 | Poems on various subjects |  |
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Miscellanies.
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THE SOLDIER,
A FRAGMENT.
Some, for hard masters, broken under arms,
In battle lopt away, with half their limbs,
Beg bitter bread thro' realms their valour sav'd.
Young.
In battle lopt away, with half their limbs,
Beg bitter bread thro' realms their valour sav'd.
Young.
........Under an aged thorn,
Whose wither'd branches Time had stripp'd of leaves,
Save just enough to shew it yet had life,
And vied with him in years, he shiv'ring stood,
Half shelter'd from the cold and beating rain;
But from keen want and all its wretchedness,
The taunt of Pride and Poverty's rude storms,
He seem'd, alas! no shelter to expect.
Whose wither'd branches Time had stripp'd of leaves,
Save just enough to shew it yet had life,
And vied with him in years, he shiv'ring stood,
Half shelter'd from the cold and beating rain;
But from keen want and all its wretchedness,
The taunt of Pride and Poverty's rude storms,
He seem'd, alas! no shelter to expect.
A crutch supported the remaining part
Of a spare body, cover'd half with weeds,
Of coarsest texture mix'd. His shoulders bore
The patched remnant which himself had worn
Full oft on blood-stain'd fields. One piece was left,
That told the passing stranger how he stood
At the dread hour, when Carnage loud was heard,
And all around him bleeding victims lay.
Of a spare body, cover'd half with weeds,
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The patched remnant which himself had worn
Full oft on blood-stain'd fields. One piece was left,
That told the passing stranger how he stood
At the dread hour, when Carnage loud was heard,
And all around him bleeding victims lay.
As I approach'd, he bow'd; and, with a look
That seem'd to say, ‘I am indeed sincere,’
A story then began, half mix'd with sighs,
That might have pierc'd a “heart flint to the core”—
For his, alas! it felt too much to feign.
That seem'd to say, ‘I am indeed sincere,’
A story then began, half mix'd with sighs,
That might have pierc'd a “heart flint to the core”—
For his, alas! it felt too much to feign.
When suffering Virtue craves our friendly aid,
'Tis in a tone of supplication meek,
That, in the pensive wand'rer's woe-fraught breast,
Still finds a friend, and makes the beating heart
At once dictator to the bounteous hand.
'Tis in a tone of supplication meek,
That, in the pensive wand'rer's woe-fraught breast,
Still finds a friend, and makes the beating heart
At once dictator to the bounteous hand.
Thus in my course arrested by the tale
That's oft-times told, and told full oft in vain,
Attentive long, with silent awe, I heard,
How, in his youthful days, he vainly strove,
In filial tenderness, to heal the woes
That laid an aged parent in the dust.
Here did his sorrows seem to bleed afresh—
'Twas Nature bade his tear-swoln eyes to weep.
Then, feebly pointing to the distant hill,
He mark'd the spot where once his cottage stood,
Where he had spent life's spring, and, with the lark,
Oft hail'd the day, as forth he led his team,
With Poverty hard struggling. From the hour
Which gave him birth, he knew not Fortune's smiles,
Nor Pleasure's giddy round—the pomp of courts,
Where wild Ambition dwells; nor did he dream
That busy Care oft haunts the monarch's breast,
And Guilt attends the haughty son of pride.
Yet, tho' his flocks were few, and few his fields,
Tho' waving Plenty ne'er had crown'd his toil,
He might, with rural Innocence and Peace,
Such joys have tasted in his humble state,
As Grandeur seldom knows, had not the maid,
Whose fancied charms first fir'd his artless breast,
Whom love had call'd his own, now prov'd as false
As youthful Fancy once had thought her fair.
Despairingly he left his native meads,
The rural scene of many a youthful sport,
The seat of Industry and blooming Health,
Where his forefathers dwelt, to Pride unknown,
Won by the hero's name, discordant sounds,
And all the false appendages of war.
Now he began to tell of storming towns,
Of peaceful villages laid desolate;
How many a merry comrade bravely fell;
And would again have fought each battle o'er,
Calling each wound to witness what he said.
All this the poor sustainer might have sav'd,
With many a painful sigh; for, to my ear,
Nought half so grating as the horrid tales
Of battles, sieges, and fair towns destroy'd,
With thousands falling at a tyrant's nod,
Who heeds no widow's sigh, no orphan's moan,
But glides thro' life 'twixt Luxury and Guilt.
That's oft-times told, and told full oft in vain,
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How, in his youthful days, he vainly strove,
In filial tenderness, to heal the woes
That laid an aged parent in the dust.
Here did his sorrows seem to bleed afresh—
'Twas Nature bade his tear-swoln eyes to weep.
Then, feebly pointing to the distant hill,
He mark'd the spot where once his cottage stood,
Where he had spent life's spring, and, with the lark,
Oft hail'd the day, as forth he led his team,
With Poverty hard struggling. From the hour
Which gave him birth, he knew not Fortune's smiles,
Nor Pleasure's giddy round—the pomp of courts,
Where wild Ambition dwells; nor did he dream
That busy Care oft haunts the monarch's breast,
And Guilt attends the haughty son of pride.
Yet, tho' his flocks were few, and few his fields,
Tho' waving Plenty ne'er had crown'd his toil,
He might, with rural Innocence and Peace,
Such joys have tasted in his humble state,
As Grandeur seldom knows, had not the maid,
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Whom love had call'd his own, now prov'd as false
As youthful Fancy once had thought her fair.
Despairingly he left his native meads,
The rural scene of many a youthful sport,
The seat of Industry and blooming Health,
Where his forefathers dwelt, to Pride unknown,
Won by the hero's name, discordant sounds,
And all the false appendages of war.
Now he began to tell of storming towns,
Of peaceful villages laid desolate;
How many a merry comrade bravely fell;
And would again have fought each battle o'er,
Calling each wound to witness what he said.
All this the poor sustainer might have sav'd,
With many a painful sigh; for, to my ear,
Nought half so grating as the horrid tales
Of battles, sieges, and fair towns destroy'd,
With thousands falling at a tyrant's nod,
Who heeds no widow's sigh, no orphan's moan,
But glides thro' life 'twixt Luxury and Guilt.
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Grown weary with his plain-told woes and sighs,
I left this houseless wand'rer; whilst a tear,
That started at the sight of his grey hairs,
And face grief-worn, that Time had furrow'd o'er,
With half-bent body, sloping to the grave,
Told me, as on I mus'd, this son of Want
Was brother to Ambition's splendid train,
For whom he fought and bled: then did I wish,
For once, that Fortune had to me been kind;
Then did I envy scornful Pride his wealth;
For, to the feeling heart, what joy so great,
As when it shares a woe-worn brother's cares,
And, sympathizing, softens his distress!
I left this houseless wand'rer; whilst a tear,
That started at the sight of his grey hairs,
And face grief-worn, that Time had furrow'd o'er,
With half-bent body, sloping to the grave,
Told me, as on I mus'd, this son of Want
Was brother to Ambition's splendid train,
For whom he fought and bled: then did I wish,
For once, that Fortune had to me been kind;
Then did I envy scornful Pride his wealth;
For, to the feeling heart, what joy so great,
As when it shares a woe-worn brother's cares,
And, sympathizing, softens his distress!
O ye, who feel not Poverty's keen gripe,
But loll with Luxury on beds of down;
While the poor warrior, on the sun-burnt heath,
Or frozen plain, in sleepless anguish lies;
Think, think of him, the victim of your ease;
And when he 'scapes the gore-stain'd field, where Death,
So oft a friend, the hero frees from pain,
Attentive hear the wounded wand'rer's tale,
Nor mock with scorn his honourable scars,
But let Compassion pour soft Pity's balm
Into the wounds, which only Death can cure.
But loll with Luxury on beds of down;
While the poor warrior, on the sun-burnt heath,
Or frozen plain, in sleepless anguish lies;
Think, think of him, the victim of your ease;
And when he 'scapes the gore-stain'd field, where Death,
So oft a friend, the hero frees from pain,
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Nor mock with scorn his honourable scars,
But let Compassion pour soft Pity's balm
Into the wounds, which only Death can cure.
ODE TO SLEEP.
Why rather, Sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs,
Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee,
And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber,
Than in the perfum'd chambers of the great,
Under the canopies of costly state,
And lull'd with sounds of sweetest melody?
Shakespeare.
Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee,
And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber,
Than in the perfum'd chambers of the great,
Under the canopies of costly state,
And lull'd with sounds of sweetest melody?
Shakespeare.
Hail, gentle soother of the human breast,
Foe to the busy canker Care,
Whose balm can lull to rest
The fiend Despair.
Foe to the busy canker Care,
Whose balm can lull to rest
The fiend Despair.
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Sweet is thy draught to Mis'ry's sons, who live
Unpitied by unfeeling Wealth;
For thou content dost give,
And rose-cheek'd Health.
Unpitied by unfeeling Wealth;
For thou content dost give,
And rose-cheek'd Health.
Methinks 'tis sweet, when from the sun's warm beam
The flocks to friendly thickets fly,
By some flow'r-margin'd stream
In peace to lie,
The flocks to friendly thickets fly,
By some flow'r-margin'd stream
In peace to lie,
On thy down pillow, 'neath an old oak's shade,
By minstrels lull'd to soft repose:
Then Memory, faithful maid,
Forgets her woes,
By minstrels lull'd to soft repose:
Then Memory, faithful maid,
Forgets her woes,
And Love, with sportive Fancy, brings to view
The faery age of gay delight,
When pleasures ever new
Stole on the sight.
The faery age of gay delight,
When pleasures ever new
Stole on the sight.
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Mirth-loving Innocence enjoys thee most,
That wanders free the brambl'd dell;
Nor can vain Grandeur boast
Thy magic spell.
That wanders free the brambl'd dell;
Nor can vain Grandeur boast
Thy magic spell.
E'en now doth Fancy mark yon stately pile,
Where high-born Pride, on ruin bent,
Enjoys frail Fortune's smile
Without content.
Where high-born Pride, on ruin bent,
Enjoys frail Fortune's smile
Without content.
How cheerless are his long enanguish'd nights,
Stung by Reflection's keenest dart!
He knows not those delights
That feast the heart.
Stung by Reflection's keenest dart!
He knows not those delights
That feast the heart.
Sleepless, and numb'ring the slow hours of time,
Vain wishing for th'approach of morn,
Grief-wrung—by many a crime
His bosom torn.
Vain wishing for th'approach of morn,
Grief-wrung—by many a crime
His bosom torn.
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Not so the humble cottager, retir'd
From vice-engend'ring scenes of strife;
Nought envying, still admir'd,
He glides thro' life.
From vice-engend'ring scenes of strife;
Nought envying, still admir'd,
He glides thro' life.
Methinks I see him, at the op'ning dawn,
Haste cheerful to the toil of day,
Whistling across the lawn
His cares away.
Haste cheerful to the toil of day,
Whistling across the lawn
His cares away.
Unstain'd by crimes that haunt the seat of Pride,
Fell Discord ne'er disturbs his cot;
In peace his moments glide,
Pleas'd with his lot.
Fell Discord ne'er disturbs his cot;
In peace his moments glide,
Pleas'd with his lot.
All nature owns thy animating pow'r,
That Sorrow of her sting beguiles:
Sweetner of life's sad hour,
Dear are thy smiles,
That Sorrow of her sting beguiles:
Sweetner of life's sad hour,
Dear are thy smiles,
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That steal from brooding Care his keenest sting,
And check the rending pangs of love!
To thy grief-shelt'ring wing
Oft let me rove,
And check the rending pangs of love!
To thy grief-shelt'ring wing
Oft let me rove,
When, joy-deserted, on life's dreary road,
I sigh and think of what is past;
For thou canst ease the load
That's on me cast.
I sigh and think of what is past;
For thou canst ease the load
That's on me cast.
Oft have I woo'd thee on sad Sorrow's bed,
When, pierc'd by man's ingratitude,
Despair, by Sadness led,
Would fain intrude,
When, pierc'd by man's ingratitude,
Despair, by Sadness led,
Would fain intrude,
Telling me life was but a vale of tears,
And happiness a fancied toy—
A scene of hopes and fears
That knew no joy.
And happiness a fancied toy—
A scene of hopes and fears
That knew no joy.
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But, half recov'ring by thy fostering aid,
That soothes awhile heart-probing grief,
Religion, heav'n-born maid!
Soon gave relief.
That soothes awhile heart-probing grief,
Religion, heav'n-born maid!
Soon gave relief.
When riot-loving Noise her levee keeps,
Blasting what Virtue bids to bloom,
And silent Sorrow weeps
Mid' Night's dark gloom,
Blasting what Virtue bids to bloom,
And silent Sorrow weeps
Mid' Night's dark gloom,
O let me taste thy spirit-cheering bowl,
Whose pow'r Lethean, grief dispels,
And charms the drooping soul
Where Sadness dwells!
Whose pow'r Lethean, grief dispels,
And charms the drooping soul
Where Sadness dwells!
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THE PEASANT.
'Tis better to be lowly born,
And range with humble livers in content,
Than to be perk'd up in a glitt'ring grief,
And wear a golden sorrow.
Shakespeare.
And range with humble livers in content,
Than to be perk'd up in a glitt'ring grief,
And wear a golden sorrow.
Shakespeare.
How blest the lowly Peasant's life,
Tho' Splendour scorns his humble lot,
Who, free from lordly cares and strife,
Thinks no gay palace like his cot.
Tho' Splendour scorns his humble lot,
Who, free from lordly cares and strife,
Thinks no gay palace like his cot.
When Nature hails the morning grey,
Health wakes him o'er his fields to roam;
And at the dusky close of day,
Contentment leads him to his home.
Health wakes him o'er his fields to roam;
And at the dusky close of day,
Contentment leads him to his home.
Brisk Labour, Mirth, and rural Sport,
Attend him o'er his homely fare;
He knows but by its name the court,
And wonders man should man ensnare.
Attend him o'er his homely fare;
He knows but by its name the court,
And wonders man should man ensnare.
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With breast from pride and envy free,
Disturbers of the tools of state,
He laughs at slaves of high degree,
And cheerful meets the storms of fate.
Disturbers of the tools of state,
He laughs at slaves of high degree,
And cheerful meets the storms of fate.
Far from Riot rude and Noise,
Far from Pleasure's magic ring,
Ever tasting life's pure joys—
Who, ah! who, would be a king!
Far from Pleasure's magic ring,
Ever tasting life's pure joys—
Who, ah! who, would be a king!
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EVENING,
A RURAL FRAGMENT.
Hail, meek ey'd maiden, clad in sober grey,
Whose soft approach the weary woodman loves!
Jos. Warton.
Whose soft approach the weary woodman loves!
Jos. Warton.
'Tis Evening mild; her fragrance scents the air;
In robe of dunness clad, she silent sits
On yon grey mountain's brow. At her approach,
Gay Phœbus, redd'ning, gilds the placid sky,
His faint rays dancing o'er the dimpl'd stream,
Lashing his fiery coursers down the west,
As to the sloping hills, embrown'd in shade,
He bids adieu—then vanishes from man.
In robe of dunness clad, she silent sits
On yon grey mountain's brow. At her approach,
Gay Phœbus, redd'ning, gilds the placid sky,
His faint rays dancing o'er the dimpl'd stream,
Lashing his fiery coursers down the west,
As to the sloping hills, embrown'd in shade,
He bids adieu—then vanishes from man.
The cheerful cottager no longer views
His lengthen'd shadow stalk across the plain;
But, labour-wearied, marks his far-off hut,
Where Peace sits smiling at his humble gate,
And, homeward whistling, oft, with joyous gaze,
Beholds the spiky produce of his fields.
His lengthen'd shadow stalk across the plain;
But, labour-wearied, marks his far-off hut,
Where Peace sits smiling at his humble gate,
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Beholds the spiky produce of his fields.
Th'exhaling flow'rs, that beam'd throughout the vale,
Diffuse no more their grateful odours round,
But, drooping, seem to mourn departing day;
While, from their honey'd stores, th'industrious bee,
Humming her feeble flight, makes tow'rds her cell.
Returning zephyrs, from the fragrant glade,
Now sport among the willows near the stream,
Or kiss the curling surface of the deep,
From whence the twitt'ring swallow wings her way,
And, winding, steals into her clay-built nest,
To nurse her unfledg'd young till morning dawns.
Diffuse no more their grateful odours round,
But, drooping, seem to mourn departing day;
While, from their honey'd stores, th'industrious bee,
Humming her feeble flight, makes tow'rds her cell.
Returning zephyrs, from the fragrant glade,
Now sport among the willows near the stream,
Or kiss the curling surface of the deep,
From whence the twitt'ring swallow wings her way,
And, winding, steals into her clay-built nest,
To nurse her unfledg'd young till morning dawns.
No more the feather'd choir are heard around;
All, all is silent, save the blackbird's song,
That, faintly echoing, steals along the grove,
As from the distant wood he calls his mate.
Lorn minstrel! sweetest of the feather'd train!
Whose notes are welcome to the lover's ear;
Whilst madd'ning crowds, in search of pleasure, throng
To noisy theatres, where tumult reigns,
And Folly wonders at the work of Art,
That teaches man to mimic thy sweet voice.
O I do love to hear thee, bird of spring,
When at Eve's modest hour, in peace reclin'd,
Thy wild notes linger on the passing gale!
Tho' oft hath Flora strew'd the fields with flow'rs,
And led along the meads her sportive train,
Since first, in tuneless lays, I vainly strove,
In pensive mood, on the blithe-warbling flute,
To cheat awhile the busy canker Care;
Yet, list'ning to thy plaintive melody,
I sighing say, my time hath been misspent!
All, all is silent, save the blackbird's song,
That, faintly echoing, steals along the grove,
As from the distant wood he calls his mate.
Lorn minstrel! sweetest of the feather'd train!
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Whilst madd'ning crowds, in search of pleasure, throng
To noisy theatres, where tumult reigns,
And Folly wonders at the work of Art,
That teaches man to mimic thy sweet voice.
O I do love to hear thee, bird of spring,
When at Eve's modest hour, in peace reclin'd,
Thy wild notes linger on the passing gale!
Tho' oft hath Flora strew'd the fields with flow'rs,
And led along the meads her sportive train,
Since first, in tuneless lays, I vainly strove,
In pensive mood, on the blithe-warbling flute,
To cheat awhile the busy canker Care;
Yet, list'ning to thy plaintive melody,
I sighing say, my time hath been misspent!
Cherish'd by Hope, the lover fondly waits,
In anxious anguish, at th'appointed shade.
A thousand doubts disturb his artless breast,
And oft he gazes for the promis'd maid.
In anxious anguish, at th'appointed shade.
A thousand doubts disturb his artless breast,
And oft he gazes for the promis'd maid.
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Upon the green, the shepherd's rural pipe
Proclaims to distant meads the lively dance,
And calls the younker to the festive ring,
Where Mirth and frolic Joy light-footed stray,
And sportive Gladness mocks the toils of day:
The village train now mingling in the throng
With sprightly glee. E'en Age forgets his pain,
And joins the cheering song, or harmless joke,
Recounting strange the tales of former days;
What wonders he atchiev'd to gain the fair,
And bore away the prize: then blooming health
Glow'd on his cheeks, now furrow'd o'er by time.
The rustics round in mute attention stand,
List'ning with wistful gaze to the village sage.
Full oft the laugh of innocence goes round,
And many a sigh steals forth at artless tales
In praise of virtue, till the darkning hours
Invite the happy few to soft repose.
Proclaims to distant meads the lively dance,
And calls the younker to the festive ring,
Where Mirth and frolic Joy light-footed stray,
And sportive Gladness mocks the toils of day:
The village train now mingling in the throng
With sprightly glee. E'en Age forgets his pain,
And joins the cheering song, or harmless joke,
Recounting strange the tales of former days;
What wonders he atchiev'd to gain the fair,
And bore away the prize: then blooming health
Glow'd on his cheeks, now furrow'd o'er by time.
The rustics round in mute attention stand,
List'ning with wistful gaze to the village sage.
Full oft the laugh of innocence goes round,
And many a sigh steals forth at artless tales
In praise of virtue, till the darkning hours
Invite the happy few to soft repose.
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Evening, I hail thy hours of gay content,
That to this pensive bosom still are dear!
Tho' I no more across the mist-clad hill
Steal forth with sighs to meet my soul's true-love;
Yet oft, by Fancy led, my vagrant feet
Bend tow'rds the woods, or cowslip-painted meads,
To trace the scene of many a youthful sport;
And, nurs'd by Solitude, awhile from care,
Fond Memory glances at the joys that were.
'Tis then great Nature charms the wand'ring eye,
Whose scenes luxuriant give the soul delight;
'Tis then, hid from the world, man tastes of bliss
That Reason and Religion most approve.
That to this pensive bosom still are dear!
Tho' I no more across the mist-clad hill
Steal forth with sighs to meet my soul's true-love;
Yet oft, by Fancy led, my vagrant feet
Bend tow'rds the woods, or cowslip-painted meads,
To trace the scene of many a youthful sport;
And, nurs'd by Solitude, awhile from care,
Fond Memory glances at the joys that were.
'Tis then great Nature charms the wand'ring eye,
Whose scenes luxuriant give the soul delight;
'Tis then, hid from the world, man tastes of bliss
That Reason and Religion most approve.
When in Retirement's shade, pleas'd I behold
The enlivening orb of day dart his mild beams
Aslaunt the upland lawn, or hanging wood,
Or tinge with partial gleam some distant tow'r:
Calm Contemplation steals upon my mind;
Then turning to that Pow'r who rules on high
A thought-entranced wight, thus I exclaim—
Alas! this life's a transient summer day,
And man, frail insect! sports away his morn,
(A child of Folly caught in Pleasure's snare)
Nor thinks the present hour may be his last!
Then keen Reflection points to age, life's eve,
And whispers, like a flow'r upon the plain
My tott'ring head must bend, as feebly on
Tow'rds home I wander thro' this rugged path,
Till Death shall close in sleep my wearied eyes.
The enlivening orb of day dart his mild beams
Aslaunt the upland lawn, or hanging wood,
Or tinge with partial gleam some distant tow'r:
Calm Contemplation steals upon my mind;
Then turning to that Pow'r who rules on high
A thought-entranced wight, thus I exclaim—
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And man, frail insect! sports away his morn,
(A child of Folly caught in Pleasure's snare)
Nor thinks the present hour may be his last!
Then keen Reflection points to age, life's eve,
And whispers, like a flow'r upon the plain
My tott'ring head must bend, as feebly on
Tow'rds home I wander thro' this rugged path,
Till Death shall close in sleep my wearied eyes.
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THE SLAVE.
Torn from every dear connection,
Forc'd across the yielding wave,
The Negro, stung by keen reflection,
May exclaim, Man's but a Slave!
Forc'd across the yielding wave,
The Negro, stung by keen reflection,
May exclaim, Man's but a Slave!
In youth, gay Hope delusive fools him,
Proud her vot'ry to deprave;
In age, self-interest over-rules him—
Still he bends a willing Slave.
Proud her vot'ry to deprave;
In age, self-interest over-rules him—
Still he bends a willing Slave.
The haughty monarch, fearing Reason
May her sons from ruin save,
Of traitors dreaming, plots and treason,
Reigns at best a sceptr'd Slave.
May her sons from ruin save,
Of traitors dreaming, plots and treason,
Reigns at best a sceptr'd Slave.
His minion, Honesty would barter,
And become Corruption's knave;
Won by ribband, star, or garter,
Proves himself Ambition's Slave.
And become Corruption's knave;
Won by ribband, star, or garter,
Proves himself Ambition's Slave.
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Yon Patriot boasts a pure intention,
And of rights will loudly rave,
Till silenc'd by a place or pension,
Th'apostate sits a courtly Slave.
And of rights will loudly rave,
Till silenc'd by a place or pension,
Th'apostate sits a courtly Slave.
In pulpit perch'd, the pious preacher
Talks of conscience wond'rous grave;
Yet not content, the tithe-paid teacher
Pants to loll a mitr'd Slave.
Talks of conscience wond'rous grave;
Yet not content, the tithe-paid teacher
Pants to loll a mitr'd Slave.
The soldier, lur'd by sounds of glory,
Longs to shine a hero brave;
And, proud to live in future story,
Yields his life—to Fame a Slave.
Longs to shine a hero brave;
And, proud to live in future story,
Yields his life—to Fame a Slave.
Mark yon poor miser o'er his treasure,
Who to Want a mite ne'er gave;
He, shut out from peace and pleasure,
Starves—to Avarice a Slave.
Who to Want a mite ne'er gave;
He, shut out from peace and pleasure,
Starves—to Avarice a Slave.
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The lover to his mistress bending,
Pants, nor dares her hand to crave;
Vainly sighing, time misspending—
Wisdom scorns the fetter'd Slave.
Pants, nor dares her hand to crave;
Vainly sighing, time misspending—
Wisdom scorns the fetter'd Slave.
Thus dup'd by Fancy, Pride, or Folly,
Ne'er content with what we have;
Toss'd 'twixt Hope and Melancholy,
Death at last sets free the Slave.
Ne'er content with what we have;
Toss'd 'twixt Hope and Melancholy,
Death at last sets free the Slave.
EPIGRAM.
Says Dick, what makes each tyrant dreadThat simple word nam'd Reason?—
Reason's the friend of Truth, cries Ned,
And Truth too oft is Treason.
25
RETIREMENT.
An humble roof, plain bed, and humble board,
More clear and more untainted sweets afford,
Than all the tumult of vain greatness brings
To kings, or the swoln favourites of kings.
Creech.
More clear and more untainted sweets afford,
Than all the tumult of vain greatness brings
To kings, or the swoln favourites of kings.
Creech.
Near a murmuring rill, in a cottage of thatch,
From the haunts of the great I'd reside,
Where the giant Ambition should ne'er lift my latch,
Nor my garden or grove strike the eye of gay Pride.
From the haunts of the great I'd reside,
Where the giant Ambition should ne'er lift my latch,
Nor my garden or grove strike the eye of gay Pride.
Undisturb'd by the riot or noise of the town,
In Retirement my moments I'd spend,
Alike to pert Folly and Slander unknown;
The rich I'd not envy, give me but a friend,
In Retirement my moments I'd spend,
Alike to pert Folly and Slander unknown;
The rich I'd not envy, give me but a friend,
Whose converse, still pleasing, and counsels sincere,
From my bosom would banish dull Care;
Who, if Grief e'er assail'd me, would drop the soft tear,
And, if Poverty frown'd, still his all I might share.
From my bosom would banish dull Care;
26
And, if Poverty frown'd, still his all I might share.
If Memory glanc'd at the follies of youth,
When Pleasure my feet did betray,
Calm Reflection would teach me the lesson of truth,
And warn to look forward to life's closing day.
When Pleasure my feet did betray,
Calm Reflection would teach me the lesson of truth,
And warn to look forward to life's closing day.
With joy would I welcome the verdure of spring,
When gazing at eve o'er the plain;
Or join with my Emma the heart-cheering ring,
Far, far from keen Slander and all her dull train.
When gazing at eve o'er the plain;
Or join with my Emma the heart-cheering ring,
Far, far from keen Slander and all her dull train.
In summer, awak'd by the heralds of morn,
From care-killing revels still free,
We'd taste the pure breeze on the hill or the lawn,
Where Health, blooming Health, holds her sportive levee.
From care-killing revels still free,
We'd taste the pure breeze on the hill or the lawn,
Where Health, blooming Health, holds her sportive levee.
Oft at noon-tide, evading the sun's fervid glow,
We'd hie to Seclusion's cool bow'r,
And weep o'er her
verse, forc'd by Sorrow to flow;
Or, musing with Cowper, from Care steal an hour.
We'd hie to Seclusion's cool bow'r,
27
Or, musing with Cowper, from Care steal an hour.
Tho' few mark the wants of the helpless and poor,
Whom the cold hand of Misery deforms;
Tho' few heed the pangs they are doom'd to endure,
Or shield the weak wand'rers from Want's bitter storms;
Whom the cold hand of Misery deforms;
Tho' few heed the pangs they are doom'd to endure,
Or shield the weak wand'rers from Want's bitter storms;
Should the child of Misfortune ask alms at my gate,
I'd turn not in scorn from his woe,
But attentively hear him his suff'rings relate,
While my Emma her bounty should freely bestow.
I'd turn not in scorn from his woe,
But attentively hear him his suff'rings relate,
While my Emma her bounty should freely bestow.
Thus a friend to mankind would I journey thro' life,
Nor at Fate's various trials repine;
But contended, and free from Ambition and Strife,
At Death's awful summons I'd cheerful resign.
Nor at Fate's various trials repine;
But contended, and free from Ambition and Strife,
At Death's awful summons I'd cheerful resign.
28
THE ROSE.
A rose I mark'd the other day,
The garden's gayest pride;
And as it hasten'd to decay,
To Emma thus I cried:
The garden's gayest pride;
And as it hasten'd to decay,
To Emma thus I cried:
‘Behold, sweet maid, that dying flow'r,
‘Which late perfum'd the air:
‘It bloom'd—it wither'd in an hour—
‘Just emblem of the fair!
‘Which late perfum'd the air:
‘It bloom'd—it wither'd in an hour—
‘Just emblem of the fair!
‘In life's gay summer, Beauty's charms
‘Awhile may give delight;
‘But soon Misfortune's bitter storms
‘The blooming bud may blight.
‘Awhile may give delight;
‘But soon Misfortune's bitter storms
‘The blooming bud may blight.
‘Struck by the conq'ring hand of Time,
‘Thus youth with beauty flies:
‘Then, O sweet flow'ret, in thy prime,
‘The present moment prize!’
‘Thus youth with beauty flies:
‘Then, O sweet flow'ret, in thy prime,
‘The present moment prize!’
29
FRIENDSHIP, LOVE, AND WINE.
Ye pow'rs, thro' life may this be mine,
To taste pure Friendship, Love, and Wine,
In some lone nook where Quiet dwells—
Quiet, that heeds not Folly's bells,
But laughs at Grandeur, Wealth, and Fame,
And Envy knows but by its name.
Safe from Ambition's madd'ning glare,
I with my friend each comfort share,
And chase away the canker Care;
Whilst Emma's grace and matchless smile,
The lazy hours doth oft beguile:
Then mellow'd by the sparkling bowl,
Content I mark the seasons roll,
And with good-humour cheerful sing,
Nor heed pale Sorrow's baneful sting.
To taste pure Friendship, Love, and Wine,
In some lone nook where Quiet dwells—
Quiet, that heeds not Folly's bells,
But laughs at Grandeur, Wealth, and Fame,
And Envy knows but by its name.
Safe from Ambition's madd'ning glare,
I with my friend each comfort share,
And chase away the canker Care;
Whilst Emma's grace and matchless smile,
The lazy hours doth oft beguile:
Then mellow'd by the sparkling bowl,
Content I mark the seasons roll,
And with good-humour cheerful sing,
Nor heed pale Sorrow's baneful sting.
Let heroes seek the carnag'd field,
For fancied fame their life to yield;
Let thoughtless lordlings seek the court,
Where Slander, Pride, and Vice resort;
Let patriots for their country rail,
And banish'd Freedom's loss bewail;
Let sons of Commerce plow the main,
Each fancied gem for fools to gain;
Let greedy misers toil for wealth,
And blast the roseate charms of health;
Still busy, busy they may be,
Whilst I am easy, happy, free.
Free from all jealousies and fears,
Shall I make life a vale of tears,
And pine for what would cares increase?
No—let me live with humble Peace;
And, whilst I ride the stormy sea,
Heed not the slaves of high degree,
But do my duty merrily,
And taste of pleasure in my prime,
Nor mind the meddling grey-beard Time.
Tho' oft he whispers, man grows old,
In spite of fame, in spite of gold,
And tells me life is but a day,
Till forc'd to join my kindred clay,
I'll laugh and quaff the hours away;
For I with Care have nought to do—
Ye sons of wealth, he dwells with you!
And why should man for riches pine,
When blest with Friendship, Love, and Wine.
For fancied fame their life to yield;
30
Where Slander, Pride, and Vice resort;
Let patriots for their country rail,
And banish'd Freedom's loss bewail;
Let sons of Commerce plow the main,
Each fancied gem for fools to gain;
Let greedy misers toil for wealth,
And blast the roseate charms of health;
Still busy, busy they may be,
Whilst I am easy, happy, free.
Free from all jealousies and fears,
Shall I make life a vale of tears,
And pine for what would cares increase?
No—let me live with humble Peace;
And, whilst I ride the stormy sea,
Heed not the slaves of high degree,
But do my duty merrily,
And taste of pleasure in my prime,
Nor mind the meddling grey-beard Time.
Tho' oft he whispers, man grows old,
In spite of fame, in spite of gold,
31
Till forc'd to join my kindred clay,
I'll laugh and quaff the hours away;
For I with Care have nought to do—
Ye sons of wealth, he dwells with you!
And why should man for riches pine,
When blest with Friendship, Love, and Wine.
32
SPRING,
A FRAGMENT.
A thing of shreds and patches.
Shakespeare.
Shakespeare.
The snow's dissolv'd, the chilly winter's fled,
And all its gloomy hurricanes o'erpast.
Now blooming Spring, in greenest mantle dress'd,
Adorn'd with flow'rets wild of various hues,
Comes smiling forth, borne on th'expanded wings
Of zephyrs sweet, attended by her train,
Gay Laughter, frolic Joy, and sprightly Mirth.
At her approach, what raptures swell the breast:
The rivers, bound no longer by the chain
Of hoary winter, murm'ring soothe the ear.
Nature, recov'ring from her languid state,
Rejoices at the change, and welcomes Spring.
And all its gloomy hurricanes o'erpast.
Now blooming Spring, in greenest mantle dress'd,
Adorn'd with flow'rets wild of various hues,
Comes smiling forth, borne on th'expanded wings
Of zephyrs sweet, attended by her train,
Gay Laughter, frolic Joy, and sprightly Mirth.
At her approach, what raptures swell the breast:
The rivers, bound no longer by the chain
Of hoary winter, murm'ring soothe the ear.
Nature, recov'ring from her languid state,
Rejoices at the change, and welcomes Spring.
Behold th'ascending sun, his feeble rays
Scarce piercing thro' the misty atmosphere;
Yet his gteat influence and genial warmth
Call vegetation forth. See all around
The flow'rs impatient to disclose their bloom,
Their honey'd stores just op'ning on the sight,
To welcome animating Spring's return.
The snow-drop, earliest of the feeble few,
Shoots boldly forth ere Winter's rage is spent,
Emblem of Innocence, with down-cast head,
Asham'd to shew its beauty to the world.
How different seems the tulip, gaudy flow'r!
How gaily deck'd, yet priz'd but for its shew!
So shines the witless beau—vain, tinsell'd thing!—
That glides thro' life unnotic'd but for dress.
The humble violet, like modest Worth,
So oft unheeded, with the primrose dwells,
'Mid brambl'd glades, or on the moss-grown bank.
Meek pair! thus Virtue often lives retir'd,
Unknown to Fashion, or her glitt'ring train,
And droops unseen far from Life's busy crowd!
With odorif'rous breath, the lily pale
Seems fairer than Melissa's snowy breast;
While the gay rose, full swelling in the bud,
Pride of the garden, opes its vernal sweets,
And mocks the town-bred lady's boasted charms.
Ye fair, who proudly shine in borrow'd dyes,
Still scorning artless Modesty, whose bloom
Denotes fresh health, and far outvies the rouge,
Why vainly strive to rival this gay flow'r?—
Your artful fragrance ne'er can be compar'd
With the exhaling sweetness of the rose.
Since life is chequer'd by a thousand ills,
That Fate hath wisely order'd man to bear,
And beauty is at best a gilded toy,
A glitt'ring bauble, plaything of an hour,
That oft unthinking Folly doth ensnare,
Happiest is he who, led by mental charms,
That cheer the mind, e'en 'midst Misfortune's gloom,
Nor fade but in the wintry arms of Death.
Since then 'tis vain to prize what soon decays,
Let each weak flow'r that decks the gay parterre,
Or sheds around its odours on the plain,
An useful lesson to frail man impart,
And seem a little moralizing friend.
How oft we see them nipp'd by piercing frosts,
Or blasted in the bud. Just so it fares
With Virtue, whom the wintry storms of Vice
Too oft assail, and crush before it blooms.
Like flow'rs, we shoot in youth, life's budding spring;
Like them we bend beneath the storms of Fate,
And fall at age, life's winter's keen approach.
Scarce piercing thro' the misty atmosphere;
33
Call vegetation forth. See all around
The flow'rs impatient to disclose their bloom,
Their honey'd stores just op'ning on the sight,
To welcome animating Spring's return.
The snow-drop, earliest of the feeble few,
Shoots boldly forth ere Winter's rage is spent,
Emblem of Innocence, with down-cast head,
Asham'd to shew its beauty to the world.
How different seems the tulip, gaudy flow'r!
How gaily deck'd, yet priz'd but for its shew!
So shines the witless beau—vain, tinsell'd thing!—
That glides thro' life unnotic'd but for dress.
The humble violet, like modest Worth,
So oft unheeded, with the primrose dwells,
'Mid brambl'd glades, or on the moss-grown bank.
Meek pair! thus Virtue often lives retir'd,
Unknown to Fashion, or her glitt'ring train,
And droops unseen far from Life's busy crowd!
With odorif'rous breath, the lily pale
34
While the gay rose, full swelling in the bud,
Pride of the garden, opes its vernal sweets,
And mocks the town-bred lady's boasted charms.
Ye fair, who proudly shine in borrow'd dyes,
Still scorning artless Modesty, whose bloom
Denotes fresh health, and far outvies the rouge,
Why vainly strive to rival this gay flow'r?—
Your artful fragrance ne'er can be compar'd
With the exhaling sweetness of the rose.
Since life is chequer'd by a thousand ills,
That Fate hath wisely order'd man to bear,
And beauty is at best a gilded toy,
A glitt'ring bauble, plaything of an hour,
That oft unthinking Folly doth ensnare,
Happiest is he who, led by mental charms,
That cheer the mind, e'en 'midst Misfortune's gloom,
Nor fade but in the wintry arms of Death.
Since then 'tis vain to prize what soon decays,
Let each weak flow'r that decks the gay parterre,
35
An useful lesson to frail man impart,
And seem a little moralizing friend.
How oft we see them nipp'd by piercing frosts,
Or blasted in the bud. Just so it fares
With Virtue, whom the wintry storms of Vice
Too oft assail, and crush before it blooms.
Like flow'rs, we shoot in youth, life's budding spring;
Like them we bend beneath the storms of Fate,
And fall at age, life's winter's keen approach.
Now, by the vivifying heat of Spring,
The twitt'ring swallow from her torpor wakes:
Rejoic'd she skims the surface of the deep,
And oft disturbs the angler by the stream,
Telling the joy she feels to all around.
Arise, she cries, behold gay Spring is come!
Ye swains, brisk Labour calls you to the fields;
Health, rose-cheek'd Health, invites you to her bow'r,
And spreads for you her floral carpet round.
Ye cheerful songsters of the woods, awake,
And greet gay Spring, in liveliest verdure deck'd;
Let woods and groves seem vocal with your lays,
Singing the beauties of the smiling year.
The twitt'ring swallow from her torpor wakes:
Rejoic'd she skims the surface of the deep,
And oft disturbs the angler by the stream,
Telling the joy she feels to all around.
Arise, she cries, behold gay Spring is come!
Ye swains, brisk Labour calls you to the fields;
Health, rose-cheek'd Health, invites you to her bow'r,
And spreads for you her floral carpet round.
36
And greet gay Spring, in liveliest verdure deck'd;
Let woods and groves seem vocal with your lays,
Singing the beauties of the smiling year.
Sweet season! welcome to yon sportive train
Of younkers, who attend the village school.
Methinks I see them, at the well-known hour,
When Eve's approach lulls ev'ry care to rest,
No longer forc'd to dread the haughty frown,
The look pedantic, or the stern command,
Of him who much doth boast, yet never sought
The sullen village wonder, Wisdom's path,
Nor trod the maze of Science, proud to reign
A self-taught despot o'er a feeble few,
Who, from the shackles of confinement freed,
Like prisoners 'scaping from a dungeon's gloom,
With Liberty o'erjoy'd, they revel round,
And shew to man how soon the youthful mind
Pants to throw off restraint.—O Liberty!
Dear art thou to mankind, celestial maid!
Whose name the boastful hireling hears appall'd;
I do adore thee, wand'rer tho' thou art!
Too little known—and known, too little priz'd.
Thou light refulgent, that canst ever cheer
The lowly traveller on his lonely way
O'er life's dull path—sweet goddess, hear my pray'r,
And deign to visit oft my humble cell!
Grant me thy smiles, I ask not pow'r or wealth—
Pow'r that blind Fortune oft to th'worthless gives,
To rob e'en Misery of her hard-earn'd store.
Aye in thy train dwells laughter-loving Health;
And she, coy maid, who loves the hill and dale,
Straying with Innocence the russet meads,
Far from the dazzling splendour of the court—
She whom the artless shepherds name Content,
Whose smile no tyrant's ill-gain'd wealth can buy.
Dread of Ambition wild and pamper'd Pride,
Rapacious rulers of the blood-stain'd earth,
Who break the strongest link of Nature's chain,
And make e'en murder pleasure—war a trade;
At whose command pale Famine stalks around,
And thousands drink the bitter cup of woe.
Without thee, life moves slow from day to day;
And man, the cheerless pilgrim, sorrowing bends
Beneath his burden painful, journeying on
His threescore years of sadness; and at length
Bids welcome to the friendly stroke of Death.
E'en such were Gallia's sons, degenerate race!
Who bow'd supinely to licentious sway;
Of Britons and their neighb'ring states the scorn.
I am a Briton, and I love to hear
Of nations struggling in the cause of truth,
Tearing Corruption from her baseless seat,
To gain for man what Reason calls his own.
E'en so did Frenchmen, envy of the world,
In arts unrivall'd as in arms renown'd.
Rous'd by thy presence, how the noble mind
Contemns the fetters that would man enslave;
And as the stars evanish from the light,
So Superstition and Oppression base
Their influence yield when Liberty appears.
Of younkers, who attend the village school.
Methinks I see them, at the well-known hour,
When Eve's approach lulls ev'ry care to rest,
No longer forc'd to dread the haughty frown,
The look pedantic, or the stern command,
Of him who much doth boast, yet never sought
The sullen village wonder, Wisdom's path,
Nor trod the maze of Science, proud to reign
A self-taught despot o'er a feeble few,
Who, from the shackles of confinement freed,
Like prisoners 'scaping from a dungeon's gloom,
With Liberty o'erjoy'd, they revel round,
And shew to man how soon the youthful mind
Pants to throw off restraint.—O Liberty!
37
Whose name the boastful hireling hears appall'd;
I do adore thee, wand'rer tho' thou art!
Too little known—and known, too little priz'd.
Thou light refulgent, that canst ever cheer
The lowly traveller on his lonely way
O'er life's dull path—sweet goddess, hear my pray'r,
And deign to visit oft my humble cell!
Grant me thy smiles, I ask not pow'r or wealth—
Pow'r that blind Fortune oft to th'worthless gives,
To rob e'en Misery of her hard-earn'd store.
Aye in thy train dwells laughter-loving Health;
And she, coy maid, who loves the hill and dale,
Straying with Innocence the russet meads,
Far from the dazzling splendour of the court—
She whom the artless shepherds name Content,
Whose smile no tyrant's ill-gain'd wealth can buy.
Dread of Ambition wild and pamper'd Pride,
Rapacious rulers of the blood-stain'd earth,
Who break the strongest link of Nature's chain,
38
At whose command pale Famine stalks around,
And thousands drink the bitter cup of woe.
Without thee, life moves slow from day to day;
And man, the cheerless pilgrim, sorrowing bends
Beneath his burden painful, journeying on
His threescore years of sadness; and at length
Bids welcome to the friendly stroke of Death.
E'en such were Gallia's sons, degenerate race!
Who bow'd supinely to licentious sway;
Of Britons and their neighb'ring states the scorn.
I am a Briton, and I love to hear
Of nations struggling in the cause of truth,
Tearing Corruption from her baseless seat,
To gain for man what Reason calls his own.
E'en so did Frenchmen, envy of the world,
In arts unrivall'd as in arms renown'd.
Rous'd by thy presence, how the noble mind
Contemns the fetters that would man enslave;
And as the stars evanish from the light,
39
Their influence yield when Liberty appears.
Again fond Fancy marks the village band,
And Retrospection lingers with delight
On hours “ere Sorrow had proclaim'd me man.”
Their's is life's spring: no brooding cares intrude;
No sorrows damp the moments due to sport.
Some rig the feeble bark with nautic pride,
And, anxious, see it by the gale o'erset,
Like the vain youth who boldly ventures down
The dang'rous stream of Pleasure. Others rove
With eager haste across far distant meads,
Thro' briary copse, or thick entangl'd wood,
Watching each passing day, with prying care,
The half-fledg'd brood of linnet, lark, or thrush;
Or boldly clamb'ring up the branching pine,
To rob the stock-dove of her tender charge.
O Cruelty! thou baneful foe to youth!
Seizing his mind ere Virtue guides his steps,
At once thy willing votary he submits,
And lordly man, pride of his Maker's works,
Becomes a very tyrant in his sphere.
Ah, age of bliss! how oft, with dire regret,
Must painful Memory weep at pleasures past;
How oft recal the hours of life's fair morn,
Scenes of fond youth, that like the seasons change;
But change not, like the seasons, to return!
Then infant Fancy, by false Hope beguil'd,
Unnumber'd joys so wantonly pourtray'd.
Sweet was the prospect, and I lov'd to trace
And dwell on scenes of perfect happiness.
Delusive dream, that once could lull to rest
Each little care this artless bosom knew,
Ere I had ventur'd on life's billowy sea,
Ere I had learn'd to brave the storms of Fate,
Th'ungrateful taunt that mocks another's woe,
Or guard against the world and all its snares!
Thus, when the mariner affrighted hears
The awful murmurs of th'impendent storm,
Of ireful tempest, and the lightning's glare,
Awhile forgetful, e'en at Death's approach,
Fond Fancy wafts him to his native shore,
And paints some dear lov'd image to his sight:
A mistress fair, who weeps, but vainly weeps;
A faithful friend, who hopes his safe return:
Pleasures remember'd steal upon his mind,
And force for what is past the painful sigh.
Again he clings to Hope, whose cheering ray
The fainting mind lights to its wish'd-for haven.
And Retrospection lingers with delight
On hours “ere Sorrow had proclaim'd me man.”
Their's is life's spring: no brooding cares intrude;
No sorrows damp the moments due to sport.
Some rig the feeble bark with nautic pride,
And, anxious, see it by the gale o'erset,
Like the vain youth who boldly ventures down
The dang'rous stream of Pleasure. Others rove
With eager haste across far distant meads,
Thro' briary copse, or thick entangl'd wood,
Watching each passing day, with prying care,
The half-fledg'd brood of linnet, lark, or thrush;
Or boldly clamb'ring up the branching pine,
To rob the stock-dove of her tender charge.
O Cruelty! thou baneful foe to youth!
Seizing his mind ere Virtue guides his steps,
40
And lordly man, pride of his Maker's works,
Becomes a very tyrant in his sphere.
Ah, age of bliss! how oft, with dire regret,
Must painful Memory weep at pleasures past;
How oft recal the hours of life's fair morn,
Scenes of fond youth, that like the seasons change;
But change not, like the seasons, to return!
Then infant Fancy, by false Hope beguil'd,
Unnumber'd joys so wantonly pourtray'd.
Sweet was the prospect, and I lov'd to trace
And dwell on scenes of perfect happiness.
Delusive dream, that once could lull to rest
Each little care this artless bosom knew,
Ere I had ventur'd on life's billowy sea,
Ere I had learn'd to brave the storms of Fate,
Th'ungrateful taunt that mocks another's woe,
Or guard against the world and all its snares!
Thus, when the mariner affrighted hears
The awful murmurs of th'impendent storm,
41
Awhile forgetful, e'en at Death's approach,
Fond Fancy wafts him to his native shore,
And paints some dear lov'd image to his sight:
A mistress fair, who weeps, but vainly weeps;
A faithful friend, who hopes his safe return:
Pleasures remember'd steal upon his mind,
And force for what is past the painful sigh.
Again he clings to Hope, whose cheering ray
The fainting mind lights to its wish'd-for haven.
Each hedge and coppice now seem clad in green,
And every tree in opening foliage stands.
How chang'd the forest, and what various hues
Arrest the wond'ring eye; whilst to the ear
The song of cheerful Labour and the stroke
Of woodman distant sound along the dell.
Again the stately oak puts forth its leaves,
Whose stem so late was clad with crusted snow,
Forming the shade of many a rural sport,
The harmless gambol, or the sprightly dance,
That cheers the rustic when his labour's o'er,
And makes industry seem a pleasing toil.
Hither the pensive village youth repairs,
When roscid Evening steals along the plain,
And, whisp'ring, tells of innocence and love
Tales artless as the blushing maid he woos.
And every tree in opening foliage stands.
How chang'd the forest, and what various hues
Arrest the wond'ring eye; whilst to the ear
The song of cheerful Labour and the stroke
Of woodman distant sound along the dell.
Again the stately oak puts forth its leaves,
Whose stem so late was clad with crusted snow,
Forming the shade of many a rural sport,
42
That cheers the rustic when his labour's o'er,
And makes industry seem a pleasing toil.
Hither the pensive village youth repairs,
When roscid Evening steals along the plain,
And, whisp'ring, tells of innocence and love
Tales artless as the blushing maid he woos.
How sweet the concert heard from spray to spray,
In notes melodious; whilst along the woods
Echo returns the heart-enliv'ning lays.
No music soothes like yours the listning ear,
Ye minstrels gay, whose care-beguiling songs
So oft arrest the wearied traveller's feet;
Whose harmony wild-warbling hails the morn,
And plaintive orisons mourn close of day.
Sweeter the matin of the soaring lark,
The mellow blackbird's evening call of love,
Or philomela's dirge, when all is hush'd,
Than the fam'd organ's hoarsely-swelling note,
Or labour'd concert, clamorously loud.
When Folly's sons are reeling home to rest,
And sleepless anguish shrinks at day's broad glare,
Oft let me trace the dewy meads, to hear
The woodland choir give welcome to the sun,
And bid the shepherd quit his humble bed
To tend his fleecy care. Ah, happy state!
Far from each vice that haunts the polish'd town!
Tho' shut in lowly hut by Winter's breath,
Pensive he thro' his tatter'd casement views
The pendent icicles hang from his roof,
The dreary prospect of his whiten'd fields,
The frowning mountains and the leafless trees,
Or hears the wind hoarse murm'ring thro' the vale,
Whirling the flaky snow in furious blasts,
Yet say, ye gay deck'd sons of Pride and Wealth,
Ye vaunting nothings of life's summer day,
Who heed not struggling Merit's modest pray'r,
Merit that, unprotected, blooms and dies;
Who spurn at humble Poverty's hard fare,
And think that Honesty is but a name;
Say what true joys doth life to you afford?
Alas! tho' pamp'ring Lux'ry on you waits,
'Tis but too oft a daily scene of vice:
Heedless you hurry on a short career
Down the steep precipice that leads to ruin,
Not daring to reflect on what is past.
How strange that man should careless risk his all,
Both in this world and that which is to come,
For a self-fancied shadow fools call Pleasure!
Just view the peaceful shepherd on the plain;
See ruddy health adorn his cheerful face;
Hear him contented tune his past'ral pipe,
Or sing his artless ditties of fond love;
Then say, can all the grandeur of the east,
For which e'en monarchs wade thro' seas of blood,
And sink in desolation peopled states,
Buy half the happiness he still enjoys?
Few cares his tranquil bosom e'er invade;
Contentment, sweet companion, cheers his days,
And Peace his humble pillow guards by night.
No guilty pangs disturb his noon-tide rest,
When stretch'd beneath the hawthorn shade he lies,
Unknown to him is Vice, accurs'd lamia,
That, cover'd by weak Fashion's gaudy mask,
Lures the unwary wand'rer from his path!
His dog the constant comrade of each hour:
Fond, faithful animal! how much unlike
Deceitful man, who boasts of Reason's laws,
Yet offers friendship only to betray!
The artless shepherd, far from Pride's gay seat,
Industrious follows Virtue's golden rule;
And, cheer'd by meek Religion's brightning rays,
Still scorns whate'er he thinks degrades his name.
In notes melodious; whilst along the woods
Echo returns the heart-enliv'ning lays.
No music soothes like yours the listning ear,
Ye minstrels gay, whose care-beguiling songs
So oft arrest the wearied traveller's feet;
Whose harmony wild-warbling hails the morn,
And plaintive orisons mourn close of day.
Sweeter the matin of the soaring lark,
The mellow blackbird's evening call of love,
Or philomela's dirge, when all is hush'd,
Than the fam'd organ's hoarsely-swelling note,
43
When Folly's sons are reeling home to rest,
And sleepless anguish shrinks at day's broad glare,
Oft let me trace the dewy meads, to hear
The woodland choir give welcome to the sun,
And bid the shepherd quit his humble bed
To tend his fleecy care. Ah, happy state!
Far from each vice that haunts the polish'd town!
Tho' shut in lowly hut by Winter's breath,
Pensive he thro' his tatter'd casement views
The pendent icicles hang from his roof,
The dreary prospect of his whiten'd fields,
The frowning mountains and the leafless trees,
Or hears the wind hoarse murm'ring thro' the vale,
Whirling the flaky snow in furious blasts,
Yet say, ye gay deck'd sons of Pride and Wealth,
Ye vaunting nothings of life's summer day,
Who heed not struggling Merit's modest pray'r,
Merit that, unprotected, blooms and dies;
Who spurn at humble Poverty's hard fare,
44
Say what true joys doth life to you afford?
Alas! tho' pamp'ring Lux'ry on you waits,
'Tis but too oft a daily scene of vice:
Heedless you hurry on a short career
Down the steep precipice that leads to ruin,
Not daring to reflect on what is past.
How strange that man should careless risk his all,
Both in this world and that which is to come,
For a self-fancied shadow fools call Pleasure!
Just view the peaceful shepherd on the plain;
See ruddy health adorn his cheerful face;
Hear him contented tune his past'ral pipe,
Or sing his artless ditties of fond love;
Then say, can all the grandeur of the east,
For which e'en monarchs wade thro' seas of blood,
And sink in desolation peopled states,
Buy half the happiness he still enjoys?
Few cares his tranquil bosom e'er invade;
Contentment, sweet companion, cheers his days,
45
No guilty pangs disturb his noon-tide rest,
When stretch'd beneath the hawthorn shade he lies,
Unknown to him is Vice, accurs'd lamia,
That, cover'd by weak Fashion's gaudy mask,
Lures the unwary wand'rer from his path!
His dog the constant comrade of each hour:
Fond, faithful animal! how much unlike
Deceitful man, who boasts of Reason's laws,
Yet offers friendship only to betray!
The artless shepherd, far from Pride's gay seat,
Industrious follows Virtue's golden rule;
And, cheer'd by meek Religion's brightning rays,
Still scorns whate'er he thinks degrades his name.
46
Transported now the pencill'd artist sees
The landscape smile around. Each forest scene
Wears a new robe that youthful fancy aids.
Transported now Orlando loves to roam,
What time the sun, with animating glow,
Steals down the saffron'd west, his fainting rays
Cheq'ring with various tints the sloping wood;
Led by the murm'ring of the gilded stream
To seek the grove thick shaded o'er with trees,
The moss-grown bank, or unfrequented glade,
Where, far from riot or tumultuous noise,
He follows Nature in her wildest haunts;
She who first taught him, with a mother's care,
To taste of joys that never fail to please;
She who first taught his infant steps to bend
Tow'rds Wisdom's flow'ry, unfrequented path,
Where all is sweet retirement, peace, and love.
Inspir'd by her, he copies oft the scene
Where beauties picturesque can charm the mind;
Inspir'd by her, he sings fair Virtue's praise
In numbers tuneful, or the pow'r of love,
And woos with her the wood-nymph Solitude.
The landscape smile around. Each forest scene
Wears a new robe that youthful fancy aids.
Transported now Orlando loves to roam,
What time the sun, with animating glow,
Steals down the saffron'd west, his fainting rays
Cheq'ring with various tints the sloping wood;
Led by the murm'ring of the gilded stream
To seek the grove thick shaded o'er with trees,
The moss-grown bank, or unfrequented glade,
Where, far from riot or tumultuous noise,
He follows Nature in her wildest haunts;
She who first taught him, with a mother's care,
To taste of joys that never fail to please;
She who first taught his infant steps to bend
Tow'rds Wisdom's flow'ry, unfrequented path,
Where all is sweet retirement, peace, and love.
Inspir'd by her, he copies oft the scene
Where beauties picturesque can charm the mind;
Inspir'd by her, he sings fair Virtue's praise
47
And woos with her the wood-nymph Solitude.
Now the expanding mind, that, like a flow'r
Half open'd by the cheering rays of spring,
Tires with the fancied pleasures of the town,
Where Virtue, timid as the harmless hare,
Is close pursu'd by Slander's yelping pack;
Where haggard Vice reigns with despotic sway,
Fell Envy, Pride, and Folly in her train.
The calm contemplatist still loves to dwell
Secluded from the town's mistaken joys,
And seeks Contentment in the rural shade,
Where Nature smiles around in varied hues;
For what can more delight the busy eye,
Or fill with greater joy the anxious mind,
Than to behold the landscape spread around,
In liveliest colours dress'd—vast sight sublime!
The sloping hills by tow'ring trees o'erarch'd;
The verdant meads with gayest flow'rs bedeck'd,
The fields of rising grain, transporting sight!
When waving by the Evening's gentle breeze—
A plenteous prospect for the ploughman's toil.
What are th'encircling columns, splendid domes,
Of glitt'ring palaces, or halls of state,
The costly mansion, the gay lordling's pride,
The labour'd grottos, or the mazy walks
Of gardens tame, dispos'd by feeble Art,
Where man, presumptuous, Nature would excel!
Compare them with the peasant's ivy'd cot,
But form'd a friendly shelter to afford
From beating rains and Winter's piercing breath.
Tho' haughty Grandeur scorns his humble roof,
And wond'ring Folly flies from Virtue's seat,
Yet honest Industry calls him her own;
And, Grandeur, Folly, and Ambition, know,
'Tis by his hardy toil and sweating brow
That you support a life of affluence,
Of luxury, and self-devouring Sloth.
Tho' for his board the clust'ring grape ne'er yields
Its juice luxurious; yet his cattle give
The wholesome, boasted beverage of man,
Priz'd ere the cultur'd vine had pow'r to steal
From him his reason. Tho' before his gate
No artful fountains, deck'd with sculptur'd nymphs,
Afford him water; still the neighb'ring springs
Salute his ear, as from the rugged clifts,
Or summits of the rocks, they murm'ring fall
In loud cascades: he sees them rivulets form,
Laving their osier'd banks from steep to steep,
In soft meanders gliding thro' the vale:—
Nature, great mistress, forms the peasant's walks,
His groves umbrageous, and his cool retreats,
That Art presumes in vain to imitate.
Half open'd by the cheering rays of spring,
Tires with the fancied pleasures of the town,
Where Virtue, timid as the harmless hare,
Is close pursu'd by Slander's yelping pack;
Where haggard Vice reigns with despotic sway,
Fell Envy, Pride, and Folly in her train.
The calm contemplatist still loves to dwell
Secluded from the town's mistaken joys,
And seeks Contentment in the rural shade,
Where Nature smiles around in varied hues;
For what can more delight the busy eye,
Or fill with greater joy the anxious mind,
Than to behold the landscape spread around,
In liveliest colours dress'd—vast sight sublime!
The sloping hills by tow'ring trees o'erarch'd;
The verdant meads with gayest flow'rs bedeck'd,
48
When waving by the Evening's gentle breeze—
A plenteous prospect for the ploughman's toil.
What are th'encircling columns, splendid domes,
Of glitt'ring palaces, or halls of state,
The costly mansion, the gay lordling's pride,
The labour'd grottos, or the mazy walks
Of gardens tame, dispos'd by feeble Art,
Where man, presumptuous, Nature would excel!
Compare them with the peasant's ivy'd cot,
But form'd a friendly shelter to afford
From beating rains and Winter's piercing breath.
Tho' haughty Grandeur scorns his humble roof,
And wond'ring Folly flies from Virtue's seat,
Yet honest Industry calls him her own;
And, Grandeur, Folly, and Ambition, know,
'Tis by his hardy toil and sweating brow
That you support a life of affluence,
Of luxury, and self-devouring Sloth.
Tho' for his board the clust'ring grape ne'er yields
49
The wholesome, boasted beverage of man,
Priz'd ere the cultur'd vine had pow'r to steal
From him his reason. Tho' before his gate
No artful fountains, deck'd with sculptur'd nymphs,
Afford him water; still the neighb'ring springs
Salute his ear, as from the rugged clifts,
Or summits of the rocks, they murm'ring fall
In loud cascades: he sees them rivulets form,
Laving their osier'd banks from steep to steep,
In soft meanders gliding thro' the vale:—
Nature, great mistress, forms the peasant's walks,
His groves umbrageous, and his cool retreats,
That Art presumes in vain to imitate.
50
ODE TO CONTENT.
Content, thou mild and cheerful guest,
Gay sunshine of the human breast,
Why dost thou fly this humble shed,
And leave me mourning pleasures fled?
When Youth enjoy'd his faery reign,
And Sorrow trac'd my steps in vain,
Then I life's glitt'ring prospect view'd,
And Virtue sought among the crowd,
Nor dreamt that she, coy maid, would dwell
In cottage lowly near the silent dell.
Gay sunshine of the human breast,
Why dost thou fly this humble shed,
And leave me mourning pleasures fled?
When Youth enjoy'd his faery reign,
And Sorrow trac'd my steps in vain,
Then I life's glitt'ring prospect view'd,
And Virtue sought among the crowd,
Nor dreamt that she, coy maid, would dwell
In cottage lowly near the silent dell.
Companion of life's joyous hours,
With thee I sought the peaceful bowers,
When Summer bade her flow'rets bloom,
And hawthorns lent a rich perfume:
On Eden's mazy banks we stray'd,
And Nature's various scenes survey'd;
The scatter'd hamlets, winding vales;
The straying flocks, the verdant dales;
The lucid stream that roll'd along
Responsive to the blackbird's evening song:
With thee I sought the peaceful bowers,
When Summer bade her flow'rets bloom,
And hawthorns lent a rich perfume:
On Eden's mazy banks we stray'd,
And Nature's various scenes survey'd;
51
The straying flocks, the verdant dales;
The lucid stream that roll'd along
Responsive to the blackbird's evening song:
But now the sportive hours are flown,
And I no more thy influence own;
The prospects that could once delight
Have vanish'd from my longing sight,
And left me wand'ring 'mid the storm,
My course scarce able to perform.
Ah, life of life! thy loss I mourn,
But dare not hope thy sweet return;
For oft Reflection tells this truth,
That gay Content is but the friend of youth.
And I no more thy influence own;
The prospects that could once delight
Have vanish'd from my longing sight,
And left me wand'ring 'mid the storm,
My course scarce able to perform.
Ah, life of life! thy loss I mourn,
But dare not hope thy sweet return;
For oft Reflection tells this truth,
That gay Content is but the friend of youth.
52
EVENING,
OR THE SHEPHERDS.
The village bell proclaim'd to Labour rest;
The parting sun reel'd down the saffron'd west;
His mild rays gleaming softly ting'd the wood,
And lightly sported with the silver flood;
Hush'd was the grove that late was heard so gay,
Save from the brake the blackbird's evening lay;
All, all was silent in the winding vale,
Save Eden's murmurs borne along the gale;
When, on a moss-clad bank with poplars crown'd,
Where the pale primrose shed its sweets around,
Love led two youthful shepherds to the shade,
And listning Echo heard the plaints they made.
COLLIN.The parting sun reel'd down the saffron'd west;
His mild rays gleaming softly ting'd the wood,
And lightly sported with the silver flood;
Hush'd was the grove that late was heard so gay,
Save from the brake the blackbird's evening lay;
All, all was silent in the winding vale,
Save Eden's murmurs borne along the gale;
When, on a moss-clad bank with poplars crown'd,
Where the pale primrose shed its sweets around,
Love led two youthful shepherds to the shade,
And listning Echo heard the plaints they made.
Behind yon hill, where stands the aged oak
That seems to scorn the hardy woodman's stroke;
53
And Peace, Content, and Innocence do dwell;
Where oft at dawn, beneath the willow-tree,
Health, roseate Health, convenes her gay levee;
From Riot safe, and all the false-nam'd joys
Of Vice, that timid Virtue oft destroys,
There Anna blooms, fair as th'half-open'd flow'r
That yields its fragrance from the thick-wov'n bow'r.
EDWY.
Yon distant pines that meet my tear-dimm'd eyes,
Above whose tops the smoky columns rise,
Shield a lone cottage from the bitter north—
There dwells my Emma, artless maid of worth,
Fairer than fairest blossoms on the thorn;
Sweet as the light-wing'd zephyrs of the morn.
E'en now methinks I hear her in the vale
Sing blithe, as homeward tripping with her pail;
And, ah! who knows but some lov'd, happier youth
Hears Emma's vows, nor doubts her love and truth.
54
Long ere this bosom felt the pangs of love,
With Anna oft I saunter'd in the grove,
Or pluck'd the fairest wild flow'rs on the heath,
Proud if for her I form'd the gayest wreath.
In spring the linnet's tender brood we sought,
And heard with pleasure each wild warbler's note.
Ah, happy hours! when nought but joy we knew,
And Hope still promis'd what fond Fancy drew!
EDWY.
Full sixteen summers, Collin, have I seen,
And few like me could foot it on the green;
But now of peace bereft by Emma's eyes,
No more the sprightly village dance I prize.
Tho' shepherds all admir'd my artless lays,
That ne'er were tun'd but in my fair one's praise,
The pipe which oft beguil'd the tedious night
Is broke; for music now yields no delight,
Since Emma, heedless of the pensive strain,
Laughs at his love, nor pities Edwy's pain.
55
Tho' few the acres, Edwy, I can boast,
And by the murrain half my kine were lost;
Tho' Wealth may scorn and fly my humble cot;
Yet Wealth the peaceful shepherd envies not:
All, all I ask'd my Anna's smile could give—
With her 'twere happiness on earth to live;
But, from her, life seems fraught with every care,
For absence only adds to keen despair.
Still active Fancy fondly loves to trace
Her charms attractive and her matchless face.
Sweet to the lark the first appraoch of morn;
Sweet to the ploughman fields of rising corn;
Sweet is the woodbine to th'industrious bee;
But sweeter far is Anna's smile to me.
EDWY.
As late upon yon osier'd bank I stood,
My image viewing in the chrystal flood,
Alas! I cried, can Emma prove untrue!
Then sighing bade the weary world adieu.
56
And from the dang'rous brink I turn'd away,
Vowing no more to think of Emma's charms—
Still tyrant Love this panting bosom warms.
Tho' oft I strive to triumph o'er my pain,
Soon, soon, alas! the smart returns again.
COLLIN.
A lambkin late, the fav'rite of my fair,
Ah, envied lot! my Anna's constant care,
As browsing where yon oak nods o'er the steep,
Fell from the precipice into the deep;
Sudden I plung'd amid the chrystal tide,
And with her tender youngling gain'd the side:
Rejoic'd the trembling wand'rer she caress'd,
While I, unheeded, many a sigh repress'd.
EDWY.
In vain I seek my Emma in the bower,
Where oft was spent the happy noon-tide hour;
57
And say, the sportive hours of love are fled;
Silence now reigns where Mirth once lov'd to dwell,
And each carv'd tree some faithless vow doth tell:
Oft on her much-lov'd name I fondly gaze—
Ah! rude memorial of life's joyous days!
COLLIN.
In vain around me cheerful linnets sing;
Unheeded now the blooming flow'rets spring:
To the dark dell in pensive mood I fly,
Where nought but Echo hears my rending sigh.
Ah! soon some bard, whose strains can well impart
A tale of sadness to the lover's heart,
Shall weep to tell the cause of Collin's woe,
As pointing to the stone where I'm laid low.
EDWY.
Night bids us quick depart, my mournful friend,
For all around her chilling dews descend:
58
And Evening tells the swain his task is done,
Let's hither fly—but now, spite of our woes,
Seek—what the love-lorn shepherd seldom knows.
ODE TO CARE.
Why, Care, art thou still hov'ring here,
Thou keen disturber of my breast,
Whose cot Ambition comes not near,
Nor gay-deck'd Pride, that haughty guest?
Life would be life, were't not for thee—
Begone, tormentor, far from me!
Thou keen disturber of my breast,
Whose cot Ambition comes not near,
Nor gay-deck'd Pride, that haughty guest?
Life would be life, were't not for thee—
Begone, tormentor, far from me!
Go visit wild Ambition's court,
Where man is basely bought and sold;
Or to the miser's hut resort,
And mark him bending o'er his gold;
Or seek yon stately marbl'd hall,
Where thoughtless Pleasure holds her ball.
Where man is basely bought and sold;
Or to the miser's hut resort,
And mark him bending o'er his gold;
Or seek yon stately marbl'd hall,
Where thoughtless Pleasure holds her ball.
59
I envy not the great their wealth,
Nor will I bow to Fashion's slave;
Friendship, Freedom, Peace, and Health—
These, these awhile are all I crave:
And but for thee, thou canker Care,
These choicest blessings might I share.
Nor will I bow to Fashion's slave;
Friendship, Freedom, Peace, and Health—
These, these awhile are all I crave:
And but for thee, thou canker Care,
These choicest blessings might I share.
60
LINES UPON VISITING CORBY,
THE SEAT OF HENRY HOWARD, ESQ.
The pleasant seat, the ruin'd tow'r,
The naked rock, the shady bow'r;
The town and village, dome and farm;
Each give each a double charm,
Like pearls upon an Ethiop's arm.
Dyer.
The naked rock, the shady bow'r;
The town and village, dome and farm;
Each give each a double charm,
Like pearls upon an Ethiop's arm.
Dyer.
Ye few who court the sylvan shade,
The moss-clad hill, the deep cascade;
The hanging wood, enamell'd grove,
The hollow rock, sweet scene of love!
Where Echo many a sighing tale
Bears soft upon the balmy gale;
To you I give the artless lay,
Who Nature's wildness pleas'd survey.
Around the birds are heard to sing;
Around the flow'rs are seen to spring,
Whose sweets the ambient air perfume,
And each its neighbour mocks in bloom.
Its blossoms fair the hedge-row bears;
Its countless shades the forest wears.
The ivy'd oaks their branches spread;
The fragrant woodbine hangs its head,
Creeping around the rude-wov'n bow'r,
Or near the time-rent mould'ring tow'r.
How gay appears each distant scene,
Where scatter'd hamlets intervene;
And winding vales and verdant hills
The pensive breast with transport fills.
Here rev'ling Mab, the faery queen,
By wond'ring villagers is seen,
In harmless gambols on the green,
Attended by her sportive train,
When Cynthia gilds the dewy plain;
Or tripping round the spangl'd thorn,
Till banish'd by th'approach of morn.
Here bubbling springs, in sadd'ning sound,
Steal o'er the bank with poplars crown'd,
Where silver Eden glides along,
Responsive to the woodlark's song;
And, near the rugged rocky steep,
The Naiads sport upon the deep;
While on the shore, with watchful eye,
Attentive to his well-shap'd fly,
The angler snares the silv'ry fry.
The moss-clad hill, the deep cascade;
The hanging wood, enamell'd grove,
The hollow rock, sweet scene of love!
Where Echo many a sighing tale
Bears soft upon the balmy gale;
To you I give the artless lay,
Who Nature's wildness pleas'd survey.
61
Around the flow'rs are seen to spring,
Whose sweets the ambient air perfume,
And each its neighbour mocks in bloom.
Its blossoms fair the hedge-row bears;
Its countless shades the forest wears.
The ivy'd oaks their branches spread;
The fragrant woodbine hangs its head,
Creeping around the rude-wov'n bow'r,
Or near the time-rent mould'ring tow'r.
How gay appears each distant scene,
Where scatter'd hamlets intervene;
And winding vales and verdant hills
The pensive breast with transport fills.
Here rev'ling Mab, the faery queen,
By wond'ring villagers is seen,
In harmless gambols on the green,
Attended by her sportive train,
When Cynthia gilds the dewy plain;
Or tripping round the spangl'd thorn,
Till banish'd by th'approach of morn.
62
Steal o'er the bank with poplars crown'd,
Where silver Eden glides along,
Responsive to the woodlark's song;
And, near the rugged rocky steep,
The Naiads sport upon the deep;
While on the shore, with watchful eye,
Attentive to his well-shap'd fly,
The angler snares the silv'ry fry.
Tho' some pursue the pomp of courts,
Or seek delusive Pleasure's sports:
In wand'ring o'er her mazy round,
Content, alas! is seldom found;
But oft her paths the feet betray
That venture on her thorny way,
And man too late perceives the snare,
When fall'n a prey to cank'ring Care.
Here, free from busy scenes of strife,
True joys attend the rural life.
Then ye who would these pleasures share,
To Corby's lone retreats repair,
For Peace and Virtue wait you there.
Or seek delusive Pleasure's sports:
In wand'ring o'er her mazy round,
Content, alas! is seldom found;
But oft her paths the feet betray
That venture on her thorny way,
And man too late perceives the snare,
When fall'n a prey to cank'ring Care.
Here, free from busy scenes of strife,
True joys attend the rural life.
63
To Corby's lone retreats repair,
For Peace and Virtue wait you there.
Let others praise the Leasowes' plains,
Where Shenstone tun'd his love-lorn strains—
Strains to the pensive bosom dear,
That claim the tribute of a tear:—
Yet, tho' he sung of groves and bow'rs;
Of winding paths bestrewn with flow'rs;
Of murm'ring streamlets, echoing glades,
Woods, lawns, and minstrel-haunted shades;
His lambkins sporting near the brook,
His garland, pipe, or shepherd's crook;
'Twas Art and Fancy brought to view,
What Nature here presents to you.
Where Shenstone tun'd his love-lorn strains—
Strains to the pensive bosom dear,
That claim the tribute of a tear:—
Yet, tho' he sung of groves and bow'rs;
Of winding paths bestrewn with flow'rs;
Of murm'ring streamlets, echoing glades,
Woods, lawns, and minstrel-haunted shades;
His lambkins sporting near the brook,
His garland, pipe, or shepherd's crook;
'Twas Art and Fancy brought to view,
What Nature here presents to you.
64
HYMN, WRITTEN SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 11, 1798.
To thee what praises can I give,
Thou great Creator, Lord of all,
Whose goodness 'tis that man shall live,
Whose will it is that man shall fall.
Thou great Creator, Lord of all,
Whose goodness 'tis that man shall live,
Whose will it is that man shall fall.
Around where'er I cast mine eyes,
They pleas'd behold thy works divine;
My daily wants thy hand supplies—
Then, O! what praises, Lord, are thine,
They pleas'd behold thy works divine;
My daily wants thy hand supplies—
Then, O! what praises, Lord, are thine,
Whose heav'nly light the soul can cheer,
When earthly sorrows on me press;
Whose voice is to the sinner dear,
And makes his pond'rous load seem less.
When earthly sorrows on me press;
Whose voice is to the sinner dear,
And makes his pond'rous load seem less.
65
Since life, O Lord, is but a span,
And soon we mingle with the dust;
Since thine's the power, how blest is man
Who in such goodness puts his trust.
And soon we mingle with the dust;
Since thine's the power, how blest is man
Who in such goodness puts his trust.
Why doth weak mortals weep at fate,
Why murmur at thy holy will;
Thy servant, whatsoe'er my state,
Teach me to be contended still.
Why murmur at thy holy will;
Thy servant, whatsoe'er my state,
Teach me to be contended still.
Keep me from Vice and all her train,
Who seem forgetful of thy word;
Keep me from Pride and Grandeur vain,
And may each hour be thine, O Lord.
Who seem forgetful of thy word;
Keep me from Pride and Grandeur vain,
And may each hour be thine, O Lord.
Forgive me if I chance to stray,
And let me to thy path return;
There guide me in thy holy way,
Till life's short taper cease to burn.
And let me to thy path return;
There guide me in thy holy way,
Till life's short taper cease to burn.
66
THE JOURNEY OF LIFE.
As we journey thro' life, often tost to and fro,Nurs'd by Hope, at each phantom we catch as we go,
And the prospects around us enraptur'd we view,
Till they vanish, as shrinks from the sun-beams the dew:
On the soft lap of Pleasure awhile we are borne;
Yet, in seizing the rose, are oft pierc'd by its thorn.
Ah! how thoughtless is man, who pursues a false glare,
That soon hastens his ruin, or adds to his care,
When Religion alone can life's sorrows remove,
And lead to the mansion of Pleasure above.
| Poems on various subjects | |