Sympathy redoubled woe!

Be mine the heart that beats for high renown,—
Tho' nights of sleepless care the wish attend!
And my warm'd fancy, oh ye Muses! crown,—
Tho' in unpitied want the vision end!

109

Let careful Study quit her cobweb'd cell,
With me the page instructive to explore,
Unheedful of the midnight tolling bell,—
Tho' aching heads succeed the 'laborate lore!

Still let me mourn, neglected, poor, despis'd,
From noisy Mirth and greedy Wealth estrang'd,
Ere all the feelings I so long have priz'd,
With Muse and Fancy, for such bliss be chang'd.

For still I hold 'twere better far to be
(And generous souls the choice must better suit)
A man, oppress'd with grief and misery,
Than the most happy, grov'ling, sensual brute.

And sure the keener feelings we possess,
The more of Science does the bosom fire;
We bear resemblance to the brutes the less,
And tow'ring rise in dignity the high'r.

110

ELEGY IX. TWELFTH DAY.

To Mrs. H.

1785.

The time has been (but ah! farewel those days—
Those cheerful days of innocence and mirth!)
I bless'd the wained sun's convivial rays
That gave this day of joyous pastime birth.

Around the social hearth, at night, we throng'd,
Where humour much, but more good-nature shin'd;
While joke and song the cheerful feast prolong'd
Far past the usual hour for rest assign'd.

Full oft our sire'd the youthful train provoke;
Full oft incite to pastimes gay and bland;
Full oft himself revive the flagging joke,
And in the comrade loose the sire's command.

Good gentle soul! fulfill'd with sober cheer,
Of morals blameless, as of manners gay;
He scorn'd the stoick frown and tone severe,
And rather chose by love than fear to sway.

111

But Death's keen axe has long embrac'd the root
Of all our joys. Yet not within his tomb
Was bliss interr'd; for many a tender shoot
Sprung budding forth, and blush'd with hopeful bloom.

Grief's season past, gay Mirth return'd again,
(Now flown perhaps to visit me no more).
The blazing faggot cheer'd the social train,
While Ease and Plenty show'r'd their lavish store.

Around the hat impatient were we seen,
And eager wrestled for our transient fate.
If I suppos'd gay Stella was the queen,
Eager I panted for the kingly state.

The prize obtain'd, I claim'd th'accustom'd kiss,
And thought no real Monarch was so blest:
This crown'd my transport; was my warmest wish:—
Love, now my torture, then was but my jest.

Thus was I wont this festive eve to spend,
In mirth outshining all my childish peers,
With spirits, health, and fortune to befriend—
What sad reverse attends my ripening years!

112

Grim Penury, with unremitting care,
And friendless solitude, my peace destroys;
And love, all hopeless, drives me to despair;
And hell-born Ate my sad heart annoys.

Ye cheerful hours, unhurt by gnawing Care!
Ye social days of plenty, joy, and peace!
Say will ye hither, once again, repair?
Will e'er the frowns of adverse Fortune cease?

Pale Melancholy's first-born daughter, Spleen,
To my sick fancy paints a thousand ills:
Upholds her shadowy, woe depictur'd screen,
And thus her hope-destroying lore instils:

Perhaps, while here in solitude I set—
My playful cat, my only company,
Who seems to pity my dejected state,
And, purring, fondly sports upon my knee.

Perhaps, while here in solitude I pine,
And doating think on lovely Delia's charms—
Those charms, alas! which never must be mine:
Ah how the teasing thought my heart alarms!

113

Perhaps while I in solitude reflect,
And sing in mournful verse my hapless plight,
The regal name my Delia may elect,
And some pert beau (the monarch of the night)

E'en now, perhaps, upon her coral lips
Imprints the kiss, his three-hours consort hails;—
Careless the balmy nectar'd breath he sips,
Nor knows how rare a flow'r his sense regales.

Or else, perhaps, (thus moping Spleen inspires)
Some favour'd lover gains the peerless prize;
The pleasing kiss inflames their mutual fires,
And mutual pleasure melts in either's eyes.

—Ah why to all the real woes of life
Should sick Imagination add her store?
Ideal, blending with substantial strife,
Oppress the feeble wretch surcharg'd before?

Hence caitiff Spleen, with thy chimera train!
Swell not with fancied woes my real grief,
Nor forge conceits to double ev'ry pain!—
But come, kind Hope, and bring my mind relief.

114

Full many a turn has Fortune's giddy wheel,
And I, who long have mourn'd her cruel spite,
In time her warm benevolence may feel:—
Aurora's rays succeed the darkest night.

ELEGY X. NEW YEAR'S NIGHT

MDCCLXXXVII.

Now silence reigns, and thro' the misty cloud
The plaintive Moon displays her yellow face:
Her light diminish'd by the humid shrowd,
Which wimples o'er the wonted azure space.

Now thro' the leafless trees, her feeble rays
Illume my window with a dappled light,
And, fix'd in sober thought, my eye surveys
The dun appearance of the cheerless night.

Reflection whispers to my brooding thought,
“Thou pensive bard, survey thy shadow'd fate!
“Yon low'ring sky with serious truth is wrought:
“Strong emblem, youth, of thy untoward state.

115

“See all the sky a slaty cloud o'ershade;
“No spot is cheer'd with azure's splendid hue,
“Yet sullen darkness no where is display'd:
“In this thy state of mind distinctly view.

“No festive joys, no revels, no delights,
“No cheerful friends, no nymphs of form divine
“Thy days consume, or cheer thy lonely nights;
“No rays of Fortune on thy efforts shine.

“Yet may'st thou say, and 'tis no little boast,
“Tho' sportive joys thy mind but rarely bless,
“Yet art thou not in black Despondence lost:
“Few feel the gloom of Melancholy less.

“The moon whose palid rays so feebly beam,
“Dispelling darkness, yet scarce yielding light,
“Shews how thy feeble hopes just faintly gleam,
“To keep thy soul from Fear's desponding night.”

Hark! thro' the silent void the solemn bell
Tolls forth the knell of a departed day!
Ah, who that hears the awful sound can tell
That he shall hear another toll'd away?

116

How many now, with social glee who met
To hail with festal joy the new-born year,
Prolong the cheerful hour, and jocund yet
Push round the glass, while songs and pastimes cheer?

And I, who now the serious Muses woo,
And waste in pensive thought the sleepless night,
Have hail'd this gay, this sportive season too,
The social harbinger of loud delight.

Then pastimes bland, and songs of cheerful glee
Gave wings to time, and roll'd the hours away;
While sportive cranks, and harmless gambols free
Were interspers'd with flash of Humour gay.

But now has thrice revolv'd the various year,
Thrice has return'd the time of sport and glee—
—But ah! in vain the circling times appear,
Revolving seasons bring no joys to me.

The hapless sons of Penury and Care,
Alone, neglected and deserted pine;
No hours convivial they in revels share,
Where wit, where beauty, and where affluence shine.

117

For who so dull, in this sagacious age—
This age of worldly prudence and of pride—
To court the humble, or the youth engage,
Who, saving Genius, has no wealth beside?

Yet thus neglected by the proud and gay,
Repine I will not at my stars unkind,
But rather far my gratitude display
For inward wealth, which gilds my tranquil mind.

Does not the Muse my raptur'd bosom fill?
Does not gay Fancy bless my lonely hours?
Does not Content her soothing lore instil,
And Health come tripping from her roseate bow'rs?

Bless'd is the youth who boasts a Poet's name!
He, independent, Fortune may despise:
Others their bliss from outward objects claim;
He, in his bosom bears the source of joys.

Ye gilded sons of Grandeur, vainly great!
Ye painted flies, who glitter at the ball!
Ye feather'd fops, who vaunt in tinsel state!
Know I, vain things! am richer than ye all!

118

Can all the wealth of both the Indies join'd,
And all the stores thro' fertile Nilus sent,
Procure such rich enjoyment for the mind
As Muse, as Fancy, Health, and young Content?

“It is the knell of my departed hours.” Young.

ELEGY XI. The DEPARTED FRIEND.

MDCCLXXXV.

I grieve to think how quick each blossom fades
That decorates the thorny road of life—
How oft Grief's worm the tender bud invades,
How oft 'tis blighted by Misfortune's strife!

I grieve to think how Disappointment's breath
Shrinks the young foliage of our budding hopes!
How oft the sudden hand of cruel Death
The sweetest branch of our enjoyment lops!

I had a friend—Oh Philip, ever dear!
Still shall thy memory in my bosom live.
Thy virtues bloom in recollection there;
To emulate those virtues will I strive.

119

I had a friend—tho' heav'n had snatch'd away
Each other comfort in my tender age;
In him it seem'd my losses to repay—
My sweet companion on life's toilsome stage!

How fraught with tender feelings was his mind!
O'erflowing fount of Sensibility!
To friends how true, to relatives how kind,
And how belov'd of ev'ry one was he!

Witness the tender sorrows which he felt,
Witness the mutual sorrows she return'd,
While both in tears of fond affection melt,
When he a sister's transient parting mourn'd!

I saw their tears, and heav'd a tender sigh;
I wish'd I could the cause of grief remove;
But vain that wish—I then resolv'd to try
With tuneful verse my Philip's breast to soothe.

And truth to say, of Muse no need was there:
For friendship's flame that glow'd within my breast
Inspir'd my thoughts, all artless as they were,
And thus the lay, well-meaning, I addrest:

120

“Accept, dear Phil, this rude, unskilful verse,
“Tho' nor by Muse inspir'd, nor Grace refin'd,
“Which I, in loose alternate rhime rehearse,
“To soothe the sorrows of thy gentle mind.

“What, tho' no polish'd lines, like Pope's, appear,
“No boldly-splendid thoughts my theme refine,
“—Such as in Spenser's nobler page appear,
“Or Collins, in thy strains majestic shine?

“I court not now the laurel'd wreath of Fame,
“Or various praise of nervous, smooth, and clear.
“Enough my honour, all I wish and claim,
“If with my verse thy bosom I may cheer.

“Fair Friendship's voice shall breathe in ev'ry line
“The faithful dictates of an honest heart:
“Friendship alone inspir'd the fair design
“To thee, these soothing verses to impart.

“No need is there of lofty Spenser's fire;
“No need of tuneful Pope's energic art,
“To strike, with trembling hand, a humble lyre,
“And sing the genuine feelings of the heart.

121

“But if my numbers should offend thy ear,
“Oh think they flow from an uneasy heart:
“The voice of Anguish never can be clear,
“And Melancholy mars the tuneful art.

“My lonely time no fond relations cheer;
“'Mongst gay compeers no social hours I spend;
“But oft in silence shed the bitter tear,
“And darkling sighs full oft my bosom rend.

“At times, indeed, a friendly Muse appears,
“And my sad breast inspires with soothing rhimes;
“And Fancy for a while my bosom cheers,
“With promis'd bliss and joy in future times.

“And sometimes (more than Muse or Fancy's dream)
“Thy friendly converse glads my drooping heart;
“Relieves my sorrows with the cheerful gleam
“Of gay delight, and blunts Misfortune's dart.

“As thy sweet converse oft has sooth'd my mind,
“So shall my Muse to comfort thee essay:
“Thus from the stream the flow'rets nurture find,
“And in return her verdant banks array.

122

“Thrice happy Phil! to thee indulgent Heav'n,
“Thy heart for ev'ry social tie who form'd,
“The best of all terrestrial gifts hath giv'n,—
“A friend with feelings like thy own adorn'd.

“One rich in Nature's gifts, and Virtue's lore,
“By ev'ry soft accomplishment refin'd;
“Who pays thy generous love with equal store,
“And in affections like as like in mind.

“Yet happier still a friend so lov'd to find
“In warm fraternal bonds combin'd with thee:
“To meet at home a friend so good, so kind:
“In thy fair sister all these charms to see.

“No wonder then that down each kindred cheek
“The pearly drops in moist succession fell;—
“No wonder that with fault'ring tongues ye speak,
“And blend with tears the bitter word, “Farewel.”

“Yet think, my friend, and let it cheer thy heart,
“How small's the distance that your love divides:
“No snow-crown'd Alps your neighb'ring dwellings part,
“No roaring oceans 'tween ye roll their tides.

123

“Oft will ye meet, and meet with double joy;
“For by short absence love is but increas'd,
“And pleasure's sweeter after pain's annoy:
“Who ne'er knew trouble Heav'n but half has bless'd.

“Thus some sweet lark, while absent from his love,
“In silence droops, of ev'ry joy forlorn;
“But with his voice makes vocal all the grove
“When his heart's gladden'd by her wish'd return.

“Thus a pure stream adown some sloping hill
“Rolls limpid on, and smoothly babbling glides,
“Till some rude crag obstructs the tranquil rill,
“And in two wand'ring brooks its course divides.

“The sister streams, as o'er th'unlevel grounds
“Unbless'd they wander, shed sad, troubled tears,
“And mourn their parting in low murm'ring sounds,
“Till pitying nature their lamenting hears.

“For now, to vales convey'd, each troubled stream
“Rushes delighted to the other's breast:
“Thus reunited, far more pleas'd they seem
“Than ere division's anxious cares opprest.

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“With dimples deck'd they gambol thro' the fields,
“Their breast reflecting nature's various dyes:
“Flocks, shrubs, and flow'rs, which earth or feeds or yields,
“There mix confus'dly with the tinctur'd skies.”

Thus dictates Friendship to my artless quill,
When—oh! how transient, how unstable's life!
How vain is hope! How unexpected ill,
Instead of promis'd peace, brings unthought strife!

Scarce had I finish'd, when—oh grief of griefs!
My bleeding memory mourns the painful thought!
That friend, for whom my verse design'd relief,
By swift disease t'his early grave was brought.

Now who shall soothe my sorrow-clouded mind?
Who now my sad reflections shall relieve?
Where shall my heart consoling friendship find?—
Misfortune's children all unpitied grieve!

If the carnation, rich in gaudy dyes,
Droops on the earth, the florist views with pain
His garden's glory fall'n, each method tries
With props to rear it, and with art sustain;

125

But if some hedge-row flow'ret, cast to earth
By raging Erus, in the dust lays prone,
No trav'ller thinks it his assistance worth,
But each indignant treads its blossoms down.

Not so didst thou, my heart's elected friend!
You kindly courted when the world grew coy;—
When bland civility was at an end,
And cold-grown kindred turn'd th'inverted eye.

But oh thou image of the generous youth!
Thou other Philip, in a softer frame!
What can the anguish of thy bosom soothe?
What pangs excessive must thy breast enflame!

Did sorrow's gems empearl thy lovely cheek,
When in short absence ye were doom'd to pine?
What floods of woe will now that channel seek,
Since thou for e'er thy Philip must resign?

As fragrant lilies, overcharg'd with dew,
Their beauteous heads upon the earth recline,
So thy sad beauties drooping shrink from view;—
Oh when once more shall comfort's sunbeams shine?

Lilies of the Valley.

126

ELEGY XII. The SWALLOWS.

[_]

WHILE the author was, one summer's evening, sitting among the branches of a young, but antic-twisted oak, which hangs over a favourite and most romantic dell, (the scenery of which is equally heightened by the bubbling and unequal stream which runs through it, and by the corn-fields, precipices, dingles and bushes, trees, and flowers which adorn its winding brink, and add a beautiful and wild variety to the prospect) two swallows settled on the boughs of the same tree. The noise the first made before he was joined by his companion, together with the romantic scene, suggested to his mind the ideas he has endeavoured to convey in the following Elegy.

Here, 'mongst the branches of this spreading oak,
(Where Philomela's wont to build her bow'r)
Which wreathes fantastic o'er the babbling brook,
To mournful thought I'll dedicate an hour.

The blushing West, with glowing zone unbrac'd,
To her bright bosom takes the panting Sun;
Who journeys down, behind yon hill, in haste
Obtruding eyes of prying man to shun.

127

Now 'gins the mournful nightingale to sing,
And with her pipe salute departing day;
Each feather'd songster baits his tired wing,
And calls his partlet to the wonted spray.

The verdant tenants of the dewy fields
With wonted vespers make each meadow ring;
With sweets surcharg'd, which gaudy Flora yields,
The bee, soft murmuring, homeward bends his wing.

And see where Phrogne steers her fearless flight,
And, perching near me, from the distant spray
Thus seems her tim'rous partner to invite:
“Oh guide, my love! thy purple wing this way.

“Oh come, my love! devoid of Fear's alarm:
“It is no foe invades our peaceful bow'r;
“But Strephon 'tis, who scorns a bird to harm,
“But ever guards them with his utmost pow'r.

“Forlorn he loves to seek the dimpled rills
“Which thro' the winding dells meanders stray;
“For here the Muse his throbbing bosom fills,
“And Fairies drive his pensive thoughts away.

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“One night I saw him by this bushy dell,
“Which shone reflecting mild Lucina's sheen;
“I stretch'd the wing, to bid my bow'r farewel,
“When strait before me stood the Fairy Queen.

‘Restrain thy flight, sweet chatterer!’ she cried,
‘Thy fluttering heart divest of needless fear:
‘By no unfeeling swain thou art espied:—
‘The friend and lover of our haunts is here.

‘He never climb'd the tree at midnight hours
‘To rob the stock-dove of her callow young;
‘Nor stole the eggs from out the linnet's bow'rs;
‘Nor cag'd the sky-lark for his dulcet song.

‘The fairies love him, and his steps attend,
‘From damps protect him, and his sorrows soothe:
‘For ever they the love-lorn swain befriend,
‘And ever pity unrewarded truth.

‘Full oft the youth, the anxious hours to kill,
‘Will, with no skilless toil, our haunts improve;
‘Encrease the murmurs of each babbling rill
‘With stone-built falls, and grots which fairies love.

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‘Then fear not him, but tranquil keep thy bow'r;
‘For love his feeling bosom has refin'd;
‘To ev'ry tender passion added pow'r,
‘And wak'd each chord of pity in his mind.

‘Oh that that love which prompts each gen'rous deed,
‘Which harmonizes, humanizes life,
‘Should make the lover's inward bosom bleed!
‘Give peace to others, but to him give strife!

‘Thus scorching flames on Ætna's bowels prey,
‘And with convulsions rend her tortur'd womb,
‘While the heat makes surrounding vallies gay,
‘And decorates them with each brighter bloom.

“So spoke the Queen; then gliding light away,
“Her mystic train she sought beside the stream,
“Where to the tinkling rill they sportive play,
“And bask and frolick in the yellow beam.

“Then come, my love, nor let his presence chace
“Our trembling pinions from the wonted bow'r;
“But, side by side, we'll keep our tranquil place,
“And to delight him try our skilless pow'r.

130

“Tho' with the lark's shrill pipe we can't compare,
“Nor can we match the tuneful linnet's throat,
“Yet our rude lays may mitigate his care,
“And tho' unskilful, friendly is our note.

131

PASTORALS.

ECLOGUE I. THE TEARS OF HOBBINOL.

To the Memory of Mr. PHILIP BONAFOUS.

MDCCLXXXV.

[_]

In this eclogue the author is introduced under the name of Hobbinol, lamenting the death of his friend Lubin.

Hobbinol; Cuddy.

Hard by a bushy dell was Hobbin seen
In bitter stour, and shent with doleful teen;
(Hobbin, the youth who whilom blithe and gay
As mattin lark or linnet on the spray,
Was wont to sing the jocund roundelay.)
Unheeded now upon the dewy grass
His bagpipe lay, and eke untun'd it was.

132

Blent were his eyen with sorwe's bitter flood,
His tear-stain'd cheeks forlorn of youthly blood;
In ropy tangles hung his unkempt hair,
Like one whose heart's yclouded by despair.
Full many were the heavy singulphs sent
From his riv'n breast, in sorwe all ydrent.

Him blithesome Cuddy, tripping o'er the lea,
All in this dreary guise enchanc'd to see,
And to him yeod to weet what deal of woe
Ycaus'd his bitter tears so fast to flow.

Cuddy.
Why what's the hap? Why, Hobbinol, my lad!
Thee art bewitch'd I trow, or ganging mad.
I met thy sheep o'ersprinting yonder mead,
Where they have stray'd for lack of better heed.
Up shepherd, up, thy scatterlings restrain,
Ere pilfering lossels filch them from the plain.

Hobbinol.
Let blithsome swains of flocks take proper keep,
Here will I lay, and eke for ever weep.

133

Cuddy.
Thou witless herd-groom! hast forlorn thy wits?
How ill thy plaining with this season fits?
For now light Zephyr ling'ring Spring awakes
From her long slumber, and behold she breaks
Thro' frigid nature; sham'd that Boreas rude
Should on her wonted reign so long obtrude:
A verdant blush enclothes her gladsome frame.
D'ofte dolour then, eke 'gin some joyous game:
Tune up thy jolly pipe, which now forlore
Lies all unheeded on the greensward floor;
Herry the buxom season, as 'tis meet,
With hymnials loud and lovelays gaily sweet.

Hobbinol.
Ah Cuddy! seek thee out some happier swain:
Of me thou seek'st for joysomness in vain.
But ill bestead is that unhappy bard
Blithe madrigals to sing, whom Fortune hard
Doth doom in bitter stour his days to spill;
Whose gladsome fancy anguish keen doth kill.
For roundels brag to unshent shepherds wend,
Whiletime the welkin I with dolours rend.

134

What boots it me, that Phœbus once again
Makes lightsome nature with his jolly waine?
What boots it me, that Boreas, blust'ring bleak,
His reign foregoes for Zephyr bland and meek?
That gay Vertumnus spreads him o'er the meads,
And by the hand the bloomy Flora leads?
That Naids no more their frore-bound fountains mourn,
But pour in gambolment the crystal urn?
From the warm'd stream that sheen-scal'd fishes leap?
That browsing lambkins merry gambols keep?
That on each spray birds maken melody,
And cooing doves speak their felicity?
To make me mirth in vain the sun essays;
In vain 'mongst budding trees light Zephyr plays:
Phœbus ne warms, ne Zephyr glads my heart;
Despair's breeme winter works me baneful smart.
In vain embraved meads look fresh and gay,
While lambs and fishes bragly sport and play:
They nor my eyen delight, ne ease my care,
Forthy my heart's yclouded by despair.
In vain the Naids in silver murmurs flow,
Birds sootly sing, and doves enamour'd coo;
Their melody no joyaunce can impart,
Sorwe's harsh discord grateth in my heart.

135

With dolourous teen my heart is so bestead
The landscape's pleasaunce cannot make me glad;
Nor songs mine ear delight, ne flow'rs mine eye,
The stream's soote murmurs pass unheeded by.

Cuddy.
Thou witless groom! what means this moody care?
What glauncing eye, or love-bereaving air
Hath trapp'd thy heart in Cupid's wimble snare?
Cheer up thou fon, thy jolly bagpipe tune;
With mirth and glee thou'lt lose thy passion soon.

Hobbinol.
Ah Cuddy, Cuddy, you my plight misdeem;
My drearyment is heavier than you ween.
Not Love's light arrow, but Death's heavy dart,
Bestirs this mortal teen within my heart.
Weep, weep my eyne! ye scalding tears descend!
All joy I've lost, for I have lost my friend.
Oh Death! of Sin the greedy tyrant son!
As round the world for ravin thou dost run;
Could'st thou no wight to glut thy craving find
But him alone in whom at once combin'd
Each gifting rare of heart, and eke of mind?

136

Weep, weep my eyne! ye scalding tears descend!
Joy is no more, for I have lost my friend.
Ah life what art thou? Tenure of an hour!
Of joy how scant? how full of dolourous stour?
A brere, whereon, in spring, few blosmes appear,
But muchel noyous thorns thro' all the year.
Ah, woe's my heart! how rear my blossoms fade?
How scant they open'd, and how soon decay'd?
Just budded forth, and, as that were too much,
Like sensitives yshrink'd they from my touch.
One flow'ret only blossom'd sootly forth,
And that I dempt of sick a peerless worth,
That, tho' I saw each other hope decay'd,
I counted this a rich amendment made.
But wele away! 'tis nip'd by deablly frost:
The only pleasaunce of my life is lost.
Weep, weep my eyne! ye scalding tears descend!
All joy I've lost; for I have lost my friend.
My Lubin dearn! the glory of the plain,
Love of each nymph! delight of ev'ry swain!
Lubin (on whom befriending heav'n bestow'd
A pleasant fancy, curb'd by judgment good,
A heart to Virtue's good beheasts inclin'd,
By Sensibility's soft touch refin'd,)

137

Thy friendship 'twas wherein I took such joy.
Ah, cruel Death! why did'st my bliss destroy?
Weep, weep my eyne! ye scalding tears descend!
Joy is no more; for I have lost my friend.

Cuddy.
Is Lubin dead?—Ye birds that fill each spray
Your sonnets cease, and be no longer gay.
Ah, blent thy face, bright sun, in mirky tears;—
How ill thy sheen at sick a time appears?—
Surcease ye babbling rills, or as ye flow,
Contrive to sing of drearyment and woe.
Be hush'd, ye zephyrs, if ye n'ill inspire
With woeful dirges some Æolian lyre.
Lambkins no more your pleasant pastimes keep,
But pining learn of us to wail and weep.
Weep, weep ye swains! for peerless Lubin's dead,
And cause of joyaunce from the plain is fled.
Ye buckthorns cease your budding leaves to show;—
Let nothing thrive but cypress, sign of woe.
Let daffodils their golden semblance lack,
And eke the primrose dight in sooty black;
Let crocusses no various colours know,
But them b'dight in livery of woe.

138

From glens and groves is rural joyaunce fled:
Mourn, mourn ye sylvan scenes! for Lubin's dead.

Hobbinol.
Ah, me! each various object pains my heart;
Each wonted pastime wakes my dol'rous smart.
Farewel to books that wont to glad my mind;
No pleasaunce now in rural songs I find.
Yet, whilom, when I wont to pine and grieve,
Would Colin's lovelays eft my mind relieve;
But now no lovelays can my grief assuage:
My Lubin's form's depeinten on each page.
Each rustic lay, which erst with joy I read,
Now but reminds me that my friend is dead.
How eft his converse would my taste refine?
How eft explain the beauties of each line;
And with soote praise inspire me to rehearse
My artless lays, and copy Colin's verse?
But now farewel to pipe and artless lays;
For he is gone who wont my skill to praise.
Weep, Cuddy, weep! let scalding tears descend!
Joyaunce is flown; for we have lost our friend.

139

Groves, bourns, and rivers but my dole renew,
For there the image of my friend I view.
In dreary cot, or o'er embraved glennes,
Where'er I won still, still the tender scenes,
And eke blithe hours in friendly pleasaunce spent,
My woeful mind loves all to represent.
How eft times would we rise at early dawn,
Whiles glitterand dews besprint the humid lawn,
And to some rivers cooling marge ystray,
With pleasing talk aye glad'ning all the way:
Thus was I wont a double good to find,
The walk my health improv'd, his lore my mind.
But, ah! such pleasaunce I must ken ne more
Sithence with Lubin I each joy forlore.
Weep, Cuddy, weep! let scalding tears descend:
Joyaunce is flown; for we have lost our friend.
Farewel the joys of valley, grove, and spring,
Desporting lambkins, birds that sootly sing:
Ne more, ne more your vernal charms invite;
Ne more, alas! your merry makes delight.
Weep, Cuddy, weep! let scalding tears descend:
Joyaunce is flown; for we have lost our friend.
Farewel to rustic verse and music sweet,
Ne more the loves of shepherds I repeat:

140

But thus my erst-lov'd bagpipe throw away
Sithence he's dead for whom I wont to play.
Weep, Cuddy, weep! let scalding tears descend:
Music is harsh; for we have lost our friend.
Yet hold, and let us stint our selfish tears;
For not our friendship in our grief appears:
Forthy, he 'as left this vale of dole below
For heav'nly realms, where never yet was woe.
Death's dart, that shent us with such sore annoy,
Exalted Lubin to sublimer joy.
Then stint ye impious tears, ne more descend;
Heav'n gain'd a cherub when we lost a friend.

Spenser.

141

ECLOGUE II. THE WEEPING LYRE.

[_]

In this eclogue the author is again introduced, under the character of Hobbinol, lamenting the death of Lubin; while a friend, under the name of Argol, is also introduced lamenting the death of Stella; by whom is meant a young lady who died about the same time.

Argol; Hobbinol.

I tell the dreary ditties of two swains,
Who 'neath a poplar sung their doleful strains.
Death, ugsome death! had both their joyaunce crost;
Hobbin his friend, his love had Argol lost.
And now, their daily rural business done,
Each one began his nightly task—to moan:
The silver moon, yshining o'er their heads,
Her glitterand beams upon the streamlet sheds,
Whose doleful murmurings o'er the pebbled ground
Invite the mourners by their plaintive sound.

142

The yellow'd dews bewet the hawthorn spray,
And in the west did wained Phœbus' ray
Dapple with fainty red eve's dusky grey.

Wilt thou, oh T---, lend my lays an ear,
And with my sorwe's mingle eke thy tear?
Thou wilt I wot; tho' artless been my verse,
Thou'lt feel the tender subject I rehearse;
The tear adown thy manly cheek will steal—
Oh hide it not, for it becomes thee wele.
I'll mingle mine, and echo groan for groan,
Mourning thy loss whiles I waiment my own.
Each ones I pine, each ones at once I grieve;
Their memories both in Doric verse shall live.
Both I esteem'd, albe it is confest,
Lubin my friend was dearnest to my breast.
Albeit for him my heart is most forlorn,
Stella naith'less with unfeign'd dole I mourn;
And had ne Lubin drain'd the bitter tear,
My waiments sad had wetted Stella's bier.

Begin my Muse, b'dight in sable 'weed,
The joy-lorn shepherds' mournful tales aread.

143

Hobbinol.
Argol, our flocks are in their cootes ypent,
And day's illum'ning waine in ocean blent;
The happier herd-grooms been all lull'd in sleep,
But we by sorwe kept awake to weep.
Better I trow we hail the sheen-clad moon
With woeful dirges, and our minstrels tune
To dreariment beside this murmuring stream
Than pining press the restless bed I deem.
Here set we down, our mutual teen rehearse:
For sorwe's oft reliev'd by mournful verse.

Argol.
Thy council, Hobbin, I arread is good:
Then let us here indulge the dreary mood.
I have a dirge, which ones erewhile I wrote,
Wherein my teen for Stella's death I note;
Thilk same I'll sing, and tune my sorweing tale
To the sad wailings of the nightingale.

Hobbinol.
And I last night, ystretch'd upon the ground,
Whiles pastime slept, and sadness reign'd around,

144

Where weeping willows darkling shade the stream,
That murmuring flows these delved banks between,
Her voice to dole where Philomel attunes,
And mate-lorn doves yspill the night in moans,
To Lubin's praise compos'd a doleful verse:
The same if tears permit I will rehearse.
And eke I've made of maple ware a lyre,
Deftly attun'd with various sounding wire;
At top whereof's encarved a hollow shell;
From whence, like tears, adown the chordings well
Slow drops of water, and the whiles they flow
They give each note a sooter sound of woe.
Amuling this, mine Elegy I'll sing,
Touching with all my art each thrillant string.

Argol.
Eftsoons then Hobbinol begin thy tale,
And, after thee, I will my hap bewail.

Hobbinol.

Adown the wires while tears melodious rain,
Awake elegiac lyre the plaintive strain.
Ah woe is me! how mickle is the smart
The heart of Sensibility doth rend,

145

When we, deep shent by Mis'ry's trenchant dart,
Our dearnest joyaunce lose, a bosom friend.
Nought to the feeling bosom been so dear
As the elected brother of the heart:
That dearnest blessing I enjoy'd while-ere,
But now bereaved am by Death's fell dart.
Ah, me! that dearnest friends so soon must part!

Adown the wires, while tears melodious rain,
Awake elegiac lyre the plaintive strain.

Oh Friendship! passion of celestial birth!
Oh hailey flame! oh joyaunce most divine!
How eft profess'd? how scantly met on earth!
Thou wont to glad this drooping heart of mine.
But friendship's joysomness been now all o'er,
And ah! for aye with dearnest Lubin fled;
I'm doom'd to taste of joyaunce now no more,
But hang in pining dole my drooping head;
For social pastime is with Lubin dead.

Adown the wires while tears melodious rain,
Awake elegiac lyre the plaintive strain.

Ne more the hautboy shall my bosom cheer;
'Mongst blithesome louts ne more my time I'll spend;

146

In lonely silence eft the darkling tear
Shall swell my eyne, and sighs my heart yrend.
Oh come, ye Muses, help me now to weep,
Help me to tell my Lubin's peerless worth.
Shall Lubin's virtues with his ashes sleep?
Sicker thilk gems been not of mould'ring earth:
Then letten verse ygive them second birth.

Adown the wires while tears melodious rain,
Awake my lyre, and Lubin's worth explain.

The social virtues fram'd his youthly heart,
And modell'd eke each movement of his soul;
And dulcet graces deftly did their part,
With lovely manners cloathing soote the whole:
Philanthropy, and eke her sister fair,
Hight Sensibility, the parent-queen
Of generous passions, eachones did repair
To dwell my Lubin's tender heart within.
But mean Self-love there ne'er found place I ween.

Adown the wires, while tears melodious rain,
Awake my lyre, and Lubin's worth explain.

147

Love, of his neighbour's deeds yjudging kind;
And Justice, only to himself severe,
By Mercy made to other's failings blind;
And Prudence als, whose lorings all revere;
And Pity, from whose dawn-resembling eye
Distils for aye a teen-appeasing balm,
Before whose face all shents and dolours flee—
Of sick a mickle potence been her charm:
These virtues did and more his bosom warm.

Adown the wires, while tears melodious rain,
Awake my lyre, and Lubin's worth explain.

Deep Sapience, with mirthsome Wit combin'd,
Free from all surquedry, and eke from pride;
And manly strength of philosophic mind
Shone in his lore, did o'er his tongue preside.
Then sicker all have cause to weep and wail,
And eke, like me, to hang in drearyment,
That death has wrought so soon my Lubin's bale,
So soon this lamp of virtue is yblent.
Ah me! with dark despair I'm overhent.
Here cease my lyre, here cease the plaintive strain,
'Tis past thy art his virtues to explain!

148

Vain been the efforts of the tuneful Nine
To paint such peerless worth in plaintive lays
In tears, alas! my Lubin's praise shall shine;
For all who konn'd him speak in tears his praise.
A sister's sorwes and a mother's moans,
Aread his praise as brother and as son.
His pheers deep sighs, his friends heart-rending groans
Aread how true in Friendship's race he run:
Ah me! a virtuous race too soon foredone.
Then cease my lyre, then cease thy plaintive strain;
Cease down the wires melodious tears to rain.

With much of tears thus wail'd the gentle wight,
Then Argol 'gan his ditty to recite.

Argol.

Ah, Stella! Stella! how shall I relate
My dolourous teen at thy untimely fate?
Ah me! my heart is overhent with woe,
To think how thou wert ravish'd from my arms:
Sweet bud of beauty! ah how short thy date!
Must Death's fell worm devour thy youthly charms?
Descend ye tears, ye floods of sorwe flow!

149

For Death hath blent soft Hymen's joyous fire,
Hath seiz'd his amorous torch to light the fun'ral pyre.
Sad Philomela, from the humid spray,
Thy trembling notes awhile prolong,
And make the dolourous undersong
To my waimenteous dirge my love-lorn lay.

Ah Stella! Stella! how shall I relate
My dolourous teen at thy untimely fate?
Mourn, Venus, mourn thy earthly image dead;
And Love waiment thy daintiest darling lost;
Great been your woe, but mine been far more great:
How is each hope of tender pleasaunce crost!
Bright Pleasure's bow'r in fogs of anguish fled!
My saffron robe ychang'd to sable stole,
My madrigals to dirges turn'd, my glee to dole!
Sad Philomela! from the humid spray
Thy trembling notes awhile prolong
To make the dolourous undersong
To my waimenteous dirge, my love-lorn lay.

Ah Stella! Stella! how shall I relate
My dolourous teen at thy untimely fate?

150

That eye, where wit and pleasaunce wont to play,
Ah woe's my heart! shall pleasure me no more:
That vermil'd cheek, b'dight with dimpled state
The rose and lily eke I did adore,
All, all, alas! are sunk in sad decay.
The flow'ry garlands cull'd to grace each brow
Must be ychang'd to wreaths of baneful cypress now.
Sad Philomela! from the humid spray
Thy trembling notes a while prolong,
And make the dolourous undersong
To my waimenteous dirge, my love-lorn lay.

Ah Stella! Stella! how shall I relate
My dolourous teen at thy untimely fate?
The virgins meant to chaunt the amorous hymn,
To herryings soote to dance the heighdregue,
Must now their sportive merry-makes abate;
Must tear their chaplets on thy grave to strew;
Their sonnets chang'd to dirgeous waimentings,
Must d'off their snowy robes for weeds of woe;
Changing their wimble steps to traces sad and slow.
Sad Philomela! from the humid spray
Thy trembling notes a while prolong,
And make the dolourous undersong
To my waimenteous dirge, my love-lorn lay.

151

Ah Stella! Stella! how shall I relate
My dolourous teen at thy untimely fate?
But oh my Stella! tho' Death's cruel dart
Hath snatch'd from me so rear thy bloomy form,
Thy virtues, all for utterance too great,
Which more than beauty's waste did thee adorn,
Shall live for aye depeincted on each heart
That kenn'd thy worth. Tho' ah! what wont to joy
Their minds, must now, alas! fulfil them with annoy.
Sad Philomela! from the humid spray
No more thy trembling notes prolong,
Here cease thy dolourous undersong,
Here ends my solemn dirge, my love-lorn lay:
For ah my grief is all for speech too great,
Nor can my feeble wit's device relate
My dolourous teen at Stella's timeless fate.

Thus wail'd the youths their deep-wrought drearyment,
Till bright Aurora o'er the mountains sent
Her changeling beams (besprinting o'er the plain
With spangleous sheen) forerunning Phœbus waine.
Then rose the woeful swains to loose their sheep
From the pent folds, where they them nightly keep;
The whiles all heedy of their dreary dole
Adown each cheek the floods of sorwe roll.

155

RURAL POEMS.

A NOSEGAY.

When Flora wore her gayest vest,
Each meadow breath'd perfume,
In gaudiest flow'rs each hedge-briar drest,
Each hawthorn white with bloom,

I wander'd thro' each mead and grove,
The fairest flow'rs to cull,
And visited my gay alcove,
Each sweetest bud to pull.

The posie gather'd home I brought,
To grace my fair-one's breast.
Then thus, as teeming Fancy taught,
Each flow'r its worth exprest—

For Fancy, who in clouded skies
Pourtrays the varying tale,
Can give each flow'r a voice whose dyes
Enrich the scented vale.

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The ROSE.

See, ye maidens, what a bloom
O'er my healthy cheek's diffus'd!
Smell, ye nymphs, what sweet perfume
From my blushing mouth's produc'd!

For the Zephyrs here that blow
Free exert their fresh'ning pow'r;
And the brooks that babbling flow
Nourish ev'ry smiling flow'r.

Here the sun darts forth his rays,
From all sulph'rous vapours clear;
Here Contentment ever strays;
Tranquil virtues flourish here.

But were I to town convey'd,
Stately domes to render gay,
Soon my blushing charms would fade,
And my breathing sweets decay.

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Ye who health and beauty prize,
Quick to rural shades retire:
Never hope that artful dyes
Can to rival mine aspire.

Never fancy artful gales,
Civet, Marechalle, Otter rare,
To the sweets gay health exhales
In the smallest can compare.

The SPRIG of HAWTHORN.

HERE on my spray the various blossoms view,
Some wide display'd, some clos'd, some op'ning new.
For admiration each prefers her plea;
Hear the pretensions then of all the three.

The FULL-BLOWN BLOSSOM.

ALL my beauties display'd to the bright beaming sun,
I court ev'ry gazer's regard;
Nor Zephyr's soft kiss e'er attempt I to shun,
Nor my sweets from the bee do I ward.

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Thus open and free, from all bashfulness clear,
My cheeks by no blushes are stain'd:
I scorn the cold prude, with her maxims severe,
And her looks so demurely restrain'd.

The BUD.

WANTON, loose, imprudent flow'r,
Thus to tempt loud Scandal's pow'r!
Will beholders ever prize
Charms thus offer'd to their eyes?

Silly blossom, I advise
More thy tender beauties prize;
And, like me, demurely grave,
Close thy sweets enfolded save.

All my virgin form, behold,
Robes of vestal white enfold:
Not the sun's far piercing ray
Can my modest charms survey.

159

Beauties that are most conceal'd
In the most esteem are held:
Admiration then to gain,
Observation's eye restrain.

The HALF-OPENED BLOSSOM.

LET the broad expanded bloom,
Like a rifled, widow'd flow'r,
On her full-blown charms presume;
Wide display her beauty's pow'r.

Let the tender infant's pride
Close her prudish beauties fold;
Immature, her graces hide,
Lest the sun her charms behold.

Who will wanton beauty prize?
Who admire what's quite conceal'd?
What when clos'd are brightest eyes?
What is wish'd if all's reveal'd?

160

I nor shun the gazer's sight,
Nor yet court with aspect bold;
On my charms, thus op'ning bright,
Modesty's pure blush behold.

Half my dawning beauties seen,
Make those hid the more desir'd;
Half conceal'd behind the screen,
Make those view'd the more admir'd.

The WOODBINES.

CONSCIOUS that we want supporting,
Round the hazle's stems we 'twine;
And, the sun's warm influence courting,
O'er their waving tops recline.

Thus our blossoms far displaying,
O'er the babbling streams are arch'd;
Where the fish, beneath us straying,
By our shades are kept unparch'd.

161

Different powers, when thus uniting,
Tend to benefit mankind;
Which, in solitude delighting,
Neither use nor pleasure find.

The VIOLET.

BY the bramble-clad dyke from the sun's scorching ray
Protected, I bloom on the soft mossy bank,
And the thick foliag'd arms of the hawthorn display
O'er my head their protection from winds bleak and dank.
Thus my sweets all protected, I scent ev'ry gale
That strays thro' the woodlands, or freshens the vale;
And my beauties, thus shelter'd, repay with their smiles
The care of my guardian, and crown all his toils.

Ye fair virgin blossoms, who gladden the plain,
Whose sweets are on mountains or meadows display'd,
Nor longer unsocial, unguarded remain,
But seek from love's union a durable shade.
Can your soft-smiling beauties resist or elude
The sun's with'ring heat, or the storm sharp and rude?
See yon king-cups unshelter'd, how swift they decay!
While my beauties defended look smiling and gay.

162

The COWSLIP.

O'ER the verdant mead reclining,
With the morning's dew-drops shining,
I the fertile moisture sip,
Sweet as fair Melissa's lip.

Or the purling streamlet courting,
As adown some valley sporting,
Humid treasures it supplies,
Sparkling like Melissa's eyes.

Nature's bounties thus collected,
Those that want are ne'er rejected;
But my sweets are ever free,
To reward the toilsome bee.

The LILY of the VALLEY.

IN the humid verdant valley,
By a dingle's bushy side,
Unambitiously I dally,
Free from Envy, free from Pride.

163

Ne'er could Vanity come near me;
Shame ne'er ting'd my cheek with red;
Meek and modestly I bear me,
Bowing still my humble head.

In the rustic shade contented,
I to grandeur ne'er aspir'd;
Ne'er my humble lot repented;
With ambition ne'er was fir'd.

Yet from all mishaps to ward me
Prudence lends a constant screen,
Which from envious blights will guard me,
And the sun's too powerful sheen.

[THUS to Reflection's sober train]

THUS to Reflection's sober train
Each flow'r a lesson gives:
A moralizer on the plain
Each turf and blossom lives.

164

But ah! while from each smiling flow'r
I draw the moral lay,
They droop, they feel the withering pow'r;
They sicken and decay!

Each various bloom, so sweet, so bright,
Shall, ere to-morrow's dawn,
Appear a charmless, shrivell'd sight,
And, scentless, droop forlorn!

Yet fair Melissa, gentle friend!
Should you approve my lays,
On them will second life attend—
A life that ne'er decays!

Your smile each beauty can restore,
Revive each drooping sweet—
Nay, make them lovelier than before,
Their perfume more complete.

At least, should you my sonnets praise,
To me it will appear;
The flow'rs, surviving in my lays,
A double value bear.

165

The TURTLES NEST.

“Serena, in this peaceful grove
“A temple's built to purest Love;
“Where his chaste rights are duly paid,
“Where his full pow'r's at large display'd,
“Where burn those fires that never fade.

“'Tis here, to all who wish to know,
“He condescends at large to show
“The means by which Connubial Love
“We may obtain, we may improve,
“Nor fear a change, nor wish to rove.”

Serena sought the grove around—
But temple none, nor shrine she found.
When the fond partner of her breast
His secret meaning thus exprest:
“See here, my love, the Turtles Nest!

“Whene'er, within this close retreat,
“My eyes the feather'd partners meet,
“Or when, as thro' the grove I stray,
“They fondly pour the mutual lay,
“'Tis thus methinks I hear them say:

166

‘In tender years of ductile youth
‘Our mates we choose, for love and truth,
‘And thus our yet unfashion'd hearts,
‘Each to the other still imparts
‘Its tempers, inclinations, arts.

‘We never seek the busy town,
‘Where plodding Care, with stupid frown,
‘Where Simulation's treacherous art,
‘Where Pleasure's lure, Detraction's dart,
‘And Vanity corrupt the heart;

‘But to embow'ring shades repair,
‘To rear our young our only care.
‘Thus seeking bliss, thus hoping rest
‘But in each other's tranquil breast,
‘Joy hovers round the Turtles Nest.

‘Thus time ne'er shakes our constant love,
‘Nor jars, nor cold distrusts we prove;
‘Not Fate himself our loves can part,
‘But when he points the barbed dart
‘At once it pierces either's heart.’

167

Serena heard her lover's tale,—
Nor did it of its moral fail.
Old Clodio, whom her friends approv'd,
By titles and by grandeur mov'd,
She spurn'd, to bless the youth she lov'd.

Retir'd within the peaceful grove,
They taste uncloying sweets of love;
And, leaning on her lover's breast,
Full oft has fond Serena blest
The day she saw the Turtles Nest.

EXTEMPORE.

On seeing a Bird perched on the Summit of a Poplar while it was shaking with the Breeze.

See, on yon poplar's topmast spray,
The little warbler stands;
And, fearless, while he pours the lay,
The distant view commands.

168

The spray that shakes with ev'ry breeze
That fans the vernal air,
Shakes not his bosom's tranquil ease,
Nor gives one trembling care.

No weight of guilt to press him down,
No stores his heart to 'thrall;
Should he from yonder spray be thrown,
He fears no dang'rous fall.

If shaken from the fickle spray,
He'll claim his native skies,
And sweetly pour his sprightly lay,
As thro' the air he flies.

So 'tis with him whose tranquil soul
With pious ardour glows;
No cares his steady joys controul,
He fears no threat'ning woes.

Secure on Danger's brink he stands,
And laughs at Fortune's spite:
Prepar'd, when Fate or Chance commands,
To seek the Realms of Light.

169

SONG.

The BEST AIR.

They talk of Montp'lier,
And the soft-breathing air
Which blows in the southward of France,
Conducive to health,
Which, far more than wealth,
All the blessings of life can enhance.

Of Lisbon they preach,
And of Italy teach;
But I, in Old England have found
A far better air
Waining health to repair,
Than did e'er on the Cont'nent abound.

Not Zephyrs that play
'Mong the flow'rets of May,
Have so pleasant an influence to cheer!
The air that I mean
Flows forth from between
The bright rosy lips of my dear.

170

But, alas! the sweet breath
Can also give death,
As sure as from sickness can save!
At will can destroy,
Or fill me with joy,
And build me a bow'r or a grave!

Then Chloe be kind—
More pleasure you'll find,
If tender and gentle's your breast,
To heal the heart's wound,
Than to deal death around;
And in blessing yourself will be blest!

AMBITION AND HUMILITY.

When first this infant rose I spied,
Just op'ning to the laughing day,
In all her gaudy vestments gay,
And bright in blushing pride,

171

Exalted on her stem she shin'd,
To public notice far display'd;
While this, as of the sun afraid,
In shelter low reclin'd.

Then thus I sung, in thoughtless strain:
“If charms or merit are not shown,
“What boots it that we either own?
“They're idle gifts and vain!

“This rose, close shrouded by the briar,
“And hanging humbly near the ground,
“To rival this, which shines around,
“For beauty might aspire.

“But thus obscur'd, alas! how few
“Her glowing beauties shall survey,
“Which if aloft she would display
“Would charm each trav'ller's view.”

But ah! behold a blighting wind
Has cropt the lofty flow'ret short;
To earth its flaunting beauties brought,
Where fading 'tis reclin'd!

172

While, shelter'd by its humble choice,
The prudent blossom safe remains,
And thus, to the surrounding plains
“Exerts her modest voice:

“Let not ambition fire your hearts,
“Ah pant not for a lofty state;
“For sudden dangers wait the great,
“And many fatal arts.

“There Envy, Calumny await,
“Misfortune rides on ev'ry gale;
“While, in Contentment's humble vale,
“We shun the storms of Fate.”

173

SONNET.

To the MOON.

Thou Moon, whose yellow beams are seen
Just darting thro' this poplar shade,
And mingling dappled light between
The dusky umbrage round display'd,

Shew'st of my mind an emblem true;
Where smiling Hope, with feeble ray,
Pierces the thick'ning shadows through
Which Love and Fortune's frown display.

Mount higher, Moon, and let thy beams
No more obstructed meet the ground!
Mount higher, Hope, and pour thy streams
Of light more full my heart around!
Ah may no fears thy smile confound,
But Joy thy offspring blest, gay thro' my bosom bound!