The peripatetic or, Sketches of the heart, of nature and society; In a series of politico-sentimental journals, in verse and prose, of the eccentric excursions of Sylvanus Theophrastus; Supposed to be written by himself [by John Thelwall] |
 | [I]. |
 | II. |
[O! how sweet, at the hour when, deep-blushing, appears] |
| III. |
 | The peripatetic |  |
225
[O! how sweet, at the hour when, deep-blushing, appears]
O! how sweet, at the hour when, deep-blushing, appears
The sun's swelling orb at the brink of the sky,
And Eve, pensive Eve, bathes the vale with her tears,
And Zephyr, sad Zephyr, expires in a sigh—
O! how sweet at this hour, when half-wearied with toil,
And each kind emotion awak'd in the breast
That Heav'n's varied bounties and Nature's gay smile
Ere stamp'd on the mind that by Fancy is blest—
O! how sweet, at this hour, on the brow of some hill,
By side the clear brook, or embower'd in the vale,
Directed, perhaps, by the clack of the mill,
Or Milkmaid's blithe carol, who sings o'er her pail,
To approach the lone hamlet, our labours to close,
And share the tir'd peasant's contented repose!
The sun's swelling orb at the brink of the sky,
And Eve, pensive Eve, bathes the vale with her tears,
And Zephyr, sad Zephyr, expires in a sigh—
O! how sweet at this hour, when half-wearied with toil,
And each kind emotion awak'd in the breast
That Heav'n's varied bounties and Nature's gay smile
Ere stamp'd on the mind that by Fancy is blest—
O! how sweet, at this hour, on the brow of some hill,
By side the clear brook, or embower'd in the vale,
Directed, perhaps, by the clack of the mill,
Or Milkmaid's blithe carol, who sings o'er her pail,
To approach the lone hamlet, our labours to close,
And share the tir'd peasant's contented repose!
O! how sweet, when each warbler that trill'd from the spray,
Or to Heav'n's azure concave with rapture aspir'd
(The tir'd pinion relax'd, hush'd in silence the lay)
To the grove's covert shade with his mate has retir'd:
How sweet, as around every cottage they play,
(As you wind thro' the lane or the meadow) to hear
The rude ruddy infants attune the wild lay!—
What chorus so sweet to Humanity's ear?
—Sport on, thoughtless babes! ah, yet sport and he gay,
Enjoy the short rapture, and hail the bright glow!
Nor reflect ('twere in vain) on the heels of the day,
Tread Night and her shadows—tread Manhood and Woe!
Ah! too near is the time that your sorrow assures—
When Toil and Affliction alone shall be yours!
Or to Heav'n's azure concave with rapture aspir'd
(The tir'd pinion relax'd, hush'd in silence the lay)
To the grove's covert shade with his mate has retir'd:
How sweet, as around every cottage they play,
(As you wind thro' the lane or the meadow) to hear
The rude ruddy infants attune the wild lay!—
What chorus so sweet to Humanity's ear?
226
Enjoy the short rapture, and hail the bright glow!
Nor reflect ('twere in vain) on the heels of the day,
Tread Night and her shadows—tread Manhood and Woe!
Ah! too near is the time that your sorrow assures—
When Toil and Affliction alone shall be yours!
But see from the furrow, the glebe, and the plough,
The peasants return with the toil-sullied brow:
To their rest they return, to their scanty repast:
For the hour of refreshment relieves them at last.
As hither with toil-wearied steps they repair,
Hark what lisps and what shouts their loud welcome declare:
While, their sports broken off, how the innocents fly,
And clasp each hard hand with a transport of joy;
Or hang by the coat, as around them they throng,
And lend their small efforts to drag them along.
Each grief these endearments from memory blot,
And the cares of the day, and its toils are forgot;
Till again to their dames, o'er their scantling of ale,
As they eat their brown bread, they supply the short tale:
Then to bed they retire, their adventures to close,
To taste (be they sweet!) the short boons of repose:
While the wealthy and proud in mad riot and joy
The fruits of their labour and hardships destroy.
The peasants return with the toil-sullied brow:
To their rest they return, to their scanty repast:
For the hour of refreshment relieves them at last.
As hither with toil-wearied steps they repair,
Hark what lisps and what shouts their loud welcome declare:
While, their sports broken off, how the innocents fly,
And clasp each hard hand with a transport of joy;
Or hang by the coat, as around them they throng,
And lend their small efforts to drag them along.
Each grief these endearments from memory blot,
And the cares of the day, and its toils are forgot;
Till again to their dames, o'er their scantling of ale,
As they eat their brown bread, they supply the short tale:
Then to bed they retire, their adventures to close,
To taste (be they sweet!) the short boons of repose:
While the wealthy and proud in mad riot and joy
The fruits of their labour and hardships destroy.
Now silence succeeds to the bustle of day,
And the Moon's silver orb to the Sun's ruddy beam;
Awhile thro' the dews let me pensively stray,
And indulge soothing Fancy awhile in her dream.
While the Nightingale trills, your sweet minstrel divine!
Let me pierce, O ye Fays! your sequester'd retreat;
With your Shakespeare, your Colins, your Fletcher recline;
Your revels enjoy, and your fables repeat.
Ah, why are ye fled, gentle Fays! from the Muse,
Whose songs ye adorn'd, and whose lessons improv'd?
Are ye scar'd that stern critics their sanction refuse?—
Dull spectres of Night by malignity mov'd!
Ah, scorn their dark malice; renew the wild strain;
And give us our Fletchers and Shakespeares again.
And the Moon's silver orb to the Sun's ruddy beam;
Awhile thro' the dews let me pensively stray,
And indulge soothing Fancy awhile in her dream.
While the Nightingale trills, your sweet minstrel divine!
Let me pierce, O ye Fays! your sequester'd retreat;
With your Shakespeare, your Colins, your Fletcher recline;
Your revels enjoy, and your fables repeat.
227
Whose songs ye adorn'd, and whose lessons improv'd?
Are ye scar'd that stern critics their sanction refuse?—
Dull spectres of Night by malignity mov'd!
Ah, scorn their dark malice; renew the wild strain;
And give us our Fletchers and Shakespeares again.
Such—such are my joys, in lone hamlet retir'd,
When the toil of the day, and its pleasures are o'er.—
Or, perhaps, with the throng by rude Nature inspir'd
I share the blithe cup, and their feelings explore.
Ah! little ye know, who, envelop'd by pride,
Alone the dull pastimes of Grandeur behold,
What life, and what fancy, and humour reside
In these circles of Mirth by no Fashion control'd.
How oft have I smil'd ('twas the smile of the heart,
Not the simper of Form, by Hypocrisy taught;
The mask of dull Custom, the effort of Art
To escape, but in vain, from the torture of Thought.)
How oft have I smil'd, their shrewd maxims to hear,
And see the strong traits of wild Nature appear!
When the toil of the day, and its pleasures are o'er.—
Or, perhaps, with the throng by rude Nature inspir'd
I share the blithe cup, and their feelings explore.
Ah! little ye know, who, envelop'd by pride,
Alone the dull pastimes of Grandeur behold,
What life, and what fancy, and humour reside
In these circles of Mirth by no Fashion control'd.
How oft have I smil'd ('twas the smile of the heart,
Not the simper of Form, by Hypocrisy taught;
The mask of dull Custom, the effort of Art
To escape, but in vain, from the torture of Thought.)
How oft have I smil'd, their shrewd maxims to hear,
And see the strong traits of wild Nature appear!
Let the proud and the weak, then, the dull and the great,
Who loll in their coaches in indolent state,
Who, idle at home, but for idleness stray,
And abroad only prize what's at home every day—
Let to these the proud Inn yield its splendour and down,
And the Country repeat the dull pleasures of Town.
Let me, whom each pleasure eccentric can move,
Who would travel to know, and would live to improve,
When at eve my tir'd limbs relaxation require,
To some snug little thatch, in some hamlet, retire;
Where, the cravings of Nature content to supply,
I may hear, or may join in the hind's rustic joy—
May Man in his varied conditions compare,
And learn the hard lot which too many must bear;
That thus, as with all I alternately blend,
The mind may expand, and the heart may amend;
Till, embracing Mankind in one girdle of Love,
In Nature's kind lesson I daily improve,
And (no haughty distinctions to fetter my soul)
As the brother of all, learn to feel for the whole.
Who loll in their coaches in indolent state,
Who, idle at home, but for idleness stray,
And abroad only prize what's at home every day—
Let to these the proud Inn yield its splendour and down,
And the Country repeat the dull pleasures of Town.
Let me, whom each pleasure eccentric can move,
Who would travel to know, and would live to improve,
When at eve my tir'd limbs relaxation require,
To some snug little thatch, in some hamlet, retire;
Where, the cravings of Nature content to supply,
I may hear, or may join in the hind's rustic joy—
228
And learn the hard lot which too many must bear;
That thus, as with all I alternately blend,
The mind may expand, and the heart may amend;
Till, embracing Mankind in one girdle of Love,
In Nature's kind lesson I daily improve,
And (no haughty distinctions to fetter my soul)
As the brother of all, learn to feel for the whole.
| The peripatetic | |