A collection of poems in four volumes. By several hands: [pt.3] 310 600dpi bitonal TIFF page images and SGML/XML encoded text University of Michigan Library Ann Arbor, Michigan 2008 September 004876766 T116245 CW112092927 K093079.003 CW3311995748 ECLL 0376600103

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 A collection of poems in four volumes. By several hands Pearch, G. [The second edition]. 4v. ; 8⁰. printed for G. Pearch, London : 1770. Edited by George Pearch; a supplement to the collection edited by Robert Dodsley under the same title, first published in 1748. Edition statement from the half-titles of vols.1 and 2. Horizontal chain lines. Reproduction of original from the British Library. English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT116245. Electronic data. Farmington Hills, Mich. : Thomson Gale, 2003. Page image (PNG). Digitized image of the microfilm version produced in Woodbridge, CT by Research Publications, 1982-2002 (later known as Primary Source Microfilm, an imprint of the Gale Group).

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 eng

A COLLECTION of POEMS.

VOL. III.

A COLLECTION OF POEMS IN FOUR VOLUMES.

BY SEVERAL HANDS.

LONDON: Printed for G. PEARCH, No. 12, CHEAPSIDE. MDCCLXX.

Isaac Taylor del. et sculp.

 MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS: AN ELEGY. Quod tibi vitae ſors detraxit, Fama adjiciet poſthuma laudi; Noſtris longum tu dolor et honor. BUCH. THE balmy Zephyrs o'er the woodland ſtray, And gently ſtir the boſom of the lake: The fawns that panting in the covert lay, Now thro' the bloomy park their revels take. Pale riſe the rugged hills that ſkirt the North, The wood glows yellow by the evening rays, Silent and beauteous flows the ſilver Forth, And Aman murmuring thro' the willows ſtrays. But ah! what means this ſilence in the grove, Where oft the wild-notes ſooth'd the love-ſick boy? Why ceaſe in Mary's bower the ſongs of Love, The ſongs of Love, of Innocence, and Joy? When bright the lake reflects the ſetting ray, The ſportive virgins tread the flowery green; And by the moon, full oft in chearful May, The merry bride-maids at the dance are ſeen. But who theſe Nymphs that thro' the copſe appear In robes of white adorn'd with violet blue? Fondly with purple flowers they deck yon bier, And wave in ſolemn pomp the boughs of yew. Supreme in grief, her eye confus'd with woe, Appears the Lady of th' aërial train, Tall as the ſylvan Goddeſs of the bow, And fair as ſhe who wept Adonis ſlain. Such was the pomp when Gilead's virgin band, Wandering by Judah's flowery mountains, wept, And with fair Iphis by the hallowed ſtrand Of Siloe's brook a mournful ſabbath kept. By the reſplendent croſs with thiſtles twin'd, 'Tis Mary's Guardian Genius loſt in woe: " Ah ſay, what deepeſt wrongs have thus combin'd " To heave with reſtleſs ſighs thy breaſt of ſnow! " Oh ſtay, ye Dryads, nor unfiniſh'd fly " Your ſolemn rites; here comes no foot profane: " The Muſes' ſon, and hallowed is his eye, " Implores your ſtay, implores to join the ſtrain. " See, from her cheek the glowing life-bluſh flies; " Alas, what faultering ſounds of woe be theſe! " Ye Nymphs, who fondly watch her languid eyes, " Oh ſay, what muſic will her ſoul appeaſe!" " Reſound the ſolemn dirge, the Nymphs reply, " And let the turtles moan in Mary's bower, " Let Grief indulge her grand ſublimity, " And Melancholy wake her melting power: " For Art has triumph'd; Art, that never ſtood " On Honour's ſide, or generous tranſport knew, " Has dy'd its haggard hands in Mary's blood, " And o'er her fame has breath'd its blighting dew. " But come, ye Nymphs, ye woodland Spirits, come, " And with funereal flowers your treſſes braid, " While in this hallowed grove we raiſe the tomb, " And conſecrate the ſong to Mary's ſhade. " O ſing what ſmiles her youthful morning wore, " Her's every charm, and every livelieſt grace; " When Nature's happieſt touch could add no more, " Heaven lent an angel's beauty to her face. " O! whether by the moſs grown buſhy dell, " Where from the oak depends the miſletoe, " Where creeping ivy ſhades the Druid's cell, " Where from the rock the gurgling waters flow; " Or whether ſportive o'er the cowſlip beds, " You thro' the haunted dales of Mona glide, " Or bruſh the upland lea, when Cynthia ſheds " Her ſilvery light on Snowdon's hoary ſide: " Hither, ye gentle Guardians of the Fair, " By Virtue's tears, by weeping Beauty, come; " Unbind the feſtive robes, unbind the hair, " And wave the cypreſs bough at Mary's tomb. " And come, ye fleet Magicians of the air, " The mournful Lady of the chorus cry'd, " Your airy tints of baleful hue prepare, " And thro' this grove bid Mary's fortunes glide: " And let the ſong with ſolemn harping join'd, " And wailing notes unfold the tale of woe." She ſpoke, and waking thro' the breathing wind From lyres unſeen the ſolemn harpings flow. The ſong began: "How bright her early morn! " What laſting joys her ſmiling fate portends! " To wield the awful Britiſh ſcepters born, " And Gaul's young heir her bridal-bed aſcends. " See, round her bed, light-floating on the air " The little Loves their purple wings diſplay " When ſudden, ſhrieking at the diſmal glare " Of funeral torches, far they ſpeed away. " Far with the Loves each bliſsful omen ſpeeds, " Her eighteenth April hears her widow'd moan; " The bridal bed the ſable hearſe ſucceeds, " And ſtruggling Factions ſhake her native throne. " No more a Goddeſs in the ſwimming dance " Mayſt thou, O Queen, thy lovely form diſplay; " No more thy beauty reign the charm of France, " Nor in Verſailles' proud bowers outſhine the day. " A nation ſtern and ſtubborn to command, " And now convuls'd with Faction's fierceſt rage, " Commits its ſcepter to thy gentle hand, " And aſks a bridle from thy tender age. " Domeſtic bliſs, that dear, that ſovereign joy, " Far from her hearth was ſeen to ſpeed away; " Strait dark-brow'd Factions entering in deſtroy " The ſeeds of peace, and mark her for their prey. " No more by moon-ſhine to the nuptial bower " Her Francis comes, by Love's ſoft fetters led; " Far other ſpouſe now wakes her midnight hour, " Enrag'd, and reeking from the harlot's bed. " Ah! draw the veil," ſhrill trembles thro' the air: The veil was drawn, but darker ſcenes aroſe, Another nuptial couch the Fates prepare, The baleful teeming ſource of deeper woes. The bridal torch her Evil Angel wav'd, Far from the couch offended Prudence fled; Of deepeſt crimes deceitful Faction rav'd, And rous'd her trembling from the fatal bed. The hinds are ſeen in arms, and glittering ſpears Inſtead of crooks the Grampian ſhepherds wield; Fanatic rage the plowman's viſage wears, And red with ſlaughter lies the harveſt-field. From Borthwick field, deſerted and forlorn, The beauteous Queen all tears is ſeen to fly; Now thro' the ſtreets a weeping captive borne, Her woes the triumph of the vulgar eye. Again the viſion ſhifts the fatal ſcene; Again forlorn from rebel arms ſhe flies, And unſuſpecting on a ſiſter Queen The lovely injur'd fugitive relies. When Wiſdom baffled owns th' attempt in vain, Heaven oft delights to ſet the virtuous free: Some friend appears, and breaks Affliction's chain, But ah, no generous friend appears for thee! A priſon's ghaſtly walls and grated cells Deform'd the airy ſcenery as it paſt; The haunt where liſtleſs Melancholy dwells, Where every genial feeling ſhrinks aghaſt. No female eye her ſickly bed to tendA fact.! " Ah ceaſe to tell it in the female ear! A woman's ſtern command! a proffer'd friend! " Oh generous paſſion, peace, forbear, forbear! " And could, oh Tudor, could thy breaſt retain " No ſoftening thought of what thy woes had been, " When thou, the heir of England's crown, in vain " Didſt ſue the mercy of a tyrant Queen? " And could no pang from tender memory wake, " And feel thoſe woes that once had been thine own; " No pleading tear to drop for Mary's ſake, " For Mary's ſake, the heir of England's throne? " Alas! no pleading pang thy memory knew, " Dry'd were the tears which for thyſelf had flow'd; " Dark politics alone engag'd thy view; " With female jealouſy thy boſom glow'd. " And ſay, did Wiſdom own thy ſtern command? " Did Honour wave his banner o'er the deed? " No;—Mary's fate thy name ſhall ever brand, " And ever o'er her woes ſhall Pity bleed. " The babe that prattled on his nurſe's knee, " When firſt thy woeful captive hours began, " Ere heaven, oh hapleſs Mary, ſet thee free, " That babe to battle march'd in arms a man." An awful pauſe enſues—With ſpeaking eyes, And hands half rais'd, the guardian Wood Nymphs wait, While ſlow and ſad the airy ſcenes ariſe, Stain'd with the laſt deep woes of Mary's fate. With dreary black hung round the hall appears, The thirſty ſaw-duſt ſtrews the marble floor, Blue gleams the ax, the block its ſhoulders rears, And pikes and halberts guard the iron door. The clouded moon her dreary glimpſes ſhed, And Mary's maids, a mournful train, paſs by; Languid they walk, and liſtleſs hang the head, And ſilent tears pace down from every eye. Serene and nobly mild appears the Queen, She ſmiles on heaven, and bows the injur'd head: The ax is lifted—from the deathful ſcene The Guardians turn'd, and all the picture fled: It fled: the Wood Nymphs o'er the diſtant lawn, As rapt in viſion, dart their earneſt eyes; So when the huntſman hears the ruſtling ſawn, He ſtands impatient of the ſtarting prize. The ſovereign Dame her awful eye-balls roll'd, As Cuma's maid when by the God inſpir'd; " The depths of ages to my ſight unfold," She cries, "and Mary's meed my breaſt has fir'd. " On Tudor's throne her Sons ſhall ever reign, " Age after age ſhall ſee their flag unfurl'd, " With ſovereign pride, where-ever roars the main, " Stream to the wind, and awe the trembling world. " Nor in their Britain ſhall they reign alone, " Age after age through lengthening time ſhall ſee " Her branching race on Europe's every throne, " And Goths and Vandals bend to them the knee. " But Tudor as a fruitleſs gourd ſhall die; " I ſee her death-ſcene—On the lowly flore " Dreary ſhe ſits, cold Grief has glaſs'd her eye, " And Anguiſh gnaws her till ſhe breathes no more. But hark—loud howling thro' the midnight gloom, Faction is rous'd, and ſends her baleful yell! Oh ſave, ye generous few, your Mary's tomb, Oh ſave her aſhes from the blaſting ſpell: " And ſee where Time with brighten'd face ſerene, " Points to yon far, but gloricus opening ſky; " See Truth walk forth, majeſtic awful Queen, " And Party's blackening miſts before her fly. " Falſhood unmaſk'd withdraws her ugly train, " And Mary's virtues all illuſtrious ſhine— " Yes, thou haſt friends, the godlike and humane " Of lateſt ages, injur'd Queen, are thine." The milky ſplendors of the dawning ray Now thro' the grove a trembling radiance ſhed, With ſprightly note the wood-lark hail'd the day, And with the moonſhine all the viſion fledThe Author of this little Poem to the memory of an unhappy Princeſs is unwilling to enter into the controverſy reſpecting her guilt or her innocence. Suffice it only to obſerve, that the following facts may be proved to demonſtration: The Letters, which have been always eſteemed as the principal proof of Queen Mary's guilt, are forged: Buchanan, on whoſe authority Thuanus and other hiſtorians have condemned her, has falſified ſeveral circumſtances of her hiſtory, and has cited againſt her public records which never exiſted: And, to add no more; The treatment ſhe received from her illuſtrious Couſin was dictated by a policy truly Machiavelian, which trampled on the obligations of Honour, of Humanity, and Morality. From whence it may be inferred, That, to expreſs the indignation at the cruel treatment of Mary which Hiſtory muſt ever inſpire, and to drop a tear on her ſufferings, is not unworthy of a writer who would appear in the cauſe of Virtue..
HENGIST AND MEY: A BALLAD. BY THE AUTHOR OF THE CONCUBINE. Haec novimus eſſe nihil. IN antient days, when Arthur reign'd, Sir Elmer had no peer! And no young knight in all the land The ladies lov'd ſo dear. His ſiſter Mey, the faireſt maid Of all the virgin train, Won every heart at Arthur's court, But all their love was vain. In vain they lov'd, in vain they vow'd, Her heart they could not move: Yet at the evening hour of prayer Her mind was loſt in love. The Abbeſs ſaw, the Abbeſs knew, And urg'd her to explain; " O name the gentle youth to me, " And his conſent I'll gain." Long urg'd, long vext, fair Mey reply'd, " His name how can I ſay? " An angel from the fields above " Has rapt my heart away. " But once, alas, and never more, " His lovely form I ſpied, " One evening by the ſounding ſhore, " All by the greenwood ſide: " His eyes to mine the love confeſt, " That glow'd with mildeſt grace: " His courtly mien and purple veſt " Beſpoke his princely race. " But when he heard my brother's horn " Faſt to his ſhips he fled: " Yet while I ſleep his graceful form " Still hovers round my bed. " Sometimes all clad in armour bright, " He ſhakes a warlike lance; " And now in courtly garments dight, " He leads the ſprightly dance, " His hair is black as raven's wing, " His ſkin as Chriſtmas ſnow, " His cheeks outvie the bluſh of morn, " His lips like roſe-buds glow. " His limbs, his arms, his ſtature, ſhap'd " By Nature's fineſt hand; " His ſparkling eyes declare him born " To love and to command." The live-long year fair Mey bemoan'd Her hopeleſs pining love: But when the balmy Spring return'd, And Summer cloath'd the grove; All round by pleaſant Humber ſide The Saxon banners flew, And to Sir Elmer's caſtle gates The ſpear-men came in view. Fair bluſh'd the morn when Mey look'd o'er The caſtle-wall ſo ſheen; And, lo, the warlike Saxon youth Were ſporting on the green. There Hengiſt, Offa's eldeſt ſon, Lean'd on his burniſh'd lance, And all the armed youth around Obey'd his manly glance. His locks as black as raven's wing Adown his ſhoulders flow'd, His cheeks outvied the bluſh of morn, His lips like roſe-buds glow'd, And ſoon the lovely form of Mey Has caught his piercing eyes: He gives the ſign, his bands retire, While big with love he ſighs, " Oh thou, for whom I dar'd the ſeas, " And come with peace or war; " Oh, by that croſs that veils thy breaſt, " Relieve thy Lover's care! " For thee I'll quit my father's throne, " With thee the wilds explore; " Or with thee ſhare the Britiſh crown, " With thee the Croſs adore." Beneath the timorous virgin bluſh, With love's ſoft warmth ſhe glows: So bluſhing thro' the dews of morn Appears the opening roſe. 'Twas now the hour of morning prayer, When men their ſins bewail, That Elmer heard king Arthur's horn Shrill ſounding thro' the dale. The pearly tears from Mey's bright eyes Like April dew drops fell, When with a parting dear embrace Her brother bade farewell. The croſs with ſparkling diamonds bright That veil'd her ſnowy breaſt, With prayers to heaven, her lily hands Have fixt on Elmer's veſt. Now with five-hundred bow-men true He's march'd acroſs the plain, Till with his gallant yeomandrie He join'd king Arthur's train. Full forty thouſand Saxon ſpears Came glittering down the hill, And with their ſhouts and clang of arms The diſtant valleys fill. Old Offa, dreſt in Odin's garb, Aſſum'd the hoary god; And Hengiſt, like the warlike Thor, Before the horſemen rode. With dreadful rage the combat burns, The captains ſhout amain; And Elmer's tall victorious ſpear Far glances o'er the plain. To ſtop its courſe young Hengiſt flew Like lightning o'er the field; And ſoon his eyes the well-known croſs On Elmer's veſt beheld. The ſlighted lover ſwell'd his breaſt, His eyes ſhot living fire, And all his martial heat before To this was mild deſire. On his imagin'd rival's ſteed With furious force he preſt, And glancing to the ſun, his ſword Reſounds on Elmer's creſt. The foe gave way, the princely youth With heedleſs rage purſu'd, Till trembling in his cloven helm Sir Elmer's javelin ſtood. He bow'd his head, ſlow dropt his ſpear, The reins ſlipt through his hand, And ſtain'd with blood, his ſtately corſe Lay breathleſs on the ſtrand. " O bear me off," Sir Elmer cried, " Before my painful ſight " The combat ſwims—Yet Hengiſt's veſt " I claim as victor's right." Brave Hengiſt's fall the Saxons ſaw, And all in terror fled. The bow-men to his caſtle gates The bold Sir Elmer led. " Oh waſh my wounds, my ſiſter dear, " O pull this Saxon dart, " That whizzing from young Hengiſt's arm " Has almoſt pierc'd my heart. " Yet in my hall his veſt ſhall hang, " And Britons yet unborn " Shall with the trophies of to-day " Their ſolemn feaſts adorn. All-trembling Mey beheld the veſt; " Oh, Merlin," loud ſhe cried, " Thy words are true—my ſlaughter'd Love " Shall have a breathleſs bride! " Oh, Elmer, Elmer, boaſt no more " That low my Hengiſt lies! " O, Hengiſt, cruel was thine arm; " My brother bleeds and dies!" She ſpake—the roſes left her cheek, And Life's warm ſpirits fled: So nipt by Winter's lingering blaſts, The Snowdrop bows the head. Yet parting life one ſtruggle gave, She lifts her languid eyes; " Return, my Hengiſt, oh return, " My ſlaughter'd love!" ſhe cries. " Oh—ſtill he lives—he ſmiles again, " With all his grace he moves: " I come—I come, where bow nor ſpear " Shall more diſturb our loves."— She ſpake—ſhe died. The Saxon dart Was drawn from Elmer's ſide; And thrice he call'd his ſiſter Mey, And thrice he groan'd, and died. Where in the dale a moſs-grown croſs O'erſhades an aged thorn, Sir Elmer's and young Hengiſt's corſe Were by the ſpearmen borne. And there all clad in robes of white, With many a ſigh and tear, The village maids to Hengiſt's grave Did Mey's fair body bear. And there at dawn and fall of day, All from the neighbouring groves, The Turtles wail in widow'd notes, And ſing their hapleſs loves.
KNOWLEDGE: AN ODE. BY THE SAME. Ducit in èrrorem variarum ambage viarum. OVID. HIGH on a hill's green boſom laid, At eaſe my careleſs Fancy ſtray'd, And o'er the landſkip ran; Review'd what ſcenes the ſeaſons ſhow, And weigh'd what ſhare of joy and woe Is doom'd to toiling Man. The nibbling flocks around me bleat, The oxen low beneath my feet Along the clover'd dale; The golden ſheaves the reapers bind, The ploughman whiſtles near behind, And breaks the new-mown vale. " Hail, Knowledge, gift of heaven! I cried; " E'en all the gifts of heaven beſide, " Compar'd to thee, how low! " The bleſſings of the earth and air " The beaſts of fold and foreſt ſhare, " But godlike Beings KNOW. " How mean the ſhort-liv'd joys of Senſe! " But how ſublime the excellence " Of Wiſdom's ſacred lore! " In Death's deep ſhades what nations lie! " Yet ſtill can Wiſdom's piercing eye " Their mighty deeds explore. " She ſees the little Spartan band, " With great Leonidas, withſtand " The Aſian world in arms; " She hears the heavenly ſounds that hung " On Homer's and on Plato's tongue, " And glows at Tully's charms. " The wonders of the ſpacious ſky " She penetrates with Newton's eye, " And marks the planets roll; " The human mind with Locke ſhe ſcans; " With Cambray Virtue's flame ſhe fans, " And lifts to heaven the ſoul. " How matter takes ten thouſand forms " Of metals, plants, of men and worms, " She joys to trace with Boyle: " This life ſhe deems an infant ſtate, " A gleam that bodes a light complete, " When done the mortal toil. " What numerous ills in life befal! " Yet Wiſdom learns to ſcorn them all, " And arms the breaſt with ſteel: " E'en Death's pale face no horror wears; " But, ah, what horrid pangs and fears " Unknowing wretches feel! " That breaſt excels proud Ophir's mines, " And fairer than the morning ſhines, " Where Wiſdom's treaſures glow; " But, ah, how void yon peaſant's mind! " His thoughts how darken'd and confin'd! " Nor cares he more to know. " The laſt two tenants of the ground, " Of antient times his hiſtory bound: " Alas, it ſcarce goes higher. " In vain to him is Maro's ſtrain, " And Shakeſpeare's magic powers in vain, " In vain is Milton's fire. " Nor ſun by day, nor ſtars by night, " Can give his ſoul the grand delight " To trace almighty power: " His team think juſt as much as he " Of Nature's vaſt variety " In animal and flower." As thus I ſung, a ſolemn ſound Accoſts mine ear; I look'd around, And, lo, an antient Sage, Hard by an ivied oak, ſtood near, That fenc'd the cave, where many a year Had been his hermitage. His mantle grey flow'd looſe behind, His ſnowy beard wav'd to the wind, And added ſolemn grace; His broad bald front gave dignity, Attention mark'd his lively eye, And peace ſmil'd in his face. He beckon'd with his wrinkled hand, My ear was all at his command; And thus the Sage began: " Godlike it is to know, I own, " But, oh, how little can be known " By poor ſhort-ſighted man! " Go mark the Schools, where letter'd Pride, " And ſtar-crown'd Science, boaſtful guide, " Diſplay their faireſt light: " There led by ſome pale meteor's ray, " That leaves them oft, the Sages ſtray, " And grope in endleſs night. " Of Wiſdom proud, yon Sage exclaims, " Virtue and Vice are merely names, " And changing every hour; " Aſhley, how loud in Virtue's praiſe! " Yet Aſhley with a kiſs betrays " And ſtrips her of her dower. " Hark, Bolingbroke his God arraigns; " Hobbs ſmiles on Vice, Deſcartes maintains: " A godleſs paſſive cauſe; " See, Bayle, oft ſlily ſhifting round, " Would fondly fix on ſceptic ground, " And wreſt th' eternal laws. " And what the joy this lore beſtows? " Alas, no joy, no hope it knows " Above what Brutes may claim: " To quench our nobleſt native fire, " That bids to nobler worlds aſpire, " Is all its hope, its aim. " Not Afric's wilds, nor Babel's waſte, " Where Ignorance her tents hath plac'd, " More diſmal ſcene diſplay: " A ſcene, where Virtue ſickening dies, " Where Vice to dark extinction flies, " And ſcorns the future day. " Wiſdom you boaſt to you is given: " At night then mark the fires of heaven, " And let thy mind explore; " Swift as the lightning let it fly " From ſtar to ſtar, from ſky to ſky, " Still, ſtill are millions more. " Th' immenſe ideas ſtrike the ſoul " With pleaſing horror, and controul " Thy Wiſdom's empty boaſt. " What are they?—Thou canſt never ſay: " Then ſilent adoration pay, " And be in wonder loſt. " Say, how the ſelf-ſame roots produce " The wholeſome food, and poiſonous juice, " And adders balſams yield: " How fierce the lurking tyger glares, " How mild the heifer with thee ſhares " The labours of the field? " Why growling to his den retires " The ſullen pard, while joy inſpires " Yon happy ſportive lambs? " Now ſcatter'd o'er the hill they ſtray, " Now, weary of their gambling play, " All • ingle out their dams. " Inſtinct directs—But what is That? " Fond man, thou never canſt ſay What: " Far ſhort thy ſearches fall. " By ſtumbling chance, and ſlow degrees, " The uſeful arts of men increaſe, " But this at once is all. " A trunk firſt floats along the deep, " Long ages ſtill improve the ſhip, " Till ſhe commands the ſhore: " But never bird improv'd her neſt, " Each all at once of powers poſſeſt, " Which ne'er can riſe to more. " That down the ſteep the waters flow, " That weight deſcends we ſee, and know; " But why, can ne'er explain. " Then humbly weighing Nature's laws, " To God's high will aſcribe the cauſe, " And own thy wiſdom vain. " For ſtill the more thou knoweſt, the more " Shalt thou the vanity deplore " Of all thy ſoul can find: " This life a ſickly woful dream, " A burial of the ſoul will ſeem, " A palſy of the mind. " Tho' Knowledge ſcorns the peaſant's fear, " Alas, it points the ſecret ſpear " Of many a nameleſs woe: " Thy delicacy dips the dart " In rankling gall, and gives a ſmart " Beyond what he can know. " How happy then the ſimple mind " Of yon unknowing labouring hind, " Where all is ſmiling peace! " No thoughts of more exalted joy " His preſent bliſs one hour deſtroy, " Nor rob one moment's eaſe. " The ſtings neglected Merit feels, " The pangs the virtuous ſoul conceals, " When cruſh'd by wayward fate; " Theſe are not found below his roof, " Againſt them all ſecurely proof, " Heaven guards his humble ſtate. " Knowledge or wealth to few are given; " But, mark how juſt the ways of heaven! " True joy to all is free: " Nor Wealth nor Knowledge grant the boon, " 'Tis thine, O Virtue, thine alone, " It all belongs to thee, " With thee—how bleſt the Shepherd lives! " Gay is his morn, his evening gives " Content and ſweet repoſe. " Without thee—ever, ever cloy'd, " To ſage, or chief, one weary void " Is all that life beſtows. " Then wouldſt thou, Mortal, riſe divine? " Let innocence of ſoul be thine, " With active goodneſs join'd: " Thy heart ſhall then confeſs thee bleſt, " And, ever lively, joyful taſte " The pleaſures of the mind." So ſpake the Sage: my heart reply'd, " How poor, how blind is human pride! " All joy how falſe and vain, " But that from Conſcious Worth which flows, " Which triumphs in the midſt of woes, " And boaſts an endleſs reign."
POLLIOIt has been often ſaid, that Fiction is the moſt proper field for poetry. If it is always ſo, the writer of this little piece acknowledges it is a circumſtance againſt him. The following Ode was firſt ſuggeſted, and the ideas contained in it raiſed, on reviſiting the ruins and woods that had been the ſcene of his early amuſements with a deſerving brother, who died in his twenty-firſt year.: AN ELEGIAC ODE. WRITTEN IN THE WOOD NEAR R— CASTLE, 1762. BY THE SAME. Haec Jovem ſentire, Deoſque cunctos, Spem bonam certamque domum reporto. HOR. THE peaceful Evening breathes her balmy ſtore. The playful ſchool-boys wanton o'er the green; Where ſpreading poplars ſhade the cottage-door, The villagers in ruſtic joy convene. Amid the ſecret windings of the wood, With ſolemn meditation let me ſtray; This is the hour, when, to the wiſe and good, The heavenly Maid repays the toils of day. The river murmurs, and the breathing gale Whiſpers the gently waving boughs among, The ſtar of evening glimmers o'er the dale, And leads the ſilent hoſt of heaven along. How bright, emerging o'er yon broom-clad height, The ſilver empreſs of the night appears! Yon limpid pool reflects a ſtream of light, And faintly in its breaſt the woodland bears. The waters tumbling o'er their rocky bed, Solemn and conſtant, from yon dell reſound; The lonely hearths blaze o'er the diſtant glade; The bat, low-wheeling, ſkims the duſky ground. Auguſt and hoary, o'er the ſloping dale, The Gothic abbey rears its ſculptur'd towers; Dull through the roofs reſounds the whiſtling gale; Dark Solitude among the pillars lowers. Where yon old trees bend o'er a place of graves, And ſolemn ſhade a chapel's ſad remains, Where yon ſcath'd poplar through the window waves, And, twining round, the hoary arch ſuſtains; There oft, at dawn, as one forgot behind, Who longs to follow, yet unknowing where, Some hoary ſhepherd, o'er his ſtaff reclin'd, Pores on the graves, and ſighs a broken prayer. High o'er the pines, that with their darkening ſhade Surround yon craggy bank, the caſtle rears Its crumbling turrets: ſtill its towery head A warlike mien, a ſullen grandeur wears. So, midſt the ſnow of Age, a boaſtful air Still on the war-worn veteran's brow attends; Still his big bones his youthful prime declare, Tho', trembling o'er the feeble crutch, he bends. Wild round the gates the duſky wall-flowers creep, Where oft the knights the beauteous dames have led; Gone is the bower, the grot a ruin'd heap, Where bays and ivy o'er the fragments ſpread. 'Twas here our ſires exulting from the fight, Great in their bloody arms, march'd o'er the lea, Eying their reſcu'd fields with proud delight! Now loſt to them! and, ah how chang'd to me! This bank, the river, and the fanning breeze, The dear idea of my POLLIO bring; So ſhone the moon through theſe ſoft nodding trees, When here we wander'd in the eves of Spring. When April's ſmiles the flowery lawn adorn, And modeſt cowſlips deck the ſtreamlet's ſide, When fragrant orchards to the roſeate morn Unfold their bloom, in heaven's own colours dy'd; So fair a bloſſom gentle POLLIO wore, Theſe were the emblems of his healthful mind; To him the letter'd page diſplay'd its lore, To him bright Fancy all her wealth reſign'd: Him, with her pureſt flames the Muſe endow'd, Flames never to th' illiberal thought allied; The ſacred ſiſters led where Virtue glow'd In all her charms; he ſaw, he felt, and died. Oh partner of my infant griefs and joys! Big with the ſcenes now paſt my heart o'erflows, Bids each endearment, fair as once, to riſe, And dwells luxurious on her melting woes. Oft with the riſing ſun, when life was new, Along the woodland have I roam'd with Thee; Oft by the moon have bruſh'd the evening dew, When all was fearleſs innocence and glee. The ſainted well, where yon bleak hill declines, Has oft been conſcious of thoſe happy hours; But now the hill, the river crown'd with pines, And ſainted well have loſt their cheering powers. For Thou art gone—My guide, my friend, oh where, Where haſt thou fled, and left me here behind! My tendereſt wiſh, my heart to Thee was bare, Oh, now cut off each paſſage to thy mind! How dreary is the gulph, how dark, how void, The trackleſs ſhores that never were repaſt! Dread ſeparation! on the depth untry'd Hope faulters, and the ſoul recoils aghaſt. Wide round the ſpacious heavens I caſt my eyes; And ſhall theſe ſtars glow with immortal fire, Still ſhine the lifeleſs glories of the ſkies, And could thy bright, thy living ſoul expire? Far be the thought—The pleaſures moſt ſublime, The glow of friendſhip, and the virtuous tear, The towering wiſh that ſcorns the bounds of time, Chill'd in this vale of Death, but languiſh here. So plant the vine on Norway's wintery land, The languid ſtranger feebly buds, and dies: Yet there's a clime where Virtue ſhall expand With godlike ſtrength, beneath her native ſkies. The lonely ſhepherd on the mountain's ſide, With patience waits the roſy opening day; The mariner at midnight's darkſome tide, With chearful hope expects the morning ray. Thus I, on Life's ſtorm-beaten ocean toſt, In mental viſion view the happy ſhore, Where POLLIO beckons to the peaceful coaſt, Where Fate and Death divide the friends no more. Oh that ſome kind, ſome pitying kindred ſhade, Who now, perhaps, frequents this ſolemn grove, Would tell the awful ſecrets of the Dead, And from my eyes the mortal film remove! Vain is the wiſh—yet ſurely not in vain Man's boſom glows with that celeſtial fire, Which ſcorns earth's luxuries, which ſmiles at pain, And wings his ſpirit with ſublime deſire. To fan this ſpark of heaven, this ray divine, Still, oh my ſoul! ſtill be thy dear employ; Still thus to wander thro' the ſhades be thine, And ſwell thy breaſt with viſionary joy. So to the dark-brow'd wood, or ſacred mount, In antient days, the holy Seers retir'd, And, led in viſion, drank at Siloe's fount, While riſing extaſies their boſoms fir'd; Reſtor'd Creation bright before them roſe, The burning deſarts ſmil'd as Eden's plains, One friendly ſhade the wolf and lambkin choſe, The flowery mountain ſung, "Meſſiah reigns!" Tho' fainter raptures my cold breaſt inſpire, Yet, let me oft frequent this ſolemn ſcene, Oft to the abbey's ſhatter'd walls retire, What time the moonſhine dimly gleams between. There, where the croſs in hoary ruin nods, And weeping yews o'erſhade the letter'd ſtones, While midnight ſilence wraps theſe drear abodes, And ſooths me wandering o'er my kindred bones, Let kindled Fancy view the glorious morn, When from the burſting graves the juſt ſhall riſe, All Nature ſmiling, and by angels borne, Meſſiah's croſs far blazing o'er the ſkies.
EPIGRAM ADDRESSED TO THE AUTHOR OF THE NOTE ON THE FOLLOWING LINES OF POPE. " Let modeſt FOSTER, if he will, excel " Ten Metropolitans in preaching well." BY THE REV. MR. HENLEY. WHILE Wiſdom ſhines with light divine, Whate'er SCURRILITY may ſay, Good FOSTER's name ſhall ne'er decline: Then ceaſe, vain cur, the Moon to bay.
THE SHAFT. BY THE SAME. BY the ſide of the ſtream that ſtrays thro' the grove, I met, in a ramble, the blithe God of Love; His bow o'er his ſhoulder was careleſsly ty'd, His quiver in negligence clanck'd at his ſide; A handful of arrows he held to my view, Each wing'd with a feather of different hue. " This, fledg'd from the eagle, he ſmiling begun, " I aim at the heart that no dangers will ſhun; " And this from the peacock, all gaudy array'd, " The breaſt of Sir Fopling is ſure to invade. " When I aim at the prattler, who talks void of wit, " My ſhaft in the plume of a parrot will hit; " And when I've a mind that the jealous ſhould ſmart, " I pierce with an owl-feather'd arrow his heart. " For the youth, in whom truth and fondneſs reſide, " From the breaſt of a dove my dart is ſupply'd: " This I value the moſt:—'twas this that I found " From you, O my Delia, that gave me the wound."
IRIS TO PHILUS. BY THE SAME. IF ſlighted Iris can your pity move; If ſlighted Iris can recall your love; If e'er with joy you heard her ſofteſt vow, Renew the dear idea, hear her now. You once was faithful, oh the tender bliſs! The ſweet endearment, and the thrilling kiſs! Theſe witneſs'd once, when I, for ever true, Plighted my heart, a prey to love and you; And you, untainted by the vice of art, Yielded to me, in ſolemn faith, your heart. Oh ſay the cauſe, the cauſe I long to find, You dear deceitful man, why now unkind? Hath Iris for her Philus now no charms? For him no pleaſures in her vacant arms? Methinks I ſee, while torture wounds my reſt, Methinks I ſee you claſping to your breaſt Some roſy blooming maid, whoſe beating veins Throb with ſoft tumults, with extatic pains, While on her cheeks the deepening bluſhes riſe, And melting raptures ſparkle in her eyes. Such were the joys, when I, incautious maid, Too fondly truſting, was by you betray'd. Such were the joys, oh, call the ſcene to mind! When Iris yielding, all her ſoul reſign'd. Ah! then you ſwore (the accents now I hear, Your turtles, conſtant, coo them to my ear) That hoary Time, and joy-conſuming Age, The ardors of your flame ſhould ne'er aſſwage. But tho' unchang'd by age, or hoary time, You ſlight my ripen'd charms, my bluſhing prime. All fondneſs, once upon my breaſt you lay, And ſweetly ſigh'd the haſty hours away; But, ah! how chang'd my fate, forlorn I'm left, Of every kindly-ſoothing hope bereft! Whate'er was wont to court the roving eye, Now ſwells the tear, and heaves th' unbidden ſigh; Where'er I turn, all Nature's charms ſeem fled, The ſun withdrawn, the ſun-flower droops her head; Robb'd of the prop, where once ſhe fondly clung, The faded woodbine trails the earth along; Unchang'd alone the mournful yew remains, And midſt each varying blaſt its hue retains; Its leaves unchang'd, my faithleſs ſwain reprove, But, ah! they cannot teach him how to love! If e'er for her you felt the ſlighteſt care, Whoſe form, too often, you've pronounc'd moſt fair, Whene'er I die, and die, ah ſoon I muſt! Whene'er this body moulders into duſt, This only favour at your hands I crave, With mournful yews to ſhade my untimely grave: Theſe mournful yews ſhall this memorial bear, Iris lov'd Philus, and ſhe dy'd ſincere.
LOVE ELEGY. BY THE SAME. AH, cruel Delia! muſt I ſtill remain In anxious doubt? will nought your pity move? Muſt I ſtill languiſh? muſt I ſtill complain? Still are you deaf to every plea of love? A ſtranger to the odious wiles of art, The coxcomb's chatter, and the beau's grimace, I ſpoke the honeſt dictates of my heart, Nor maſk'd deceit beneath the lover's face: I never boaſted heaps of treaſur'd gold, No dirty acres ever were my theme, The ſordid wretch beneath contempt I hold, Who dares with love ſuch worthleſs trifles name. And let the fair, whom glittering duſt delights, In lieu of jointure, barter bliſs and peace; Inſipid pleaſures waſte her tedious nights, And jealous wranglings wear away her days. Not ſuch the hours, I hop'd, with you to ſhare; Not thus to tread the vulgar path of life; Such baſe, ſuch brutal joys can ne'er endear, Can ne'er inſure the fond, the tender wife. 'Tis then, O then, we feel th' inraptur'd bliſs, When loſt in ſoft confuſion, ſweetly coy, Each virgin charm glows with the melting kiſs, And Nature faints beneath th' exceſs of joy. Tho' this would cloy, if pleaſures more refin'd Forebore their influence o'er the breaſt to ſhed; Virtue alone ſecures the generous mind; She with freſh tranſport crowns the bridal bed. If words can tell, let thoſe whoſe hearts unite In virtuous love, abſolv'd from all controul, Confeſs the pleaſure, the ſublime delight, Th' extatic ſenſe of mingling ſoul with ſoul.
INSCRIPTION UNDER THE SHADE OF A LADY, GIVEN BY HER TO THE AUTHOR. BY THE SAME. INVENTIVE Love, parent of every art, That courts the fancy, or that wins the heart, By thee inſpir'd, a Grecian dame of yore, With tendereſt arrow from thy ſacred ſtore, Each pain to ſooth, and joys o'erpaſt renew, Her parting lover's ſhadowy ſemblance drew: Hence ſprung Deſign; and Paint its aid combin'd, To inform the outline with the ſpeaking mind. But thou, bleſt maid, canſt baffle all their boaſt, Their powers would all, tho' REYNOLDS ſtrove, be loſt: What ſtroke could make thy comely treſſes flow With native grace? What hue could teach to glow Thy mild ſweet bluſhes? or, attemper'd, break, With pureſt white, their ſoftenings on thy cheek? Aught leſs than power divine might hope in vain, The dewy luſtrings of thine eye to feign; Or fix the timid ſwellings of that breaſt, Which may, kind heaven, no care but Love's moleſt! Each charm ſhall Memory in this ſhade ſupply, Braid the ſoft hair, and languiſh in the eye, Bid the fair cheek bloom in its native hue, The dove-like boſom's gentleſt ſwell renew; Sweet Fancy every attitude reſtore, And give each varying grace to inchant the more.
TO COLONEL R—S. BY S—. B—. ESQ. ERE this can drown the tendereſt huſband's eyes, And rend the fondeſt lover's heart with ſighs, No more ſhall thoſe dear names my rapture move, Low in the grave, and deaf to thee and Love. Firm in thy country's cauſe, thy king's defence, When Honour call'd thy patriot virtues hence; The ſlow diſeaſe which tainted then my blood, In vain by all the powers of art withſtood, Aided by grief more deadly, creeps at length Thro' every vein, and undermines my ſtrength. Already Death hath ſummon'd me away, And Love, fond Love, ſcarce gains an hour's delay, Yet without dread Death's awful call I hear, No dark preſages chill my ſoul with fear, No unrepented follies dread the grave, And one ſhort moment more, with anguiſh crave, Prepar'd I'm call'd, from every terror free, Save that for ever I muſt part from thee. But when on thee my thoughts reflecting rove, And all the pleaſures of our virtuous love; To think how bleſt we were, how ſoon muſt part, One deep-felt pang would pierce the dulleſt heart; To caſt one longing, lingering look behind, Can be no guilty weakneſs of the mind; Methinks when heaven hath kindly bleſt us here, Fond Love, at parting, ſheds a pious tear. Still with each comfort will I cheer my heart, Reſign'd to God, tho' trembling to depart. Short is man's knowledge of a future ſtate, Perplex'd with doubts, and ignorant of fate; This one important truth we only know. Bliſs waits the good, the bad, eternal woe. But what thoſe bleſſings, what thoſe woes ſhall be, Thro' Life's dull caſement ſince no eye can ſee, Let Fancy paint the raptures of the ſkies, And ſcenes of viſionary tranſport riſe. Still, as was ever here my fondeſt joy, Let me for thee my every care employ; Still let me ſerve, and tho' unſeen, be near, Not life itſelf imparts a charm more dear. From every dangerous ſtep thoſe feet to guide, Which here to follow was my virtuous pride; When wrath provokes, or fortune proves unkind, To lull the raging tumults of thy mind: The ſweets around of balmy ſleep to ſhed, When Sickneſs binds thee to her painful bed; To guard thee ſafely thro' the dreadful day, When Slaughter ſtalks from rank to rank for prey; Still from thy breaſt to avert the death-fraught ball, And bid th' uplifted weapon guiltleſs fall: Still at thy ſide, as was my wiſh below, Your Guardian-angel whereſoe'er you go. With thoughts like theſe my drooping ſoul I warm, Plume every hope, and every fear diſarm. But, ah! to think what thy fond heart muſt feel, When firſt theſe lines the fatal news reveal, What pangs of grief will rend thy gentle breaſt, Sinks my ſad ſoul, with pain and love oppreſt. But let me from the tender theme refrain, While every word but ſharpens every pain; For when the hand that wounds would heal the fore, The generous heart will only bleed the more. My lateſt breath for thee a prayer ſhall ſigh, If not deſerted by myſelf, I die. No more ſhall I thy much-lov'd face review; Adieu, for ever, beſt of friends, adieu!
TO A LADY, WITH AN ETUI. BY THE SAME. WHAT Friendſhip gives, ſweet girl, approve, They well deſerve, who well deſign; Then may this trifle ſpeak his love, Whoſe conſtant heart has long been thine. Oft may each toy by you employ'd, Revive his image in your heart— Or if the tender pen you guide, Or ſhape the lawn with niceſt art; Or of its rough coat ſtrip the pear, Or pick your teeth, or ſip your tea; Whate'er you do, where'er you are, Think, dear Maria, think on me.
TO THE SAME, AFTER HAVING RECEIVED FROM HER, FOR A WATCH, A HEART WROUGHT WITH HER OWN HAIR, AND INCLUDING HER NAME, AFFECTEDLY INCLOSED IN A NUMBER OF COVERS. BY THE SAME. WHAT tho' your art my hopes evade, While many a tedious moment flies; My patient ſearch is well repaid, Not India's wealth ſo wiſh'd a prize. Tho' wanton Love the breaſt embroil In many a wile, and care, and pain, Who would not pleas'd purſue the toil, A faithful heart at laſt to gain. The trembling hopes, the anxious fears, The pleaſing pains which love inſpires, Each trouble paſt the bliſs indears, And helps to fan the guiltleſs fires. Long as the hand of this machine Marks, as they paſs, the fleeting hours; As long as life itſelf is mine, Engaging wit and beauty yours: This well-wrought heart ſhall e'er retain The name to love and friendſhip dear; While in my own your charms remain In glowing colours painted there.
TO THE SAME, WITH SHENSTONE'S WORKS, AFTER HAVING VISITED THE LEASOWES TOGETHER. BY THE SAME. TO ſpeed the ſad moments away, Which by abſence ſeem tedious and ſlow, Attend, my dear girl, to the lay That Love taught ſo ſweetly to flow. Thro' the regions of quiet and joy, As led by the Muſes you ſtray, Oh, think that your Damon is by, And that ſuch are the words he would ſay. Such may be the words he might ſay, But what words can his paſſion impart? Or how ſhall he form the ſoft lay, To expreſs what he feels at his heart? Tho' thy voice, gentle ſhepherd, was clear, Tho' the bower of Contentment was thine, Yet thy ſhepherdeſs was not ſo fair, Yet thy love was not equal to mine.
THE HERMIT. AT the cloſe of the day, when the hamlet is ſtill, And mortals the ſweets of forgetfulneſs prove, When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill, And nought but the nightingale's ſong in the grove; 'Twas then, by the cave of a mountain, reclin'd, An Hermit his nightly complaint thus began, Tho' mournful his voice, his heart was reſign'd, He thought as a ſage, but he felt as a man. " Ah, why thus abandon'd to mourning and woe, " Why thus, lonely Philomel, ſlows thy ſad ſtrain? " For Spring ſhall return, and a lover beſtow, " And thy boſom no trace of dejection retain; " Yet if pity inſpire thee, ah, ceaſe not thy lay, " Mourn, ſweeteſt complainer, man calls thee to mourn, " O ſoothe him whoſe pleaſures like thine paſs away, " Full ſwiftly they paſs, but they never return. " Now gliding remote on the verge of the ſky, " The moon, half extinct, her wan creſcent diſplays: " Yet lately I ſaw, where majeſtic on high, " She ſhone, and the ſtars were conceal'd in her rays; " Roil on, thou fair orb, and with gladneſs purſue " The path that conducts thee to ſplendor again; " But man's faded glory no change ſhall renew, " Ah, fool! to exult in a glory ſo vain. " 'Tis dark, and the landſcape is lovely no more, " I mourn not, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you; " For morn ſhall return, all your charms to reſtore, " Perfum'd with freſh fragrance, and glittering with dew: " Nor yet for the ravage of Winter I mourn, " Kind Nature the embryo bloſſoms ſhall ſave; " But when ſhall Spring viſit the mouldering urn? " Oh, when ſhall it dawn on the gloom of the grave?"
DEATH: A POETICAL ESSAY. BY DR. PORTEUS. FIRST PRINTED AT CAMBRIDGE, 1759. FRIEND to the wretch, whom every friend forſakes, I woo thee, Death! In Fancy's fairy paths Let the gay Songſter rove, and gently trill The ſtrain of empty joy.—Life and its joys I leave to thoſe that prize them.—At this hour, This ſolemn hour, when Silence rules the world, And wearied Nature makes a general pauſe! Wrapt in Night's ſable robe, through cloyſters drear And charnels pale, tenanted by a throng Of meagre phantoms ſhooting croſs my path With ſilent glance, I ſeek the ſhadowy vale Of Death.—Deep in a murky cave's receſs Lav'd by Oblivion's liſtleſs ſtream, and fenc'd By ſhelving rocks and intermingled horrors Of yew' and cypreſs' ſhade from all intruſion Of buſy noontide-beam, the Monarch ſits In unſubſtantial Majeſty enthron'd. At his right hand, neareſt himſelf in place And frightfulneſs of form, his parent Sin With fatal induſtry and cruel care Buſies herſelf in pointing all his ſtings, And tipping every ſhaft with venom drawn From her infernal ſtore: around him rang'd In terrible array and ſtrange diverſity Of uncouth ſhapes, ſtand his dread Miniſters: Foremoſt Old Age, his natural ally And firmeſt friend: next him diſeaſes thick, A motley train; Fever with cheek of fire; Conſumption wan; Palſy, half warm with life, And half a clay-cold lump; joint-torturing Gout, And ever-gnawing Rheum; Convulſion wild; Swol'n Dropſy; panting Aſthma; Apoplex Full-gorg'd.—There too the Peſtilence that walks In darkneſs, and the Sickneſs that deſtroys At broad noon-day. Theſe and a thouſand more, Horrid to tell, attentive wait; and, when By Heaven's command Death waves his ebon wand, Sudden ruſh forth to execute his purpoſe, And ſcatter deſolation o'er the Earth. Ill-fated Man, for whom ſuch various forms Of Miſery wait, and mark their future prey! Ah! why, All-Righteous Father, didſt thou make This Creature Man? why wake th' unconſcious duſt To life and wretchedneſs? O better far Still had he ſlept in uncreated night, If this the Lot of Being!—Was it for this Thy Breath divine kindled within his breaſt The vital flame? For this was thy fair image Stampt on his ſoul in godlike lineaments? For this dominion given him abſolute O'er all thy creatures, only that he might reign Supreme in woe? From the bleſt ſource of Good Could Pain and Death proceed? Could ſuch foul Ills Fall from fair Mercy's hands? Far be the thought, The impious thought! God never made a Creature But what was good. He made a living Man: The Man of Death was made by Man himſelf. Forth from his Maker's hands he ſprung to life, Freſh with immortal bloom; No pain he knew, No fear of death, no check to his deſires Save one command. That one command (which ſtood 'Twixt him and ruin, the teſt of his obedience,) Urg'd on by wanton curioſity He broke.—There in one moment was undone The faireſt of God's works. The ſame raſh hand That pluck'd in evil hour the fatal fruit, Unbarr'd the gates of Hell, and let looſe Sin And Death and all the family of Pain To prey upon Mankind. Young Nature ſaw The monſtrous crew, and ſhook thro' all her frame. Then fled her new-born luſtre, then begar. Heaven's chearful face to low'r, then vapours choak'd The troubled air, and form'd a veil of clouds To hide the willing Sun. The Earth convuls'd With painful throes threw forth a briſtly crop Of thorns and briars; and Inſect, Bird, and Beaſt, That wont before with admiration fond To gaze at Man, and fearleſs croud around him, Now fled before his face, ſhunning in haſte Th' infection of his miſery. He alone, Who juſtly might, th' offended Lord of Man, Turn'd not away his face, he full of pity Forſook not in this uttermoſt diſtreſs His beſt-lov'd work. That comfort ſtill remain'd, (That beſt, that greateſt comfort in affliction) The countenance of God, and thro' the gloom Shot forth ſome kindly gleams, to chear and warm Th' offender's ſinking ſoul. Hope ſent from Heaven Uprais'd his drooping head, and ſhew'd afar A happier ſcene of things; the Promis'd Seed Trampling upon the Serpent's humbled creſt, Death of his ſting diſarm'd, and the dank grave Made pervious to the realms of endleſs day, No more the limit but the gate of life. Chear'd with the view, Man went to till the ground From whence he roſe; ſentenc'd indeed to toil As to a puniſhment, yet (ev'n in wrath So merciful is Heaven) this toil became The ſolace of his woes, the ſweet employ Of many a live-long hour, and ſureſt guard Againſt diſeaſe and Death.—Death tho' denounc'd Was yet a diſtant Ill, by feeble arm Of Age, his ſole ſupport, led ſlowly on. Not then, as ſince, the ſhort-liv'd ſons of men Flock'd to his realms in countleſs multitudes; Scarce in the courſe of twice five hundred years One ſolitary ghoſt went ſhivering down To his unpeopled ſhore. In ſober ſtate, Through the ſequeſter'd vale of rural life, The venerable Patriarch guileleſs held The tenor of his way; Labour prepar'd His ſimple fare, and Temperance rul'd his board. Tir'd with his daily toil, at early eve He ſunk to ſudden reſt; gentle and pure As breath of evening Zephyr and as ſweet Were all his ſlumbers; with the Sun lie roſe, Alert and vigorous as He, to run His deſtin'd courſe. Thus nerv'd with Giant Strength He ſtem'd the tide of time, and ſtood the ſhock Of ages rolling harmleſs o'er his head. At life's meridian point arriv'd, he ſtood, And looking round ſaw all the vallies fill'd With nations from his loins; full-well content To leave his race thus ſcatter'd o'er the Earth, Along the gentle ſlope of life's decline He bent his gradual way, till full of years He dropt like mellow fruit into his grave. Such in the infancy of time was Man, So calm was life, ſo impotent was Death. O had he but preſerv'd theſe few remains, Theſe ſhatter'd fragments of loſt happineſs, Snatch'd by the hand of heaven from the ſad wreck Of innocence primaeval; ſtill had he liv'd Great ev'n in ruin; tho' fall'n, yet not forlorn; Though mortal, yet not every where beſet With Death in every ſhape! But He, impatient To be compleatly wretched, haſtes to fill up The meaſure of his woes. 'Twas Man himſelf Brought Death into the world, And Man himſelf Gave keenneſs to his darts, quicken'd his pace, And multiplied deſtruction on mankind. Firſt Envy, Eldeſt-Born of Hell, embru'd Her hands in blood, and taught the Sons of Men To make a Death which Nature never made, And God abhorr'd, with violence rude to break The thread of life ere half its length was run, And rob a wretched brother of his being. With joy Ambition ſaw, and ſoon improv'd The execrable deed. 'Twas not enough By ſubtle fraud to ſnatch a ſingle life, Puny impiety! whole kingdoms fell To ſate the luſt of power; more horrid ſtill, The fouleſt ſtain and ſcandal of our nature Became its boaſt.—One Murder made a Villain, Millions a Hero.—Princes were privileg'd To kill, and numbers ſanctified the crime. Ah! why will Kings forget that they are Men? And Men that they are brethren? Why delight In human ſacrifice? Why burſt the ties Of Nature, that ſhould knit their ſouls together In one ſoft bond of amity and love? Yet ſtill they breathe deſtruction, ſtill go on Inhumanly ingenious to find out New pains for life, new terrors for the grave, Artificers of Death! Still Monarchs dream Of univerſal Empire growing up From univerſal ruin.—Blaſt the deſign, Great God of Hoſts, nor let thy creatures fall Unpitied victims at Ambition's ſhrine! Yet ſay, ſhould Tyrants learn at laſt to feel, And the loud din of battle ceaſe to roar; Should dove-ey'd Peace o'er all the earth extend Her olive branch, and give the world repoſe, Would Death be foil'd? Would health, and ſtrength, and youth Defy his power? Has he no arts in ſtore, No other ſhafts ſave thoſe of war?—Alas! Ev'n in the ſmile of Peace, that ſmile which ſheds A heavenly ſunſhine o'er the ſoul, there baſks That ſerpent Luxury: War its thouſands ſlays, Peace its ten thouſands: In th' embattled plain Though Death exults, and claps his raven wings, Yet reigns he not ev'n there ſo abſolute, So mercileſs, as in yon frantic ſcenes Of midnight revel and tumultuous mirth, Where, in th' intoxicating draught conceal'd, Or couch'd beneath the glance of lawleſs Love, He ſnares the ſimple youth, who nought ſuſpecting Means to be bleſt—But finds himſelf undone. Down the ſmooth ſtream of life the Stripling darts Gay as the morn; bright glows the vernal ſky, Hope ſwells his ſails, and Fancy ſteers his courſe; Safe glides his little bark along the ſhore Where Virtue takes her ſtand; but if too far He launches forth beyond Diſcretion's mark, Sudden the tempeſt ſcowls, the ſurges roar, Blot his fair day, and plunge him in the deep. O ſad but ſure miſchance! O happier far To lie like gallant Howe midſt Indian wilds A breathleſs corſe, cut off by ſavage hands In earlieſt prime, a generous ſacrifice To Freedom's holy cauſe; than ſo to fail Tern immature from life's meridian joys, A prey to Vice, Intemperance, and Diſeaſe. Yet die ev'n thus, thus rather periſh ſtill, Ye Sons of Pleaſure, by th' Almighty ſtricken, Than ever dare (though oft, alas! ye dare) To lift againſt yourſelves the murderous ſteel, To wreſt from God's own hand the ſword of Juſtice, And be your own avengers.—Hold, raſh Man, Though with anticipating ſpeed thou'ſt rang'd Through every region of delight, nor left One joy to gild the evening of thy days, Though life ſeem one uncomfortable void, Guilt at thy heels, before thy face deſpair, Yet gay this ſcene, and light this load of woe, Compar'd with thy hereafter. Think, O think, And ere thou plunge into the vaſt abyſs, Pauſe on the verge awhile, look down and ſee Thy future manſion.—Why that ſtart of horror? From thy ſlack hand why drops th' uplifted ſteel? Didſt thou not think ſuch vengeance muſt await The wretch, that with his crimes all freſh about him Ruſhes irreverent, unprepar'd, uncall'd, Into his Maker's preſence, throwing back With inſolent diſdain his choiceſt gift? Live then, while Heaven in pity lends thee life, And think it all too ſhort to waſh away By penitential tears and deep contrition The ſcarlet of thy crimes. So ſhalt thou find Reſt to thy ſoul, ſo unappall'd ſhalt meet Death when he comes, not wantonly invite His lingering ſtroke. Be it thy ſole concern With innocence to live, with patience wait Th' appointed hour; too ſoon that hour will come, Tho' Nature run her courſe; But Nature's God, If need require, by thouſand various ways, Without thy aid, can ſhorten that ſhort ſpan, And quench the lamp of life.—O when he comes, Rous'd by the cry of wickedneſs extreme To Heaven aſcending from ſome guilty land Now ripe for vengeance; when he comes array'd In all the terrors of Almighty wrath; Forth from his boſom plucks his lingering Arm, And on the miſcreants pours deſtruction down! Who can abide his coming? Who can bear His whole diſpleaſure? In no common form Death then appears, but ſtarting into Size Enormous, meaſures with gigantic ſtride Th' aſtoniſh'd Earth, and from his looks throws round Unutterable horror and diſmay. All Nature lends her aid. Each Element Arms in his cauſe. Ope fly the doors of Heaven, The fountains of the deep their barriers break, Above, below, the rival torrents pour, And drown Creation, or in floods of fire Deſcends a livid cataract, and conſumes An impious race.—Sometimes when all ſeems peace, Wakes the grim whirlwind, and with rude embrace Sweeps nations to their grave, or in the deep Whelms the proud wooden world; full many a youth Floats on his watery bier, or lies unwept On ſome ſad deſert ſhore!—At dead of night In ſullen ſilence ſtalks forth Peſtilence: Contagion cloſe behind taints all her ſteps With poiſonous dew; no ſmiting Hand is ſeen, No ſound is heard; but ſoon her ſecret path Is mark'd with deſolation; heaps on heaps Promiſcuous drop: No friend, no refuge near; All, all, is falſe and treacherous around, All that they touch, or taſte, or breathe, is Death. But ah! what means that ruinous roar? why fail Theſe tottering feet?—Earth to its centre feels The Godhead's power, and trembling at his touch Through all its pillars, and in every pore, Hurls to the ground with one convulſive heave Precipitating domes, and towns, and towers, The work of ages. Cruſh'd beneath the weight Of general devaſtation, millions find One common grave; not ev'n a widow left To wail her ſons: the houſe, that ſhould protect, Entombs its maſter, and the faithleſs plain, If there he flies for help, with ſudden yawn Starts from beneath him.—Shield me, gracious Heaven! O ſnatch me from deſtruction! If this Globe, This ſolid Globe, which thine own hand hath made So firm and ſure, if this my ſteps betray; If my own mother Earth from whence I ſprung Riſe up with rage unnatural to devour Her wretched offspring, whither ſhall I fly? Where look for ſuccour? Where, but up to thee, Almighty Father? Save, O ſave thy ſuppliant From horrors ſuch as theſe!—At thy good time Let Death approach; I reck not—let him but come In genuine form, not with thy vengeance arm'd, Too much for Man to bear. O rather lend Thy kindly aid to mitigate his ſtroke, And at that hour when all aghaſt I ſtand, (A trembling Candidate for thy compaſſion,) On this World's brink, and look into the next; When my ſoul ſtarting from the dark unknown Caſts back a wiſhful look, and fondly clings To her frail prop, unwilling to be wrench'd From this fair ſcene, from all her cuſtom'd joys, And all the lovely relatives of life, Then ſhed thy comforts o'er me; then put on The gentleſt of thy looks. Let no dark Crimes In all their hideous forms then ſtarting up Plant themſelves round my couch in grim array, And ſtab my bleeding heart with two edg'd-torture, Senſe of paſt guilt, and dread of future woe. Far be the ghaſtly crew! and in their ſtead, Let chearful Memory from her pureſt cells Lead forth a goodly train of Virtues fair Cheriſh'd in earlieſt youth, now paying back With tenfold uſury the pious care, And pouring o'er my wounds the heavenly balm Of conſcious innocence.—But chiefly, Thou, Whom ſoft-ey'd Pity once led down from Heaven To bleed for Man, to teach him how to live, And, oh! ſtill harder Leſſon! how to die, Diſdain not Thou to ſmooth the reſtleſs bed Of Sickneſs and of Pain.—Forgive the tear That feeble Nature drops, calm all her fears, Wake all her hopes, and animate her faith, Till my rapt Soul anticipating Heaven Burſts from the thraldom of incumbering clay, And on the wing of Extaſy upborn Springs into Liberty, and Light, and Life.
THE DAY OF JUDGMENT: A POETICAL ESSAY. BY DR. GLYNN. THY juſtice, heavenly King! and that great day, When Virtue, long abandon'd and forlorn, Shall raiſe her penſive head; and Vice, that erſt Rang'd unreprov'd and free, ſhall ſink appall'd, I ſing adventurous.—But what eye can pierce The vaſt immeaſurable realms of ſpace O'er which Meſſiah drives his flaming car To that bright region, where enthron'd he ſits Firſt-born of heaven, to judge aſſembled worlds, Cloath'd in celeſtial radiance! Can the Muſe, Her feeble wing all damp with earthly dew, Soar to that bright empyreal, where around, Myriads of angels, God's perpetual choir, Hymn Halelujah's; and in concert loud Chaunt ſongs of triumph to their Maker's praiſe?— Yet will I ſtrive to ſing, albeit unus'd To tread poetic ſoil. What tho' the wiles Of Fancy me enchanted ne'er could lure To rove o'er fairy lands; to ſwim the ſtreams That thro' her vallies weave their mazy way; Or climb her mountain tops; yet will I raiſe My feeble voice to tell what harmony (Sweet as the muſic of the rolling ſpheres) Attunes the moral world: that Virtue ſtill May hope her promis'd crown; that Vice may dread Vengeance, tho' late; that reaſoning Pride may own Juſt tho' unſearchable the ways of heaven. Sceptic! whoe'er thou art, who ſay'ſt the ſoul, That divine particle, which God's own breath Inſpir'd into the mortal maſs, ſhall reſt Annihilate, 'till Duration has unroll'd Her never-ending line; tell, if thou know'ſt, Why every nation, every clime, tho' all In laws, in rites, in manners diſagree, With one conſent expect another world, Where wickedneſs ſhall weep? Why Paynim bard • Fabled Elyſian plains, Tartarean lakes, Styx and Cocytus? Tell, why Hali's ſons Have ſeign'd a paradiſe of mirth and love, Banquets, and blooming nymphs? Or rather tell, Why, on the brink of Orellana's ſtream, Where never Science rear'd her ſacred torch, Th' untutor'd Indian dreams of happier worlds Behind the cloud-topt hill? why in each breaſt Is plac'd a friendly monitor, that prompts, Informs, directs, encourages, forbids? Tell, why on unknown evil grief attends, Or joy on ſecret good? Why conſcience acts With tenfold force, when ſickneſs, age, or pain, Stands tottering on the precipice of Death? Or why ſuch horror gnaws the guilty ſoul Of dying ſinners; while the good man ſleeps Peaceful and calm, and with a ſmile expires? Look round the world, with what a partial hand The ſcale of bliſs and miſery is ſuſtain'd! Beneath the ſhade of cold obſcurity Pale Virtue lies! no arm ſupports her head, No friendly voice ſpeaks comfort to her ſoul, Nor ſoft-ey'd Pity drops a melting tear; But, in their ſtead, Contempt and rude Diſdain Inſult the baniſh'd wanderer: on ſhe goes Neglected and forlorn: Diſeaſe, and Cold, And Famine, worſt of ills, her ſteps attend: Yet patient, and to heaven's juſt will reſign'd, She ne'er is ſeen to weep, or heard to ſigh. Now turn your eyes to yon ſweet-ſmelling bower, Where fluſh'd with all the inſolence of wealth Sits pamper'd Vice! For him th' Arabian gale Breathes forth delicious odours! Gallia's hills For him pour nectar from the purple vine; Nor think for theſe he pays the tribute due To heaven: of heaven he never names the name, Save when with imprecations dark and dire He points his jeſt obſcene. Yet buxom Health Sits on his roſy cheek; yet Honour gilds His high exploits; and downy pinion'd Sleep Sheds a ſoft epiate o'er his peaceful couch. See'ſt thou this, righteous Father! See'ſt thou this▪ And wilt thou ne'er repay? Shall good and ill Be carried undiſtinguiſh'd to the land Where all things are forgot?—Ah! no; the day Will come, when Virtue from the cloud ſhall burſt That long obſcur'd her beams; when Sin ſhall fly Back to her native hell; there ſink eclips'd In penal darkneſs; where nor ſtar ſhall riſe, Nor ever ſunſhine pierce th' impervious gloom. On that great day the ſolemn trump ſhall ſound, (That trump which once in heaven on man's revolt Convok'd the aſtoniſh'd ſeraphs) at whoſe voice Th' unpeopled graves ſhall pour forth all their dead. Then ſhall th' aſſembled nations of the earth From every quarter, at the judgment-ſeat Unite; Egyptians, Babylonians, Greeks, Parthians, and they who dwelt on Tyber's banks, Names fam'd of old: or who of later age, Chineſe and Ruſſian, Mexican and Turk, Tenant the wide Terrene; and they who pitch Their tents on Niger's banks; or where the ſun Pours on Golconda's ſpires his early light, Drink Ganges' ſacred ſtream. At once ſhall riſe, Whom diſtant ages to each other's ſight Had long denied; before the throne ſhall kneel •• me great progenitor, while at his ſide Stands his deſcendant thro' a thouſand lines. Whate'er their nation, and whate'er their rank, Heroes and patriarchs, ſlaves and ſcepter'd kings, With equal eye the God of all ſhall ſee; And judge with equal love. What tho' the great With coſtly pomp and aromatic ſweets Embalm'd his poor remains; or thro' the dome A thouſand tapers ſhed their gloomy light, While ſolemn organs to his parting ſoul Chaunted ſlow oriſons? Say, by what mark Doſt thou diſcern him from that lowly ſwain Whoſe mouldering bones beneath the thorn bound turf Long lay neglected?—All at once ſhall riſe; But not to equal glory: for, alas! With howlings dire and execrations loud Some wail their fatal birth.—Firſt among theſe Behold the mighty murtherers of mankind; They who in ſport whole kingdoms ſlew; or they Who to the tottering pinnacle of power Waded thro' ſeas of blood! How will they curſe The madneſs of ambition; how lament Their dear-bought laurels; when the widow'd wife And childleſs mother at the judgment-ſeat Plead trumpet-tongu'd againſt them!—Here are they Who ſunk an aged father to the grave: Or with unkindneſs hard and cold diſdain Slighted a brother's ſufferings:—Here are they Whom fraud and ſkilful treachery long ſecur'd; Who from the infant virgin tore her dower, And eat the orphan's bread:—who ſpent their ſtores In ſelfiſh luxury; or o'er their gold Proſtrate and pale ador'd the uſeleſs heap.— Here too who ſtain'd the chaſte connubial bed;— Who mix'd the poiſonous bowl;—or broke the ties Of hoſpitable friendſhip:—and the wretch Whoſe liſtleſs ſoul ſick with the cares of life Unſummon'd to the preſence of his God Ruſh'd in with inſult rude. How would they joy Once more to viſit earth; and, tho' oppreſs'd With all that Pain and Famine can inflict, Pant up the hill of life? Vain wiſh! the Judge Pronounces doom eternal on their heads, Perpetual puniſhment. Seek not to know What puniſhment! for that th' Almighty Will Has hid from mortal eyes: and ſhall vain man With curious ſearch refin'd preſume to pry Into thy ſecrets, Father! No: let him With humble patience all thy works adore, And walk in all thy paths: ſo ſhall his meed Be great in heaven, ſo haply ſhall he 'ſcape The immortal worm and never-ceaſing fire. But who are they, who bound in ten-fold chains Stand horribly aghaſt? This is the crew Who ſtrove to pull Jehovah from his throne, And in the place of heaven's Eternal King Set up the phantom Chance. For them in vain Alternate ſeaſons chear'd the rolling year; In vain the ſun o'er herb, tree, fruit, and flower Shed genial influence, mild; and the pale moon Repair'd her waning orb.—Next theſe is plac'd The vile blaſphemer, he, whoſe impious wit Profan'd the ſacred myſteries of faith, And 'gainſt the impenetrable walls of heaven Planted his feeble battery. By theſe ſtands The arch Apoſtate: he with many a wile Exhorts them ſtill to foul revolt. Alas! No hope have they from black deſpair, no ray Shines thro' the gloom to chear their ſinking ſouls: In agonies of grief they curſe the hour When firſt they left Religion's onward way. Theſe on the left are rang'd: but on the right A choſen band appears, who fought beneath The banner of Jehovah, and defy'd Satan's united legions. Some, unmov'd At the grim tyrant's frown, o'er barbarous climes Diffus'd the goſpel's light; ſome, long immur'd (Sad ſervitude!) in chains and dungeons pin'd; Or rack'd with all the agonies of pain Breath'd out their faithful lives. Thrice happy they Whom heaven elected to that glorious ſtrife!— Here are they plac'd, whoſe kind munificence Made heaven-born Science raiſe her drooping head; And on the labours of a future race Entail'd their juſt reward. Thou amongſt theſe Good SEATON! whoſe well-judg'd benevolence Foſtering fair Genius bad the Poet's hand Bring annual offerings to his Maker's ſhrine, Shalt find the generous care was not in vain.— Here is that favourite band, whom mercy mild, God's beſt lov'd attribute, adorn'd; whoſe gate Stood ever open to the ſtranger's call; Who fed the hungry, to the thirſty lip Reach'd out the friendly cup; whoſe care benign From the rude blaſt ſecur'd the pilgrim's ſide; Who heard the widow's tender tale; and ſhook The galling ſhackle from the priſoner's feet; Who each endearing tye, each office knew Of meek-ey'd heaven-deſcended Charity.— O Charity, thou nymph divinely fair! Sweeter than thoſe whom antient Poets bound In amity's indiſſoluble chain, The Graces! How ſhall I eſſay to paint Thy charms, celeſtial maid; and in rude verſe Blazon thoſe deeds thyſelf didſt ne'er reveal? For thee nor rankling envy can infect, Nor rage tranſport, nor high o'erweening pride Puff up with vain conceit; ne'er didſt thou ſmile To ſee the ſinner as a verdant tree Spread his luxuriant branches o'er the ſtream; While like ſome blaſted trunk the righteous fall, Proſtrate, forlorn. When propheſies ſhall fail, When tongues ſhall ceaſe, when knowledge is no more, And this great day is come; thou by the throne Shalt ſit triumphant. Thither, lovely maid, Bear me, O bear me on thy ſoaring wing, And thro' the adamantine gates of heaven Conduct my ſteps, ſafe from the fiery gulph And dark abyſs where Sin and Satan reign! But, can the Muſe, her numbers all too weak, Tell how that reſtleſs element of fire Shall wage with ſeas and earth inteſtine war, And deluge all creation? Whether (ſo Some think) the comet, as thro' fields of air Lawleſs he wanders, ſhall ruſh headlong on Thwarting th' Ecliptic where th' unconſcious earth Rolls in her wonted courſe; whether the ſun With force centripetal into his orb Attract her long reluctant; or the caves, Thoſe dread Vulcanos where engendering lye Sulphureous minerals, from their dark abyſs Pour ſtreams of liquid fire; while from above, As e • ſt on Sodom, heaven's avenging hand Rains fierce combuſtion.—Where are now the works Of art, the toil of ages? Where are now Th' imperial cities, ſepulchres and domes, Trophies and pillars?—Where is Egypt's boaſt, Thoſe lofty pyramids, which high in air Rear'd their aſpiring heads, to diſtant times Of Memphian pride a laſting monument?— Tell me where Athens rais'd her towers?—Where Thebes Open'd her hundred portals?—Tell me where Stood ſea-girt Albion?—Where imperial Rome Propt by ſeven hills ſat like a ſceptred Queen, And aw'd the tributary world to peace?— Shew me the rampart, which o'er many a hill, Thro' many a valley ſtretch'd its wide extent, Rais'd by that mighty monarch, to repel The roving Tartar, when with inſult rude 'Gainſt Pekin's towers he bent th'unerring bow. But what is mimic Art? Even Nature's works, Seas, meadows, paſtures, the meandering ſtreams, And everlaſting hills ſhall be no more. No more ſhall Teneriff cloud-piercing height O'er-hang th' Atlantic Surge.—Nor that fam'd cliff, Thro' which the Perſian ſteer'd with many a ſail, Throw to the Lemnian Iſle its evening ſhade O'er half the wide Aegean.—Where are now The Alps that confin'd with unnumber'd realms, And from the Black Sea to the Ocean ſtream Stretch'd their extended arms?—Where's Ararat, That hill on which the faithful Patriarch's Ark Which ſeven long months had voyaged o'er its top Firſt reſted, when the Earth with all her ſons, As now by ſtreaming cataracts of fire, Was whelm'd by mighty waters?—All at once Are vaniſh'd and diſſolv'd; no trace remains, No mark of vain diſtinction: heaven itſelf That azure vault with all thoſe radiant orbs Sinks in the univerſal ruin loſt.— No more ſhall planets round their central ſun Move in harmonious dance; no more the moon Hang out her ſilver lamp; and thoſe fix'd ſtars Spangling the golden canopy of night, Which oft the Tuſcan with his optic glaſs Call'd from their wonderous height, to read their names And magnitude, ſome winged miniſter Shall quench; and (ſureſt ſign that all on earth Is loſt) ſhall rend from heaven the myſtic bow. Such is that awful, that tremendous day, Whoſe coming who ſhall tell? for as a thief Unheard, unſeen, it ſteals with ſilent pace Thro' night's dark gloom.—Perhaps as here I ſit And rudely carol theſe incondite lays, Soon ſhall the hand be check'd, and dumb the mouth That liſps the faultering ſtrain.—O! may it ne'er Intrude unwelcome on an ill-ſpent hour; But find me wrapt in meditations high, Hymning my great Creator! " Power ſupreme! " O Everlaſting King! to thee I kneel, " To thee I lift my voice. With fervent heat " Melt all ye elements? And thou, high heaven, " Shrink, like a ſhrivell'd ſcroll? But think, O Lord, " Think on the beſt, the nobleſt of thy works; " Think on thine own bright Image! Think on him, " Who died to ſave us from thy righteous wrath; " And 'midſt the wreck of worlds remember man!"
TO A LADY GOING TO BATHE IN THE SEA. BY GEORGE KEATE, ESQ. VENUS, moſt hiſtories agree, Sprung from the ferment of the ſea; Yet I confeſs I'm always loth To think ſuch beauty was but froth, Or that the ocean, which more odd is, Should from a bubble ſpawn a Goddeſs: Tho' hence, my Laura, learned fellows Of ſuch its wonderous powers ſtill tell us, That every mother brings her daughter To dip in this ſpecific water, Expecting from the briny wave Charms which it once to Venus gave. Theſe charms, my Laura, ſtrive to gain; And that you may not bathe in vain, I'll here, as well as I am able, Give you a Moral to this Fable. Would you a Goddeſs reign o'er all? From the wide flood its virtues call. Free from each ſtain thy boſom keep, Clear be it as this azure deep, Which no capricious paſſion knows, But duly ebbs, and duly flows; Tho' ſometimes ruffled, calm'd as ſoon, Still conſtant to its faithful moon, At whoſe approach with pride it ſwells, And to each ſhore its chaſte love tells: Heedleſs of every change of weather, That wafts a ſtraw, or coxcomb feather, Which only on the ſurface play, And unobſerv'd are waſh'd away. Reflect, that lodg'd within its breaſt The modeſt pearl delights to reſt, While every gem to Neptune known, Is there with partial bounty ſown.— In years, thus ever may we trace Each ſparkling charm, each bluſhing grace; To theſe let judgment value give, And in that ſeat of Beauty live! This Moral keep before your eyes, Plunge—and a new-born Venus riſe.
PROLOGUE TO THE PLAY OF KING JOHN, ACTED AT MR. NEWCOMB'S, AT HACKNEY, IN MARCH MDCCLXIX. BY THE SAME. THE Bard whoſe ſcenes this night your thoughts engage, Has ſomewhere told us, All the world's a ſtage, Where all in one great farce their talents try, Are born, love, wed, grow covetous,—and die. From hence I think we fairly may infer, That NATURE is, or ſhould be manager; And yet in NATURE's ſpite, we every day Caſt cur own parts ourſelves, and ſpoil her play; Some vain conceit diſturbs her ſober plan, And ART debauches that ſtrange creature, man: Hence, ere Life's curtain drops, this truth is plain, That few, the characters they take, ſuſtain. See, CATO-like, in Freedom's boaſted cauſe The maddening PATRIOT raves of dying Laws; With ready laſh purſues the venal tribe: But what's the ſequel?—Exit with a bribe.— Not leſs a Player the METHODIST appears: In ſome hir'd barn his caſual ſtage he rears; Prophane, loquacious, inſolent, and loud, The grave Jack-Pudding of a ſniveling crowd, Who promis'd heaven in change for pence receive; For thoſe who teach to die, know how to live. The PRUDE auſtere, who ſhuns each forward ſpark, Meets leſs reſerv'd her footman in the dark; The gay COQUET, the COXCOMB, and the WIT, Acroſs Life's ſtage like airy phantoms flit, Applauſe nor pity ſure their parts command: The mark of ſcorn let Affectation ſtand! If, then, the finiſh'd man can ſometimes err, And make miſtakes on the World's Theatre, Deſert himſelf, as various paſſions call, And prove at laſt no character at all; We aſk your candour, if in us appears Th' imperfect growth of unexperienc'd years; Tho' buds, yet Learning like the ſun has power To rear the ſtem, and paint the future flower! If JOHN ſhould not each ſtroke of guilt impart, Nor CONSTANCE triumph o'er the feeling heart, Think, in Life's happy morn we cannot know The ſad extent of baſeneſs or of woe! Boys as we are, to us each ſcene is new, If ſometimes wrong, e'en there we copy you: To bold attempts be then indulgence ſhewn, And learn to pity faults ſo like your own.
EPILOGUE TO THE SAME PLAY. SPOKEN BY CONSTANCE. BY THE SAME. SPITE of court tricks, of ſorrow, madneſs, pain, I've bruſh'd thro' all, and am myſelf again.— O Ladies! what cannot our ſex perform?— A buſtling woman lives thro' every ſtorm. Have I not daſh'd my character with ſpirit? To bully two ſuch Kings was no ſmall merit. Around the world to find the wretch I'd ſearch, Who dares to leave a woman in the lurch.— My ſon the dupe of regal baſeneſs made, Myſelf amus'd by hopes, cajol'd, betray'd, My jointure loſt, a widow, and not young, I had no weapon left me but my tongue— Should any Fair be here whoſe nerves are weak, Who when man bluſters, is afraid to ſpeak, Whoſe gentle boſom no reſentment fires, But with her eau de luce in hand, expires, She'll think, no doubt, my voice too loudly thunders; Truſt me, this female inſtrument does wonders. Thoſe, who turn o'er the page of ancient ſtory, Muſt own the tongue was ever Woman's glory.— Who has not heard of fam'd XANTIPPE's lute? That play'd her philoſophic huſband mute: Or her, whoſe artful notes ſo well could ſlander Her rival, and ſubdue great ALEXANDER?— What gifts of ſpeech had EGYPT's QUEEN to boaſt, Who talk'd till ANTONY the world well loſt! Think of the Maid of ORLEANS, JOAN of ARC, There was an enterprizing, female ſpark! Whole armies ſhe harangued, whole hoſts withſtood; Her tongue was ſurely more than fleſh and blood! Tho' laſt, not leaſt ſhall BESS of ENGLAND ſtand, Who box'd her courtiers with her own fair hand, To female rules profeſs'd a brave diſlike, Her majeſty could ſwear as well as ſtrike. Ladies! might I adviſe, let's urge our power, Dethrone uſurping man, and take him lower; He'd only have us learn the gentle arts Of ſtudying graces, and ſubduing hearts: Theſe are but ſchemes to trifle Life away, Our nobler aim is—UNIVERSAL SWAY.
INSCRIPTION IN AN ARBOUR. PROCUL ESTE PROFANI! MARK, mortals! mark with awe profound What ſolemn ſtillneſs reigns around; Know then, tho' ſtrange it may appear, Spirits—why ſtart?—inhabit here. Whene'er we leave the circled green, We Fairies chuſe this ſhady ſcene; Tho' mortal hands have form'd theſe bowers, Yet is the ſweet retirement ours. For here, when as the pallid moon " Riding near her higheſt noon," Edging the clouds with ſilver white, Darts thro' theſe ſhades a checquer'd light, Here, when we ceaſe our airy ſport, We range our bands and fix our court. My royal throne, exalted high, Unſeen by feeble, mortal eye, Tho' ſpangled with ten thouſand dews, Tho' colour'd with ten thouſand hues, (Approach not with unhallow'd hands) Beneath yon tall Laburnum ſtands. Then enter here with guiltleſs mind, Spurn each vile paſſion far behind. Hence Envy with her pining train, And venal love of ſordid gain; Hence Malice, rankling at the heart, And dire Revenge with poiſon'd dart; Hence Luſt with ſly uneaſy mien, That thro' the twilight creeps unſeen; Hence Vice; avoid this arching grove, Pollution follows where you move; Hence; nor near the ſpot be found, " Hence! avaunt!—'tis holy ground!" OBERON.
ODE TO THE NEW YEAR, 1769. BY MR. PETER CUNNINGHAME. AQUARIUS rules the frozen ſkies, Deep frowning clouds on clouds ariſe, Fraught with the thunder's roar; With fury heaves the raging main, When foaming billows laſh in vain The hoarſe-reſounding ſhore. No flowery vale now charms the eye; No tuneful warblers of the ſky Now chear the lingering hours; No genial ray the groves illume, No zephyrs waft their mild perfume From ſighs o'er vernal flowers. Tho' blooming ſcenes are now no more, That aid the raptur'd ſoul to ſoar, Poetic thoughts refine; Yet ſtill the moralizing page To warm an unattentive age, Theſe hoary ſcenes combine. With this I hail the opening year, Addreſs the God, whoſe works appear Through each harmonious round; Who rules, ſerenely rules the ſtorm, Who gave the lurid lightnings form, Whoſe thunders rock the ground. O Thou! alike where perfect day, In bright refulgent glories play, Around thy awful throne! When ſeraphs glow with ſacred fires, When angels tune celeſtial lyres, To hymn thy praiſe alone! Still may thy providential care With bleſſings crown the riſing year! Impending ills reſtrain! Thy wiſdom guide my youthful Muſe! Thy ſacred eloquence diffuſe, And conſecrate my ſtrain! While thus revolving ſeaſons roll, Obſequious to thy wiſe controul, Obedient to thy plan; With ſilent eloquence they preach, The moſt important leſſons teach, To cold unthinking man. Behold thyſelf reflected here! The Spring proclaims thine infant year, Gay life the Summer's bloom; Mild Autumn ſpeaks maturer age, Confirms thee Fool, or hails thee Sage, While Winter ſhews the tomb. Or view the image of thy ſoul, As now the mountain ſurges roll, In wild tumultuous roar; Fit emblem of the wrathful mind, To Anger's tyrant ſway conſign'd, Where reaſon rules no more: Unlike its placid form, ſerene, When Zephyr breathing o'er the ſcene, Sheds balmy peace around; Bleſs'd emblem of the conquering ſoul, Whoſe every paſſion knows controul, While conſcious joys abound! That this may prove my bounteous ſhare, Aſcends my ever-conſtant prayer, To thee, all-perfect Mind; O aid me in the arduous ſtrife, Through each perplexing maze of life, To all thy ways reſign'd!
THE CONTENTED PHILOSOPHER. BY THE SAME. DEEP ſilence reign'd, and dewy Night Her ſilver veſtment wore; The weſtern gale breath'd calm delight, And buſy day was o'er. To hail Reflection's hour I roſe, Each throbbing care at reſt; For ſacred peace in mild repoſe, Had lull'd my anxious breaſt. The breezy mount, the miſty vale, Alternately I ſtray'd; The Gothic ſpire, the lonely cell, My wandering eye ſurvey'd: 'Till, where the trembling beams of night O'er limpid currents play'd, Meandering—fix'd my roving ſight On deep Retirement's ſhade. The unambitious dome conceal'd, Fear'd no intruſive foes; From deep-embowering trees reveal'd The ſeat of calm repoſe. 'Twas Sophron's grove, an aged ſire, Who vers'd in Wiſdom's lore, Now tun'd his conſecrated lyre, To cloſe the ſilent hour. The hallowed ſtrain inflam'd my breaſt, I gain'd the ruſtic cell; The courteous father bleſs'd his gueſt, Then gave th' inſtructive tale. " How falſe the aim of erring life! How fruitleſs the employ! That treads the pompous maze of ſtrife, In queſt of ſolid joy! The plumy tribes unceaſing roam, Each verdant bough ſurvey; But fix at laſt their leafy home, Where Silence wooes their ſtay: Where no alarming hinds invade, No fear their peace deſtroys, Remote in the ſequeſter'd ſhade, They rear their callow joys. Thus reſtleſs Nature loves to range, Thro' life's gay ſcenes to rove; 'Till Reaſon prompts the happier change, To Contemplation's grove! When Fortune ſmil'd, when Pleaſure woo'd, How indolently gay! Life's tranſitory ſtream I view'd Unheeded waſte away. The gay deluſive dream once o'er, Calm Reaſon's thoughts ariſe; Obey'd the monitorial power, That whiſper'd, "Now be wiſe." This ſilent grove my ſearch ſurvey'd, Where Peace diſplays her charms, How free Contentment's humble ſhade From Fortune's wild alarms. Now free from each fantaſtic ſtrife, Untroubled and ſerene, I wait the cloſing hour of life, To leave its empty ſcene. For tides of blifs that boundleſs roll, Around th' eternal throne, Shall waft the perſevering ſoul To joys, on earth unknown." But lo! the fading ſtars declare, The eaſtern herald blows, " The hour of roſy morn is near, " And Nature claims repoſe." I ſigh'd, and thought it ſoon to part From Wiſdom's ivyed cell, How ill my ſympathizing heart Could bid the Sage—"Farewell." For wealth, be ſmiling Peace my ſhare! With Friendſhip's generous love; And loſt to each ambitious care, Be mine the flowery grove! There ſtudious thought would wear the day, In each inſtructive page; Or happier, ſpeed the hours away, In converſe with the Sage. Taught by the awful voice of Truth, Life's ſyren ſnares to fly, By Reaſon's card conduct my youth, And like my Sophron die!
IL BELLICOSO. MDCCXLIV. BY MR. MASON. HENCE, dull lethargic Peace, Born in ſome hoary Beadſman's cell obſcure; Or in Circaean bower, Where Manhood dies, and Reaſon's vigils ceaſe; Hie to congenial climes, Where ſome ſeraglio's downy tyrant reigns; Or where Italian ſwains, Midſt wavy ſhades, and myrtle-blooming bowers, Lull their ambroſial hours, And deck with languid trills their tinkling rhymes. But rouſe, thou God by Furies dreſt, In helm with Terror's plumed creſt, In adamantine ſteel bedight, Gliſtening formidably bright, With ſtep unfix'd and aſpect wild; Jealous Juno's raging child, Who thee conceiv'd in Flora's bower, By touch of rare Olenian flower: Oft the goddeſs ſigh'd in vain, Envying Jove's prolific brain, And oft ſhe ſtray'd Olympus round, Till this ſpecific help ſhe found; Then fruitful grown, ſhe quits the ſkies, To Thracia's ſanguine plain ſhe hies, There teems thee forth, of nervous mold, Haughty, furious, ſwift and bold, Names thee Mars, and bids thee call The world from Pleaſure's flowery thrall. Come then, Genius of the war, Roll me in thy iron car; And while thy courſers pierce the ſky, Breathing fury as they fly, Let Courage hurry ſwift before, All ſtain'd around with purple gore, And Victory follow cloſe behind, With wreath of palm and laurel join'd, While high above, fair Fame aſſumes Her place, and waves her eagle plumes. Then let the trumpet ſwell the note, Roaring rough thro' brazen throat; Let the drum ſonorous beat, With thick vibrations hoarſely ſweet; Boxen hautboys too be found, Nor be miſs'd the fife's ſhrill ſound; Nor yet the bagpipe's ſwelling ſtrain, Solace ſweet to Highland ſwain, Whether on ſome mountain's brow, Now ſqueaking high, now droning low, He plays deft lilts to Scottiſh laſs, Tripping it o'er the pliant graſs, Or whether in the battle's fray, He lively pipes a bolder lay; The bolder lay (ſuch magic reigns In all its moving Phrygian ſtrains) Diſperſes ſwift to all the train, Fury ſtern, and pale Diſdain Strikes every fire from every mind, Nor leaves one latent ſpark behind. Bear me now to tented ground, Where gaudy ſtreamers wave around, Where Britain's enſigns high diſplay'd, Lend the earth a ſcarlet ſhade; And pikes, and ſpears, and lances gay, Glitter in the ſolar ray; Here I'll join the hardy crowd, As they ſport in gameſome mood, Wreſtling on the circled ground, Wreathing limbs with limbs around, Or as they pitch the maſſy bar, Or teach the diſk to whizz in air; And when night returns, regale With chat full blunt, and chirping ale; While ſome voice of manly baſe Sings my darling Chevy-Chace; How the child that's yet unborn May rue earl Percy's hound and horn; How Witherington in doleful dumps, Fought right valiant on his ſtumps; And many a knight and 'ſquire full gay At morn, at night were clad in clay; While firſt and laſt we join and ſing, " God proſper long our noble king!" And when Midnight ſpreads around Her ſable veſtments on the ground, Hence I'll, for a ſtudious ſeat, To ſome ſtrong citadel retreat, By ditch and rampart high ypent, And battery ſtrong and battlement! There, in ſome ſtate-room richly dight With maily coats and faulchions bright, Emblazon'd ſhields of quaint impreſs, And a whole army's glittering dreſs, While the taper burneth blue, (As Brutus erſt was wont to do) Let me turn the ample page Of ſome grave hiſtoric Sage; Or in Homer's ſacred ſong, Mix the Grecian bards among; Neſtor wiſe with ſilver'd head, And Ajax ſtern, and Diomed, And many more, whoſe wonderous might Could equal e'en the gods in fight; Or liſt to Virgil's epic lyre, Or lofty Lucan wrapp'd in fire; But rather far let Shakeſpeare's Muſe Her genuine Britiſh fires diffuſe; And briſkly with her magic ſtrain Hurry me to Gallic plain, Juſt when each patriot Talbot bleeds, Or when heaven-proſper'd Harry leads His troops with ſeven-fold courage ſteel'd, To Agincourt's immortal field. But when th' imbattled troops advance, O Mars, my every thought intrance! Guide me, thundering martial god, Guide thro' Glory's arduous road! While hailing bullets round me fly, And human thunders ſhake the ſky, While crowds of heroes heap the ground, And dying groans are heard around, With armour clanking, clarions ſounding, Cannons bellowing, ſhouts rebounding; Guide me, thundering, martial god, Guide thro' Glory's arduous road! But ſhould on land thy triumphs ceaſe, Still lead me far from hated Peace; Me bear, dread Power, for warlike ſport, To ſome wave-incircled fort; Or (if it yield more open ſight) To ſome hoar promontory's height, Whoſe high-arch'd brow o'erlooks the ſcene, Where Tritons blue and Naiads green, Sportive from their coral cave, Through the fluid chryſtal lave; There eagerly I ken from far All the waſte of naval War, And catch a ſympathetic rage, While the numerous fleets engage, And every diſtant ſhore rebounds To the cannons rattling ſounds, And the ſulphurous fire-ſhip rends, And thouſand fates around her ſends, And limbs diſſever'd hurl'd on high, Smoke amid th' affrighted ſky. Then let black clouds above my head, With gleams of ſcarlet thick beſpread, With lightning's flaſh and thunder's growl, Suit the ſpleen that ſhades my ſoul. There too let cranes, a numerous flight, With beaks and claws rage bloody flight, And airy knights from every cloud Prick forth, their armour rattling loud; With blazing ſwords and comets drear, Dragging a trail of flaming hair; Such as diffus'd their baneful gleam Over beſieg'd Jeruſalem, Or hung o'er Rome ere Julius fell, And if old Sages rightly ſpell, Were ever deemed to ſoreſhow Changes in our realms below. And when at length cold creeping Age Freezes the torrent of my rage, Let me live amongſt a crew Of invalids, of kindred hue! Of ſome main limb bereſt by War, Or bleſt with ſome deep glorious ſcar; Scar, that endleſs glory draws From Liberty and Albion's cauſe: Then oft well pleas'd with them retire To circle round a ſea-coal fire, And all our paſt campaigns recite, Of Vigo's ſack and Blenheim's fight; How valiant Rooke majeſtic trod, How Marlbro' thunder'd; half a god! And then, with ſage prophetic eye, In future battles to deſcry, That Britain ſhall not fail to yield Equal generals for the field; That France again ſhall pour her blood, And Danube roll a purpled flood. And when my children round me throng, The ſame grand theme ſhall grace my tongue; To teach them, ſhould fair England need Their blood, 'tis theirs to wiſh to bleed; And, as I ſpeak, to mark with joy New courage ſtart in every boy; And gladſome read in all their eyes, Each will a future hero riſe. Theſe delights if Mars afford, Mars, with thee I whet my ſword.
ODE AT THE INSTALLATION OF HIS GRACE AUGUSTUS HENRY FITZROY, DUKE OF GRAFTON, CHANCELLOR OF THE UNIVERSITY. JULY 1, MDCCLXIX. BY MR. GRAY. AIR. " HENCE, avaunt, ('tis holy ground) " Comus, and his midnight-crew, " And Ignorance with looks profound, " And dreaming Sloth of pallid hue, " Mad Sedition's cry profane, " Servitude that hugs her chain, " Nor in theſe conſecrated bowers " Let painted Flattery hide her ſerpent train in flowers. CHORUS. " Nor Envy baſe, nor creeping Gain " Dare the Muſe's walk to ſlain, " While bright-ey'd Science watches round: " Hence, away, 'tis holy ground!" RECITATIVE. From yonder realms of empyrean day Burſts on my ear th' indignant lay: There ſit the ſainted Sage, the Bard divine, The Few, whom Genius gave to ſhine Through every unborn age, and undiſcovered clime. Rapt in celeſtial tranſport they, (accomp.) Yet hither oft a glance from high They ſend of tender ſympathy To bleſs the place, where on their opening ſoul Firſt the genuine ardor ſtole. 'Twas Milton ſtruck the deep-toned ſhell, And, as the choral warblings round him ſwell, Meek Newton's ſelf bends from his ſtate ſublime, And nods his hoary head, and liſtens to the rhyme. AIR " Ye brown o'er-arching groves, " That Contemplation loves, " Where willowy Camus lingers with delight! " Oft at the bluſh of dawn " I trod your level lawn, " Oft woo'd the gleam of Cynthia ſilver-bright " In cloiſters dim, far from the haunts of Folly, " With Freedom by my ſide, and ſoft-ey'd Melancholy. RECITATIVE. But hark! the portals ſound, and pacing forth With ſolemn ſteps and ſlow, High Potentates and Dames of royal birth And mitred Fathers in long order go: Great Edward Edward III. gave the old foundation of Trinity College. with the lillies on his brow From haughty Gallia torn, And ſad Chatillon, Founded Pembroke Hall. She married an earl of Pembroke, who was killed in a tournament on his wedding-day. on her bridal morn That wept her bleeding love, and princely ClareFounded Clare Hall. Her father the earl of Gloceſter married a daughter of Edward I., And Anjou's HeroineMargaret of Anjou, wife of Henry VI. foundreſs of Queen's College., and the paler RoſeElizabeth Wodeville, wife of Edward IV. augmented and improved the laſt mentioned college., The rival of her crown, and of her woes, And either Henry there, The murther'd SaintHenry VI. founder of King's College., and the majeſtic LordHenry VIII. enrich d and enlarged Trinity College. That broke the bonds of Rome. (Their tears, their little triumphs o'er, (accomp.) Their human paſſions now no more, Save Charity, that glows beyond the tomb) All that on Granta's fruitful plain Rich ſtreams of regal bounty pour'd, And bad theſe aweful fanes and turrets riſe, To hail their Fitzroy's feſtal morning come; And thus they ſpeak in ſoft accord The liquid language of the ſkies. QUARTETTO. " What is Grandeur, what is Power? " Heavier toil, ſuperior pain. " What the bright reward we gain? " The grateful memory of the Good. " Sweet is the breath of vernal ſhower, " The bee's collected treaſures ſweet, " Sweet muſic's melting fall, but ſweeter yet " The ſtill ſmall voice of Gratitude. RECITATIVE. Foremoſt and leaning from her golden cloud The venerable Margaret ſee! " Welcome, my noble ſon, (ſhe cries aloud) " To this, thy kindred train, and me: " Pleas'd in thy lineaments we trace " A Tudor's fireThe bloods of the Stuarts and of the Tudors were united by the marriage of a King of Scotland to a daughter of Henry VII., a Beaufort's The father of the laſt named king, married the daughter of Beaufort Duke of Somerſet. grace. AIR. " Thy liberal heart, thy judging eye, " The flower unheeded ſhall deſcry, " And bid it round heaven's altars ſhed " The fragrance of its bluſhing head: " Shall raiſe from earth the latent gem " To glitter on the diadem. RECITATIVE. " Lo, Granta waits to lead her blooming band, " Not obvious, not obtruſive, ſhe " No vulgar praiſe, no venal incenſe flings; " Nor dares with courtly tongue refin'd " Profane thy inborn royalty of mind: " She reveres herſelf and thee. " With modeſt pride to grace thy youthful brow " The laureate wreath that Cecil wore ſhe brings, " And to thy juſt, thy gentle hand " Submits the faſces of her ſway, " While ſpirits bleſt above and men below " Join with glad voice the loud ſymphonious lay. GRAND CHORUS. " Thro' the wild waves as they roar, " With watchful eye and dauntleſs mien " Thy ſteady courſe of honour keep, " Nor fear the rocks, nor ſeek the ſhore: " The ſtar of Brunſwick ſmiles ſerene, " And gilds the horrors of the deep.
THE FATAL SISTERS:Note—The Valkyriur were female Divinities, Servants of Odin (or Woden) in the Gothic mythology. Their name ſignifies Chuſers of the ſlain. They were mounted on ſwift horſes, with drawn ſwords in their hands; and in the throng of battle ſelected ſuch as were deſtined to ſlaughter, and conducted them to Valkalla, the hall of Odin, or paradiſe of the brave; where they attended the banquet, and ſerved the de-Parted Heroes with horns of mead and ale. AN ODE. BY THE SAME. NOW he ſtorm begins to lower, (Haſte, the loom of Hell prepare,) How quick they wheel'd; and flying, behind them ſhot Sharp ſleet of arrowy ſhower— Milton's Paradiſe Regain'd. Iron ſleet of arrowy ſhower The noiſe of battle hurtled in the air. Shakeſpear's Jul. Caeſar. Hurtles in the darken'd air. Glittering lances are the loom, Where the duſky warp we ſtrain, Weaving many a ſoldier's doom, Orkney's woe, and Randver's bane. See the griſly texture grow ('Tis of human entrails made,) And the weights, that play below, Each a gaſping Warriour's head. Shafts for ſhuttles, dipt in gore, Shoot the trembling cords along. Sword, that once a Monarch bore, Keep the tiſſue cloſe and ſtrong. Miſta black, terrific Maid, Sangrida, and Hilda ſee, Join the wayward work to aid: 'Tis the woof of victory. Ere the ruddy ſun be ſet, Pikes muſt ſhiver, javelins ſing, Blade with clattering buckler meet, Hauberk craſh, and helmet ring. (Weave the crimſon web of war) Let us go, and let us fly, Where our Friends the conflict ſhare, Where they triumph, where they die. As the paths of Fate we tread, Wading thro' th' enſanguin'd field: Gondula, and Geira, ſpread O'er the youthful King your ſhield. We the reins to ſlaughter give, Ours to kill, and ours to ſpare: Spite of danger he ſhall live. (Weave the crimſon web of war.) They, whom once the deſart-beach Pent within its bleak domain, Soon their ample ſway ſhall ſtretch O'er the plenty of the plain. Low the dauntleſs Earl is laid, Gor'd with many a gaping wound; Fate demands a nobler head; Soon a King ſhall bite the ground. Long his loſs ſhall Eirin weep, Ne'er again his likeneſs ſee; Long her ſtrains in ſorrow ſleep, Strains of Immortality! Horror covers all the heath, Clouds of carnage blot the ſun. Siſters, weave the web of death; Siſters, ceaſe, the work is done. Hail the taſk, and hail the hands! Songs of joy and triumph ſing! Joy to the victorious bands; Triumph to the younger King. Mortal, thou that hear'ſt the tale, Learn the tenour of our ſong. Scotland, thro' each winding vale Far and wide the notes prolong. Siſters, hence with ſpurs of ſpeed: Each her thundering faulchion wield; Each beſtride her ſable ſteed. Hurry, hurry to the field.
THE DESCENT OF ODIN: AN ODE. BY THE SAME. UPROSE the King of Men with ſpeed, And ſaddled ſtrait his coal-black ſteed; Down the yawning ſteep he rode, That leads to Niflheimr, the hell of the Gothic nations, conſiſted of nine worlds, to which were devoted all ſuch as died of ſickneſs, old-age, or by any other means than in battle: Over it preſided Hela, the Goddeſs of Death. Hela's drear abode. Him the Dog of darkneſs ſpied, His ſhaggy throat he open'd wide, While from his jaws, with carnage fill'd, Foam and human gore diſtill'd: Hoarſe he bays with hideous din, Eyes that glow, and fangs that grin; And long purſues, with fruitleſs yell, The Father of the powerful ſpell. Onward ſtill his way he takes, (The groaning earth beneath him ſhakes,) Till full before his fearleſs eyes The portals nine of hell ariſe. Right againſt the eaſtern gate, By the moſs-grown pile he ſate; Where long of yore to ſleep was laid The duſt of the prophetic Maid. Facing to the northern clime, Thrice he traced the Runic rhyme; Thrice pronounc'd, in accents dread, The thrilling verſe that wakes the Dead; Till from out the hollow ground Slowly breath'd a ſullen ſound. PR. What call unknown, what charms preſume To break the quiet of the tomb? Who thus afflicts my troubled ſprite, And drags me from the realms of night? Long on theſe mouldering bones have beat The winter's ſnow, the ſummer's heat, The drenching dews, and driving rain! Let me, let me ſleep again. Who is he, with voice unbleſt, That calls me from the bed of reſt? O. A Traveller, to thee unknown, Is he that calls, a Warriour's Son. Thou the deeds of light ſhalt know; Tell me what is done below, For whom yon glittering board is ſpread, Dreſt for whom yon golden bed. PR. Mantling in the goblet ſee The pure beverage of the bee, O'er it hangs the ſhield of gold; 'Tis the drink of Balder bold: Balder's head to death is given. Pain can reach the Sons of Heaven! Unwilling I my lips uncloſe: Leave me, leave me to repoſe. O. Once again my call obey. Propheteſs, ariſe, and ſay, What dangers Odin's Child await, Who the Author of his fate. PR. In Hoder's hand the Heroe's doom: His brother ſends him to the tomb. Now my weary lips I cloſe: Leave me, leave me to repoſe. O. Propheteſs, my ſpell obey, Once again ariſe, and ſay, Who th' Avenger of his guilt, By whom ſhall Hoder's blood be ſpilt. PR. In the caverns of the weſt, By Odin's fierce embrace compreſt, A wonderous Boy ſhall Rinda bear, Who ne'er ſhall comb his raven-hair, Nor waſh his viſage in the ſtream, Nor ſee the ſun's departing beam; Till he on Hoder's corſe ſhall ſmile Flaming on the funeral pile. Now my weary lips I cloſe: Leave me, leave me to repoſe. O. Yet a while my call obey. Propheteſs, awake, and ſay, What Virgins theſe, in ſpeechleſs woe, That bend to earth their ſolemn brow, That their flaxen treſſes tear, And ſnowy veils, that float in air. Tell me whence their ſorrows roſe: Then I leave thee to repoſe. PR. Ha! no Traveller art thou, King of Men! I know thee now, Mightieſt of a mighty line— O. No boding Maid of ſkill divine Art thou, nor propheteſs of good; But mother of the giant-brood! PR. Hie thee hence, and boaſt at home, That never ſhall Enquirer come To break my iron-ſleep again; Till Lok is the evil Being, who continues in chains till the Twilight of the Gods approaches, when he ſhall break his bonds; the human race, the ſtars, and ſun, ſhall diſappear; the earth ſink in the ſeas, and fire conſume the ſkies: even Odin himſelf and his kindred-deities ſhall periſh. For a further explanation of this mythology, ſee Mallet's Introduction to the Hiſtory of Denmark, 1755, Quarto. Lok has burſt his tenfold chain. Never, till ſubſtantial Night Has reaſſum'd her ancient right; Till wrapp'd in flames, in ruin hurl'd, Sinks the fabric of the world.
THE TRIUMPHS OF Owen ſucceeded his Father Griffin in the Principality of North-Wales, A. D. 1120. This battle was fought near forty Years afterwards. OWEN: A FRAGMENT. BY THE SAME. OWEN's praiſe demands my ſong, Owen ſwift and Owen ſtrong; Faireſt flower of Roderic's ſlem, North-Wales. Gwyneth's ſhield, and Britain's gem. He nor heaps his brooded ſtores, Nor on all profuſely pours; Lord of every regal art, Liberal hand, and open heart. Big with hoſts of mighty name, Squadrons three againſt him came; This the force of Eirin hiding, Side by ſide as proudly riding, On her ſhadow long and gay Denmark. Lochlin plows the watery way; There the Norman ſails afar Catch the winds, and join the war: Black and huge along they ſweep, Burthens of the angry deep. Dauntleſs on his native ſands The red Dragon is the device of Cadwallader, which all his deſcendants bore on their banners. The dragon Son of Mona ſtands; In glittering arms and glory dreſt, High he rears his ruby creſt. There the thundering ſtrokes begin, There the preſs, and there the din; Talymalfra's rocky ſhore Echoing to the battle's roar. Where his glowing eye-balls turn, Thouſand Banners round him burn. Where he points his purple ſpear, Haſty, haſty Rout is there, Marking with indignant eye Fear to ſtop, and ſhame to fly. There Confuſion, Terror's child, Conflict fierce, and Ruin wild, Agony, that pants for breath, Deſpair and honourable Death.
AN INVITATION TO THE FEATHERED RACE, MDCCLXIII. WRITTEN AT CLAVERTON, NEAR BATH. BY THE REV. MR. GRAVES. AGAIN the balmy Zephyr blows, Freſh verdure decks the grove, Each bird with vernal rapture glows, And tunes his notes to love. Ye gentle warblers, hither fly, And ſhun the noon-tide heat; My ſhrubs a cooling ſhade ſupply, My groves a ſafe retreat. Here freely hop from ſpray to ſpray, Or weave the moſſy neſt; Here rove and ſing the live-long day, At night here ſweetly reſt. Amidſt this cool tranſlucent rill, That trickles down the glade, Here bathe your plumes, here drink your fill, And revel in the ſhade. No ſchoolboy rude, to miſchief prone, E'er ſhews his ruddy face, Or twangs his bow, or hurls a ſtone In this ſequeſtered place. Hither the vocal Thruſh repairs, Secure the Linnet ſings, The Goldfinch dreads no ſlimy ſnares, To clog her painted wings. Sad Philomel! ah quit thy haunt, Yon diſtant woods Warley Woods. among, And round my friendly grotto chaunt Thy ſweetly-plaintive ſong. Let not the harmleſs Red-breaſt fear, Domeſtic bird, to come And ſeek a ſure aſylum here, With one that loves his home. My trees for you, ye artleſs tribe, Shall ſtore of fruit preſerve; Oh let me thus your friendſhip bribe! Come feed without reſerve. For you theſe cherries I protect, To you theſe plums belong; Sweet is the fruit that you have pick'd, But ſweeter far your ſong. Let then this league betwixt us made, Our mutual intereſts guard, Mine be the gift of fruit and ſhade, Your ſongs be my reward.
UNDER AN HOUR-GLASS, IN A GROTTO NEAR THE WATER AT CLAVERTON. BY THE SAME. THIS bubbling ſtream not uninſtructive flows, Nor idly loiters to its deſtin'd main, Each flower it feeds that on its margin grows, And bids thee bluſh, whoſe days are ſpent in vain. Nor void of moral, tho' unheeded, glides Time's current ſtealing on with ſilent haſte; For lo! each falling ſand his folly chides, Who lets one precious moment run to waſte.
ON THE ANCIENT CITY OF BATH. WRITTEN ON THE FINISHING THE CIRCUS. BY THE SAME. 'MIDST flowery meads and Avon's winding floods, Romantic hills, wild rocks, and pendent woods, Behold fair Bath her ſtately front advance, In all the pomp of Latian elegance! The hills that riſe in rich profuſion round, With gardens deck'd, or ſplendid villas crown'd! There Health and Pleaſure hand in hand appear, And ſmiling weave their roſeate arbours there. Deep in their moſſy cells beneath theſe hills, The bounteous Naiads form the guſhing rills. There various ſprings their mineral virtues blend, And warm in ſalutary ſtreams deſcend; Theſe ſtreams to mortals balmy health reſtore, The Gout grows mild, and Cholics are no more. Here languid nymphs regain the bloom of May, Here cripples dance and hurl the crutch away. Hither, with laviſh hand, freſh peaſants bring The fruits of Autumn and the flowers of Spring; Whilſt lowing herds from richeſt paſtures, pour The draught ſalubrious in their milky ſtore; Each bird of various plume that haunts the wood, Or wings the heath, or dives the liquid flood, The ſpreading ſea fiſh and the ſcaly fry Contiguous coaſts or neighbouring ſtreams ſupply. Thus Art and Nature join in friendly ſtrife, To ſhower on Bath the blandiſhments of life. Oh Bath! thrice happy if to man 'twere given T' enjoy with temperate uſe the gifts of heaven! Didſt thou thy partial fate but truly prize, Didſt thou increaſe in virtue as in ſize; Were Luxury baniſh'd with each baneful Vice, Th' infernal arts of Scandal, Cards, and Dice; The vagrant herds that every ſtreet infeſt, And Inſolence, with vigorous care ſuppreſs'd; Did no baſe miſcreants, to themſelves unjuſt, By mean exactions liberal minds diſguſt; From diſtant counties Thanes in crowds ſhould fly, Proud in thy domes to ſhun the wintery ſky. Auguſta's ſelf ſhould half deſerted ſtand, And Bath poſſeſs the riches of the land.
A FATHER's ADVICE TO HIS SON. BY JOHN GILBERT COOPER, ESQ. DEEP in a grove by cypreſs ſhaded, Where mid day ſun had ſeldom ſhone, Or noiſe the ſolemn ſcene invaded, Save ſome afflicted Muſe's moan; A Swain towards full ag'd manhood wending, Sat ſorrowing at the cloſe of day, At whoſe fond ſide a Boy attending, Liſp'd half his father's cares away. The father's eyes no object wreſted, But on the ſmiling prattler hung, Till, what his throbbing heart ſuggeſted, Theſe accents trembled from his tongue. " My youth's firſt hopes, my manhood's treaſure, " My prattling innocent, attend, " Nor fear rebuke, or ſour diſpleaſure, " A father's lovelieſt name is Friend. " Some truths, from long experience flowing, " Worth more than royal grants receive, " For truths are wealth of heaven's beſtowing, " Which kings have ſeldom power to give. " Since from an ancient race deſcended " You boaſt an unattainted blood, " By yours be their fair fame attended, " And claim by birthright to be good. " In love for every fellow-creature, " Superior riſe above the crowd; " What moſt ennobles human nature " Was ne'er the portion of the croud. " Be thine the generous heart that borrows " From others joys a friendly glow, " And for each hapleſs neighbour's ſorrows, " Throbs with a ſympathetic woe. " This is the temper moſt endearing; " Tho' wide proud Pomp her banners ſpreads, " An heavenlier power good-nature bearing, " Each heart in willing thraldom leads. " Taſte not from Fame's uncertain fountain, " The peace-deſtroying ſtreams that flow; " Nor from Ambition's dangerous mountain, " Look down upon the world below. " The princely pine on hills exalted, " Whoſe lofty branches cleave the ſky, " By winds long brav'd, at laſt aſſaulted, " Is headlong whirl'd in duſt to lie; " Whilſt the mild roſe more ſafely growing " Low in its unaſpiring vale, " Amidſt retirement's ſhelter blowing, " Exchanges ſweets with every gale. " Wiſh not for Beauty's darling features, " Moulded by Nature's fondling power; " For faireſt forms 'mong human creatures, " Shine but the pageants of an hour. " I ſaw, the pride of all the meadow, " At noon, a gay Narciſſus blow " Upon a river's bank, whoſe ſhadow " Bloom'd in the ſilver waves below. " By noon-tide's heat its youth was waſted, " The waters as they paſs'd, complain'd; " At eve its glories all were blaſted, " And not one former tint remain'd. " Nor let vain Wit's deceitful glory " Lead you from Wiſdom's path aſtray: " What Genius lives renown'd in ſtory, " To happineſs who found the way? " In yonder mead behold that vapor, " Whoſe vivid beams illuſive play, " Far off it ſeems a friendly taper, " To guide the traveller on his way; " But ſhould ſome hapleſs wretch purſuing, " Tread where the treacherous meteors glow, " He'd find, too late his raſhneſs rueing, " That fatal quickſands lurk below. " In life ſuch bubbles nought admiring, " Gilt with falſe light, and fill'd with air, " Do you, from pageant crowds retiring, " To peace in Virtue's cot repair. " There ſeek the never-waſted treaſure, " Which mutual love and friendſhip give, " Domeſtic confort, ſpotleſs pleaſure, " And bleſs'd and bleſſing you will live. " If Heaven with children crowns your dwelling, " As mine its bounty does with you, " In fondneſs fatherly excelling " The example you have felt purſue." He paus'd—for tenderly careſſing The darling of his wounded heart, Looks had means only of expreſſing Thoughts language never could impart. Now Night her mournful mantle ſpreading, Had rob'd with black the horizon round, And dank dews from her treſſes ſhedding, With genial moiſture bath'd the ground: When back to city follies flying, 'Midſt Cuſtom's ſlaves he liv'd reſign'd, His face array'd in ſmiles, denying The true complexion of his mind; For ſeriouſly around ſurveying Each character in youth and age, Of fools betray'd and knaves betraying, That play'd upon this human ſtage, (Peaceful himſelf and undeſigning) He loath'd the ſcenes of guile and ſtrife, And felt each ſecret wiſh inclining To leave this fretful farce of life. Yet to whate'er above was fated, Obediently he bow'd his ſoul; For, what all-bounteous Heaven created, He thought Heaven only ſhould controul.
ON THE MUCH LAMENTED DEATH OF THE MARQUIS OF TAVISTOCKOccaſioned by a fall from his horſe,. BY MR. A— L—. Sunt lacrymae rerum & mentem mortalia tangunt. VIRG. —VIRTUOUS youth! Thank Heaven, I knew thee not! I ne'er ſhall feel The keen regret thy drooping friends ſuſtain; Yet will I drop the ſympathizing tear, And this due tribute to thy memory bring; Not that thy noble birth provokes my ſong, Or claims ſuch offering from the Muſes ſhrine; But that thy ſpotleſs undiſſembling heart, Thy unaffected manners, all unſtain'd With pride of power, and inſolence of wealth; Thy probity, benevolence, and truth, (Beſt inmates of man's ſoul!) for ever loſt, Cropt like fair flowers in Life's meridian bloom, Fade undiſtinguiſh'd in the ſilent grave. O BEDFORD!—pardon, if a Muſe unknown, Smit with thy heart-felt grief, directs her way To Sorrow's dark abode, where thee ſhe views, Thee, wretched fire, and pitying, hears thee mourn Thy RUSSEL's fate.—"Why was he thus belov'd? " Why did he bleſs my life?"—Fond parent, ceaſe; Count not his virtues o'er.—Hard taſk!—Call forth Thy firm hereditary ſtrength of mind. Lo! where the ſhade of thy great anceſtor, Fam'd RUSSEL, ſtands, and chides thy vain complaint; His philoſophic ſoul, with patience arm'd And chriſtian virtue brav'd the pangs of death: Admir'd, belov'd, he dy'd; (if right I deem) Not more lamented than thy virtuous Son. Yet calm thy mind; ſo may the lenient hand Of Time, all ſoothing Time, thy pangs aſſwage, Heal thy ſad wound, and cloſe thy days in peace. See where the object of his filial love, His mother, loſt in tears, laments his doom! Speak comfort to her ſoul.— O! from the ſacred fount, where flow the ſtreams Of heavenly conſolation, O! one drop, To ſooth his hapleſs wife! Sharp ſorrow preys Upon her tender frame.—Alas! ſhe faints— She falls! ſtill graſping in her hand The picture of her lord.—All-gracious Heaven! Juſt are thy ways, and righteous thy decrees, But dark and intricate; elſe why this meed For tender faithful love? this ſad return For innocence and truth? Was it for this, By Virtue and the ſmiling Graces led, (Fair types of long ſucceeding years of joy) She twin'd the votive wreath at Hymen's ſhrine, So ſoon to fade and die? Yet O! reflect, Chaſte partner of his life! you ne'er deplor'd His alienated heart; (diſtrous ſtate! Condition worſe than death!) the ſacred torch Burnt to the laſt its unremitted fires! No painful ſelf-reproach haſt thou to feel; The conſcious thought of every duty paid, This ſweet reflection ſhall ſupport thy mind: Be this thy comfort.—Turn thine eyes awhile, Nor with that lifeleſs picture feed thy woe; Turn yet thine eyes; ſee how they court thy ſmiles; Thoſe infant pledges of connubial joy! Dwell on their looks; and trace his image there. And O! ſince Heaven, in pity to thy loſs, For thee one future bleſſing has in ſtore, Cheriſh that tender hope.—Hear Reaſon's voice; Huſh'd be the ſtorms that vex thy troubled breaſt, And angels guard thee in the hour of pain. Accept this ardent prayer; a Muſe forgive, Who for thy ſorrows draws the penſive ſigh, Who feels thy grief. Tho' erſt in frolic hour, She tun'd her comic rhymes to mirth and joy, Unſkill'd (I ween in lofty verſe, unus'd To plaintive ſtrains, yet by ſoft Pity led, Trembling reviſits the Pierian vale; There culls each fragrant flower to deck the tomb Where generous RUSSEL lies.
THE PLEASURES OF CONTEMPLATION. BY MISS WHATELY. QUEEN of the halycon breaſt, and heavenward eye, Sweet Contemplation, with thy ray benign Light my lone paſſage thro' this vale of life, And raiſe the ſiege of Care! This ſilent hour To thee is ſacred, when the ſtar of Eve, Like Dian's Virgins trembling ere they bathe, Shoots o'er the Heſperian wave its quivering ray. All Nature joins to fill my labouring breaſt With high ſenſations: awful ſilence reigns Above, around; the ſounding winds no more Wild thro' the fluctuating foreſt fly With guſt impetuous; Zephyr ſcarcely breathes Upon the trembling foliage; flocks, and herds, Retir'd beneath the friendly ſhade repoſe Fann'd by Oblivion's wing. Ha! is not this, This the dread hour, as ancient fables tell, When flitting ſpirits from their priſons broke, By moon-light glide along the duſky vales, The ſolemn church-yard, or the dreary grove; Fond to reviſit their once lov'd abodes, And view each friendly ſcene of paſt delight? Satyrs, and fawns, that in ſequeſter'd woods, And deep-embowering ſhades delight to dwell; Quitting their caves, where in the reign of Day They ſlept in ſilence, o'er the daiſied green Purſue their gambols, and with printleſs feet Chaſe the fleet ſhadows o'er the waving plains. Dryads, and Naiads, from each ſpring and grove, Trip blithſome o'er the lawns; or, near the ſide Of moſſy fountains, ſport in Cynthia's beams. The fairy elves, attendant on their queen, With light ſteps bound along the velvet mead, And leave the green impreſſion of their dance In rings myſterious to the paſſing ſwain; While the pellucid glow-worm kindly lends Her ſilver lamp to light the feſtive ſcene. From yon majeſtic pile, in ruin great, Whoſe lofty towers once on approaching foes Look'd ſtern defiance, the ſad bird of night In mournful accent to the moon complains: Thoſe towers with venerable ivy crown'd, And mouldering into ruin, yield no more A ſafe retirement to the hoſtile bands; But there the lonely bat, that ſhuns the day, Dwells in dull ſolitude; and ſcreaming thence Wheels the night raven ſhrill, with hideous note Portending death to the dejected ſwain. Each plant and flowret bath'd in evening dews, Exhale refreſhing ſweets: from the ſmooth lake, On whoſe ſtill boſom ſleeps the tall tree's ſhade, The moon's ſoft rays reflected mildly ſhine. Now towering Fancy takes her airy flight Without reſtraint, and leaves this earth behind; From pole to pole, from world to world ſhe flies; Rocks, ſeas, nor ſkies, can interrupt her courſe. Is this what men, to thought eſtrang'd, miſcall Deſpondence? this dull Melancholy's ſcene? To trace th' Eternal Cauſe thro all his works, Minutely and magnificently wiſe? Mark the gradations which thro' Nature's plan Join each to each, and form the vaſt deſign? And tho' day's glorious guide withdraws his beams Impartial, chearing other ſkies and ſhores; Rich intellect, that ſcorns corporeal bands, With more than mid-day radiance gilds the ſcene: The mind, now reſcu'd from the cares of day, Roves unreſtrain'd thro' the wide realms of ſpace; Where (thought ſtupendous!) ſyſtems infinite, In regular confuſion taught to move, Like gems beſpangle yon etherial plains. Ye ſons of Pleaſure, and ye foes to Thought, Who ſearch for bliſs in the capacious bowl, And blindly woo Intemperance for Joy; Durſt ye retire, hold converſe with yourſelves, And in the ſilent hours of darkneſs court Kind Contemplation with her peaceful train; How won'd the minutes dance on downy feet, And unperceiv'd the midnight taper waſte, While intellectual pleaſure reign'd ſupreme! Ye Muſes, Graces, Virtues, heaven-born maids! Who love in peaceful ſolitude to dwell With meek-ey'd Innocence, and radiant Truth, And bluſhing Modeſty; that frighted fly The dark intrigue, and midnight maſquerade; What is this pleaſure which inchants mankind? 'Tis noiſe, 'tis toil, 'tis frenzy: like the cup Of Circe, fam'd of old, who taſtes it finds Th' etherial ſpark divine to brute transform'd. And now, methinks, I hear the Libertine With ſupercilious leer cry, "Preach no more " Your muſty morals; hence, to deſarts fly, " And in the gloom of ſolitary caves " Auſterely dwell: what's life, debarr'd from joy? " Crown then the bowl; let Muſic lend her aid, " And Beauty her's, to ſoothe my wayward cares." Ah! little does he know the Nymph he ſtyles A foe to pleaſure; pleaſure is not more His aim than her's; with him ſhe joins to blame The hermit's gloom, and ſavage penances; Each ſocial joy approves. Oh! without thee, Fair Friendſhip, Life were nothing; without thee, The page of Fancy would no longer charm, And Solitude diſguſt e'en penſive minds. Nought I condemn but that exceſs which clouds The mental faculties, to ſoothe the ſenſe: Let Reaſon, Truth, and Virtue, guide thy ſteps, And every bleſſing Heaven beſtows, be thine.
LIBERTY: AN ELEGY. INSCRIBED TO MISS LOGGIN. BY THE SAME. FEIGNED TO BE WRITTEN FROM THE HAPPY VALLEY OF AMBARA. TO you, Eliza, be theſe lays conſign'd, Who bleſt in Freedom's fair dominions live; While I, alas! am pompouſly confin'd, Bereſt of every joy the world can give. In vain for me the bluſhing flowrets bloom, And ſpring eternal decks the fragrant ſhade; In vain the dewy myrtle breathes perſume, And ſounds angelic echo thro' the glade. The marble palaces, and glittering ſpires, What are they? Pageant glare, and empty ſhow: Ah! how unequal to my fond deſires, Which tell me—Freedom makes a heaven below. Penſive I range theſe ever-verdant groves, And ſigh reſponſive to the murmuring ſtream; While woodland warblers chant their happy loves, Dear Liberty is wretched Myra's theme. The velvet lawns diverſify'd with flowers, In ſweet ſucceſſion every morn the ſame; Freſh gales that breathe thro' amaranthine bowers, And every charm inventive Art can frame, Here fondly vie to crown this favour'd place: And here, to ſmooth captivity a prey, Each royal child of Abyſſinian race Conſumes the vacant inauſpicious day. Tho' feſtive mirth awake the laughing morn, And guiltleſs revels lead the dancing hours; Tho' purling rills the fertile meads adorn, And the wild rock its ſpicy produce pours: Yet what are theſe to fill a boundleſs mind? Tho' gay each ſcene appear, 'tis ſtill the ſame; Variety—in vain I hope to find; Variety, thou dear, but diſtant name! With pleaſure cloy'd, and ſick of taſteleſs eaſe, No ſweet alternatives my ſpirits chear; Joys oft repeated loſe their power to pleaſe, And harmony grows diſcord to my ear. Bleſt Freedom! how I long with thee to rove, Where varying Nature all her charms diſplays; To range the ſun-burnt hill, the rifted grove, And trace the ſilver current's winding maze! Free as the wing'd inhabitants of air, Who diſtant climes and various ſeaſons ſee, Regions—tho' not, like ſoft Ambara, fair; Yet bleſt with change, and crown'd with Liberty. Vain wiſh! theſe rocks, whoſe ſummits pierce the ſkies, With frowning aſpect tell me—Hope is vain: Till, freed by death, the purer ſpirit flies, Here wretched Myra's deſtin'd to remain.
HYMN TO SOLITUDE. BY THE SAME. NOW genial Spring o'er lawn and grove Extends her vivid power, Now Phoebus ſhines with mildeſt beams, And wakes each ſleeping flower. Soft breezes fan the ſmiling mead, Kind dews refreſh the plain; While Beauty, Harmony, and Love, Renew their chearful reign. Now far from buſineſs let me fly, Far from the crouded ſeat Of Envy, Pageantry, and Power, To ſome obſcure retreat: Where Plenty ſheds with liberal hand Her various bleſſings round; Where laughing Joy delighted roves, And roſeate Health is found. Give me to climb the mountain's brow, When morn's firſt bluſhes riſe; And view the fair extenſive ſcene With Contemplation's eyes. And while the raptur'd woodland choir Pour forth their love-taught lays; I'll tune the grateful matin ſong To my Creator's praiſe. He bade the ſolar orb advance To cheer the gloomy ſky; And at the gentle voice of Spring Made hoary Winter fly. He dreſs'd the groves in ſmiling green, Unlock'd the ice-bound rill; Bade Flora's pride adorn the vale, And herbage crown the hill. To that all-gracious ſource of light, Let early incenſe riſe, While on Devotion's wing the ſoul Aſcends her native ſkies. And when the rapid car of day Illumes the fartheſt weſt, When ſleep diſſolves the captives chains, And anguiſh ſinks to reſt; Then let me range the ſhadowy lawns When Veſper's ſilver light Plays on the trembling ſtreams, and gilds The ſable veil of night. When every earthly care's at reſt, And muſing Silence reigns; Then active Fancy takes her flight Wide o'er th' etherial plains; Soars thro' the trackleſs realms of ſpace, Sees endleſs ſyſtems roll; Whilſt all harmoniouſly combine, To form one beauteous whole. All hail! ſweet Solitude! to thee, In thy ſequeſter'd bower, Let me invoke the Paſtoral Muſe, And every Sylvan power. Dear penſive Nymph, the tender thought And deep reſearch is thine; 'Tis thine to heal the tortur'd breaſt, And form the great deſign. On thy ſtill boſom let me reſt, Far from the clang of war; Where ſtern Oppreſſion's bloody chains Precede the victor's car: Here fold me in thy ſacred arms, Where Albion's happy plains Exulting tell the nations round, A Britiſh Brunſwick reigns. Here let me hail each riſing ſun, Here view each day's decline; Be Fame and Sway my Sovereign's lot, Be Peace and Freedom mine.
ODE TO MAY. BY THE SAME. FAIREST daughter of the year, Ever blooming, lovely May; While thy vivid ſkies appear, Nature ſmiles, and all is gay. Thine the flowery-painted mead, Paſture fair, and mountain green; Thine, with infant-harveſt ſpread, Laughing lies the lowland ſcene. Friend of thine, the ſhepherd plays Blithſome near the yellow broom, While his flock, that careleſs ſtrays, Seeks the wild thyme's ſweet perfume. May, with thee I mean to rove O'er theſe lawns and vallies fair, Tune my gentle lyre to love, Cheriſh hope, and ſoften care. Round me ſhall the village ſwains, Shall the roſy nymphs, appear; While I ſing in rural ſtrains, May, to ſhepherds ever dear. I had never ſkill to raiſe Peans from the vocal ſtrings, To the god-like Hero's praiſe, To the pageant pomp of Kings, Stranger to the hoſtile plains, Where the brazen trumpets ſound; Life's purple ſtream the verdure ſtains, And heaps promiſcuous preſs the ground: Where the murderous cannon's breath Fate denounces from afar, And the loud report of death Stuns the cruel ear of war. Stranger to the park and play, Birth-night balls, and courtly trains; Thee I woo, my gentle May, Tune for thee my native ſtrains. Blooming groves, and wandering rills, Soothe thy vacant poet's dreams, Vocal woods, and wilds, and hills, All her unexalted themes.
THE PRAISES OF ISIS; A POEM. WRITTEN MDCCLV. BY CHARLES EMILY, ESQ. CASTALIAN goddeſs, come; nor ſlight the call Of ſimpleſt bard; auſpicious come, and prompt The flowing numbers; ſo may Iſis lend Attentive ear well-pleas'd, nor with diſdain Reject the wreath of freſheſt flowrets cull'd From Pindus' hill to deck her lovely brow.— Begin▪ what Muſe to Iſis ſhall deny The votive ſong? for Iſis loves the Muſe.— Thee, faireſt Naiad, oft at early dawn I meditate, till Evening, matron ſtaid, Her treſſes dripping with ambroſial dew Advance ſlow-pacing from the gilded Weſt; Nor ceaſe I to reflect, how bleſt are they, To envy bleſt, that in thy peaceful haunts Hold pleaſing dalliance with the Muſes' train; Yet tho' in other clime I reſt remote, Ill-fated, that my wayward lot forbids To wander thy green verge beſide, ſhalt thou Remain unſung; while now the hoary Cam Hard by me rolls his ſlowly-winding wave. As where Apelles in accordance meet Weds light to ſhade; and with Promethean art Teaches the breathing canvas to expreſs A furtive life; with wonder we behold Unnumbered beauties ruſh upon the ſight, Gazing, while on the border of the lip Stands mute Suſpence, yet doubtful which may firſt Demand, which laſt, the tribute of applauſe; Thus, Iſis, while for thee I ſtring the lyre, The tongue of praiſe awhile forgets its purpoſe, In magic wonder bound; nor knows the Muſe Loſt in the pleaſing labyrinth, where to bend Her footſtep firſt.—Say, ſhall I firſt rehearſe, How thou, a virgin yet, wert whilom wont In Nereus' hall to join the feſtive dance Thy ſiſter train among, the faireſt thou Of all the Naiads, that with ſilver foot Skim the ſmooth ſurface of the glaſſy deep? Say, rather ſhall I ſing, how kingly Thame (If holy bards in better ages born Have ſtory'd true) to ſhare his watery bed Thee woo'd long loving? nor in proud diſdain Didſt thou refuſe with kingly Thame to mix Thy marriageable waveVid. the marriage of the Thames and Medway in Spenſer's Faery Queen.. To Neptune's court Upon that great ſolemnity repair'd The river gods: all that from cryſtal urn Enrichening moiſture pour o'er Britiſh plains. There firſt advancing with imperial port Proud Humber came; majeſtic as the god Whoſe mighty trident Neptune. ſhakes the trembling earth: Next Severn, conſcious of Sabrina's Vid. Milton in Comus. fate, The king of floods; in greeniſh mantle clad Beſpangled here and there with coſtly gems And many a gliſtering pearl: there too was ſeen The Medway, and the hoarſe-reſounding Trent, The pleaſant Medway, that with conſcious pride Beholds the glorious raceScil. the men of Kent., who long of yore Breathing ſtern-viſag'd valour ſcorn'd to ſtoop The ſervile neck to William's William the conqueror. galling yoke, Unconquerable ſouls: the yellow Ouſe There came, and Towy winding up and down His watry folds, and Deva Milton ſpeaks of the river Dce or Deva, in this manner: —Where Deva ſpreads it's wizard ſtream. Lycidas. held of old A ſacred current; with the blue-rob'd DoveAlluding to the bluiſh colour of its waters., And Derwent, ſiſter ſtreams; and Avon Shakeſpear was buried, and has a monument erected to him at Stratford upon Avon. fair, The ſilver-ſandal'd nymph: whoſe bank along At ſilent eve in penſive poſture ſtretch'd, Calls raptur'd Fancy from Elyſian bower Her darling Shakeſpear's ever hallow'd ſhade. There was the Tweed, the turret-creſted Tyne, And Eden, famous ſtream; who hath not heard Of Eden? there the plowman as he turns With crooked ſhare the bordering glebe, full oft Gauntlets and ruſt-worn ſpears and vizor'd helms, And pond'rous ſhields with quaint device pourtray'd, And bones enormous of gigantic ſize With gaping wonder ſees; then calls to mind The well known tale, how there by Britiſh knights Was many a bold exploit and bloody fight Atchiev'd of old.—But tedious 'twere to name All that with one accord to Neptune's hall Then came, when now the beauteous Iſis gave To mix with royal Thame's uxorious flood Her virgin ſtream. Nor on that ſolemn day Was wanting (then with rural chaplet crown'd, Tho' now adorn'd with many a glittering tower) Thou, father Cam: that oft with kind attention Haſt deign'd awhile to liſten, as I tun'd The ſimple madrigal; nor jealous he, That now his windings intricate I trace With muſing gait; and teach the mimic nymph, All as ſhe ſits his flowery bank along, To ſound the praiſes of a ſiſter flood:— And can I ſing aught better, than thy praiſe, O lovely Iſis? lovelier in the eye Of Phoebus ſeen, than erſt the ſilver ſtream Of fabled Caſtaly; and fam'd as that Which flow'd Minerva's city Scil. Athens. faſt beſide, Iliſſus, nurſe of each ingenuous art. Should I rehearſe, or thoſe, whoſe bounty bad The liquid mirrour of thy glaſſy wave Yon towery manſions to reflect; or thoſe, Thy darling progeny, who burn'd to graſp Immortal fame, and with unwearied ſearch Urg'd flying Science to its inmoſt maze; Should I their names rehearſe, the ſun, that now His mattin beam wide ſcattering tips with gold The ragged ſkirt of yonder orient cloud, Wou'd drink the weſtern wave, or ever ceas'd The lengthen'd ſong.—Theſe ſtructures Bodley plann'd; Thoſe Sheldon's bounty rear'd. That beauteous domeRadcliffe's library, Bids grateful Iſis ſtill adore the ſhade Of Radcliffe, honour'd name: him Paean taught (For he was lov'd of Paean) to explore The medicinal power of juicy ſhrub And healing plant, that o'er her verdant lap With free profuſion parent Nature ſtrews; Nor thankleſs he; for to the god he rear'd In pious gratitude a ſtately fane. Whence roſe yon fabricChriſt-church college., that conſpicuous lifts Its ſky-topt dome with more majeſtic pride? 'Twas Wolſey's glorious work: to Science riſe No towers more lov'd; for there the mitred ſageThe Biſhop of Briſtol, then dean of the above cathedral., In wiſdom's lore deep ſkill'd, with kindeſt eye Obſerves the budding Genius as it thruſts Its youthful bloſſoms; or with conſcious joy There oft in recollection ſweet beholds Thoſe, (whom his honeſt nurture erſt inform'd With all that's deem'd or excellent or fair) O'er Britain's peaceful land their goodly beams Diſpenſe abroad: names, that to lateſt time Shall ſhine diſtinguiſh'd in the rolls of Fame. Oft, as thou ſat'ſt within thy pearl pav'd grot, With pleas'd attention, Iſis, haſt thou caught The dulcet ſounds, when in yon ſacred grove, To Phoebus ſacred, woo'd the Latian Muſe Sweet Addiſon: who like the ſedulous bee Rifled each honey-boſom'd flower, that edg'd The fount of Helicon.—Why loves to bend His lonely ſtep to yonder aged oak, Deep muſing, while bright Cynthia ſilvers o'er The negro forehead of uncomely Night, Th' enraptur'd Bard? and on the dew-ſprent turf His temples pillowing, ſees before him dance (Or dreams he ſees) the Muſes Nine, and glows With inſpiration ſtrange? There Fame records Cuſtom'd the merry Chaucer erſt to frame His laughter-moving tale: nor, when his harp He tun'd to notes of louder pitch, and ſung Of ladies paſſing fair, and bloody jouſts, And warrior ſteeds, and valour-breathing knights For matchleſs proweſs fam'd, deſerv'd he not The laureat wreath; for he, like Phoebus, knew To build in numbers apt the lofty ſong.— " Whence art thou, gracious Preſence? Art thou ſent " From heaven, an angel miniſter, to bleſs " Theſe favour'd ſeats? for that excelling form " Beſpeaks thee more than man;" in wonder wrapt Thus Iſis cry'd, while on her margent green In youthful grace how amiable! ſtood Britannia's riſing hopeEdward the Black Prince.. With ſtedfaſt eye Long time ſhe gaz'd unſatisfied, and mark'd Each godlike thought, that imag'd on his look With ſtrong reflection ſhone, the undoubted pledge Of futu • e deeds: tho' yet was Creſſy's plain Unſtain'd with ſlaughter: nor had Gallia's kingJohn, king of France taken priſoner by Edward the Black Prince. His ravag'd crown yet mourn'd; nor deem'd, that ſoon Wou'd dawn the luckleſs day, when he muſt drag The galling bond of ſore captivityAlluding to the manner of a Roman triumph., The gaze of cluſtering multitudes, and deck The glorious triumph of a Britiſh boy.— Nor, while yon fair aſpiring domes adorn Thy verge, O Iſis, ſhall unmention'd paſs Alfred, auſpicious name: ſay, goddeſs ſay, Burſts not thy breaſt with ſwelling raptures fraught, While Memory with her foregeful pencil paints The glorious portrait? On the godlike form Advanc'd, not graceful leſs, than on the top Of Delian Cynthus, ſteps Latona's ſon, In mildeſt majeſty: beſide him went, As muſing deep, an hoary-headed Sa, Of wonderous reverence; on his broad ſmooth front Had Wiſdom ſtampt its fair ſimilitude. The laurel grac'd his temples: in his hand A golden harp, Apollo's gift, he bore; And oft with cunning finger was he wont To rove along the ſounding ſtrings, and lift The raviſh'd ſoul of ſtatue-fixt Attention To the heaven of rapture—O how ſweet thy charms, All-powerful Harmony! in years indeed Advanc'd he ſeem'd; yet on the cheek of age Hale vigour with unfading freſhneſs bloom'd; Upright he ſtept in ſtately mien, and breath'd Amiable dignity: ſuch ſeem'd of yore The ſire of Jove, what time on Latian plains He dwelt with Janus, hoſpitable king. Well knew, what was, what is, what is to come, The reverend Sage; and wiſely could he treat Of juſtice, truth, and univerſal love From man to man; and mark the limits, when Virtue is virtue; when its mad exceſs Strays headlong into vice: he too could tell How moves the planet in harmonious dance Its central ſun around: whence Iris ſteals The bright variety of hues, that fringe Her humid bow; how ſprings of night and day The due viciſſitude; why o'er the earth Circling the year with grateful interchange The wandering ſeaſons roll; of higher things Nor knew not he; for of th' aetherial mind, That beams to day, to-morrow, and for ever, An unextinguiſh'd ſpark; of nature's laws; And nature's God full well could he diſcourſe. Him gracious Heaven in pity to mankind Sent from its ſtar-pav'd court (ſo ſung beneath His ivy'd oak of yore the Druid ſage) And nam'd him SCIENCE: firſt on Aſian clime He ſettled, there where proud Euphrates rolls Amid Chaldaean plains, or on the bank Of Pharian Nile; there he his favourite ſeat Long chooſing, ſoften'd with refinements meet The ſavage genius of mankind, and taught With awful laws to curb licentious guilt, To build the wall girt city, and to frame The peaceful league of bleſt ſociety With all the ſweet civilities of life. Him Greece from thence with open arms embrac'd A welcome gueſt: but chief he lov'd to haunt The porch of Academe; where mildly beam'd The modeſt wiſdom of good Socrates; Where wont the honey'd Alluding to the fable of the bees ſettling on the lips of Plato; which was look'd on as an omen of the ſweetneſs of his diction. eloquence to flow From Plato's ſweet-diſtilling lip; and where The letter'd Ariſtotle, who was born at Stagyra. Stagyrite from Nature's ſource His maxims drew. Nor on Auſonian coaſt Was Science honour'd leſs; ſince there had come The Samian Pythagoras, born at Samos. ſage, who ſmit with love of knowledge O'er many a diſtant realm had ſtretch'd his ſearch, And climates warm'd beneath another ſun. At length when now in more degenerate times Had exile Freedom loath'd the Heſperian ſhore, With crooked keel did heaven-born Science plow The ſwelling back of Ocean, till he gain'd Neptunian Albion's hoſpitable beech; The nurſe of Liberty; for ill, I ween, Can Learning thrive, if Freedom ſhall deny To cheriſh with mild ray the riſing flower; To Albion iſle he came, what time was ſheath'd The ſword of war; and Alfred's arm had cruſh'd The might of Paynim foes: the gracious king With gladneſs hail'd his venerable gueſt; And led him forth, where thro' the flowery meads The ſilver Iſis winds her liquid maze. When thus the royal goodneſs ſpake benign: " Here deign, O heaven-deſcended Sage, to fix " Thy favourite manſion; here to lateſt times " Inſtruct thy ſons (nor think that Britons bear " Such ſavage-hearted natures, but will melt " In ſoft humanity) thy ſecret ſtores " To pierce with curious diligence, and ſnatch " Each fair perfection, each excelling art, " And all, that profits or delights mankind; " Here (as reclining on the peaceful lap " Of Leiſure not inglorious, they delight " To muſe in calm Retirement's lonely haunt) " Inſtruct them to purſue the unerring print " Of Wiſdom's ſtep; or with no lowly flight, " High borne on Contemplation's eagle wing, " To riſe from nature up to nature's God. " How happy they! whom thou ſhalt give to tread " The pleaſant paths of knowledge, and to weave " The lawrel chaplet for their honour'd brows!" He ceas'd, with look mild as when Phoebus ſheds His ſoft effulgence on autumnal eve. The laurel'd ſeer in thankful guiſe bow'd low His hoary reverence: "With peculiar love " Sure heaven then looks (he cry'd) on mortals down, " When kings, like Alfred, riſe; whoſe patriot ſouls " Still center in a nation's good; who live " By glorious works to make their country great: " Such well deſerve to rule: Vid. the ſpeech of Sarpedon to Glaucus in Homer. ſuch heaven beholds " Well-pleas'd; nor grudges, that to them it gave " Its high vicegerency.—In future time " Some one mayhap, the whilſt he ſhall behold " With conſcious pride, how far his native land " Tranſcends whatever vaunts hiſtoric fame " Of poliſh'd Athens, and imperial Rome " The ſeat of demi-gods, in holy rapture " Shall bleſs the name of Alfred; and relate, " That he, ſtill anxious for his Britain's weal, " Led Science there where thro' the flowery meads " Her liquid maze the ſilver Iſis winds— " Nor ſhalt thou, hoſpitable flood, where now " I ſtay my wandering feet, a ſtranger gueſt, " Unhonour'd flow: for on thy graſſy brim " Full oft ſhalt thou in ſilent joy behold, " Bards that ſhall know to bind the captiv'd ſoul " With energy of ſong; and ſages wiſe, " As whilom mus'd th' Athenian ſtream beſide; " And ſtateſmen, patriot ſouls, with merit fraught " And virtue more than Roman.—Here ſhall riſe " My beſt-lov'd progenyMr. Locke, who was of Chriſt-church college., that ſhall explore " (Of Heaven how highly favour'd) what till then " Stagger'd the pedant's pride, and ſlipt the graſp " Of baffled ſophiſt: he with Truth's bright ray " The ten-fold gloom, which darkening logic ſpread, " Shall pierce; and, like the golden-footed morn, " Scatter abroad the chearing beam of light.— " Theſe are the glories, that with influence ſweet " Shall gild thy ſhores, bleſt Iſis: theſe are they, " With homage due that each revolving year " Shall viſit Alfred's hallowed ſhrine, and bring " The pledge of gratitude and filial love."
LIFE: AN ODE. BY DR. HAWKESWORTH. LIFE, the dear precarious boon, Soon we loſe; alas! how ſoon; Fleeting viſion, falſely gay, Graſp'd in vain, it flies away; Lovely viſion, how it fades, Mixing with ſurrounding ſhades. Let the Muſe in Fancy's glaſs Catch the phantoms as they paſs. See, they riſe! A nymph behold, Careleſs, wanton, young and bold; Mark her devious, haſty pace, Antic dreſs, and thoughtleſs face, Smiling cheeks, and roving eyes, Cauſeleſs mirth and vain ſurpriſe. Tripping at her ſide, a boy Shares her wonder and her joy; This is Folly, Childhood's guide, That is Childhood at her ſide. What is he ſucceeding now, Myrtles blooming on his brow, Bright and bluſhing as the morn, Not on earth a mortal born, Wings the flying to purſue, Shafts to pierce the ſtrong in view? Victim of his power behind, Stalks a ſlave of human kind, Whoſe diſdain of all the free Speaks the mind's captivity. Love's the tyrant, Youth's the ſlave; Youth in vain is wiſe or brave; Love with conſcious pride defies All the brave and all the wiſe. Who art thou with anxious mien, Stealing o'er the ſhifting ſcene? Eyes with tedious vigils red, Sighs by doubts and wiſhes bred, Cautious ſtep and glancing leer, Speak thy woes, and ſpeak thy fear; Arm in arm, what wretch is he, Like thyſelf who walks with thee; Like thy own his fears and woes, All thy pangs his boſom knows: Well, too well! my boding breaſt Knows the thoughts your looks ſuggeſt, Anxious, buſy, reſtleſs pair, Manhood link'd by Fate to Care. Wretched ſtate! and yet 'tis dear. Fancy, cloſe the proſpect here: Cloſe it, or recall the paſt, Spare my eyes, my heart the laſt. Vain the wiſh, the laſt appears, While I gaze, it ſwims in tears. Age, my future ſelf, I trace, Moving ſlow with feeble pace; Bending with diſeaſe and cares, All the load of life he bears. White his locks, his viſage wan, Strength, and eaſe, and hope, are gone. Death, the ſhadowy form I know, Death o'ertakes, the dreadful foe; Swift they vaniſh, mournful ſight! Night ſucceeds, imperious night! What theſe dreadful glooms conceal, Fancy's glaſs can ne'er reveal. When ſhall Time the veil remove? When ſhall light the ſcene improve? When ſhall Truth my doubts diſpel? Awful period! who can tell?
A MORAL THOUGHT. BY THE SAME. THRO' groves ſequeſter'd, dark and ſtill, Low vales, and moſſy cells among, In ſilent paths the careleſs rill, Which languid murmurs, ſteals along: Awhile it plays with circling ſweep, And lingering leaves its native plains, Then pours impetuous down the ſteep, And mingles with the boundleſs main. O let my years thus devious glide, Through ſilent ſcenes obſcurely calm, Nor wealth nor ſtrife pollute the tide, Nor honour's ſanguinary palm. When labour tires, and pleaſure palls, Still let the ſtream untroubled be, As down the ſteep of age it falls, And mingles with eternity.
EPISTLE FROM LORD WILLIAM RUSSEL TO WILLIAM LORD CAVENDISHThis epiſtle is ſuppoſed to have been written by Lord RUSSEL, on friday night, July 20, 1683, in Newgate; that priſon having been the place of his confinement for ſome days immediately preceding his execution.. BY GEO. CANNING, ESQ. LOST to the world, to-morrow doom'd to die, Still for my country's weal my heart beats high. Tho' rattling chains ring peals of horror round, While night's black ſhades augment the ſavage ſound, 'Midſt bolts and bars the active ſoul is free, And flies, unfetter'd, CAVENDISH, to thee. Thou dear companion of my better days, When hand in hand we trod the paths of Praiſe; When, leagu'd with patriots, we maintain'd the cauſe Of true religion, liberty, and laws, Diſdaining down the golden ſtream to glide, But bravely ſtemm'd Corruption's rapid tide; Think not I come to bid thy tears to flow, Or melt thy generous ſoul with tales of woe; No: view me firm, unſhaken, undiſmay'd, As when the welcome mandate I obey'd— Heavens! with what pride that moment I recall! Who would not wiſh, ſo honour'd, thus to fall! When England's Genius, hovering o'er, inſpir'd Her choſen ſons, with love of Freedom fir'd, Spite of an abject, ſervile, penſion'd train, Minions of Power, and worſhippers of Gain, To ſave from Bigotry its deſtin'd prey, And ſhield three nations from tyrannick ſway. 'Twas then my CA'NDISH caught the glorious flame, The happy omen of his future fame; Adorn'd by Nature, perfected by Art, The cleareſt head, and warmeſt, nobleſt heart, His words, deep ſinking in each captiv'd ear, Had power to make even Liberty more dear. While I, unſkill'd in Oratory's lore, Whoſe tongue ne'er ſpeaks but when the heart runs o'er, In plain blunt phraſe my honeſt thoughts expreſs'd Warm from the heart, and to the heart addreſs'd. Juſtice prevail'd; yes Juſtice, let me ſay, Well pois'd her ſcales on that auſpicious day. The watchful ſhepherd ſpies the wolf afar, Nor truſts his flock to try the unequal war; What tho' the ſavage crouch in humble guiſe, And check the fire that flaſhes from his eyes, Should once his barbarous fangs the fold invade, Vain were their cries, too late the ſhepherd's aid, Thirſting for blood, he knows not how to ſpare, His jaws diſtend, his fiery eyeballs glare, While ghaſtly Deſolation, ſtalking round, With mangled limbs beſtrews the purple ground. Now, Memory, fail! nor let my mind revolve, How England's Peers annull'd the juſt reſolve, Againſt her boſom aim'd a deadly blow, And laid at once her great Palladium low! Degenerate nobles! Yes, by Heaven I ſwear, Had BEDFORD's ſelf appear'd delinquent there, And join'd, forgetful of his country's claims, To thwart the excluſion of apoſtate JAMES, All filial ties had then been left at large, And I myſelf the firſt to urge the charge. Such the fix'd ſentiments that rule my ſoul, Time cannot change, nor Tyranny controul; While free, they hung upon my penſive brow, Then my chief care, my pride and glory now; Foil'd I ſubmit, nor think the meaſure hard, For conſcious Virtue is its own reward. Vain then is force, and vain each ſubtile art, To wring retraction from my tortured heart; There lie, in marks indelible engrav'd, The means whereby my country muſt be ſav'd; Are to thine eyes thoſe characters unknown? To read my inmoſt heart, conſult thine own; There wilt thou find this ſacred truth reveal'd, Which ſhall to morrow with my blood be ſeal'd, Seek not infirm expedients to explore, But baniſh JAMES, or England is no more. Friendſhip her tender offices may ſpare, Nor ſtrive to move the unforgiving pair, Hopeleſs the tyrant's mercy-ſeat to climb— Zeal for my country's freedom is my crime! Ere that meets pardon, lambs with wolves ſhall range, CHARLES be a ſaint, and JAMES his nature change. Preſs'd by my friends, and RACHEL's fond deſires, (Who can deny what weeping love requires!) Frailty prevail'd, and for a moment quell'd Th' indignant pride that in my boſom ſwell'd; I ſued—the weak attempt I bluſh to own— I ſued for mercy, proſtrate at the throne. O! blot the foible out, my noble friend, With human firmneſs human feelings blend! When Love's endearments ſofteſt moments ſeize, And Love's dear pledges hang upon the knees, When Nature's ſtrongeſt ties the ſoul enthrall, (Thou canſt conceive, for thou haſt felt them all!) Let him reſiſt their prevalence, who can; He muſt, indeed, be more or leſs than man. Yet let me yield my RACHEL honour due, The tendereſt wife, the nobleſt heroine too! Anxious to ſave her huſband's honeſt name, Dear was his life, but dearer ſtill his fame! When ſuppliant prayers no pardon could obtain, And, wonderous ſtrange! ev'n BEDFORD's gold prov'd vain, The informer's part her generous ſoul abhorr'd, Though life preſerv'd had been the ſure reward; Let impious ESCRICK act ſuch treacherous ſcenes, And ſhrink from death by ſuch opprobrious means. O! my lov'd RACHEL! all-accompliſh'd fair! Source of my joy, and ſoother of my care! Whoſe heavenly virtues, and unfading charms, Have bleſs'd through happy years my peaceful arms! Parting with thee into my cup was thrown, Its harſheſt dregs elſe had not forc'd a groan!— But all is o'er—theſe eyes have gaz'd their laſt— And now the bitterneſs of death is paſt. BURNET and TILLOTSON, with pious care, My fleeting ſoul for heavenly bliſs prepare, Wide to my view the glorious realms diſplay, Pregnant with joy, and bright with endleſs day. Charm'd, as of old when Iſrael's prophet ſung, Whoſe words diſtill'd like manna from his tongue, While the great bard ſublimeſt truths explor'd, Each raviſh'd hearer wonder'd and ador'd; So rapt, ſo charm'd, my ſoul begins to riſe, Spurns the baſe earth, and ſeems to reach the ſkies. But when, deſcending from the ſacred theme, Of boundleſs power, and excellence ſupreme, They would for man, and his precarious throne, Exact obedience, due to Heaven alone, Forbid reſiſtance to his worſt commands, And place God's thunderbolts in mortal hands; The viſion ſinks to life's contracted ſpan, And riſing paſſion ſpeaks me ſtill a man. What! ſhall a tyrant trample on the laws, And ſtop the ſource whence all his power he draws? His country's rights to foreign foes betray, Laviſh her wealth, yet ſtipulate for pay? To ſhameful falſhoods venal ſlaves ſuborn, And dare to laugh the virtuous man to ſcorn? Deride Religion, Juſtice, Honour, Fame, And hardly know of Honeſty the name? In Luxury's lap lie ſcreen'd from cares and pains, And only toil to forge his ſubjects chains? And ſhall he hope the publick voice to drown, The voice which gave, and can reſume his crown! When Conſcience bares her horrors, and the dread Of ſudden vengeance, burſting o'er his head, Wrings his black ſoul; when injured nations groan, And cries of millions ſhake his tottering throne; Shall flattering churchmen ſoothe his guilty ears, With tortured texts, to calm his growing fears; Exalt his power above the Aetherial climes, And call down Heaven to ſanctify his crimes! O! impious doctrine!—Servile prieſts away! Your Prince you poiſon, and your God betray. Hapleſs the monach! who, in evil hour, Drinks from your cup the draught of lawleſs power! The magic potion boils within his veins, And locks each ſenſe in adamantine chains; Reaſon revolts, inſatiate thirſt enſues, The wild delirium each freſh draught renews; In vain his people urge him to refrain, His faithful ſervants ſupplicate in vain; He quaffs at length, impatient of controul, The bitter dregs that lurk within the bowl. Zeal your pretence, but wealth and power your aims, You ev'n could make a SOLOMON of JAMES. Behold the pedant, thron'd in aukward ſtate, Abſorb'd in pride, ridiculouſly great; His courtiers ſeem to tremble at his nod, His prelates call his voice the voice of God; Weakneſs and vanity with them combine, And JAMES believes his majeſty divine. Preſumptuous wretch! almighty power to ſcan, While every action proves him leſs than man. By your deluſions to the ſcaffold led, Martyr'd by you, a royal CHARLES has bled. Teach then, ye ſycophants! O! teach his ſon, The gloomy paths of tyranny to ſhun; Teach him to prize Religion's ſacred claim, Teach him how Virtue leads to honeſt fame, How Freedom's wreath a monarch's brows adorns, Nor, baſely ſawning, plant his couch with thorns. Point to his view his people's love alone, The ſolid baſis of his ſtedfaſt throne; Choſen by them their deareſt rights to guard, The bad to puniſh, and the good reward, Clement and juſt let him the ſceptre ſway, And willing ſubjects ſhall with pride obey, Shall vie to execute his high commands, His throne their hearts, his ſword and ſhield their hands. Happy the Prince! thrice firmly fix'd his crown! Who builds on publick good his chaſte renown; Studious to bleſs, who knows no ſecond aim, His people's intereſt, and his own the ſame; The eaſe of millions reſts upon his cares, And thus Heaven's high prerogative he ſhares. Wide from the throne the bleſt contagion ſpreads, O'er all the land its gladdening influence ſheds, Faction's diſcordant ſounds are heard no more, And ſoul Corruption flies the indignant ſhore. His miniſters with joy their courſes run, And borrow luſtre from the royal ſun. But ſhould ſome upſtart, train'd in Slavery's ſchool, Learn'd in the maxims of deſpotick rule, Full fraught with forms, and grave pedantick pride, (Myſterious cloak! the mind's defects to hide!) Sordid in ſmall things, prodigal in great, Saving for minions, ſquandering for the ſtate— Should ſuch a miſcreant, born for England's bane, Obſcure the glories of a proſperous reign; Gain, by the ſemblance of each praiſeful art, A pious prince's unſuſpecting heart; Envious of worth, and talents not his own, Chaſe all experienc'd merit from the throne; To guide the helm a motley crew compoſe, Servile to him, the king's and country's foes; Meanly deſcend each paltry place to ſill, With tools of power, and plandars to his will; Brandiſhing high the ſcorpion ſcourage o'er all, Except ſuch ſlaves as bow the knee to Baal— Should Albion's fate decree the baneful hour— Short be the date of his deteſted power! Soon may his ſovereign break his iron rods, And hear his people; for their voice is God's! Ceaſe then your wiles, ye fawning courtiers! ceaſe, Suffer your rulers to repoſe in peace; By Reaſon led, give proper names to things, God made them men, the people made them kings; To all their acts but legal powers belong, Thus England's Monarch never can do wrong; Of right divine let ſooliſh FILMER dream, The publick welfare is the law ſupreme. Lives there a wretch, whoſe baſe, degenerate ſoul Can crouch beneath a tyrant's ſtern controul? Cringe to his nod, ignobly kiſs the hand In galling chains that binds his native land? Purchas'd by gold, or aw'd by ſlaviſh ſear, Abandon all his anceſtors held dear? Tamely behold that fruit of glorious toil, England's Great Charter made a ruſſian's ſpoil; Hear, unconcern'd, his injured country groan, Nor ſtretch an arm to hurl him from the throne? Let ſuch to freedom forfeit all their claims, And CHARLES's minious be the ſlaves of JAMES, But ſoft awhile—Now, CAVENDISH, attend The warm effuſions of thy dying friend; Fearleſs who dares his inmoſt thoughts reveal, When thus to Heaven he makes his laſt appeal. All-gracious God! whoſe goodneſs knows no bounds! Whoſe power the ample univerſe ſurrounds! In whoſe great balance, infinitely juſt, Kings are but men, and men are only duſt; At thy tribunal low thy ſuppliant falls, And here condemn'd, on thee for mercy calls! Thou hear'ſt not, Lord! an hypocrite complain, And ſure with thee hypocriſy were vain; To thy all-piercing eye the heart lies bare, Thou know'ſt my ſins, and, knowing, ſtill canſt ſpare! Though partial power its miniſters may awe, And murder here by ſpecious forms of law; The axe, which executes the harſh decree, But wounds the fleſh, to ſet the ſpirit free! Well may the man a tyrant's frown deſpiſe, Who, ſpurning earth, to Heaven for refuge flies; And on thy mercy, when his foes prevail, Builds his firm truſt; that rock can never fail! Hear then, Jehovah! hear thy ſervant's prayer! Be England's welfare thy peculiar care! Defend her laws, her worſhip chaſte, and pure, And guard her rights while Heaven and Earth endure! O let not ever fell Tyrannick Sway His blood-ſtain'd ſtandard on her ſhores diſplay! Nor fiery Zeal uſurp thy holy name, Blinded with blood, and wrapt in rolls of flame! In vain let Slavery ſhake her threatening chain, And Perſecution wave her torch in vain! Ariſe, O Lord! and hear thy people's call! Nor for one man let three great kingdoms fall! O! that my blood may glut the barbarous rage Of Freedom's foes, and England's ills aſſwage!— Grant but that prayer, I aſk for no repeal, A willing victim for my country's weal! With rapturous joy the crimſon ſtream ſhall flow, And my heart leap to meet the friendly blow! But ſhould the fiend, tho' drench'd with human gore, Dire Bigotry, inſatiate, thirſt for more, And, arm'd from Rome, ſeek this devoted land, Death in her eye, and bondage in her hand— Blaſt her fell purpoſe! blaſt her foul deſires! Break ſhort her ſword, and quench her horrid fires! Raiſe up ſome champion, zealous to maintain The ſacred compact, by which monarchs reign! Wiſe to foreſee all danger from afar, And brave to meet the thunders of the war! Let pure religion, not to forms confin'd, And love of freedom fill his generous mind! Warm let his breaſt with ſparks coeleſtial glow, Benign to man, the tyrant's deadly foe! While ſinking nations reſt upon his arm, Do thou the great Deliverer ſhield from harm! Inſpire his councils! aid his righteous ſword! Till Albion rings with Liberty reſtor'd! Thence let her years in bright ſucceſſion run! And Freedom reign coaeval with the ſun. 'Tis done, my CA'NDISH, Heaven has heard my prayer; So ſpeaks my heart, for all is rapture there. To Belgia's coaſt advert thy raviſh'd eyes, That happy coaſt, whence all our hopes ariſe! Behold the Prince, perhaps thy future king! From whoſe green years matureſt bleſſings ſpring; Whoſe youthful arm, when all-o'erwhelming Power Ruthleſs march'd forth, his country to devour, With firm brac'd nerve repell'd the brutal force, And ſtopp'd th' unwieldy giant in his courſe. Great William hail! who ſceptres could deſpiſe, And ſpurn a crown with unretorted eyes! O! when will princes learn to copy thee, And leave mankind, as Heaven ordain'd them, free! Haſte, mighty chief! our injur'd rights reſtore! Quick ſpread thy ſails for Albion's longing ſhore! Haſte, mighty chief! ere millions groan enſlav'd; And add three realms to one already ſaved! While Freedom lives, thy memory ſhall be dear, And reap freſh honours each returning year; Nations preſerv'd ſhall yield immortal fame, And endleſs ages bleſs thy glorious name! Then ſhall my CA'NDISH, foremoſt in the field, By juſtice arm'd, his ſword conſpicuous wield; While willing legions crowd around his car, And ruſh impetuous to the righteous war. On that great day be every chance defied, And think thy RUSSELL combats by thy ſide; Nor, crown'd with victory, ceaſe thy generous toil, Till firmeſt peace ſecure this happy iſle. Ne'er let thine honeſt, open heart believe Profeſſions ſpecious, forg'd but to deceive; Fear may extort them, when reſources fail, But O! reject the baſeleſs, flattering tale. Think not that promiſes, or oaths can bind, With ſolemn ties, a Rome-devoted mind; Which yields to all the holy juggler ſaith, And deep imbibes the bloody, damning faith. What though the Bigot raiſe to Heaven his eyes, And call the Almighty witneſs from the ſkies! Soon as the wiſh'd occaſion he explores, To plant the Roman croſs on England's ſhores, All, all will vaniſh, while his prieſts applaud, And ſaint the perjurer for the pious fraud. Far let him fly theſe freedom-breathing climes, And ſeek proud Rome, the foſterer of his crimes; There let him ſtrive to mount the Papal chair, And ſcatter empty thunders in the air, Grimly preſide in Superſtition's ſchool, And curſe thoſe kingdoms he could never rule, Here let me pauſe, and bid the world adieu, While Heaven's bright manſions open to my view!— Yet ſtill one care, one tender care remains; My bounteous friend, relieve a father's pains! Watch o'er my Son, inform his waxen youth, And mould his mind to virtue and to truth; Soon let him learn fair liberty to prize, And envy him, who for his country dies; In one ſhort ſentence to comprize the whole, Transfuſe to his the virtues of thy ſoul. Preſerve thy life, my too, too generous friend, Nor ſeek with mine thy happier fate to blend! Live for thy country, live to guard her laws, Proceed, and proſper in the glorious cauſe; While I, though vanquiſh'd, ſcorn the field to fly, But boldly face my foes, and bravely die. Let princely MONMOUTH courtly wiles beware, Nor truſt too far to fond paternal care; Too oft dark deeds deform the midnight cell, Heaven only knows how noble ESSEX fell! SIDNEY yet lives, whoſe comprehenſive mind Ranges at large through ſyſtems unconfin'd; Wrapt in himſelf, he ſcorns the tyrant's power, And hurls defiance even from the Tower; With tranquil brow awaits the unjuſt decree, And, arm'd with virtue, looks to follow me. CA'NDISH, farewell! may Fame our names entwine! Through life I lov'd thee, dying I am thine; Wh pious rites let duſt to duſt be thrown, And thus inſcribe my monumental ſtone. " Here RUSSEL lies, enfranchis'd by the grave, " He priz'd his birthright, nor would live a ſlave. " Few were his words, but honeſt and ſincere, " Dear were his friends, his country ſtill more dear; " In parents, children, wife, ſupremely bleſs'd, " But that one paſſion ſwallow'd all the reſt; " To guard her freedom was his only pride, " Such was his love, and for that love he died." Yet fear not thou, when Liberty diſplays Her glorious flag, to ſteer his courſe to praiſe; For know, (whoe'er thou art that read'ſt his fate, And think'ſt, perhaps, his ſufferings were too great,) Bleſs'd as he was, at her imperial call, Wife, children, parents, he reſign'd them all; Each fond affection then forſook his ſoul, And AMOR PATRIAE occupied the whole; In that great cauſe he joy'd to meet his doom, Bleſs'd the keen axe, and triumph'd o'er the tomb. The hour draws near—But what are hours to me? Hours, days, and years hence undiſtinguiſh'd flee! Time, and his glaſs unheeded paſs away, Abſorb'd, and loſt in one vaſt flood of day! On Freedom's wings my ſoul is borne on high, And ſoars exulting to its native ſky!
A BIRTH-DAY OFFERING TO A YOUNG LADY. FROM HER LOVER. BY THE SAME. ERE this ſhort winter's day be gone, My MARY ANNE is twenty one. Of days ſtill ſhorter juſt a Lent, Patch'd up from different years, is ſpent, Since her Devoted fairly reckon'd The cloſe of year the thirty-ſecond. Bending beneath the weight of years, Full as infirm as he appears, What can a worn-out lover do, With twenty-one, at thirty-two? For ſuch a phrenzy no defence is— The girl has clearly loſt her ſenſes. Perhaps deceiv'd by ſome fond notion, Embrac'd in rapture of devotion, (I quote ſuch fancies to expoſe 'em) She dreams of bliſs in Abraham's boſom; And chuſes an Antique the rather, With better grace to call him father. Perhaps—but fiction be ſuppreſs'd, While real joy expands my breaſt— My faithful flame her heart approves; And O! tranſporting thought! ſhe loves. When Souls, by impulſe ſympathetick, By intuition moſt prophetick, By feelings, which they cannot ſmother, Leap at firſt glance to meet each other, When each itſelf in t'other traces, What matter for their different caſes? Of kin, perhaps, in pre-exiſtence, Without dull Reaſon's ſlow aſſiſtance, They recollect the happy union, And long to recommence communion. I muſt confeſs that ſuch attraction, For eaſe, convenience, ſatisfaction, Were beſt if, on deliberation, It met with Reaſon's approbation: Not as of abſolute dominion, To rule by dint of dark opinion; Not as a Lord of ſovereign ſway, Whom love muſt worſhip and obey; But merely as the herd inferior May judge the acts of Powers ſuperior; As my poor intellect, or thine, May ſcan authority divine— In ſhort, I'd have our ſimple love, Not againſt reaſon, but above. Two birds, ſuppoſe, of various feather, Hung in one room by chance together, To airs melodious tune their voices, While each the other's ear rejoices: If, without half a note erroneous, The ſong be perfectly harmonious, What matter for the forms or ages, Of bills, of feathers, and of cages? DEAN SWIFT, whoſe talent lives no more, His Stella ſung at forty-four; And breath'd an idle wiſh to ſplit In twain her beauty, years, and wit— Of half her charms he made a proffer For youth; but Time diſdain'd his offer. Far happier I, who well could ſpare, Of each accompliſhment a ſhare, Yet leave an ample ſtore of charms, To bring Elyſium to my arms, Am not reduc'd thoſe charms to barter, And cry to heedleſs Time for quarter— Fly, Sluggard, on thy ſwifteſt wing, My charmer yields not All till Spring! Then, firm in Conſtancy's reliance, I bid thy cruel ſcythe defiance; Deal when thou wilt the deadly blow, Thou canſt but ſeparate below, Thy firſt can but for moments ſever, Thy ſecond re-unites for ever. Perhaps, ſuſpending mortal rage, By ſilent ſap, and creeping age, By ſubtile, ſecret, ſlow approaches, As mildew on the blade incroaches, Thou hop'ſt, malignant fiend! to tame The ardour of love's fierceſt flame— Vain ſhalt thou find thy keeneſt blaſt, Bliſs once poſſeſs'd, thy power is paſt. Can years, while ſenſe remains, deſtroy The memory of tranſcendent joy? Can years bright Innocence impair? Can years make Virtue look leſs fair? But Beauty, by thy influence curſt, May ſicken—Tyrant, do thy worſt! I know thy power, and am prepar'd To meet thy ſharpeſt darts unſcar'd. Though Body, Mind, thou canſt controul, Own thy ſurvivor in the Soul; Whoſe perfect bliſs is not enjoy'd, Till thou art utterly deſtroy'd. Ev'n here, as health and beauty fail, While lilies o'er the roſe prevail, Long ere thy menac'd ills can harm, Though every hour ſhould ſteal a charm— Long ere, by twenty ſtars a day, The ſpangled Heavens would wear away. Unconſcious of the gradual wane, As years their empire ſlowly gain, While my Ideas, in the race, Obſerve a due-proportioned pace, And limbs grow cold, and ſenſes faulter, I ſha'nt perceive her Perſon alter. When Age her dimpled cheek beguiles, And wrinkles plants, inſtead of ſmiles, Though every Cupid he ſhould ſmother, I'll think her handſome as their mother. When, ſteady to his barbarous plan, To ſpoil my lovely MARY ANNE, The ſavage unrelenting creature Has robb'd her face of every feature, And, to conceptions merely common, My charmer ſeems a plain old woman, Still in my heart ſhe'll hold her throne, Still in my eyes be twenty-one.
AN ELEGY. BY SIR B— G—. In every varied poſture, place, and hour, How widow'd every thought of every joy! Thought, buſy thought, too buſy for my peace! Strays, wretched rover! o'er the pleaſing paſt; In queſt of wretchedneſs perverſly ſtrays; And finds all deſart now. YOUNG. IN Burton's favourite groves, alas, how chang'd By Charlotte's death! oft let me devious rove Indulging grief; where gladſome once I rang'd, In ſweet ſociety with Peace and Love. Oft in the ſilent evening, all alone, When ſolemn twilight ſhades the face of day, The plaintive Muſe ſhall hither waft her moan; With tendereſt paſſion here inſpire my lay. Theſe hours, allotted to that Muſe's hand, To lateſt time thy memory ſhall endear; While ſoft ideas riſe at her command, And in luxurious ſorrow prompt the tear. Recal, ſoft fame of gentleneſs and Love! That calm, which triumph'd o'er thy parting breath; That blooming texture by the Graces wove: —And are thoſe eyes for ever ſet in Death? One more—and then—farewel! one lingering view Tore my fond ſoul from all it held ſo dear: Twas o'er!—farewel—my joys: ſweet hope, adieu! —Adieu, my love!—We part for ever here: No! in the ſtill of night, my reſtleſs thought Purſues thy image thro' its change unknown; Steals oft unnotic'd to the dreary vault, And in that vale of Sorrow pours my own: Nor, ſince the hour that clos'd our blooming ſcene, Once has it wander'd from its darling truſt: It ſounds thy voice; ſtill animates thy mien; And haunts thy ſlumbers in the ſacred duſt. Each conſcious walk of Tenderneſs and Joy, Thy faithful partner oft alone ſhall tread; Recount, while anguiſh heaves the frequent ſigh, How bliſs on bliſs thy ſmiling influence ſhed! Though mine be many—many rolling years! Extatic thought ſhall linger ſtill on thee! Time rolls in vain—Remembrance, with her tears— —You that have loſt an angel—pity me! Thy ſmiles were mine—were oft; and only mine; Nor yet forſook me in the face of death; E'en now they live—ſtill o'er thy beauties ſhine: For Fancy's magic can reſtore thy breath. Painful reflection!—can the active mind, Which penetrates the vaſt expanſe of Day, Long languiſh in this palſied maſs confin'd, Nor burſt theſe fetters of obtruding clay? Ah, no!—ſhe beckons me—for yet ſhe lives! Lives in yon regions of unfading joy! She points the fair reward that Virtue gives; —Which chance, nor change, nor ages can deſtroy. Let Folly animate this tranſient ſcene With every bloom that Fancy can ſupply! Reflection bends not on a point ſo mean; Nor courts this moment, ſince the next we die. The deareſt objects haſten to decay: (An aweful leſſon to the penſive mind!) My Charlotte's beauties ſo ſoon paſs'd away: Nor left, but in my heart, a wreck behind!
A SONG. BY DR. O—. NOW Evening had tinged the gay landſkip with gold, The ſwains were retired, and their flocks in the fold, When Delia complain'd in the woodland alone; Loud ecchoes retain'd, and replied to her moan, The warblers ſat liſtening around on the ſpray, And the gale ſtole in murmurs as ſoft as her lay. " Ah, my Strephon! (twas thus the fair mourner begun,) How cruel to leave me thus loſt and undone! Your vows like the wind you forget or deſpiſe, You ſlight my complaints, and are deaf to my cries; The frown once ſo dreadful, ah! where is its power? The voice heard with tranſport, gives tranſport no more. " Though the Sylvans to pleaſe me exert all their powers, Though the ſwains crown my head with a garland of flowers, Though they ſwear that my eyes like the morning are gay, That my ſong is more ſweet, than the nightingales lay, Yet while Strephon is abſent, dejected, diſmay'd, I droop like a flower that repines in the ſhade. " O return, gentle Shepherd, return to my prayer! Ah think how I ſigh in unpitied deſpair!— But in vain all my hopes! all my wiſhes are vain! While the ſtreams and the breezes thus hear me complain, While the birds to my anguiſh reply from the bough, He flies from my arms, and regards not my woe. " Ah! too eaſy to truſt all the oaths that he ſwore, When he vow'd that no Nymph had e'er charm'd him before. Be warn'd then, ye Fair, nor too raſhly believe; Think the men when they flatter, but want to deceive; That the fond eaſy promiſe was ne'er meant to bind; And believe when they ſwear, that their oaths are all wind."
THE TULIP AND LILY. BY MR. B—Y. HIGH o'er the bed, conſpicuous ſeen, A Tulip roſe, the garden's queen. Never on Holland's foggy ſtrand Was taller rear'd by Dutchman's hand: Never was Flora known t' imprint On Tulip's leaf a brighter tint, Or lead with more fantaſtic freak, On Tulip's leaf the varying ſtreak. Beneath the tow'ring Tulip's ſhade, In nought but ſimple white array'd, And ſhelter'd from th' intruding view, A Lily of the valley grew; The humbleſt plant of all the train That deck the mountain or the plain, Or on the river's margin blow, And paint the dancing ſcene below. Unenvying ſhe the praiſe could hear Of finer flow'rs that flaunted near: And ſhe could ſee without a ſigh The ſaucy Zephyr paſs her by, To woo the Pink, more gayly dreſt, Or pant upon the Roſe's breaſt. It chanc'd upon a May-day morn, When bloſſoms crowd the whitening thorn, With more than uſual luſtre bright, The genial God of heat and light, Thro' the blue heavens purſu'd his courſe, And ſhone with more than Summer force. Each flow'r that glow'd in bright array Witneſs'd the life-imparting day: The Tulip too, above the reſt, The vig'rous warmth with joy confeſt. What tranſport in her boſom ſwell'd, Each varying ſtreak when ſhe beheld Withdraw from the purſuing eye, And ſhift into the neighb'ring dye! The Lily's charms, and humbler ſtate, She view'd with boundleſs joy elate; And thus unable to refrain, Broke out in contumelious ſtrain: " How vary, midſt the garden's race, " The marks of bounteous Nature's grace! " How boaſts th' imperial Tulip's flow'r " The effort of her vig'rous pow'r! " Who e'er could view without ſurpriſe, " Th' expanded leaf, and gloſſy dyes! " The colours that together run, " And wave and brighten in the ſun! " Whilſt ſhe that bloſſoms in my ſhade, " As tho' to ſpring from earth afraid, " No leaf expands, nor dye diſplays, " Nor wins ſurpriſe, nor merits praiſe. " Behold yon butterfly ſo ſine, " Whoſe brightneſs almoſt equals mine, " That hovers o'er the gay parterre, " And hangs on wav'ring wings in air; " What tho' from flow'r to flow'r he ſport, " And pay to all a paſſing court; " In vain with deepen'd tints they glow, " And fletter to the flutt'ring bean, " In vain each envious rival burns, " To kindred finery ſtill he turns, " On me at length delights to reſt, " And ſpread his plumage o'er my breaſt." To theſe proud taunts, and more beſide, The Lily not a word replied, But hung her head with modeſt grace, Nor look'd th' inſulter in the face. Not ſo the Bee, who murmur'd near, And chanc'd th' opprobrious ſtrain to hear. Ill-pleas'd to ſee the flow'r neglected, Which ſhe ſo honour'd and reſpected! From whoſe full cup ſhe daily drew So large a ſhare of precious dew; Whilſt from her high and mighty neighbour She ſcarcely got what paid her labour; Thus, ſettled on the Lily's breaſt, Her indignation ſhe expreſt: " And whence proceeds the haughty ſtrain, " Thou flow'r, ſo uſeleſs, and ſo vain! " Forget you, then, from whence you ſprung, " The tawdry child of ſordid dung! " What tho' in varying colours bright, " You glare awhile upon the ſight; " The tranſient hour of blooming o'er, " Your faded charms attract no more, " And all your finery quite forgot: " Unmarkt you wither, and you rot. " Now hither turn but your reflection, " You'll kiſs the rod of my correction. " This flow'r, on whom ſo rude you preſt, " In Nature's ſimpleſt cloathing dreſt, " From her our num'rous tribes derive " The choiceſt ſweets that ſtore the hive: " And ſhe, meek daughter of the vale, " That growing ſcents the paſſing gale, " Not leſs revives the raviſh'd ſenſe, " When rooted and remov'd from hence. " On Chloe's breaſt ſtill ſeen to blow, " Adds whiteneſs to the dazzling ſnow: " And dealing ſweetneſs, tho' in death, " Perfumes e'en Chloe's fragrant breath."
THE INVITATION. BY THE SAME. AWAKE, my fair, the morning ſprings, The dew-drops glance around, The heifer lows, the blackbird ſings, The cchoing vales reſound. The ſimple ſweets would STELLA taſte, That breathing morning yields, The fragrance of the flow'ry waſte, And freſhneſs of the fields. By uplands, and the greenwood-ſide, We'll take our early way, And view the valley ſpreading wide, And opening with the day. Nor uninſtructive ſhall the ſcene Unfold its charms in vain, The fallow brown, the meadow green, The mountain and the plain. Each dew-drop gliſt'ning on the thorn, And trembling to its fall, Each bluſh that paints the cheek of morn, In Fancy's ear ſhall call, " O ye in Youth and Beauty's pride, " Who lightly dance along; " While Laughter frolicks at your ſide, " And Rapture tunes your ſong; " What though each grace around you play, " Each beauty bloom for you, " Warm as the bluſh of riſing day, " And ſparkling as the dew: " The bluſh that glows ſo gaily now, " But glows to diſappear; " And quiv'ring from the bending bough, " Soon breaks the pearly tear! " So paſs the beauties of your prime, " That e'en in blooming die; " So, ſhrinking at the blaſt of Time, " The treach'rous graces fly." Let thoſe, my STELLA, ſlight the ſtrain, Who fear to find it true! Each fair of tranſient beauty vain, And youth as tranſient too! With charms that win beyond the ſight, And hold the willing heart, My STELLA ſhall await their flight, Nor ſigh when they depart. Still graces ſhall remain behind, And beauties ſtill controul, The graces of the poliſh'd mind, And beauties of the ſoul.
THE METAMORPHOSE. BY THE SAME. WITH rolling time that all things change, Has oft been ſaid, and oft been ſung: One inſtance more; the difference ſtrange 'Twixt WITWOUD old, and WITWOUD young! In youth, compound of curls and lace, Of giggle, fidget, and of froth; One ſimper dimpled in his face, No butterfly more void of wrath. Pleas'd with himſelf, with all well-pleas'd, The flutterer ſcarce could give offence: Or if he teaz'd, with nought he teaz'd, But ſimple, pure, impertinence. Now view him in declining age, Aſſume the four ſatyric frown: On friends and foes diſcharge his rage, The very SCARECROW of the town. So Flies, in friſk, and buzz, and play, That harmleſs through the ſummer paſt, When ready to be ſwept away, Grow blind, and ſting us at the laſt.
THE SINE QUÔ NON. BY THE SAME. WITH MUCKWORM lately as in chat I paſs'd the ſober hours, The mice, for MUCKWORM keeps no cat, Came trooping in by ſcores. When famine leads, what thing can daunt, Our courage what abate? Each mouſe was as the maſtiff gaunt, That growl'd before the gate. Their mien ſo grim alarm'd I ſpied, And looks of deſperate woe: " And why neglect, my friend," I cried, " To chaſe the threatening foe? " True 'tis that, any more than you, " They cannot eat your pelf: " But then of other food in lieu, " They may devour yourſelf. " And think how odd th' account would ſound, " Should future annals tell, " MUCKWORM fell not by hungry houndAlluding to the Fable of Actaeon., " By hungry mice he ſell. " Then drive the furious vermin hence, " To ward ſuch dire miſhap: " Nor fret, I pray you, for th' expence, " Myſelf will lend the trap." " Your offer's kind," friend MUCKWORM cried, " And highly do I rate it: " But when the trap's by you ſupplied, " Who'll lend the cheeſe to bait it?
TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL OF CHESTERFIELD. ON HIS LATE RECOVERY FROM A DANGEROUS ILLNESS. BY THE REV. WALTER HARTE. Sed nihil dulcius eſt bene quam munita tenere, Edita doctrinâ ſapientum templa ſerena, Deſpicere unde queas alios, poſſimque videre Errare atque viam palentes quaerere vita. LUCRET. l. ii. v. 6. AT length, in pity to a nation's prayer, Thou liv'ſt, O STANHOPE, Providence's care: " Life's ſun, we read, when heaven a reſpite lends, " Ten degrees back againſt the ſhade deſcendsSee the ſtory of Hezekiah, and the dial of Ahaz, Iſaiah, ch. xxxviii ver. 8.." By wiſdom purify'd, by age inſpir'd; For twice nine years in Greenwich groves retir'd; Rapt like Elijah in the aërial car, Thou wiſely mark'ſt this buſy world from far: Where Avarice and Ambition vainly run, This to undo, and that to be undone.— Conſiderate truths are now thy favourite themes; Age may ſee viſions, tho' our youth dream'd dreams: Hail truly wiſe, and good! O happier thou Than if ſtate diadems had grac'd thy brow! Like ſage AENEASVirgil's Aeneid IV., mantled in a cloud, Unſeen you ſee the falſhood of the crowd: Brother his brother cheats, and friend his friend:— Life's vain wiſe men prove blockheads in the end.— Thou ſeeſt, like ADAM Paradiſe Loſt, l. xi. v. 270. by the archangel led, The many peopled earth beneath thee ſpread; (Thy eyes much purg'd with euphraſy and rueIbid. p. 412., For even a CHESTERFIELD has much to view) Thou ſeeſt like him the plagues of human ſtrife, The ſnares of greatneſs, emptineſs of life, Abner's ſincerity, and Joab's heart, Achitophel's deep ſchemes, and Zimrl's part; Shimei's ill-nature, and (to mark the times) The flattery of Og's and Doeg's rhymes. O ſtill contemplate, look thro' Reaſon's eye,— For hours are precious ages when we die! Thus, even in Pagan times, the choſen few, Pomponius, Scipio, Atticus, withdrew: Thus Diocleſian, with true greatneſs fir'd, From lordly Rome to Spalatro retir'd; Exchang'd the imperial faſces for a ſpade, And left court ſunſhine for the ſylvan ſhade; Lord of himſelf, monarch of fields and plains, By Nature call'd to rule, and crown'd by ſwains.
EPITAPH ON MRS. SARAH MENCE. BY THE SAME. PEACE to the aſhes, and the virtuous mind, Of her who liv'd in peace with all mankind! Humbly religious, ſilently ſincere, Humane to others, to herſelf ſevere. Learn'd from the heart, unknowing of diſguiſe, Truth in her thoughts, and candour in her eyes; Who ſacrific'd no faith to private ends; Without reſerve devoted to her friends. Stranger alike to party and to pride, Good ſenſe her light, the word of God her guide; She gave to piety her early days, And breath'd in dying hours her Maker's praiſe. Happy, who thus the ſoul to Heaven engage, Their youth's firſt choice, their laſt deſire in age.
KYMBER: A MONODY. BY MR. POTTER. YET once more ye lov'd poplars, and once more My ſilver Yare, your hallow'd haunts I tread, The bough-inwoven bank, the damaſkt mead, And ſeek the ſweet ſhade of the woodbine bower, If haply here the Britiſh Muſe abide: For not on Iſis' academic ſide, Nor where proud Thamis rolls his royal waves Thro' foreſt brown or ſunny meadow fair, Her rapture-breathing voice enchants the ear: Nor in thoſe fields that honoured Camus laves; He, reverend ſire, the ſacred groves beneath Oft deckt with laureat wreath, Thro' the ſtill valleys winds his penſive way Without the ſweet note of one warbled ſong; Save ever and anon ſome plaintive lay Pours its ſoft airs, the ruſtic tombs among, To the low winds that thro' his oſiers breathe, And murmur to the ruſtling reeds beneath. Does ſhe o'er Cambria's rugged mountains ſtray, Snowdon's rude cliffs, or huge Plinlimmon's height? Or in rough Conway's foaming floods delight, That down the ſteep rocks urge their headlong way? There chaunts the raptur'd bard in ſolemn ſtrain Malgo's ſtrong lance, Cadwallin's puiſſant reign, High deeds recorded yet in druid ſongs: Or ſwells his woe-wild notes, of power to ſpread Chill horror round the ruthleſs tyrant's head, For Urien's fate, for bleeding Modred's wrongs, And ſmites the harp in dreadful harmony. Or does ſhe love to lie In the mild ſhade of Hulla's ſofter groves, And twine the vermeil wreath to grace the youth, Whoſe rapt breaſt glows, as o'er the beach he roves, Touch'd with the ſacred flame of ſtar-bright truth; Whilſt to her lore his manly meaſure flows, " And wakes old Humber from his deep repoſe." Yet deign, if not to dwell, thy preſence deign Here, heavenly viſitant; and with thee bring The loftieſt note that ſwell'd the ſounding ſtring, When ſtern Tyrtaeus rais'd the heroic ſtrain; To arms the warrior poet ſmote his lyre, And all Laconia caught the martial fire. Thee too, harmonious Maid, the ſtrings obey; Strike them, and bid the inſpiring numbers ſlow, Bid Britain's ſons with Sparta's ſpirit glow, And rouze old Albion with thy awful lay. Thy lay ſhall well-born WODEHOUSE deign to hear, As now with generous care From Honour's fount th' enlivening ſtreams he brings To viſit as they flow, that ſilver bower, Where the fair plant of publick virtue ſprings, And breathes pure fragrance from each glowing flower; Like heaven's own amarant th' immortal tree Shoots, blooms, and bears; the growth of KIMBERLEY. Haſt thou no verſe then, heavenly Virgin ſay, By Truth attun'd on Fancy's fairy plain; No ſolemn air, no hymn of higher vein, To hail the bleſſed morn's auſpicious ray, When, theſe tall towers rejoicing to behold, Forth walk'd the orient ſun, array'd in gold, Firſt on their glittering tops t' impreſs his beams; Thence, glancing downwards, ſparkled on the tide That bends along yon hoar grove's moſs-grown ſide, And ſcattered crimſon o'er its azure ſtreams? The Naiads, haſting from their coral caves Beneath the chryſtal waves, (In pearled braids their amber treſſes bound) Thrice wav'd their hands, and hail'd the riſing towers: The wood-nymphs too, with floriſht chaplets crown'd, Forſook their groves, forſook their broidered bowers; And thrice their hands they wav'd, and thrice they ſaid, " Raiſe, ye fair ſtructures, raiſe your towery head!" Next KYMBER came, ſlow winding o'er the lea, His beard and ſedge-crown'd locks all ſilver'd o'er With reverend eld, as winter breathing frore Hangs on the bare boughs of the ſpangled tree: His urn was ſilver fretted round with gold, With Runic rhimes imboſt, and figures old, The illuſtrious monuments of Britiſh fame: Here ſtout Tenantius draws his righteous ſword To cruſh the curs'd rule of a foreign lord, And ſpreads unconquered Freedom's ſacred flame: There war-worn Kymbeline, by victor's power Forth driven from princely bower, To the thick ſhelter of theſe ſhades retir'd, Feeding high thoughts and flames of vengeful war, (Like a chac'd lion with fell fury fir'd) Writhes on the lurking traitor's cloſe-couch'd ſpear, And bids the conſcious grove, and bids the plain, And kindred ſtream, his honoured name retain. High on her warlike car BONDUCA ſtands, The plumed helmet glittering on her brow, Whilſt looſe in ſtreams of gold her treſſes flow, The bow and pointed javelin grace her hands; Deliberate courage lightens in her eye, And conſcious worth, and inborn majeſty; Heroic empreſs! as thy virtues ſpread, Rome's ravening eagle cow'rs his quivering wings, Hope ſmiles, fair Liberty her bleſſings brings, And heaven-born Glory rays thy ſacred head. Grac'd with theſe ſculptur'd ſcenes of ancient fame With ſtately ſtep he came; Nor wanted in his way melodious ſound From pipe or paſtoral reed, or dulcet voice Of Nymph or Naïad him enringing round, Or quiring birds that in his ſhade rejoice, Or gently warbling wind, or water's fall Soft trickling from his urn in murmurs muſical. Then on the ſtately ſtructure's towery height With conſcious pride he fix'd his raptur'd eyes; And as paſt ſcenes of ancient glory riſe Arrang'd on Fancy's field in order bright, He paus'd; then graceful bow'd his reverend head, And thus in lofty ſtrain due homage paid. " Ye ſtrong-bas'd battlements, ye gorgeous walls, " Ye princely ſtructures, that with ſplendor crown'd, " Shine o'er your wide dominion ſtretching round, " To you with friendly voice your KYMBER calls, " And bids you hail! thereto he adds your name " Renown'd in ancient ſame, " Hail Wodehouſe-tower! To tell you with what pride, " What triumph he your glittering ſtate ſurveys, " That dignifies his lilly-ſilver'd ſide, " And wakes ſweet memory of thoſe glorious days, " When full-plum'd Victory wav'd her golden wing, " And deckt with trophies proud his honoured ſpring. " Yes, KYMBER! now thou may'ſt with joy retrace " The long ſucceſſion of thy patriot line; " With joy behold the unclouded luſtre ſhine " Which Virtue beams around her favour'd race. " Canſt thou forget the Lord of Wodehouſe-tower, " Whoſe ſtrong built baſtions ſcorn'd the Norman's power? " From Deva's banks (whoſe myſtic waters glide " By holy Whitchurch, thro' thoſe paſtur'd plains " Long ſince the warlike Talbot's rich domains, " When from Blackmere he brought his lovely bride, " The fair L'Eſtrange) thou ſaw'ſt the ſtout knight lead " To Silfield's happier mead " His Saxon train. There Beauclerk's royal ray " Shin'd on his battailous bold offspring, try'd " In many a hard and chevalrous aſſay, " When Sir George Wodehouſe attended Henry I. on his expedition into Normandy, A. D. 1104. Neuſtria's fields with crimſon gore he dy'd, " Spread vengeful flames revolted Bayeux round, " And daſh'd the rampir'd pride of Caën to the ground. " Oft as Britannia's royal enſign wav'd, " And the ſtern clarion call'd in field to fight, " The warlike WODEHOUSE march'd with proweſt might, " And the rough front of deathful danger brav'd. " Let Bara tell, and let Bodotria tell, " Fort, lough, and river, mountain, wood, and dell, " All that from ſouthern Eiden's flowery lea " Reaches to bleak Strathnavern's northern ſtrand, " Was his ſword ſheath'd, when Edward I. whom Sir Bertram de Wodehouſe accompanied in his wars in Scotland. Edward's iron hand " Spread deſolation wide from ſea to ſea? " Or when the ſable warrior's lifted lance " Glar'd in the eyes of France, " Was WODEHOUSE wanting to the hero's fame? " Let Crecy tell, and Poictiers purple plain, " And captive Valois' The Oriflame was a banner of gold and flame-colour'd ſilk, conſecrated and kept in the abbey of St. Denys. From the high opinion the French had of its virtue, it was made the royal ſtandard by Lewis VI. and continued ſuch till Charles VII. brought in uſe the white coronet. hallowed oriflame, " His dreadleſs hardiment let Two gallant commanders in the army of Henry earl of Treſtamare, whom the Black Brince (attended by the flower of the Engliſh troops, among whom was Sir William de Wodehouſe) defeated and took priſoners on the frontiers of Caſtile, thereby reſtoring Peter, ſurnamed the Cruel. Glequin's chain " Record, and brave Two gallant commanders in the army of Henry earl of Treſtamare, whom the Black Brince (attended by the flower of the Engliſh troops, among whom was Sir William de Wodehouſe) defeated and took priſoners on the frontiers of Caſtile, thereby reſtoring Peter, ſurnamed the Cruel. Dandrehen's froward fate, " And poor Caſtilia's tyrant-wielded ſtate. " Who has not heard of Somme's affrighted flood, " How mournfully his cumber'd ſtreams he roll'd " O'er ſhining hauberks, ſhields, and helms of gold, " His cryſtal current ſtain'd with prince's blood, " When daring Delabreth in wanton pride " The warlike Henry's way-worn troop defied? " But all this gallant trim and rich array " Lay ſoil'd in duſt, when Bedford's burniſat ſpear " Flam'd in their front, and thunder'd in their rear, " And York's bright blade hew'd out his dreadful way. " Rouze, royal England, rouze thy matchleſs might, " And with a dragon's flight " Sweep o'er th' enſanguin'd plains of Agincourt: " And ſee thy WODEHOUSE, whoſe ſtrong arm ſubdu'd " The ruin'd bulwarks of yon aged fort, " His golden chevron charg'd with For this gallent action, Henry V. as a perpetual augmentation of honour, aſſigned him the creſt of an hand, ſtretched from a cloud, holding a club, and this motto, FRAPPE FORTE: and the ſavage, or wild man, holding a club, which was the antient creſt of the family, was now omitted, and two of them placed as ſupporters to the arms, which had a further augmentation of honour added in the ſhield, viz. on the Chevron Gutte de Sang, as they are born to this day. drops of blood, " Reſts on the woodmen wild that bear his ſhield, " And hails thee victor of the well fought field! " Can I forget how blythe my eddies roll'd " And kiſs'd their criſp'd banks, when to Tewkſbury's plain " My gallant ſon led his Sir Edward Wodehouſe, who was knighted at Tewksbury, attended Edward IV. into the North, with two hundred men at arms, furniſhed at his own charge; being attended in his own retinue with two dukes, ſeven earls, thirty-one barons, and fifty-nine knights. heroic train, " Stout earls, and princely dukes, and barons bold? " Yet, ah for pity! theſe fierce hoſtings ceaſe, " That maiden bloſſom wears the badge of peace, " And will you dye her white leaves red in blood? " But if your flaming courage pricks you forth, " See where the prowling pilferers of the North " With inroad foul o'er Tine's forbidden flood " Ruſh from their bleak hills, lur'd with ſcent of prey: " Brook they your firm array? " Far humbler thoughts on Eſke's embattail'd banks " They learn'd, as Somerſet's victorious ſpear " With foul diſorder broke their bleeding ranks: " Whilſt vengeful Sir William de Wodehouſe was vice-admiral of the Engliſh fleet, and knighted for his noble ſervice in the battle of Muſſelborough, where his elder brother Thomas was killed, A. D. 1547. Wodehouſe taught their proud hearts fear, " And bade his thunders tell them, as they fled, " The brother triumphs where the brother bled. " But not on camps and fighting fields alone " My glory reſts; when turtle-pennon'd Peace " Huſh'd War's harſh roar, and bade his fury ceaſe, " In theſe lov'd ſhades her ſofteſt luſtre ſhone. " Here heaven-rapt Piety delights to dwell, " Train'd in Sir William de Wod houſe founded the monaſtry at Flitcham, and made a cell to Walſingham, about the year 1260. monaſtic Flitcham's holy cell; " Here plants her palm, whoſe hallowed branches ſpread " O'er towered Roger de Wodehouſe, a younger brother, was dean, or rather archdeacon, of Richmond, and chaplain to Edward II. Richmond's conſecrated ſhrine, " And form'd the only wreath e'er taught to twine " Round deſolate Caernarvon's hapleſs head. See note (e) relating to the creſt and atchievement of the family: the impreſs on the ſhield is AGINCOURT. " E'en that ſtrong arm, which ſtretching from a cloud " Creſts the atchievement proud " Impreſt with Agincourt's emblazon'd name, " Among his laurels wove this ſacred bough, " Ennobling valour with Devotion's flame, "He obtained licence of Henry V. to found a chauntry prieſt to ſing for the ſouls of that prince, and his queen, of his beloved eſquire John Wodehouſe, and his wife, their anceſtors, and poſterity, in the cathedral church of Norwich. And taught the warbled oriſon to flow, " As 'midſt the taper'd choir the ſolemn prieſt " Chaunts to the victor ſaint high heaven's eternal reſt. " Here the firm guardians of the publick weal, " Inſpir'd with Freedom's heaven-deſcended flame, " Roſe nobly faithful to their country's fame; "This family has ſerved with an inviolable integrity in twenty-ſeven parliaments; in ſixteen of which they have been returned for the county of Norfolk. In frequent ſenates pour'd their ardent zeal, " Daſh'd the baſe bribe from curs'd Corruption's hand, " And ſav'd from ſcepter'd Pride the ſinking land. " Or, Sir Thomas Wodehouſe, knight of the Bath, was ſent amba •• ador into France by Henry VII. Another Sir Thomas was ſent into France, Spain, and Italy, to qualify himſelf for the higheſt employments, by Henry, ſon to James I. prompt to anſwer bleeding Europe's call, " To diſtant realms bore Britain's high beheſt, " Bade the ſword ſleep, gave gaſping nations reſt, " And taught the doubtful balance where to fall. " But in the ſofter hour of ſocial joy, " When ceas'd the high employ, " Theſe woodland walks, theſe tufted dales among " The ſilver-ſounding Muſes built their bower, " Made vocal with the lute attemper'd ſong; " Whilſt blooming Courteſy's gold-ſpangled flower, " Cull'd by the Graces, ſpread its brighteſt glow " To deck unſwerving Honour's manly brow. " And you, age-honoured oaks! whoſe ſolemn ſhades " Inviron this fair manſion, proudly ſtand " The ſacred The oaks upon the hill, where the houſe now ſtands, were planted in honour of queen Elizabeth, the day ſhe was at Kymberley, A. D. 1578. nourſlings of Eliza's hand, " When ſhe with ſovereign glory grac'd your glades, " And pleas'd beheld her Thomas Wodehouſe, who was killed at Muſſelborough, married a Shelton, whoſe mother was a Boleyn. Boleyn's kindred line " Ennobled with your trophied honours ſhine. " Spring creſtleſs cravens from ſuch roots as theſe? " Aſk the pale Sir Philip Wodehouſe ſerved queen Elizabeth both by ſea and land, at home, in Portugal, and in Spain: he was knighted for his ſervice at Cadiz by the earls of Eſſex and Nottingham, the queen's generals. Groyne, aſk Tayo's trembling tide, " Aſk Cadiz weeping o'er her ruin'd pride, " And Auſtria ſcourg'd o'er all the ſubject ſeas. " From this deep root my blooming branches ſpread, " And rais'd their floriſht head, " Chear'd with the princely Sir Thomas Wodehouſe, Bart. was in great favour with prince Henry, ſon to James I. and of his bed-chamber; at whoſe deceaſe he retired to Kymberley. Henry's orient ray; " Till, riſing on the morn, importune Night " Spreads her black veil, and blots his golden day; " Darkneſs enſues, dark deeds, and impious might; " Whilſt Diſcord, mounted on his iron car, " Cries havock, and lets ſlip the dogs of war. " What then could virtue, 'fall'n on evil days, " On evil days thus fall'n, and evil tongues, " With dangers compaſt,' and oppreſt with wrongs, " Save to the wild woods breathe her plaintive lays, " And charm the ſhades, and teach the ſtreams to flow " With all the melting melody of woe? " But what avail'd or voice, or tuneful hand, " When hell bred Faction, rear'd on baleful wings, " Stain'd with the blood of nobles and of kings, " Spread total deſolation o'er the land? " Ah KYMBER! where was then thy princely ſtate? " Sunk in the general fate; " Thy rich roofs ſunk, o'er golden pendents ſpread; " Faſtolff's white croſlet mouldered from the wall, " And Hamo's lion dropt his gold crown'd head; " The ſacred chapel ſunk, the feſtive hall; " E'en thy tall towers, majeſtic in decay, " Like thy loſt monarch, low in ruins lay. " Thus Britain ſunk, and thus ſunk Wodehouſe tower; " So ſinks the ſun, as o'er the turbid ſkies " Sudden the ſtorm-engendering clouds ariſe, " And vex with uproar wild Night's fearful hour; " That paſt, his bright beams reſalute the day, " And heighten'd ſplendors crown his orient ray: " So Britain roſe, ſo roſe my princely ſtate. " But not the ſwelling column maſſy proof, " The moulded pediment, the fretted roof, " Not this fair fabric proudly elevate, " Tho' fix'd by Prowſe's juſt palladian hand " Its towred honours ſtand; " Not this clear lake, whoſe waving cryſtal ſpreads " Round yon hoar iſle with awful ſhades imbrown'd: " Not theſe pure ſtreams that vein the envermeil'd meads: " Nor thoſe age-honoured oaks wide waving round; " Exterior glories theſe, of humbler fame, " Beam not that ſplendent ray which dignifies my name. " The ſpark of honour kindling glorious thought, " The ſoul by warm benevolence refin'd, " The aethereal glow that melts th' empaſſion'd mind, " And Virtue's work to fair perfection brought, " Be theſe my glories. And thou, Power benign! " Whoſe living ſplendors round the patriot ſhine, " Immortal Genius of this far-fam'd land, " This ſcepter'd iſle thron'd midſt the circling ſea, " Seat of the brave, and fortreſs of the tree, " Oft haſt thou deign'd to take thy hallow'd ſtand, " Theſe ſhades among; at Virtue's radiant ſhrine " Oft caught the flame divine, " When dark Corruption dim'd thy ſovereign light; " Thence beam'd thy ſolemn ſoul-ennobling ray, " To gild theſe groves with all thy luſtre bright, " Where nobly thoughtful Mordaunt loves to ſtray, " And manly Prowſe with every ſcience crown'd, " In Freedom's ruſtic ſeat the poliſh'd Graces thron'd. " And thou, to whom thy KYMBER tunes this ſtrain, " If ſtrain like this may reach thy nicer ear, " O deign in mine thy country's voice to hear, " Which never to a WODEHOUSE call'd in vain! " By the proud honours of thy martial creſt, " The trophied tombs where thy fam'd fathers reſt, " By Lacy's, Clervaux', Hunſdon's, Armine's name, " By Manhood's, Glory's, Freedom's, Virtue's praiſe, " Wake the high thought, the lofty ſpirit raiſe, " And blazon thy hereditary fame. " That fame ſhall live, whilſt Pride's unrighteous power, " The pageant of an hour, " Fades from the guilty ſcene, and ſinks in night: " That fame ſhall live, and ſpread its conſtant rays, " Warm like the bleſſed ſun with genial light; " Whilſt Vice and Folly ſpend their baleful blaze, " As meteors, glaring o'er a troubled ſky, " Shoot their pernicious fires, amaze, and die." He ceas'd his gratulation: the high ſtrain Pierc'd the thick gloom where Britain's Genius lay A line of Spenſer's Faery Queen. Cover'd with charmed cloud from view of day: He heard, and burſting thro' the falſed train, In all the majeſty of empire roſe, And iſſued ſtern to quell his vaunting foes. The Naïads ſaw, and ſwell'd their ſurging floods; Old KYMBER ſaw, and ſmil'd; the burniſh'd glades Rejoic'd; the groves wav'd their exulting ſhades; And lofty Feorhou bow'd with all his woods! The lordly lion ramping by his ſide, He march'd in martial pride, And pour'd his flaming ſpirit o'er the land; The kindling hamlets rouz'd with war's alarms, Snatch the bright faulchion from the hireling hand, And bravely train their free-born youth to arms; Whilſt Liberty her glittering enſign waves, And bids each generous ſon diſdain an hoſt of ſlaves. Then royally on the ocean wave enthron'd, With all his terrors arm'd, he rode ſublime, And roll'd his thunders o'er each hoſtile clime: Seine's ſilken vaſſals trembled at the ſound; The cloud-wrapt promontory ſhook, and all Its rock-bas'd rampires nodded to their fall. Reign ever thus, unconquer'd Britain, reign; Whilſt thy free ſons in firm battalions ſtand, And guard with lion-ramp their native land: Thus fix thy throne, thus rule the ſubject main! So ſhall bright Victory o'er thy laurel'd head Her eagle-pennons ſpread; Whilſt ſoft-ey'd Peace, quitting at thy command Her radiant orb in yon empyreal plain, Waves o'er the willing world her myrtle wand: So ſhall the Muſe her Doric oat diſdain, And touch'd with ſphere-born Rapture's hallow'd fire, Swell her triumphal notes, and ſweep the golden lyre.
ODE TO HEALTH. BY J. H. B. ESQ. COME, roſy Health, celeſtial maid, On Zephyr's ſilken wing convey'd, In ſmiles thy heavenly features dreſt, Deſcend, thou ſweet enchanting gueſt All charming, whether you appear In STAMER's lovely form and air, Or her's who yonder ſhines from far Fair as the morning's ſilver ſtar, In youth's ſoft prime and beauty's pride, On Shannon's flower-enamell'd ſide, By ſhepherds, in each amorous tale, Yclept the Miſs Fitzgerald. Lily of the vale. Bright daughter of the bluſhing dawn, Nymph of the woods, and daiſied lawn, Who flieſt the buſy, full reſorts Of peopled cities, revelling courts, But, clad in ruſſet, lov'ſt to dwell With Temperance in the rural cell, Attend the ſheep-boy at his ſtand, Or ploughman o'er the furrow'd land, Or wait, at ſpring of fragrant morn, The opening hound, and cheering horn; Ever cheerful, ever gay. Hither come and chaſe away, Sorrow of dejected eye, The plaintive tear, the ſtruggling ſigh, Diſeaſe with ſickly yellow ſpread, And Pain that holds the hanging head; And in their ſtead conduct along, Fantaſtic Dance, and airy Song, Wit, of taſte correct and fine, Frolic Mirth, that waits on wine, Hope that fans the lover's fires, Pleaſing Follies, gay Deſires, For theſe are thine, a ſprightly train, Without thee lifeleſs, joyleſs, vain. 'Tis you who pour o'er Beauty's face The artleſs bloom, the native grace; You robb'd the baſhful roſe, and ſhed Its ſoft, refin'd, delicious red On WALLER's cheek; 'tis you beſtow On MANSEL's lips the ripening glow; With quickening ſpirits you ſupply The trembling luſtre of her eye. Through every form of myſtic birth, The ſwarming air, the teeming earth, Through all the fruitful deep contains, Thy ſovereign vital influence reigns, Mixes, ferments, inſpires the whole, Pours the glad warmth, the genial ſoul, Breathes in the breeze, diſtills in ſhowers, Swells the young bud, and wakes the flowers: With livelier green the herbage ſprings, The violet blows, the linnet ſings, Its richeſt colouring Nature wears, And Pleaſure leads the wanton years. Oh! ſee I pine diſtreſs'd, forlorn, And ſeek in vain thy wiſh'd return: Return then, Goddeſs, heavenly mild, Indulgent now as once you ſmil'd, In golden Youth's propitious May, When jocund danc'd my hours away, With love, and joy, and rapture bleſt, And thou waſt there to crown the reſt. Then, as around the Seaſons range, And years in ſweet ſucceſſion change, On Shannon's ſilver-flowing ſtream, I'll ſing and thou ſhalt be my theme; Rich in my verſe, thy charms ſhall ſhine, And HAROLD's beauties yield to thine.
SWEETNESS: AN ODE. INSCRIBED TO CLEORA. BY MR. ROBERTSON. —Frons mitior aſpici, Innubique nitens are meridies. CASIM. lib. I. od. xvii. OF damaſk cheeks, and radiant eyes, Let other poets tell; Within the boſom of the fair, Superior beauties dwell. There all the ſprightly powers of wit In blithe aſſemblage play; There every ſocial virtue ſheds Its intellectual ray. But, as the ſun's refulgent light Heaven's wide expanſe refines, With ſovereign luſtre, through the ſoul, Celeſtial Sweetneſs ſhines. This mental beam dilates the heart, And ſparkles in the face; It harmonizes every thought, And heightens every grace. One glimpſe can ſooth the troubled breaſt, The heaving ſigh reſtrain; Can make the bed of ſickneſs pleaſe, And ſtop the ſenſe of pain. Its power can charm the ſavage heart, The tyrant's pity move; To ſmiles convert the wildeſt rage, And melt the ſoul to love. When Sweetneſs beams upon the throne, In majeſty benign, The awful ſplendors of a crown With milder luſtre ſhine. In ſcenes of poverty and woe, Where melancholy dwells, The influence of this living ray The dreary gloom diſpels. Thus, when the blooming ſpring returns, To chear the mournful plains, Through earth and air, with genial warmth, Etherial mildneſs reigns. Beneath its bright, auſpicious beams, No boiſterous paſſions riſe; Moroſeneſs quits the peaceful ſcene, And baleful Diſcord flies. A thouſand nameleſs beauties ſpring, A thouſand virtues glow; A ſmiling train of Joys appear, And endleſs bleſſings flow. Unbounded Charity diſplays Her ſympathizing charms; And Friendſhip's pure ſeraphic flame The generous boſom warms. Almighty Love exerts his power, And ſpreads, with ſecret art, A ſoft ſenſation through the frame, A tranſport through the heart. Nor ſhall the ſtorms of age, which cloud Each gleam of ſenſual joy; And blaſt the gaudy flowers of Pride, Theſe bleſt effects deſtroy. When that fair form ſhall ſink in years, And all thoſe graces fly; The beauty of thy heavenly mind Shall length of days defy.
TO FLORELLA, PUTTING ON A FLOWERED HAT, BY THE SAME. FLORELLA, veil thoſe radiant eyes, Thoſe lovely ſeatures hide; For which a thouſand nymphs have wiſh'd, A thouſand ſwains have ſigh'd. Then might each youth more ſaſely view The gay, the blooming maid; While half thoſe graces lie conceal'd Beneath that flowery ſhade. Thus when the bright, meridian ſun His vivid warmth diſplays, We thank the kind officious cloud That ſhades the dazzling rays.
BARREAUX's CELEBRATED SONNET.
GRAND Dieu, tes jugemens ſont remplis d'equité; Toujours tu prens plaiſir à nous être propice, Mais j'ai tant fait de mal, que jamais ta bonté Ne me pardonnera, ſans choquer ta juſtice. Oui mon Dieu, la grandeur de mon impieté Ne laiſſe à ton pouvoir que le choix du ſuplice; Ton intereſte oppoſe à ma felicité Et ta clemence méme attend que je periſſe. Contente ton deſir, puis qu'il t'eſt glorieux; Offenſe toy des pleurs qui coulent de mes yeux; Tonne, frappe, il eſt tems, rens moi guerre pour guerre; J adore en periſſant la raiſon qui t'aigrit. Mais deſſus quel endroit tombera ton tonnerre, Que ne ſoit tout couvert du ſang de JESUS CHRIST.
BY THE SAME. THO' thy decrees, great God, are wiſe, Thy diſpenſations right, Thy darling attribute is love, Compaſſion thy delight. But ſhould thy goodneſs condeſcend To pity my diſtreſs, Offended Juſtice would each thought Of lenity ſuppreſs. Yes, righteous God, my daring crimes For pardon leave no room; Thy majeſty prevents my bliſs, Thy grace demands my doom. O! then denounce thy ſovereign will, Avenge thy injur'd name; And let an impious miſcreant's tear Thy ſacred wrath inflame. Smite me, 'tis time, let thunder fall On my rebellious head; In my deſtruction I'll adore The hand that ſtrikes me dead. But—through what region ſhall thy bolts Thy miſſive vengeance run, Which is not hallowed by the blood Of thy beloved Son?
MONODY TO THE MEMORY OF A YOUNG LADY. BY MR. SHAW. YET do I live! O how ſhall I ſuſtain This vaſt unutterable weight of woe? This worſe than hunger, poverty, or pain, Or all the complicated ills below— She, in whoſe life my hopes were treaſur'd all, Is gone—for ever fled— My deareſt EMMA's dead; Theſe eyes, theſe tear-ſwoln eyes beheld her fall: Ah no—ſhe lives on ſome far happier ſhore, She lives—but (cruel thought!) ſhe lives for me no more. I, who the tedious abſence of a day Remov'd, wou'd languiſh for my charmer's ſight, Wou'd chide the lingering moments for delay, And fondly blame the ſlow return of night; How, how ſhall I endure (O miſery paſt a cure!) Hours, days and years ſucceſſively to roll, Nor ever more behold the comfort of my ſoul? Was ſhe not all my fondeſt wiſh could frame? Did ever Mind ſo much of Heaven partake? Did ſhe not love me with the pureſt flame, And give up friends and fortune for my ſake? Though mild as evening ſkies, With downcaſt, ſtreaming eyes, Stood the ſtern frown of ſupercilious brows, Deaf to their brutal threats, and faithful to her vows. Come, then, ſome Muſe, the ſaddeſt of the train, (No more your bard ſhall dwell on idle lays) Teach me each moving melancholy ſtrain, And O diſcard the pageantry of phraſe: Ill ſuit the flowers of ſpeech with woes like mine! Thus, haply, as I paint The ſource of my complaint, My ſoul may own the impaſſion'd line; A flood of tears may guſh to my relief, And from my ſwelling heart diſcharge this load of grief. Forbear, my fond officious friends, forbear To wound my ears with the ſad tales you tell; " How good ſhe was, how gentle, and how fair!" In pity ceaſe—alas! I know too well: How, in her ſweet, expreſſive face Beam'd forth the beauties of her mind, Yet heighten'd by exterior grace Of manners moſt engaging, moſt refin'd: No piteous object could ſhe ſee, But her ſoft boſom ſhar'd the woe, Whilſt ſmiles of affability Endear'd whatever boon ſhe might beſtow. Whate'er the emotions of her heart, Still ſhone conſpicuous in her eyes, Stranger to every female art, Alike to feign, or to diſguiſe: And O the boaſt how rare! The ſecret in her faithful breaſt repos'd, She ne'er with lawleſs tongue diſclos'd, In ſacred ſilence lodg'd inviolate there. O feeble words—unable to expreſs Her matchleſs virtues, or my own diſtreſs! Relentleſs Death! that, ſteel'd to human woe, With murderous hands deals havock on mankind, Why (cruel!) ſtrike this deprecated blow, And leave ſuch wretched multitudes behind! Hark! Groans come wing'd on every breeze! The ſons of Grief prefer their ardent vow; Oppreſs'd with ſorrow, want, or dire diſeaſe, And ſupplicate thy aid, as I do now: In vain—Perverſe, ſtill on the unweeting head 'Tis thine thy vengeful darts to ſhed; Hope's infant bloſſoms to deſtroy, And drench in tears the face of joy. But oh! fell tyrant! yet expect the hour When Virtue ſhall renounce thy power; When thou no more ſhalt blot the face of day, Nor mortals tremble at thy rigid ſway. Alas! the day—where-e'er I turn my eyes, Some ſad memento of my loſs appears; I fly the fatal houſe—ſuppreſs my ſighs, Reſolv'd to dry my unavailing tears: But, ah! In vain—no change of time or place The memory can efface Of all that ſweetneſs, that enchanting air, Now loſt; and nought remains but anguiſh and deſpair. Where wer the delegates of Heaven, oh where! Appointed Virtue's children ſafe to keep! Had Innocence or Virtue been their care, She had not dy'd, nor had I liv'd to weep: Mov'd by my tears, and by her patience mov'd, To ſee her force the endearing ſmile, My ſorrows to beguile, When Torture's keeneſt rage ſhe prov'd; Sure they had warded that untimely dart, Which broke her thread of life, and rent a huſband's heart. How ſhall I e'er forget that dreadful hour, When feeling Death's reſiſtleſs power, My hand ſhe preſs'd, wet with her falling tears, And thus, in faultering accents, ſpoke her fears! " Ah, my lov'd lord, the tranſient ſcene is o'er, " And we muſt part (alas!) to meet no more! " But oh! if e'er thy EMMA's name was dear, " If e'er thy vows have charm'd my raviſh'd ear; " If, from thy lov'd embrace my heart to gain, " Proud friends have frown'd, and Fortune ſmil'd in vain, " If it has been my ſole endeavour, ſtill " To act in all, obſequious to thy will; " To watch thy very ſmiles, thy wiſh to know, " Then only truly bleſt when thou wert ſo: " If I have doated with that fond exceſs, " Nor Love could add, nor Fortune make it leſs; " If this I've done, and more—oh then be kind " To the dear lovely babe I leave behind. " When time my once-lov'd memory ſhall efface, " Some happier maid may take thy EMMA's place, " With envious eyes thy partial fondneſs ſee, " And hate it for the love thou bore to me: " My deareſt S—, forgive a woman's fears, " But one word more (I cannot bear thy tears) " Promiſe—and I will truſt thy faithful vow, " (Oft have I try'd, and ever ſound thee true) " That to ſome diſtant ſpot thou wilt remove " This fatal pledge of hapleſs EMMA's love, " Where ſafe, thy blandiſhments it may partake, " And oh! be tender for its mother's ſake. " Wilt thou?— " I know thou wilt—ſad ſilence ſpeaks aſſent, " And in that pleaſing hope thy EMMA dies content." I, who with more than manly ſtrength have bore The various ills impos'd by cruel Fate, Suſtain the firmneſs of my ſoul no more, But ſink beneath the weight: Juſt Heaven (I cry'd) from Memory's earlieſt day No comfort has thy wretched ſuppliant known, Misfortune ſtill with unrelenting ſway Has claim'd me for her own. But O—in pity to my grief, reſtore This only ſource of bliſs; I aſk—I aſk no more— Vain hope—th' irrevocable doom is paſt, Ev'n now ſhe looks—ſhe ſighs her laſt— Vainly I ſtrive to ſtay her fleeting breath, And, with rebellious heart, proteſt againſt her death. When the ſtern tyrant clos'd her lovely eyes, How did I rave, untaught to bear the blow! With impious wiſh to tear her from the ſkies; How curſe my fate in bitterneſs of woe! But whither would this dreadful frenzy lead? Fond man, forbear, Thy fruitleſs ſorrow ſpare, Dare not to taſk what Heaven's high will decreed; In humble reverence kiſs th' afflictive rod, And proſtrate bow to an offended God. Perhaps kind Heaven in mercy dealt the blow, Some ſaving truth thy roving ſoul to teach; To wean thy heart from groveling views below, And point out bliſs beyond Misfortune's reach: To ſhew that all the flattering ſchemes of joy, Which towering Hope ſo fondly builds in air, One fatal moment can deſtroy, And plunge th' exulting Maniac in deſpair. Then O! with pious fortitude ſuſtain Thy preſent loſs—haply, thy future gain; Nor let thy EMMA die in vain; Time ſhall adminiſter its wonted balm, And huſh this ſtorm of grief to no unpleaſing calm. Thus the poor bird, by ſome diſaſtrous fate Caught and impriſon'd in a lonely cage, Torn from its native fields, and dearer mate, Flutters awhile, and ſpends its little rage: But, finding all its efforts weak and vain, No more it pants and rages for the plain; Moping awhile, in ſullen mood Droops the ſweet mourner—but, ere long, Prunes its light wings, and pecks its food, And meditates the ſong: Serenely ſorrowing, breathes its piteous caſe, And with its plaintive warblings ſaddens all the place. Forgive me, Heaven—yet—yet the tears will flow, To think how ſoon my ſcene of bliſs is paſt! My budding joys juſt promiſing to blow, All nipt and wither'd by one envious blaſt! My hours, that laughing wont to fleet away, Move heavily along; Where's now the ſprightly jeſt, the jocund ſong; Time creeps unconſcious of delight: How ſhall I cheat the tedious day? And O—the joyleſs night! Where ſhall I reſt my weary head? How ſhall I find repoſe on a ſad widow'd bed? Come, Laudanum. Theban drug, the wretch's only aid, To my torn heart its former peace reſtore; Thy votary wrapp'd in thy Lethean ſhade, Awhile ſhall ceaſe his ſorrows to deplore: Haply when lock'd in Sleep's embrace, Again I ſhall behold my EMMA's face; Again with tranſport hear Her voice ſoft whiſpering in my ear; May ſteal once more a balmy kiſs, And taſte at leaſt of viſionary bliſs. But ah! the unwelcome morn's obtruding light Will all my ſhadowy ſchemes of bliſs depoſe, Will tear the dear illuſion from my ſight, And wake me to the ſenſe of all my woes: If to the verdant fields I ſtray, Alas! what pleaſures now can theſe convey? Her lovely form purſues where-e'er I go, And darkens all the ſcene with woe. By Nature's laviſh bounties chear'd no more, Sorrowing I rove Thro' valley, grot, and grove; Nought can their beauties or my loſs reſtore; No herb, no plant, can medicine my diſeaſe, And my ſad ſighs are borne on every paſſing breeze. Sickneſs and ſorrow hovering round my bed, Who now with anxious haſte ſhall bring relief, With lenient hand ſupport my drooping head, Aſſwage my pains, and mitigate my grief? Should worldly buſineſs call away, Who now ſhall in my abſence fondly mourn, Count every minute of the loitering day, Impatient for my quick return? Should aught my boſom diſcompoſe, Who now with ſweet complacent air, Shall ſmooth the rugged brow of Care, And ſoften all my woes? Too faithful Memory—Ceaſe, O ceaſe— How ſhall I e'er regain my peace? (O to forget her)—but how vain each art, Whilſt every virtue lives imprinted on my heart. And thou, my little cherub, left behind, To hear a father's plaints, to ſhare his woes, When Reaſon's dawn informs thy infant mind, And thy ſweet-liſping tongue ſhall aſk the cauſe, How oft with ſorrow ſhall mine eyes run o'er, When, twining round my knees, I trace Thy mother's ſmile upon thy face? How oft to my full heart ſhalt thou reſtore Sad memory of my joys—ah now no more! By bleſſings once enjoy'd now more diſtreſt, More beggar by the riches once poſſeſt. My little darling!—dearer to me grown By all the tears thou'ſt caus'd—(O ſtrange to hear!) Bought with a life yet dearer than thy own, Thy cradle purchas'd with thy mother's bier: Who now ſhall ſeek with fond delight, Thy infant ſteps to guide aright? She, who with doating eyes, would gaze On all thy little artleſs ways, By all thy ſoft endearments bleſt, And claſp thee oft with tranſport to her breaſt, Alas! is gone—Yet ſhalt thou prove A father's deareſt, tendereſt love: And O! ſweet ſenſeleſs ſmiler (envied ſtate!) As yet unconſcious of thy hapleſs fate, When years thy judgment ſhall mature, And Reaſon ſhews thoſe ills it cannot cure, Wilt thou, a father's grief to aſſwage, For virtue prove the Phoenix of the earth? (Like her, thy mother dy'd to give thee birth) And be the comfort of my age! When ſick and languiſhing I lie, Wilt thou my EMMA's wonted care ſupply? And oft, as, to thy liſtening ear, Thy mother's virtues and her fate I tell, Say, wilt thou drop the tender tear, Whilſt on the mournful theme I dwell? Then, fondly ſtealing to thy father's ſide, Whene'er thou ſeeſt the ſoft diſtreſs, Which I would vainly ſeek to hide, Say, wilt thou ſtrive to make it leſs? To ſooth my ſorrows all thy cares employ, And in my cup of grief infuſe one drop of joy?
AN EVENING ADDRESS TO A NIGHTINGALE. BY THE SAME. SWEET bird! that kindly perching near, Poureſt thy plaints melodious in mine ear, Not, like baſe worldlings, tutor'd to forego The melancholy haunts of Woe, Thanks for thy ſorrow-ſoothing ſtrain:— For ſurely, thou haſt known to prove, Like me, the pangs of hapleſs love, Elſe why ſo feelingly complain, And with thy piteous notes thus ſadden all the grove? Say, doſt thou mourn thy raviſh'd mate, That oft enamour'd on thy ſtrains has hung? Or has the cruel hand of Fate Bereft thee of thy darling young? Alas, for BOTH, I weep— In all the pride of youthful charms, A beauteous bride torn from my circling arms! A lovely babe that ſhould have liv'd to bleſs, And fill my doating eyes with frequent tears, At once the ſource of rapture and diſtreſs, The flattering prop of my declining years! In vain from death to reſcue I eſſay'd, By every art that Science could deviſe, Alas! it languiſh'd for a mother's aid, And wing'd its flight to ſeek her in the ſkies— Then O our comforts be the ſame, At evening's peaceful hour, To ſhun the noiſy paths of wealth and fame, And breathe our ſorrows in this lonely bower. But why alas! to thee complain! To thee—unconſcious of my pain! Soon ſhalt THOU ceaſe to mourn thy lot ſevere, And hail the dawning of a happier year: The genial warmth of joy-renewing ſpring Again ſhall plume thy ſhatter'd wing; Again thy little heart ſhall tranſport prove, Again ſhall ſlow thy notes reſponſive to thy love: But O for ME in vain may ſeaſons roll, Nought can dry up the fountain of my tears, Deploring ſtill the COMFORT OF MY SOUL, I count my ſorrows by encreaſing years. Tell me, thou Syren Hope, deceiver, ſay, Where is the promis'd period of my woes? Full three long, lingering years have roll'd away, And yet I weep, a ſtranger to repoſe: O what deluſion did thy tongue employ! " That EMMA's fatal pledge of love, " Her laſt bequeſt—with all a mother's care, " The bitterneſs of ſorrow ſhould remove, " Soften the horrors of deſpair, " And chear a heart long loſt to joy!" How oft, when fondling in mine arms, Gazing enraptur'd on its angel-face, My ſoul the maze of Fate would vainly trace, And burn with all a father's fond alarms! And O what flattering ſcenes had Fancy feign'd, How did I rave of bleſſings yet in ſtore! Till every aching ſenſe was ſweetly pain'd, And my full heart could bear, nor tongue could utter more.— " Juſt Heaven, I cry'd"—with recent hopes elate, " Yet I will live—will live, tho' EMMA's dead— " So long bow'd down beneath the ſtorms of Fate, " Yet will I raiſe my woe-dejected head! " My little EMMA, now my ALL, " Will want a father's care, " Her looks, her wants my raſh reſolves recal, " And for her ſake the ills of life I'll bear: " And oft together we'll complain, " Complaint, the only bliſs my ſoul can know, " From me, my child ſhall learn the mournful ſtrain, " And prattle tales of woe; " And O in that auſpicious hour, " When Fate reſigns her perſecuting power, " With duteous zeal her hand ſhall cloſe, " No more to weep—my ſorrow-ſtreaming eyes, " When death gives miſery repoſe, " And opes a glorious paſſage to the ſkies. Vain thought! it muſt not be—She too is dead— The flattering ſcene is o'er— My hopes for ever—ever fled— And vengeance can no more— Cruſh'd by misfortune—blaſted by diſeaſe— And none—none left to bear a friendly part! To meditate my welfare, health, or eaſe, Or ſooth the anguiſh of an aching heart! Now all one gloomy ſcene, till welcome death, With lenient hand (O falſly deem'd ſevere) Shall kindly ſtop my grief-exhauſted breath, And dry up every tear: Perhaps, obſequious to my will, But ah! from my affections far remov'd! The laſt ſad office ſtrangers may fulfil, As if I ne'er had been belov'd; As if, unconſcious of poetic fire, I ne'er had touch'd the trembling lyre, As if my niggard hand ne'er dealt relief, Nor my heart melted at another's grief. Yet—while this weary life ſhall laſt, While yet my tongue can form the impaſſion'd ſtrain, In piteous accents ſhall the Muſe complain, And dwell with fond delay on bleſſings paſt: For O how grateful to a wounded heart, The tale of miſery to impart! From others' eyes bid artleſs ſorrows flow, And raiſe eſteem upon the baſe of woe! Even HELord Lyttelton., the nobleſt of the tuneful throng, Shall deign my love lorn tale to hear, Shall catch the ſoft contagion of my ſong, And pay my penſive Muſe the tribute of a tear.
THE DEATH OF ARACHNE, AN HEROI-COMI-TRAGIC-POEM. THE ſhrinking brooks and ruſſet meads complain'd That Summer's tyrant, fervid Sirius, reign'd; Full weſt the ſun from heaven deſcending rode, And ſix the ſhadow on the dial ſhow'd. Philo, tho' young, to muſing much inclin'd, A ſhameleſs ſloven, in his gown had din'd, From table ſneaking with a ſheepiſh face, Before the circle was diſmiſs'd with grace, And ſmoaking now, his deſk with books o'erſpread, Thick clouds of incenſe roll around his head: His head, which ſave a quarter's growth of hair, His woollen cap long ſince ſcratch'd off, was bare: His beard three days had grown, of golden hue, Black was his ſhirt, uncomely to the view; Croſs-legg'd he ſat, and his ungartered hoſe Of each lean limb half hide, and half expoſe; His cheek he lean'd upon his hand; below His nut-brown ſlipper hung upon his toe. Now with abſtracted flight he climbs apace, High and more high, through pure unbounded ſpace; Now mere privation fails the wings of thought, He drops down headlong through the vaſt of nought; A friendly vapour Matheſis ſupplies, Born on the ſurging ſmoak he joys to riſe; Matter thro' modes and qualities purſues, Now caught, entranc'd its naked eſſence views; Now wakes; the viſion fading from his ſight Leaves doubts behind, the miſts of mental night: Exiſting not, but poſſible alone, He deems all ſubſtance, and ſuſpects his own; Like wave by wave impell'd, now queſtions roll— Does ſoul in ought ſubſiſt, or all in ſoul? Is ſpace, extenſion, nothing but a name, And mere idea Nature's mighty frame? All power, all forms, to intellect confin'd: Place, agent, ſubject, inſtrument combin'd? Is ſpirit diverſe, yet from number free, Conjoin'd by harmony in unity?— Truth's ſpotleſs white what piercing eye deſcries, When the ray broken takes Opinion's dyes!— In vain now Philo ſeeks the ſacred light, In Chaos plung'd, where embryo ſyſtems fight. In this dark hour, unnotic'd, Cloe came, His ſtudy-door admits the ſhining dame; With Nature's charms ſhe join'd the charms of art, Wife of his choice, and miſtreſs of his heart; What on her head ſhe wore, erect and high, Unnam'd above, is call'd on earth a fly; In wanton ringlets her fair treſſes fell, Her breaſts beneath tranſparent muſlin ſwell; Studded with flaming gems a buckle bound Th' embroidered zone her ſlender waiſt around; Thence to her feet a vaſt rotund diſplay'd The mingling colours of the rich brocade; This aiding fancy, blending ſhame and pride, Inflames with beauties it was meant to hide: With careleſs eaſe the Nymph firſt ſnapp'd her fan, Roll'd round her radiant eyes, and thus began; " How canſt thou, Philo, here delight to ſit, " Immers'd in learning, naſtineſs, and wit? " Clean from the cheſt, where various odours breathe, " And dying roſes their laſt ſweets bequeath, " A ſhirt for thee, by my command, the maid " Three hours ago before the fire diſplay'd; " The barber, waiting to renew thy face, " Holds thy wig powder'd in the paſte-board caſe; " Thy ſilken breeches, and thy hoſe of thread, " Coat, waiſtcoat, all, lie ready on the bed. " Renounce that odious pipe, this filthy cell, " Where ſilence, duſt, and pagan authors dwell: " Come! ſhall the ladies wait in vain for thee? " Come! taſte with us the charms of mirth and tea," As Philo heard confus'd the ſilver ſound, His ſoul emerges from the dark profound, On the bright viſion full he turn'd his eyes; Touch'd, as he gaz'd, with pleaſure and ſurprize, The firſt faint dawnings of a ſmile appear'd, And now in act to ſpeak, he ſtrok'd his beard, When from a ſhelf juſt o'er the fair one's head, Down dropt ARACHNE by the viſcous thread. Back ſtarts the Nymph, with terror and diſmay, " The Spider! oh!"—was all that ſhe could ſay. At this the Sage reſum'd the look ſevere, " Renounce, with woman's folly, woman's fear!" He ſaid, and careful to the ſhelf convey'd The hapleſs rival of the blue-ey'd maid. Th' enormous deed aſtoniſh'd Cloe-view'd, And rage the crimſon on her cheek renew'd. " Muſt then, ſaid ſhe, ſuch hideous vermin crawl " Indulg'd, protected, o'er the cobwebb'd wall? " Deſtroy her quickly—here her life I claim, " If not for love or decency, for ſhame." " Shame be to guilt, replies the man of thought, " To ſlaves of cuſtom, ne'er by reaſon taught, " Who ſpare no life that touches not their own, " By fear their cruelty reſtrain'd alone. " No blameleſs inſect lives its deſtin'd hour, " Caught in the murdering vortex of their power. " For me, the virtues of the mind I learn " From ſage ARACHNE, for whoſe life you burn; " From her, when buſy all the ſummer's day " She weaves the curious woof that ſnares her prey, " I learn fair induſtry and art to prize, " Admiring Nature providently wiſe, " Who, tho' her bounty unexhauſted flows, " Not daily bread on idleneſs beſtows. " ARACHNE, ſtill ſuperior to deſpair, " Reſtores with art what accidents impair, " The thouſandth time the broken thread renews, " And one great end with fortitude purſues; " To me her toil is ne'er renew'd in vain, " Taught what the wiſe by perſeverance gain, " Warm'd by example to the glorious ſtrife, " And taught to conquer in the fight of life. " When now with reſt amidſt her labours crown'd, " She watchful, patient, eyes the circle round, " I learn, when toil has well deſerv'd ſucceſs, " Hope's placid, calm, expectance to poſſeſs, " With care to watch, with patience ſtill to wait " The golden moment, tho' delay'd by Fate." Impatient Cloe thus again replied; " How ſoon is error thro' each veil deſcried! " Still boaſting Reaſon's power, how weak are we! " How blind, alas! to all we would not ſee! " Elſe how could Philo, in a Spider's cauſe, " Talk thus of mercy with deſerv'd applauſe? " Or call aught virtuous induſtry and ſkill, " Exerted only to ſurprize and kill? " The blameleſs inſect, whom no murder feeds, " For her, the victim of her cunning, bleeds; " Cunning! which when to wiſdom we compare, " Is but to her, to men what monkeys are." " Hold! Philo cries, and know, the ſame decree " Gave her the fly, which gives the lamb to thee; " Or why thoſe wings adapted to the ſnare, " Why interceptive hangs the net in air? " As plain in theſe the precept, "kill and eat," " As in thy ſkill to carve the living treat." To this, ſhe cries, "Perſuade me, if you can, " Man's lord of all, and all was made for man." " Vain thought! the child of ignorance and pride!" " Diſdainful ſmiling, quickly he replied; " To man, vain reptile! tell me of what uſe " Are all that Afric's peopled waſtes produce? " The nameleſs monſters of the ſwarming ſeas, " The pigmy nations wafted on the breeze? " The happy myriads, by his eyes unſeen, " That baſk in flowers, and quicken all the green? " Why live theſe numbers bleſt in Nature's ſtate? " Why lives this ſpider object of thy hate? " Why man? but life in common to poſſeſs, " Wide to diffuſe the ſtream of happineſs; " Bleſt ſtream! the o'erflowing of the parent mind, " Great without pride, and without weakneſs kind." With downcaſt eyes, and ſighs, and modeſt air, Thus in ſoft ſounds replied the wily fair: " This fatal ſubtilty thy books impart " To baffle truth, when unſuſtain'd by art; " For this, when Cloe goes at twelve to bed, " Till three you ſit in converſe with the dead: " No wonder then, in vain my ſkill's employ'd " To prove it beſt that vermin be deſtroy'd— " But tho' you proudly triumph o'er my ſex, " Joy to conſute, and reaſon but to vex, " Yet, if you lov'd me, to oblige your wife, " What could you leſs! you'd take a ſpider's life. " Once to prevent my wiſhes Philo flew, " But Time that alters all, has alter'd you. " Yet ſtill unchang'd poor Cloe's love remains; " Theſe tears my witneſs, which your pride diſdains; " Theſe tears, at once my witneſs and relief." Here paus'd the fair, all eloquent in grief. He, who had often, and alone, o'erturn'd Witlings, and ſophiſts, when his fury burn'd, Now yields to love the fortreſs of his ſoul: His eyes with vengeance on ARACHNE roll: " Curs'd wretch, thou poiſonous quinteſſence of ill, " Thoſe precious drops, unpuniſh'd, ſhalt thou ſpill?" He ſaid, and ſtooping, from his foot he drew, Black as his purpoſe, what was once a ſhoe; Now, high in air the fatal heel aſcends, Reaſon's laſt effort now the ſtroke ſuſpends; In doubt he ſtood—when, breath'd from Cloe's breaſt, A ſtruggling ſigh her inward grief expreſt. Fir'd by the ſound, "Die, ſorcereſs, die," he cried, And to his arm his utmoſt ſtrength applied: Cruſh'd falls the foe, one complicated wound, And the ſmote ſhelf returns a jarring ſound. On Ida's top thus Venus erſt prevail'd, When all the ſapience of Minerva fail'd: Thus to like arts a prey, as poets tell, By Juno lov'd in vain, great Dido fell. And thus for ever Beauty ſhall controul The ſaint's, the ſage's, and the hero's ſoul. But Jove with hate beheld th' atrocious deed, And Vengeance follows with tremendous ſpeed; In Philo's mind ſhe quench'd the ray that fir'd With love of ſcience, and with verſe inſpir'd, Expung'd at once the philoſophic theme, All ſages think and all that poets dream; Yields him thus chang'd a vaſſal to the fair; And forth ſhe leads him with a victor's air: Dreſt to her wiſh, he mixes with the gay, As much a trifle, and as vain as they; To fix their power, and rivet faſt the chain, They lead where Pleaſure ſpreads her ſoft domain; Where, drown'd in muſic Reaſon's hoarſer call, Love ſmiles triumphant in thy groves, Vaux-hall.
STUDLEY. TO MISS B— F—. NOR Phoebus, nor his tuneful choir, To notes poetic wake my ſtring: A mortal Muſe demands my lyre, O, were ſhe preſent while I ſing! To ſoar aloft, beyond the ken Of human eyes, let others boaſt: 'Tis BETSY that directs my pen; My verſe, not ſeen by her, were loſt. No longer prate, ye critics vain, That poets are not made, but born: If BETSY ſmile upon the ſtrain, Your cenſure's keeneſt laſh I ſcorn. Yet were my creeping Muſe to ſoar, Sure Reaſon's good might ſtill be given: STUDLEY was Paradiſe before; But BETSY's preſence made it heaven.— O for a quill pluck'd from the eagle-wing Of bright Imagination, firſt of Powers! Then might my earth-born Muſe aſpire to ſing Strains not unworthy STUDLEY's charming bowers. Come, Nymph, and with thee, Memory, kind maid, The ſweet remembrancer of pleaſures paſt: How there with BETSY hand in hand I ſtray'd. Ay me, ſuch pleaſures were too great to laſt! She comes, ſhe comes! enthron'd in F—'s eyes, She deigns to ſmile on ſuch a wretch as me: Her foſtering art its kindly aid ſupplies, And from groſs film my viſual nerve ſets free. Conduct me, Goddeſs, to that bleſt retreat, In union fair, where all the Graces join; Where Elegance has fix'd her beſt-lov'd ſeat, And Taſte and Nature every power combine. And lo! the Park firſt opens to the view! Mark well its verdant hills, its flowery dells: Not Windſor-foreſt nobler ſcenes can ſhew; Not Stowe, where Cobham dwelt, where Temple dwells. The curious eye, intranc'd in wonder, ſees Here gurgling ſtreamlets tremble thro' the ſhade; Here nimble ſquirrels gambol in the trees, There bounding fawns trip wanton thro' the glade. Look back on Rippon's venerable pile! There cloiſtered Monks their nightly veſpers ſung, While thro' the ſolemn, gloomy, Gothic aile, The hollow vaults reſponſive echoes rung. See ſlopes on ſlopes th' enchanting proſpect bound, Nor knows the dubious Fancy where to reſt: New ſweets invite above, below, around; Giddy with rapture, ſhe ſcarce feels ſhe's bleſt. The gates fly ope! Elyſium ſtands confeſt, And burſts upon us in a blaze of charms; E'en ſuch a tranſport throbs in Damon's breaſt, When yielding Chloe melts into his arms. No more, ye gaudy poets, deck with flowers Your fairy gardens on the Weſtern ſhore, Or add freſh bloom to fam'd Alcinous' bowers; Vain Greece, thy fabled Tempe boaſt no more. Whate'er creation form'd, or rules could frame, Refin'd or ſimple, natural or new, Compound together. Can it need a name? View STUDLEY's lawns, and own the picture true. Where to begin? where end? the labouring ſoul, Loſt and bewilder'd in a world of ſweets, Vainly attempts at once to graſp the whole; Such various joy its various ſenſes greets. Ambroſial ſcents the raviſh'd ſmell regale; Each ſhrub around a balmy odour flings: Such as Arabia's ſpicy groves exhale, Wafted by Zephyrs on their roſy wings. The birds ſalute us with their artleſs notes, The bulfinch, linnet, nightingale, and thruſh; Wild harmony, ſtrain'd thro' a thouſand throats, Trills in each tree, and dies in every buſh. Proud to adorn the pendent ſhades it laves, Seeſt thou that lake its heaving boſom ſwell? In headlong ſheets pour its enamour'd waves, Amidſt ſuch beauties well content to dwell? But other waves to other waves ſucceed, Courſing each other to the ſeat they love; With eager haſte they glide along the mead, And murmuring ſtruggle thro' the grot above. Retir'd from publick haunt one The Banqueting-houſe. ſtructure ſtands, Sacred to Comus and his feſtive train; Where genial Freedom unreſtrain'd commands, Where none are ſtrangers deem'd but Care and Pain. All elegance and eaſe, without, within, They bid defiance to the frowns of Fate; Nor care what man goes out, or who comes in, Whirl'd in the topſy-turvy wheel of ſtate. Climb we yon lofty ſummit, crown'd with wood, The quivering poplar, the wide-branching oak, The taper fir, the aſh, for all things good. Long may they, long defy the woodman's ſtroke. Here reſt we then—and each way turn our eyes; No where our eyes an empty chaſm can find; Domes, temples, obeliſks at each point ariſe; We half forget the wonders left behind. Objects at every point our ſight invade, Yet the keen judgment finds not where to chide: AISLABIE ſtill calls Nature to his aid, Nor makes a ſacrifice of ſenſe to pride. But can we then that ruined, reverend Fountain's Abbey. tower, Leave undiſtinguiſh'd 'midſt the common throng, There many a hoary devotee of yore Awak'd the ſky-lark with his early ſong. What tho' the lazy bat and ſcreech owl dire Reign ſole poſſeſſors of the gloomy fane? Souls once were there, in whom poetic fire Beat in each pulſe, and glow'd in every vein. Obſerve its mouldering baſe and moſs-grown head Threaten its final diſſolution nigh! To man what better leſſon can be read? What moraliſt can better teach to die? Ah! let us, ere the fatal die be caſt, Think well (for ſurely one day think we muſt) That ſtately STUDLEY's pride muſt fall at laſt, And lovely BETSY's form ſubmit to duſt!
ANODE. BY S—L J—N, L. L. D. STERN Winter now by Spring repreſs'd, Forbears the long-continued ſtrife, And Nature on her naked breaſt Delights to catch the gales of Life. Now, o'er the rural kingdom roves Soft Pleaſure, with her laughing train, Love warbles in the vocal groves, And Vegetation plants the plain. Unhappy! whom to beds of pain The author being ill of the gout. Arthritic Tyranny conſigns, Whom ſmiling Nature courts in vain, Tho' Rapture ſings, and Beauty ſhines. Yet tho' my limbs Diſeaſe invades, Her wings Imagination tries, And bears me to the peaceful ſhades, Where—'s humble turrets riſe. Here ſtop, my Soul, thy rapid flight, Nor from the pleaſing groves depart, Where firſt great Nature charm'd my ſight, Where Wiſdom firſt inform'd my heart. Here let me thro' the vales purſue A guide, a father, and a friend; Once more great Nature's work renew, Once more on Wiſdom's voice attend. From falſe careſſes, cauſeleſs ſtrife, Wild hope, vain fear, alike remov'd; Here let me learn the uſe of life, When beſt enjoy'd, when moſt improv'd. Teach me, thou venerable bower, Cool Meditation's quiet ſeat, The generous ſcorn of venal power, The ſilent grandeur of retreat. When Pride by guilt to greatneſs climbs, Or raging Factions ruſh to war; Here let me learn to ſhun the crimes I can't prevent, and will not ſhare. But, leſt I fall by ſubtler foes, Bright Wiſdom, teach me Curio's art, The ſwelling paſſions to compoſe, And quell the rebels of the heart.
THE MIDSUMMER WISH. BY THE SAME. O Phoebus! down the weſtern ſky Far hence diffuſe thy burning ray, Thy light to diſtant worlds ſupply, And wake them to the cares of day. Come, gentle Eve, the friend of Care, Come, Cynthia, lovely queen of night! Refreſh me with a cooling breeze, And chear me with a lambent light. Lay me where o'er the verdant ground Her living carpet Nature ſpreads; Where the green bower, with roſes crown'd, In ſhowers its fragrant foliage ſheds. Improve the peaceful hour with wine, Let muſic die along the grove; Around the bowl let myrtles twine, And every ſtrain be tun'd to Love. Come, STELLA, queen of all my heart! Come, born to fill its vaſt deſires! Thy looks perpetual joys impart, Thy voice perpetual love inſpires. While, all my wiſh and thine complete, By turns we languiſh, and we burn, Let ſighing gales our ſighs repeat, Our murmurs murmuring brooks return. Let me, when Nature calls to reſt, And bluſhing ſkies the morn foretell, Sink on the down of STELLA's breaſt, And bid the waking world farewell.
AUTUMN: AN ODE, BY THE SAME. ALAS! with ſwift and ſilent pace Impatient Time rolls on the year, The Seaſons change, and Nature's face Now ſweetly ſmiles, now frowns ſevere. 'Twas Spring, 'twas Summer, all was gay, Now Autumn bends a cloudy brow, The flowers of Spring are ſwept away, And Summer fruits deſert the bough. The verdant leaves that play'd on high, And wanton'd on the weſtern breeze, Now trod in duſt, neglected lie, As Boreas ſtrips the bending trees. The fields that wav'd with golden grain, As ruſſet heaths are wild and bare; Not moiſt with dew, but drench'd in rain; Nor Health, nor Pleaſure, wanders there. No more, while thro' the midnight ſhade, Beneath the moon's pale orb I ſtray, Soft pleaſing woes my heart invade, As Progne pours the melting lay. From this capricious clime ſhe ſoars, O! would ſome God but wings ſupply! To where each morn the Spring reſtores, Companion of her flight I'd fly. Vain wiſh! me Fate compels to bear The downward Seaſon's iron reign, Compels to breathe polluted air, And ſhiver on a blaſted plain. What bliſs to life can Autumn yield, If glooms, and ſhowers, and ſtorms prevail, And Ceres flies the naked field, And flowers, and fruits, and Phoebus fail? Oh! what remains, what lingers yet To cheer me in the darkening hour? The Grape remains! the friend of Wit, In Love and Mirth of mighty power. Haſte, preſs the cluſters, fill the bowl— Apollo! ſhoot thy parting ray; This gives the ſunſhine of the ſoul, This, God of Health, and Verſe, and Day. Still, ſtill, the jocund ſtrain ſhall flow, The pulſe with vigorous rapture beat; My STELLA with new charms ſhall glow, And every bliſs in wine ſhall meet.
WINTER: AN ODE. BY THE SAME. NO more the morn with tepid rays Unfolds the flower of various hue; Noon ſpreads no more the genial blaze, Nor gentle eve diſtills the dew. The lingering hours prolong the night, Uſurping Darkneſs ſhares the day, Her miſts reſtrain the force of light, And Phoebus holds a doubtful ſway. By gloomy twilight half reveal'd, With ſighs we view the hoary hill, The leafleſs wood, the naked field, The ſnow-topt cott, the frozen rill. No muſic warbles thro' the grove, No vivid colours paint the plain; No more with devious ſteps I rove Thro' verdant paths now ſought in vain. Aloud the driving tempeſt roars, Congeal'd, impetuous ſhowers deſcend; Haſte, cloſe the window, bar the doors, Fate leaves me STELLA, and a friend. In Nature's aid let Art ſupply With light and heat my little ſphere; Rouze, rouze the fire, and pile it high, Light up a conſtellation here. Let Muſic ſound the voice of joy! Or Mirth repeat the jocund tale; Let Love his wanton wiles employ, And o'er the Seaſon Wine prevail. Yet Time Life's dreary Winter brings, When Mirth's gay tale ſhall pleaſe no more, Nor Muſic charm, tho' STELLA ſings, Nor Love nor Wine the Spring reſtore. Catch then, O! catch the tranſient hour, Improve each moment as it flies; Life's a ſhort Summer, man a flower, He dies! alas! how ſoon he dies!
THE WINTER's WALK. BY THE SAME. BEHOLD, my fair, where'er we rove, What dreary proſpects round us riſe; The naked hill, the leafleſs grove, The hoary ground, the frowning ſkies! Nor only thought the waſted plain, Stern Winter, in thy force confeſs'd; Still wider ſpreads thy horrid reign, I feel thy power uſurp my breaſt. Enlivening Hope and fond Deſire Reſign the heart to Spleen and Care; Scarce frighted Love maintains her fire, And Rapture ſaddens to Deſpair. In groundleſs hope, and cauſeleſs fear, Unhappy man! behold thy doom, Still changing with the changeful year, The ſlave of ſunſhine and of gloom. Tir'd with vain joys, and falſe alarms, With mental and corporeal ſtrife; Snatch me, my STELLA, to thy arms, And ſcreen me from the ills of Life.
A SONG. BY THE SAME. NOT the ſoft ſighs of vernal gales, The fragrance of the flowery vales, The murmurs of the chryſtal rill, The vocal grove, the verdant hill; Not all their charms, tho' all unite, Can touch my boſom with delight. Not all the gems on India's ſhore, Not all Peru's unbounded ſtore, Not all the power, nor all the fame, That heroes, kings, or poets claim; Nor knowledge which the learn'd approve, To form one wiſh my ſoul can move. Yet Nature's charms allure my eyes, And knowledge, wealth, and fame I prize: Fame, wealth, and knowledge I obtain, Nor ſeek I Nature's charms in vain; In lovely STELLA all combine, And, lovely STELLA! thou art mine.
AN EVENING ODE. TO STELLA. BY THE SAME. EVENING now, from purple wings, Sheds the grateful gifts ſhe brings; Brilliant drops bedeck the mead, Cooling breezes ſhake the reed; Shake the reed, and curl the ſtream Silver'd o'er with Cynthia's beam; Near the checquer'd, lonely grove, Hears and keeps thy ſecrets, Love. STELLA, thither let us ſtray I Lightly o'er the dewy way, Phoebus drives his burning car, Hence, my lovely STELLA, far; In his ſtead, the Queen of night Round us pours a lambent light; Light, that ſerves but juſt to ſhew Breaſts that beat, and cheeks that glow; Let us now, in whiſper'd joy, Evening's ſilent hours employ, Silence beſt, and conſcious ſhades Pleaſe the hearts that Love invades. Other pleaſures give them pain, Lovers all but Love diſdain.
THE NATURAL BEAUTY. TO STELLA. BY THE SAME. WHETHER STELLA's eyes are found Fix'd on earth, or glancing round, If her face with pleaſure glow, If ſhe ſigh at others woe, If her eaſy air expreſs Conſcious worth, or ſoft diſtreſs, STELLA's eyes, and air, and face, Charm with undiminiſh'd grace. If on her we ſee diſplay'd Pendant gems, and rich brocade; If her chintz, with leſs expence, Flows in eaſy negligence; Still ſhe lights the conſcious flame, Still her charms appear the ſame; If ſhe ſtrikes the vocal ſtrings, If ſhe's ſilent, ſpeaks, or ſings, If ſhe ſit, or if ſhe move, Still we love, and ſtill approve. Vain the caſual, tranſient glance, Which alone can pleaſe by chance; Beauty, which depends on art, Changing with the changing heart, Which demands the toilet's aid, Pendant gems, and rich brocade; I thoſe charms alone can prize, Which from conſtant Nature riſe, Which nor circumſtance nor dreſs E'er can make or more or leſs.
THE VANITY OF WEALTH: AN ODE. BY THE SAME. NO more thus brooding o'er yon heap, With Avarice painful vigils keep, Still unenjoy'd the preſent ſtore, Still endleſs ſighs are breath'd for more. O quit the ſhadow, catch the prize, Which not all India's treaſure buys! To purchaſe Heaven has gold the power? Can gold remove the mortal hour? In life can Love be bought with gold? Are Friendſhip's pleaſures to be ſold? No—all that's worth a wiſh, a thought, Fair Virtue gives, unbrib'd, unbought. Ceaſe then on traſh thy hopes to bind, Let nobler views engage thy mind. With Science tread the wonderous way, Or learn the Muſe's moral lay; In ſocial hours indulge thy ſoul, Where Mirth and Temperance mix the bowl; To virtuous Love reſign thy breaſt, And be by bleſſing Beauty bleſt. Thus taſte the feaſt by Nature ſpread, Ere Youth, and all its joys are fled; Come, taſte with me the balm of life, Secure from pomp, and wealth, and ſtrife. I boaſt, whate'er for man was meant, In health, and STELLA, and content; And ſcorn! oh! let that ſcorn be thine! Mere things of clay, that dig the mine.
TO MISS —, ON HER GIVING THE AUTHOR A GOLD AND SILK NETWORK PURSE OF HER OWN WEAVING. BY THE SAME. THOUGH gold and ſilk their charms unite, To make thy curious web delight, In vain the varied work would ſhine, If wrought by any hand but thine, Thy hand that knows the ſubtler art, To weave thoſe nets that catch the heart. Spread out by me, the roving coin, Thy nets may catch, but not confine, Nor can I hope thy ſilken chain, The glittering vagrants ſhall reſtrain; Why, SYLVIA, was it then decreed, The heart once caught ſhould ne'er be freed?
A TRANSLATION OF THE LATIN EPITAPH ON SIR THOMAS HANMER. BY THE SAME. THOU, who ſurvey'ſt theſe walls with curious eye, Pauſe at this tomb where HANMER's aſhes lie; His various worth through varied life attend, And learn his virtues, while thou mourn'ſt his end. His force of genius burn'd in early youth, With thirſt of knowledge, and with love of truth; His learning, join'd with each endearing art, Charm'd every ear, and gain'd on every heart. Thus early wiſe, the endanger'd realm to aid, His country call'd him from the ſtudious ſhade; In life's firſt bloom his publick toils began, At once commenc'd the Senator and Man. In buſineſs dextrous, weighty in debate, Thrice ten long years he labour'd for the ſtate; In every ſpeech perſuaſive Wiſdom flow'd, In every act refulgent Virtue glow'd. Suſpended Faction ceas'd from rage and ſtrife, To hear his eloquence, and praiſe his life. Reſiſtleſs merit fix'd the Senate's choice, Who hail'd him Speaker, with united voice. Illuſtrious Age! how bright thy glories ſhone, When HANMER fill'd the chair, and ANNE the throne. Then, when dark arts obſcur'd each fierce debate, When mutual frauds perplex'd the maze of ſtate, The moderator firmly mild appear'd, Beheld with love, with veneration heard. This taſk perform'd, he ſought no gainful poſt, Nor wiſh'd to glitter at his country's coſt; Strict, on the right he fix'd his ſtedfaſt eye, With temperate zeal, and wiſe anxiety; Nor e'er from Virtue's path was lur'd aſide, To pluck the flowers of Pleaſure or of Pride. Her gifts deſpis'd, Corruption bluſh'd and fled, And Fame purſu'd him where Conviction led. Age call'd at length his active mind to reſt, With honour ſated, and with cares oppreſt; To letter'd eaſe retir'd, and honeſt mirth, To rural grandeur, and domeſtic worth; Delighted ſtill to pleaſe mankind, or mend, The Patriot's fire yet ſparkled in the Friend. Calm Conſcience then his former life ſurvey'd, And recollected toils endear'd the ſhade; Till Nature call'd him to the general doom, And Virtue's ſorrow dignify'd his tomb.
TO MISS —, ON HER PLAYING UPON THE HARPSICORD IN A ROOM HUNG WITH SOME FLOWER-PIECES OF HER OWN PAINTING. BY THE SAME. WHEN STELLA ſtrikes the tuneful ſtring In ſcenes of imitated Spring, Where Beauty laviſhes her powers, On beds of never-fading flowers, And Pleaſure propagates around Each charm of modulated ſound, Ah! think not, in the dangerous hour, The Nymph fictitious, as the flower; But ſhun, raſh youth, the gay alcove, Nor tempt the ſnares of wily love When charms thus preſs on every ſenſe, What thought of flight, or of defence? Deceitful Hope, and vain Deſire, For ever flutter o'er her lyre, Delighting, as the youth draws nigh, To point the glances of her eye, And forming, with unerring art, New chains to hold the captive heart. But on theſe regions of delight, Might Truth intrude with daring flight, Could STELLA, ſprightly, fair, and young, One moment hear the moral ſong, Inſtruction with her flowers might ſpring, And Wiſdom warble from her ſtring. Mark, when from thouſand mingled dyes, Thou ſeeſt one pleaſing form ariſe, How active light, and thoughtful ſhade, In greater ſcenes each other aid; Mark, when the different notes agree In friendly contrariety, How Paſſion's well-accorded ſtrife, Gives all the harmony of life, Thy pictures ſhall thy conduct frame, Conſiſtent ſtill, though not the ſame, Thy muſick teach the nobler art To tune the regulated heart.
TO MYRTILIS. THE NEW YEAR'S OFFERING. MADAM, LONG have I look'd my tablets o'er, And find I've much to thank you for, Out-ſtanding debts beyond account; And new—who knows to what amount? Tho' ſmall my wealth, not ſmall my ſoul, Come then, at once I'll pay the whole. Ye Powers! I'm rich, and will command The hoſt of ſlaves that round me ſtand; Come, Indian, quick diſcloſe thy ſtore, And hither bring Peruvian ore; Let yonder negroe pierce the main, The choiceſt, largeſt pearl to gain; Let all my ſlaves their arts combine To make the bluſhing ruby mine, From eaſtern thrones the diamonds bear To ſparkle at her breaſt and ear. Swift, Scythian, point th' unerring dart That ſtrikes the Ermine's little heart, And ſearch for choiceſt furs the globe, To make my MYRTILIS a robe. Ah, no: Yon Indian will not go, No Scythian deigns to bend his bow. No ſullen Negroe ſhoots the flood, How, ſlaves!—Or am I underſtood! All, all, my empty power diſown, I turn, and find myſelf alone; 'Tis Fancy's vain illuſion all, Nor Moor nor Scythian waits my call. Call I command, can I conſign? Alas, what earthly thing is mine! Come then, my Muſe, companion dear Of poverty, and ſoul ſincere, Come dictate to my grateful mind A gift that may acceptance find; Come, gentle Muſe, and with thee bear An offering worthy thee and her; And tho' thy preſents be but poor, My MYRTILIS will aſk no more. An heart that ſcorns a ſhameful thing, With love and verſe, is all I bring; Of love and verſe the gift receive, 'Tis all thy ſervant has to give. If all whate'er my verſe has told, Golconda's gems, and Afric's gold, If all were mine from pole to pole, How large her ſhare who ſhares my ſoul? But more than theſe may Heaven impart; Be thine the treaſures of the heart; Be calm, and glad thy future days With Virtue's peace, and Virtue's praiſe. Let jealous Pride, and ſleepleſs Care, And waſting Grief, and black Deſpair, And languor chill, and Anguiſh fell, For ever ſhun thy grove and cell; There only may the happy train Of Love, and Joy, and Peace, remain: May Plenty, with exhauſtleſs ſtore, Employ thy hand to feed the poor, And ever on thy honour'd head The prayer of Gratitude be ſhed. A happy mother, may'ſt thou ſee Thy ſmiling virtuous progeny, Whoſe ſportful tricks, and airy play, Fraternal love, and prattle gay, Or wonderous tale, or joyful ſong, May lure the lingering hours along; Till Death arrive, unſelt, unſeen, With gentle pace, and placid mien, And waft thee to that happy ſhore Where wiſhes can have place no more.
THE THREE WARNINGS: A TALE. BY MRS. THRALE. THE tree of deepeſt root is found Leaſt willing ſtill to quit the ground; 'Twas therefore ſaid by antient ſages, That love of life increas'd with years So much, that in our latter ſtages, When pains grow ſharp, and ſickneſs rages, The greateſt love of life appears. This great affection to believe, Which all confeſs, but few perceive, If old aſſertions can't prevail, Be pleas'd to hear a modern tale. When ſports went round, and all were gay On neighbour Dobſon's wedding-day, Death call'd aſide the jocund groom With him into another room: And looking grave, "You muſt, ſays he, " Quit your ſweet bride, and come with me." " With you, and quit my Suſan's ſide! " With you! the hapleſs huſband cry'd: " Young as I am! 'tis monſtrous hard! " Beſides, in truth, I'm not prepar'd: " My thoughts on other matters go, " This is my wedding-night, you know." What more he urg'd I have not heard, His reaſons could not well be ſtronger; So Death the poor delinquent ſpar'd, And left to live a little longer. Yet calling up a ſerious look, His hour-glaſs trembled while he ſpoke, " Neighbour, he ſaid, farewell: No more " Shall Death diſturb your mirthful hour; " And further, to avoid all blame " Of cruelty upon my name, " To give you time for preparation, " And fit you for your future ſtation, " Three ſeveral Warnings you ſhall have, " Before you're ſummon'd to the grave: " Willing for once I'll quit my prey, " And grant a kind reprieve; " In hopes you'll have no more to ſay, " But when I call again this way, " Well-pleas'd the world will leave." To theſe conditions both conſented, And parted perfectly contented. What next the hero of our tale befell, How long he liv'd, how wiſe, how well, How roundly he purſu'd his courſe, And ſmok'd his pipe, and ſtrok'd his horſe, The willing Muſe ſhall tell: He chaffer'd then, he bought, he ſold, Nor once perceiv'd his growing old, Nor thought of Death as near; His friends not falſe, his wife no ſhrew, Many his gains, his children few, He paſs'd his hours in peace; But while he view'd his wealth increaſe, While thus along Life's duſty road The beaten track content he trod, Old Time, whoſe haſte no mortal ſpares, Uncall'd, unheeded, unawares, Brought on his eightieth year. And now one night in muſing mood, As all alone he ſate, Th' unwelcome meſſenger of Fate Once more before him ſtood. Half kill'd with anger and ſurprize, " So ſoon return'd! old Dobſon cries." " So ſoon, d'ye call it! Death replies: " Surely, my friend, you're but in jeſt. " Since I was here before, " 'Tis ſix-and-thirty years at leaſt, " And you are now fourſcore." " So much the worſe, the Clown rejoin'd: " To ſpare the aged would be kind: " However, ſee your ſearch be legal; " And your authority—Is't regal? " Elſe you are come on a fool's errand, " With but a ecretary's warrant. " Beſides, you promis'd me Three Warnings, " Which I have look'd for nights and mornings. " But for that loſs of time and eaſe, " I can recover damages." " I know, cries Death, that at the beſt, " I ſeldom am a welcome gueſt; " But don't be captious, friend, at leaſt; " I little thought you'd ſtill be able " To ſtump about your farm and ſtable; " Your years have run to a great length, " I wiſh you joy tho' of your ſtrength." " Hold, ſays the Farmer, not ſo faſt, " I have been lame theſe four years paſt." " And no great wonder, Death replies, " However, you ſtill keep your eyes; " And ſure to ſee one's loves and friends, " For legs and arms would make amends." " Perhaps, ſays Dobſon, ſo it might, " But latterly I've loſt my ſight." " This is a ſhocking ſtory, faith, " Yet there's ſome comfort ſtill, ſays Death; " Each ſtrives your ſadneſs to amuſe; " I warrant you hear all the news." " There's none, cries he; and if there were, " I'm grown ſo deaf I could not hear." " Nay then, the ſpectre ſtern rejoin'd, " Theſe are unjuſtifiable yearnings; " If you are lame, and deaf, and blind, " You've had your three ſufficient Warnings. " So come along, no more we'll part:" He ſaid, and touch'd him with his dart; And now old Dobſon turning pale, Yields to his fate—ſo ends my tale.
THE EXCURSION. HAPPY thrice the harmleſs ſwain, Tenant of the peaceful plain, Far from buſineſs, noiſe and ſtrife, Bleſt with every ſweet of life; Far from all the toil of ſtate, All oppreſſions of the great; D ••… cing blythe his Nymph he leads O'er the carpet of the meads; While his neighbour's pipe or horn Lulls the night or cheers the morn: Healthy joy from labour ſprings, Healthy joy the wiſh of kings. Here Providence in bounty flows, And joys on every ſenſe beſtows; Here Earth affords her kind increaſe, With virtue gain'd, enjoy'd in peace; The harveſt rich, the fruitage fair, Repay the cultivator's care. Hills where ſportive lambkins ſtray, Flocks that fleecy tribute pay; Cryſtal ſtreams whoſe murmuring rills Stray between the flowery hills, Meeting from a hundred dells, Till the foaming river ſwells, Swells beyond reſtraint, and laves Happy lands with welcome waves; While the cryſtal of the floods Mocks the waving of the woods. Here flowers in ſweet confuſion ſtrown, O'er the verdant mead are blown; Narciſſus, near the rivers fair, Smiles at itſelf reflected there; Sad emblem of that lover's pride, Who for himſelf too fondly died. The crowfoot here with golden hue, The cowſlips ſweet, the violets blue, The bluſhing pinks, and lilies pale, Like virgins fair, like virgins frail; Soft daffodils of early bloom, And daiſies earful of the gloom. But ah, thoſe beauties ſoon muſt fall! The ruthleſs ſcythe which levels all, Muſt ſweep their harmleſs ſweets away, And give their colours to decay. Here lofty groves invade the ſky, And all the tempeſt's rage defy; The ſolid oak that awes the main, The ſpreading elm of coarſer grain. The elaſtic eugh, whoſe diſtant wound With England's rivals heap'd the ground; The ſtubborn holly, rough and bold, That ſpreads her verdure to the cold, And boaſts her berries fair and ripe, Beneath December's icy gripe; All, all Deſtruction's power ſhall feel, And fall before the fatal ſteel. See this, ye fair, ye wiſe, ye brave, And ſink together in the grave. The ſquirrel climbs the nut-tree bough, And ſtrips the cluſters as they grow; The little mouſe with humbler hope Taſtes Nature's bounties as they drop. See all the feather'd warblers ſing, To welcome the returning ſpring; The blackbird, linnet, finch, and thruſh, Pour out their ſongs from every buſh; The tuneful lark, whoſe towering flight Fatigues the diſappointed ſight; Theſe little ſongſters mounted high, Harmonious carrol to the ſky: To heaven their tuneful offering pay, And ſeem to hail the new-born day! Sweet bird! inſtructed by thy lays, Can man forget his Maker's praiſe? Reviving from the ſhades of night, Can he behold the all-quickening light, Can he uncloſe his fluggiſh eyes, Nor ſend one rapture to the ſkies? At eve, in ſoftly mournful ſtrains, The love-lorn nightingale complains; While as it ſtrains its little throat, Pleas'd Echo dwells on every note, And ſighs to hear the plaintive moan, And grief expreſſive of her own. How bleſt, my ſoul, how bleſt are thoſe Who paſs a life in ſuch repoſe; Who ſtill in rural ſhades abide, Where all their hours thus ſmoothly glide; Whoſe humble aims no higher tend, Than to enjoy a book and friend; Whom anxious projects ne'er moleſt, Nor war nor love diſturb their reſt; Who form no wiſh of riſing higher, But learn betimes to check deſire; Whoſe happy and yet humble ſtate Provokes no threatening frowns of Fate: So humble ſhrubs in ſafety grow, When ſtorms the lofty pine o'erthrow. O hear, ye Powers, a ſuppliant's voice, Indulge my wiſh, approve my choice! O grant me, whereſoe'er ye pleaſe, A life of privacy and eaſe; No more thoſe pleaſures to purſue, Which Fancy paints to Folly's view; Nor falſly fond, nor idly gay, To waſte the faſhionable day; No more with craving heart to go From toy to toy, from ſhow to ſhow; All day to counterfeit delight, And long, to end the cheat, for night. Afford me pleaſures more ſerene: Give me to range the ſylvan ſcene, Where Ceres' full-ear'd ſheaves abound, And Flora paints th' enamel'd ground; To feel, from every preſſure free, The joys of Truth and Poetry; Let Contemplation ſtring my lyre, And Zeal ſupply poetic fire; Then let me Nature's wonders ſing, And praiſe the power of Nature's King: While as by chance I turn my ſight, New objects ſtrike with new delight; Till freſh ideas hourly ſpring, And urge Imagination's wing. Here Knowledge, quicken'd by Delight, Shall rouſe the ſoul to vigorous flight: Rapt with the thought, methinks I riſe To meditate my kindred ſkies; At once the paſt and preſent view, Compare the former with the new; Survey the world from pole to pole, Join clime to clime, and graſp the whole; To each effect the cauſe conjoin, And trace the Original divine; Awaken'd Hope directs my way Thro' all the ſpacious realms of day; Views the reſplendent courts above, Bleſt manſion of ſeraphic love! Refulgent throne of power divine, Where calm celeſtial ſplendors ſhine; Whence beams of emanating light From Nature chaſe retiring night. Quick to my breaſt new beauties riſe, I pant to range my native ſkies; But here, encumber'd with her clay, My Soul muſt wait the final day; And now but ſhort excurſions make, And joys thro' long perſpectives take; Such joys as virtuous ſouls improve, And heighten wonder into love. Then fill'd with reverence and delight, Back to the world I take my flight; Back to my much lov'd groves again, Where honeſt joys alternate reign; Where thro' Creation's mighty round, Unnumber'd miracles abound, And, form'd inſtruction to convey, The Almighty Father's power diſplay; Amaz'd I view the ſplendid dye Of this enamel'd butterfly; Amaz'd each reptile inſect ſee, Each bleſt with life as well as we. Wherever we direct our eyes, Ten thouſand various forms ariſe; On each a life of different mode By boundleſs Providence beſtow'd; From ſmall to leſs, from high to higher, Till Reaſon, Senſe, and Fancy tire; While all in due proportion ſhine, To prove the economy divine. With ſerious joy the enlighten'd ſoul Surveys a part, admires the whole; Nor always ſilently ſurveys, But, fir'd by gratitude to praiſe, In holy confidence is bleſt, And calmly waits eternal reſt.
ALEXIS: A PASTORAL BALLAD. IN TWO PARTS. BY A LADY.
ALEXIS, the pride of the plain, Beſide a clear brook lay reclin'd, His complaint was fair Daphne's diſdain, Who had prov'd to the ſhepherd unkind: His flock was no longer his care, His pipe now no longer could pleaſe, He neglected his dreſs and his hair, And by ſolitude fed his diſeaſe. " Poor ſhepherd! he wildly exclaim'd, " Alas! what avails all thy moan? " The joys thy fond fancy had fram'd, " With Daphne for ever are flown! " How could you, O Daphne, deceive " A ſwain not unworthy your love? " Why didſt thou, Alexis, believe " Such a maid could thy paſſion approve? " Her form is replete with each grace, " The diamond beams forth in her eye, " The lily expands o'er her face, " And the roſe-bud imparts its ſoft dye. " No warbler can rival her ſong, " Philomela with envy complains, " The ſtreams glide in ſilence along, " The glad Zephyrs diffuſe her ſoft ſtrains. " When Daphne appear'd in the mead, " Her preſence enliven'd the morn, " Now the winds roughly blow round my head, " And the ſun's chearful beams are withdrawn. " No longer theſe meadows look green, " Now the warblers abandon the grove, " The air breathes no longer ſerene, " All Summer is fled with my love. " Oh! Daphne, you heard my fond ſighs, " You did not my paſſion diſdain, " When I gaz'd with delight on your eyes, " My ſoft glances you did not reſtrain: " But now you make ſport of my woes, " And laugh at the ſufferings I feel, " I enjoy not the ſweets of repoſe, " Nor can I my torments conceal! " Farewell, ye ſad ſcenes of my love, " I ſhall never reviſit you more! " Adieu to the mead an he grove, " 'Twas here I firſt learn'd to adore! " I will baniſh this wretch from her ſight, " I know not what fate may enſue, " Never more can I taſte of delight, " To every enjoyment adieu."
PART THE SECOND. WITH a torrent of heart-burſting grief Alexis continues his moan, Tears gave him ſome little relief, Yet he ceas'd not to ſigh and to groan. Paſtora by chance haſten'd by, She ſaw the poor ſhepherd's deſpair, Soft pity appear'd in her eye, She aſk'd him the ſource of his care. " What cauſe has Alexis to weep?" With looks of compaſſion, ſhe ſaid; " Have you loſt e'er a lamb or a ſheep? " Or is Tray the poor favourite dead? " Or, perhaps, your fair Daphne's unkind, " Perhaps for her coyneſs you grieve, " Ah! 'tis jealouſy poiſons your mind! " But appearances often deceive." The ſhepherd juſt rais'd up his head, He thank'd the kind maid for her care, He confeſs'd that all comfort was fled, And nothing was left but deſpair. Paſtora e'en wept at the tale, And wiſh'd ſhe could eaſe his diſtreſs; Could her intereſt with Daphne prevail, His ſuffering ſhould ſoon find redreſs. He gaz'd on the fair with ſurprize, And admir'd the good-nature ſhe ſhew'd, When ſhe went he withdrew not his eyes, But with pleaſure her footſteps purſu'd. Her ſweetneſs, her beauty, and truth, With Daphne's late falſhood compar'd, So charm'd, ſo aſtoniſh'd the youth, That his heart for a change was prepar'd. Yet ſtill his fond wiſh would ariſe, " Ah! was but my Daphne thus kind! " I would wipe off theſe tears from my eyes, " And give up my ſighs to the wind!" He ſaid, and aroſe from the ground, Then inſtant return'd to his cot, Soon in ſleep every ſuffering was drown'd, And Daphne's unkindneſs forgot. With the ſun the next morn he aroſe, Paſtora he ſought in the grove, He repeated the tale of his woes, And mourn'd the ſad fate of his love! Paſtora heard every complaint; Again he imparted his grief, He talk'd without fear or conſtraint, And found from her converſe, relief. The friendſhip he felt for the fair, Each meeting ſtill ſerv'd to improve; He then bleſt his late cauſe of deſpair, And became a true votary to Love. 'Twas no longer for beauty he ſigh'd, He no longer to merit was blind, 'Twas his joy, and a laudable pride, That he valu'd the charms of the mind. Paſtora with bluſhes confeſt, That ſhe felt all the force of true love; But that reaſon her paſſion ſuppreſt, Yet that now ſhe muſt own and approve. She ſoon gave her hand to the ſwain, Who proclaim'd to each ſhepherd this truth, He had met a reward for his pain, More laſting than beauty and youth. When Spring decks with verdure the mead, Love wafts milder fragrance around; When Summer invites to the ſhade, Love ſtrews with freſh flowrets the ground. In Autumn thro' corn-fields they rove, And their loves as in Spring-time appear, Tho' Winter diſrobes the known grove, Yet their love varies not with the year. Ye Nymphs, to this maxim attend, Tho' beauty awhile may allure, Yet to fix in the lover the friend, 'Tis virtue alone is ſecure! Ye Swains, who are caught by a face, Know, that beauty will quickly decay; That virtue ſtill heightens each grace, And imparts more than Time ſteals away!
SONNET TO A ROBIN-RED-BREAST. BY MISS M—O. DEAR, ſocial bird, that oft with fearleſs love Giv'ſt thy ſoft form to man's protective care, Pleas'd, when rude tempeſts vex the ruffled air, For the warm roof to leave the naked grove. Kindeſt, and laſt of Summer's tuneful train, Ah! do not yet give o'er thy plaintive lay, But charm mild Zephyr to a longer ſtay, And oft renew thy ſweetly-parting ſtrain. So when rough Winter frowns with brow ſevere, And chilling blaſts ſhall ſtrip the ſheltering trees; When meagre Want that ſhivering frame ſhall ſeize, And Death, with dart uplifted, hover near; My grateful hand the liberal crumbs ſhall give, My boſom warm thee, and my kiſs revive.
ODE TO CONTENT. BY J— C—. CONTENT! who oft art wont to dwell Deep in the ſolitary dell, Near ſhady wood, or limpid rill, Or on the ſide of ſome hoar hill; Attendant on the ſhepherd ſwain, Thou cheer'ſt his labours on the plain. With thee, he pleas'd purſues his toils, Nor heeds fierce ſuns, nor ſtubborn ſoils. Thee oft I met in Hertford's vale, What time the tuneful nightingale Recited ſweet her ſolemn ſong The beeches and the oaks among: Upon the banks of Lee reclin'd, Thy viſits ſooth'd my penſive mind, And drove corroding pain away, And made the rural landſcape gay. How verdant then appear'd the trees! How grateful was the weſtern breeze! How ſweet the ſcent of opening flowers! How fair the hedges and the bowers! How bright the ſun's enlivening beam! How ſoft the murmurs of the ſtream! Adieu, lov'd vale! adieu, ſmooth ſtream! Yet ſtill, CONTENT! be thou my theme: 'Tis thee, ſweet maid! I wooe again, Attend thy conſtant lover's ſtrain; Where-e'er 'tis his the lot to ſtray, O deign with him to take thy way!
ODE TO SOLITUDE. BY THE SAME. HAIL, ſilent matron! ever hail! Thou lover of the wood or vale! When muſing near yon aged tree, The votive ſong has flow'd to thee; Nor thou deſpiſe my numbers rude, Serious, caeleſtial SOLITUDE. Oft in the ſtill retired dell, Thou hear'ſt the ſolemn funeral bell; Or where the Aſcetic's cottage ſtands, 'Midſt cheerleſs waſtes and arid lands; Oft in the foreſt's umbrage deep, Thou yet art ſeen to ſit and weep; For frequent falls thy tender tear O'er Youth's cold grave, or Beauty's bier. Teach me that Life's momentary day, However various, or how gay, Is tranſient as the odorous flower, That blooms and withers in an hour; Teach me to aid the ſuppliant poor, Nor turn the pilgrim from my door; For others woes ſtill prompt the ſigh, O parent of Humanity! Accept theſe numbers wild and rude, Caeleſtial matron! SOLITUDE!
ODE TO HEALTH. BY THE SAME. NYMPH! that flies the crowded ſtreet, And the proud lord's pompous ſeat; Now a Naïad of the wood, Now a Dryad of the flood; Ever blythe, and young, and gay, HEALTH, accept the unpoliſh'd lay. Not the ſhade of ſpreading trees, Nor the cooling, fragrant breeze, Nor the lov'd approach of morn, Nor the walk through waving corn, Nor the blackbird's ſerenade, Echoing from the diſtant ſhade, Nor the gifts of Summer's hand, Flowrets fair, or odours bland; Or each cheerful, rural ſight Yield or pleaſure or delight To the wretch that ſighs for thee, Sighs for Health and Liberty! Nor diſdain, all-lovely Fair! Thy ever-fervent ſuppliant's prayer! From ſome diſtant region haſte, Norway's hills, or Ruſſia's waſte; From Montpelier's vineyards wide, Or from Tajo's ſunny ſide, Or Bermuda's weſtern iſle, Where eternal ſummers ſmile; 'Midſt our country deign to ſtray, Come, and make our Britain gay.
EPITAPH ON A SCHOOLFELLOW. BY THE SAME. LOV'D BANKS, for thee I heave the frequent ſigh, For thee the ſolemn tear bedews mine eye; No more thy converſe blythe ſhall cheer my day, Or chaſe the gloom of anxious thought away. And art thou, dear aſſociate! art thou gone? Long muſt thy friend his ſudden loſs bemoan; O'er the cold turf where thy pale reliques ſleep, Shall fond Remembrance oft repair to weep.
SONNET. BY THE SAME. OCCASIONED BY LEAVING B—R—N, JULY 1755. THE AUTHOR TELLING THE LADIES "HE LOOKED UPON HIMSELF IN A WORSE SITUATION THAN ADAM BANISH'D PARADISE," WAS ENJOINED BY THEM TO EXPRESS THE SAME IN RHIME. WHEN our firſt Father thro' the dreary waſte From Eden's plains an exile ſad muſt go, Oft he recall'd each ſcene of pleaſure paſt, Felt the dire change, and bade his ſorrows flow. Yet ſtill a ſweet companion of his woe With ſoft, aſſiduous care attended near; Fond to relieve, and reſolute to ſhow The ſoothing ſmile, or ſympathizing tear. Far happier doom, alas! attends me here, Who leave of Nymphs ſo fair a train behind, Nor one is found the tedious way to chear, Or raiſe with converſe ſweet the drooping mind: Then tell me, fair ones, can I chuſe but grieve, Who quit my Paradiſe without an EVE?
ODE. THE charms which blooming Beauty ſhows From faces heavenly fair, W to the lily and the roſe With ſemblance apt compare: With ſemblance apt; for ah! how ſoon, How ſoon they all decay! The lily droops, the roſe is gone, And beauty fades away. But when bright Virtue ſhines confeſs'd, With ſweet Diſcretion join'd; When Mildneſs calms the peaceful breaſt, And Wiſdom guides the mind; When charms like theſe, dear Maid, conſpire Thy perſon to approve, They kindle generous, chaſte deſire, And everlaſting love. Beyond the reach of Time or Fate, Theſe graces ſhall endure, Still like the paſſion they create, Eternal, conſtant, pure.
SONNET ON ARBITRARY GOVERNMENT. BY J— S—. BOAST not your ſtate, ſlaves of deſpotic ſway, Where wanton Gallia, 'midſt her vine-clad hills, Her olive bowers, her myrtle-ſhaded rills, Her mild air's fan, her genial ſun's ſurvey: Nor ye, where Aſia like a queen ſits gay, 'Midſt her rich groves where odorous balm diſtils, And the charm'd eye th' Elyſian landſcape fills, And hand in hand young Spring and Autumn play: Each boon to you your haughty lords deny, And at their will your frail lives you reſign: Behold, and 'midſt your flowery ſcenes repine! Under bleak Albion's cloud-envelop'd ſky, Her meaneſt ſons ſecure enjoy their own, And bow to Heaven and Liberty alone.
INSCRIPTION FOR A ROOT-HOUSE. FOND man! retire to this ſtill cell, And bid the buſy world farewel; Here ſeek the cherub Happineſs, Who loves the quiet lone receſs, And ſhuns the city's noiſy ſcene, For pleaſures tranquil and ſerene. How ſolemn is the oak's broad ſhade, The naked grove ſeen thro' the glade, The rock that high projects its ſteep, The diſtant proſpect of the deep! Fond man! here cheerful may'ſt thou ſpend Thy ſwift-wing'd life, nor fear thy end; Stealing thro' life, as thro' the plain Yon rill in murmurs ſeeks the main. Here, when the ſaffron-veſted dawn Spreads radiance o'er the dewy lawn, For hours exempt from woe and ſin, Thy ardent oriſon begin; Here too at eve His praiſe diſplay, Who led thee thro' the finiſh'd day.
PROLOGUEThis Prologue and Epilogue were ſpoken by two young Gentlemen who performed ſome ſcenes from Shakeſpeare, Moliere, Zenobia, and the Mayor of Garratt, before the earl of Cheſterfield, their particular friend and patron, and a private party of other noble and illuſtrious friends.. BY A. MURPHY, ESQ. AS a young bird, as yet unus'd to fly On wings expanded thro' the liquid ſky, With doubt and fear his firſt excurſions tries, And ſhivers every feather with ſurpriſe; So various flutterings in our boſoms play, Eager yet anxious for our firſt eſſay. New to the world, its vanity and care, And all the ills to which the fleſh is heir; Two miſchiefs, we are told, ordain'd by Fate, Twin at our birth, and all our footſteps wait; Some by fierce Paſſion headlong down are thrown, And Ridicule marks others for her own. To ſteer thro' both by ſome unerring rule, This day we ſtudy in the Muſe's ſchool. To ſhun the firſt, we look in Shakeſpeare's page, And THERE obſerve how the fell Paſſions rage; THERE mark the bounds of good and ill defin'd, And Wiſdom's jeſſes once thrown off the mind, How every virtue is let down the wind. Should we avoid on this dread rock to ſplit, Then—free from folly, the true point to hit, Moliere inſtructs us with his comic wit. He of right manners doth the rule diſpenſe, The law-giver of decency and ſenſe! This is our plan, our growing minds to rear; Your kind applauſe will bid us perſevere.
EPILOGUE. BY D. GARRICK, ESQ. WHATE'ER you think, good ſirs, in this agree, That we, at leaſt, have given—variety! That we have poſted on, in proſe and verſe, Thro' Tragedy,—and Comedy,—and Farce. Have you not had in me a ſtrange farrago, Of Rhadamiſtus, Sturgeon, and Iago? Nay, we have run from Engliſh to the French, And the great boy became a ſimple wench! Nature a ſimple wench much better teaches To act our characters, and wear the breeches. But, why this motley mixture?—'Tis the faſhion; The times are medley,—medley all the nation. One day reigns Tragedy,—all gloom and ſorrow; Then, ſhift the ſcenes—and enter Farce to-morrow. Now riſe ſix thouſand diſcontented ſailors! Then comes the Farce,—up get as many taylors! Theſe kings of ſhreds and patches touch'd in brain, Strut for a day, and then—croſs-legg'd again. Our Goddeſs, Liberty, from whom we own Each bleſſing ſprings—for GEORGE is on the throne, Now, Magna Charta and a William gives, Then ſcours the ſtreets, and with the rabble lives; Will drink, huzza, and rouſe you from your beds, Break all your windows, and perhaps your heads: Here taſte, opinions, paſſions never fix, But riſe and fall like ſtocks—and politicks. That we ſhould aſk you to our medley treat, And GET you too—was, ſaith! no boyiſh feat. Are we not hopeful youths?—Deal fair, and tell us— And likely to turn out good ſprightly fellows? I mean to have that kind of uſeful ſpirit, Which modeſtly aſſures us we have merit. We little folks, like great ones, are but ſhow, Bold face oft hides what the faint heart doth know. Think ye, we were not in a grievous fright, To have our noble Patron in our ſight, Who knows—is known ſo well to ſpeak and write! We pray'd, before our awful judge appearing, That our weak pipes were not within his hearing; One ſenſe of his, leſs keen than all the reſt, Somewhat becalm'd the flutter of my breaſt; It gave ſome courage to our troubled thoughts, That ſeeing only mark'd but half our faults. " 'Tis an ill wind, they ſay, that blows no good," And well the proverb now is underſtood; For what has long been mourn'd by all the nation, Is at this time our only conſolation.
ON LAURA's GRAVE. BENEATH yon flowery turf, the faireſt head, E'er ſlept on Earth's cold boſom, lies aſleep. O Earth! enwrap her ſoft; and o'er her duſt Let every Grace and every Virtue weep. The Morn, as o'er the miſty plain ſhe treads, Shall ſprinkle on the ſod her pearly tears, And o'er her grave ſhall Eve delight to muſe, While airy dirges ſooth her liſtening ears. Oft the blue nightly taper's ſtudious flame Shall weeping Fancy leave, and thro' the gloom Steal a ſad viſitant to pour her plaints, And bend her penſive head o'er LAURA's tomb. Here ſhall ſhe ſee, the ſame due rites to pay, With ſilent pace, in ſable weeds array'd, Eye-ſtreaming Sorrow, and deep-ſighing Love, With trailing torch, advance along the ſhade, The Muſes come, and ſcatter wreaths around, Weav'd by the fingers of the infant Year; Remembrance comes, and hence departing loth, Oft turns the wiſhful look, and drops a tear.
SONNET. TO A LADY OF INDISCREET VIRTUE. IN IMITATION OF SPENSER. BY T— P—. WHILE you, fair ANNA, innocently gay, And free and open, all reſerve diſdain; Where-ever Fancy leads ſecurely ſtray, And conſcious of no ill can fear no ſtain; Let calm Diſcretion guide with ſteady rein, Let early Caution twitch your gentle ear; She'll tell you Cenſure lays her wily train, To blaſt thoſe beauties which too bright appear. Ah me! I ſee the monſter lurking near, I know her haggard eye, and poiſonous tongue, She ſcans your actions with malicious leer, Eager to wreſt and repreſent them wrong; Yet ſhall your conduct, circumſpect and clear, Nor baleful touch, nor fangs envenom'd fear.
THE SHEPHERD's INVITATION: A SONG. BY CHRISTOPHER MARLOE. COME live with me, and be my love, And we will all the pleaſures prove, That valleys, groves, or hill, or field, Or wood, or ſteepy mountain yield. There will we ſit upon the rocks, And ſee the ſhepherds feed their flocks, By ſhallow rivers, to whoſe falls Melodious birds ſing madrigals. There will I make thee beds of roſes, With a thouſand fragrant poſies A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle. A gown, made of the fineſt wool Which from our pretty lambs we pull, Slippers lin'd choicely for the cold, With buckles of the pureſt gold. A belt of ſtraw, and ivy buds, With coral claſps, and amber ſtuds; And if theſe pleaſures may thee move, Come live with me, and be my love. Thy ſilver diſhes for thy meat, As precious as the gods do eat, Shall, on an ivory table, be Prepar'd each day for thee and me. The ſhepherd-ſwains ſhall dance and ſing For thy delight each May-morning; If theſe delights thy mind may move, Then live with me, and be my love.
THE NYMPH's ANSWER. BY SIR WALTER RALEIGH. IF all the world and love were young, And truth in every ſhepherd's tongue, Theſe pretty pleaſures might me move To live with thee, and be thy love. But Time drives flocks from field to fold, When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold, And Philomel becometh dumb, The reſt complain of cares to come. The flowers that bloom in wanton field To wayward Winter reckoning yield; A honey-tongue, a heart of gall, Is Fancy's ſpring, but Sorrow's fall. Thy gowns, thy ſhoes, thy beds of roſes, Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy poſies, Soon break, ſoon wither, ſoon forgotten, In Folly ripe, in Reaſon rotten. Thy belt of ſtraw, and ivy buds, Thy coral claſps, and amber ſtuds, All theſe in me no mind can move To come to thee, and be thy love. What ſhould we talk of dainties then, Of better meat than's fit for men? Theſe are but vain; that's only good Which God hath bleſt, and ſent for food. But could Youth laſt, and Love ſtill breed, Had Joy no date, and Age no need, Then theſe delights my mind might move To live with thee, and be thy love.
A POEM. BY THE SAME. SHALL I, like an hermit, dwell On a rock, or in a cell, Calling home the ſmalleſt part That is miſſing of my heart, To beſtow it where I may Meet a rival every day? If ſhe undervalues me, What care I how ſair ſhe be? Were her treſſes angel gold; If a ſtranger may be bold, Unrebuked, unafraid, To convert them to a brayde, And, with little more a-do, Work them into bracelets too; If the mine be grown ſo free, What care I how rich it be? Were her hands as rich a prize As her hairs, or precious eyes; If ſhe lay them out to take Kiſſes for good-manners ſake; And let every lover ſkip From her hand unto her lip; If ſhe ſeem not chaſte to me, What care I how chaſte ſhe be? No; ſhe muſt be perfect ſnow, In effect as well as ſhow, Warming but as ſnow-balls do, Not like fire by burning too; But when ſhe by change hath got To her heart a ſecond lot; Then, if others ſhare with me, Farewell her, whate'er ſhe be.
IN IMITATION OF MARLOE. COME live with me, and be my dear, And we will revel all the year, In plains and groves, on hills and dales, Where fragrant air breeds ſweeteſt gales. There ſhall you have the beauteous pine, The cedar, and the ſpreading vine, And all the woods to be a ſcreen, Leſt Phoebus kiſs my ſummer's green. The ſeat of your diſport ſhall be Over ſome river in a tree, Where ſilver ſands and pebbles ſing Eternal ditties to the ſpring. There ſhall you ſee the Nymphs at play, And how the Satyrs ſpend the day; The fiſhes gliding on the ſands, Offering their bellies to your hands. The birds, with heavenly-tuned throats, Poſſeſs wood's echo with ſweet notes, Which to your ſenſes will impart A muſic to enflame the heart. Upon the bare and leafleſs oak, The ring-dove's wooings will provoke A colder blood than you poſſeſs To play with me, and do no leſs. In bowers of laurel, trimly dight, We will outwear the ſilent night, While Flora buſy is to ſpread Her richeſt treaſure on our bed. Ten thouſand glow-worms ſhall attend, And all their ſparkling lights ſhall ſpend, All to adorn and beautify Your lodging with more majeſty. Then in my arms will I encloſe Lilies fair mixture with the roſe; Whoſe nice perfections in Love's play Shall tune me to the higheſt key. Thus as we paſs the welcome night, In ſportful pleaſure and delight, The nimble Fairies on the ground, Shall dance and ſing melodious ſounds, If theſe may ſerve for to entice Your preſence to Love's Paradiſe, Then come with me, and be my dear, And we will ſtrait begin the year.
MORNING. BY J. CUNNINGHAM. IN the barn the tenant cock, Cloſe to Partlet perch'd on high, Briſkly crows, (the ſhepherd's clock) And proclaims the morning nigh. Swiftly from the mountain's brow, Shadows, nurs'd by night, retire; And the peeping ſun-beam now Paints with gold the village-ſpire. Now the pine-tree's waving top Gently greets the morning gale; And the new-wak'd kidlings crop Daiſies round the dewy vale. Philomel forſakes the thorn, Plaintive where ſhe prates at night; And the lark, to greet the morn, Soars beyond the ſhepherd's ſight. From the clay-built cottage-ridge, See the chattering ſwallow ſpring! Darting thro' the one-arch'd bridge, Quick ſhe dips her dappled wing. Lo the buſy bees employ'd! Reſtleſs till their taſk be done! Now from ſweet to ſweet, uncloy'd, Sipping dew before the ſun. Trickling thro' the crevic'd rock, See the ſilver ſtream diſtill! Sweet refreſhment for the flock, When 'tis ſun-drove from the hill! Ploughmen, for the promis'd corn Ripening o'er the banks of Tweed, Anxious hear the huntſman's horn, Soften'd by the ſhepherd's reed. Sweet, oh ſweet, the warbling throng, On the white embloſſom'd ſpray; All is muſic, mirth, and ſong, At the jocund dawn of day.
NOON. BY THE SAME. FERVID now the ſun-beam glows, Drinking deep the morning gem; Not a dew-drop's left the roſe, To refreſh her parent ſtem. By the brook the ſhepherd dines, From the fierce meridian heat Shelter'd by the branching pines, Pendent o'er his graſſy ſeat. See, the flocks forſake the glade, Where uncheck'd the ſun-beams fall, Sure to find a pleaſing ſhade By the ivy'd abbey wall. Echo, in her airy round O'er the river, rock, and hill, Cannot catch a ſingle ſound, Save the clack of yonder mill. Cattle court the breezes bland, Where the ſtreamlet wanders cool; Or with languid ſilence ſtand Midway in the marſhy pool. But from mountain, dell, or ſtream, Not a fluttering Zephyr ſprings; Fearful leſt the piercing beam Scorch its ſoft, its ſilken wings. Not a leaf has leave to ſtir; Nature's lull'd, ſerene and ſtill; Quiet e'en the ſhepherd's cur, Sleeping on the heath-clad hill. Languid is the landſcape round, Till the freſh deſcending ſhower Kindly cools the thirſty ground, And revives each fainting flower. Now the hill, the hedge, is green, Now the warbler's throat's in tune; Blithſome is the vernal ſcene, Brighten'd by the beams of noon.
EVENING. BY THE SAME. AS the plodding ploughman goes Homeward, (to the hamlet bound) Giant-like his ſhadow grows, Lengthen'd o'er the level ground. O'er the mead the bullock ſtrays Free—the furrow'd taſk is done; And the village windows blaze, Burniſh'd by the ſetting Sun. Mark him, from behind the hill, Strike the purple-painted ſky; Can the pencil's mimic ſkill Copy the refulgent dye? Where the riſing foreſt ſpreads Round the time-decaying dome, To their high-built airy beds See the rooks returning home! As the lark, with varied tune, Carrols to the evening, loud, Mark the mild reſplendent moon Breaking thro' a parted cloud! Now the hermit howlet peeps From the barn, or twiſted brake, And the curling vapour creeps O'er the lily-border'd lake: As the trout, in ſpeckled pride, Playful, from its boſom ſprings, To the banks a ruffled tide Verges in ſucceſſive rings. Tripping thro' the ſilken graſs, O'er the path-divided dale, See, the roſe-complexion'd laſs With the well-pois'd milking-pail! Linnets with unnumber'd notes, And the cuckoo bird with two, Tuning ſweet their mellow throats, Bid the ſetting ſun adieu.
ON MAY. WRITTEN IN APRIL MDCCLXI. BY THE SAME. THE virgin, when ſoften'd by May, Attends to the villager's vows; The birds ſweetly bill on the ſpray, And poplars embrace with their boughs. On Ida bright Venus may reign, Ador'd for her beauty above; We ſhepherds, that live on the plain, Hail May as the mother of Love. From the weſt, as it wantonly blows, Fond Zephyr careſſes the pine; The bee ſteals a kiſs from the roſe, And willows and woodbines entwine; The pinks by the rivulet's ſide, That border the vernal alcove, Bend downwards to kiſs the ſoft tide, For May is the mother of Love. May tinges the butterfly's wing; He flutters in bridal array: If the larks and the linnets now ſing, Their muſic is taught them by May. The ſtock-dove, recluſe with her mate, Conceals her fond bliſs in the grove; And murmuring ſeems to repeat, That May is the mother of Love. The goddeſs will viſit you ſoon; Ye virgins, be ſportive and gay; Get your pipes, oh ye ſhepherds, in tune, For muſic muſt welcome the May. Would Damon have Phillis prove kind, And all his keen anguiſh remove, Let him tell a ſoft tale, and he'll find, That May is the mother of Love.
END OF THE THIRD VOLUME.
INDEX TO THE THIRD VOLUME. MARY, Queen of Scots, an Elegy. Page 1 Hengiſt and Mey, a Ballad. By the Author of the Concubine. 11 Knowledge, an Ode. By the ſame. 19 Epigram addreſſed to the Author of the Note in Pope's Works. By the Rev. Mr. Henley. 34 The Shaft. By the ſame. 35 Iris to Philus. By the ſame. 36 Love Elegy. By the ſame. 38 Inſcription under the Shade of a Lady. By the ſame. 40 To Colonel R—s. By S— B—, Eſq. 41 To a Lady with an Etui. By the ſame. 44 To the ſame, after having received a Heart wrought with her own Hair for a Watch. By the ſame. 45 The Hermit. By —. 47 Death, a Poetical Eſſay. By Dr. Porteus. 49 The Day of Judgment, a Poetical Eſſay. By Dr. Glynn. 61 To a Lady going to bathe in the Sea. By George Keat, Eſq. 72 Prologue to the Play of King John. By the ſame. 74 Epilogue to the ſame Play. By the ſame. 76 Inſcription in an Arbour. Page 78 Ode to the New Year. By Mr. Peter Cunninghame. 79 The Contented Philoſopher. By the ſame. 82 Il Bellicoſo, 1744. By Mr. Maſon. 86 Ode at the Inſtallation of the Duke of Grafton. By Mr. Gray. 93 The Fatal Siſters, an Ode. By the ſame. 98 The Deſcent of Odin, an Ode. By the ſame. 101 The Triumph of Owen, a Fragment. By the ſame. 105 Invitation to the Feathered Race, 1763. By the Rev. Mr. Graves. 107 Written under an Hour-Glaſs. By the ſame. 109 On the antient City of Bath, written on the finiſhing the Circus. By the ſame. 110 A Father's Advice to his Son. By J. G. Cooper, Eſq. 112 On the much-lamented Death of the Marquis of Taviſtock. By Mr. A—l. 117 The Pleaſures of Contemplation. By Miſs Whately. 120 Liberty, an Elegy. By the ſame. 124 Hymn to Solitude. By the ſame. 126 Ode to May. By the ſame. 129 The Praiſes of Iſis, a Poem. By Charles Emily, Eſq. 131 Life, an Ode. By Dr. Hawkeſworth. 143 A Moral Thought. By the ſame. 146 Epiſtle from Lord William Ruſſel to William Lord Cavendiſh. By George Canning, Eſq. 147 A Birth-Day Offering to a Young Lady. By the ſame. 162 An Elegy. By Sir —. 167 A Song. By Dr. Ogilvie. 170 The Tulip and Lily. By Mr. B—y. 171 The Invitation. By the ſame. 175 The Metamorphoſe. By the ſame. 178 The Sine Quô Non. By the ſame. 179 To the Right Hon. the Earl of Cheſterfield, on his late Recovery from a dangerous Illneſs. By the Rev. Mr. Walter Harte. 181 Epitaph on Mrs. Sarah Mence. By the ſame. Page 183 Kimber, a Monody. By Mr. Potter. 184 Ode to Health. By J. H. B. Eſq. 199 Sweetneſs, an Ode, inſcribed to Cleora. By the Rev. Mr. Robertſon. 202 To Florella, putting on a Flowered Hat. By the ſame. 205 Barreaux's celebrated Sonnet tranſlated. By the ſame. 206 Monody to the Memory of a young Lady. By Mr. C. Shaw. 208 An Evening Addreſs to a Nightingale. By the ſame. 218 The Death of Arachne, an Heroi-comi-tragic Poem. By —. 223 Studley-Park, to Miſs B— F—. By —. 231 An Ode to Spring. By S— J—, LL.D. 236 The Midſummer Wiſh. By the ſame. 238 Autumn; an Ode. By the ſame. 240 Winter; an Ode. By the ſame. 242 The Winter's Walk. By the ſame. 244 A Song. By the ſame. 245 An Evening Ode, to Stella. By the ſame. 246 The natural Beauty, to Stella. By the ſame. 247 The Vanity of Wealth, an Ode. By the ſame. 249 To Miſs —, on her giving the Author a gold and ſilver Network Purſe of her own Weaving. By the ſame. 250 A Tranſlation of the Latin Epitaph on Sir Thomas Hanmer. By the ſame. 251 To Miſs —, on her playing upon the Harpſicord in a Room hung with ſome Flower-pieces of her own Painting. By the ſame. 253 To Myrtillis, the New-Year's Offering. 255 The Three Warnings, a Tale. By Mrs. Thrale. 258 The Excurſion. By —. 262 Alexis; a Paſtoral Ballad By a Lady. 269 Sonnet; to a Robin Red Breaſt. By Miſs M—. 275 Ode to Content. By J— C—. 276 Ode to Solitude. By the ſame. 277 Ode to Health. By J— C—. Page 278 Epitaph on a Schoolfellow. By the ſame. 280 Sonnet. By the ſame. 281 Ode. 282 Sonnet; on Arbitrary Government. By J— S—. 283 Inſcription for a Root-Houſe. By —. 284 Prologue. By A. Murphy, Eſq. 285 Epilogue. By D. Garrick, Eſq. 286 On Laura's Grave. 288 Sonnet, to a Lady of indiſcreet Virtue. By T— P—. 289 The Shepherd's Invitation, a Song. By Chriſtopher Marloe. 290 The Nymph's Anſwer. By Sir Walter Raleigh. 292 A Poem. By the ſame. 293 In Imitation of Marloe. 295 Morning. By J. Cunningham. 297 Noon. By the ſame. 299 Evening. By the ſame. 301 On May. By the ſame. 303