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THE POETICAL CALENDAR. VOL. V. FOR MAY.
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THE POETICAL CALENDAR.
CONTAINING A COLLECTION Of ſcarce and valuable PIECES OF POETRY: With Variety of ORIGINALS AND TRANSLATIONS, BY THE MOST EMINENT HANDS.
Written and Selected By FRANCIS FAWKES, M.A. And WILLIAM WOTY.
IN TWELVE VOLUMES.
THE SECOND EDITION.
LONDON: Printed by DRYDEN LEACH; For J. COOTT, at the King's Arms, in Pater-noſter-Row. MDCCLXIII.
[] THE POETICAL CALENDAR.
AN HYMN TO MAY.
Nunc ſormoſiſſimus annus.
VIRG.
ARGUMENT.
Subject propoſed. Invocation of May. Deſcrip⯑tion of her: Her operations on nature. Bounty recommended; in particular at this ſeaſon. Vernal apoſtrophe. Love the ruling paſſion in May. The celebration of Venus her birth-day in this month. Rural retirement in Spring. Concluſion.
ETherial daughter of the luſty Spring,
And ſweet Favonius, ever-gentle May!
Shall I, unblam'd, preſume of thee to ſing,
And with thy living colours gild my lay?
[2]Thy genial ſpirit mantles in my brain;
My numbers languiſh in a ſofter vein:
I pant, too emulous, to flow in Spenſer's ſtrain.
Say, mild Aurora of the blooming year,
With ſtorms when winter blackens Nature's face;
When whirling winds the howling foreſt tear,
And ſhake the ſolid mountains to their baſe:
Say, what refulgent chambers of the ſky
Veil thy beloved glories from the eye,
For which the nations pine, and earth's fair children die?
Where (a)Leda's twins, forth from their diamond-tower,
Alternate, o'er the night their beams divide,
In light emboſom'd, happy and ſecure
From winter-rage, thou chuſeſt to abide;
Bleſt reſidence! for there, as poets tell,
(b)The powers of Poetry and Wiſdom dwell;
Apollo wakes the Arts, the Muſes ſtrike the ſhell.
(For ever ſpread, ye laurels, green and new!)
The brother-ſtars their gracious nurture ſhed,
And ſecret bleſſings of poetic-dew:
[3]They bathe their horſes in the learned flood,
With flame recruited for th' etherial road;
And deem (e)fair Iſis' ſwans fair as their father-god.
No ſooner April, trim'd with girlands gay,
Rains fragrance o'er the world, and kindly ſhowers;
But, in the eaſtern-pride of beauty, May,
To gladden earth, forſakes her heavenly bowers,
Reſtoring Nature from her palſied ſtate.
April, retire; (f)ne longer, Nature, wait:
Soon may ſhe iſſue from the morning's golden gate.
Come, bounteous May! in fulneſs of thy might,
Lead briſkly on the mirth-infuſing hours,
All-recent from the boſom of delight,
With nectar nurtur'd, and involv'd in flowers:
By Spring's ſweet bluſh, by Nature's teeming womb;
By Hebe's dimply ſmile, by Flora's bloom;
By Venus-ſelf (for Venus-ſelf demands thee) come!
By the warm ſighs, in dewy even-tide,
Of melting maidens, in the wood-bine-groves,
To pity looſen'd, ſoften'd down from pride;
By billing turtles, and by cooing doves;
[4]By the youths' plainings ſtealing on the air,
(For youths will plain, tho' yielding be the fair)
Hither, to bleſs the maidens and the youths, repair.
With dew beſpangled, by the hawthorn-buds,
With freſhneſs breathing, by the daiſied plains;
By the mix'd muſic of the warbling woods,
And jovial roundelays of nymphs and ſwains;
In thy full energy, and rich array,
Delight of earth and heaven! O bleſſed May!
From heaven deſcend to earth: on earth vouchſafe to ſtay.
She comes!—A ſilken (g)camus, emral'd-green,
Gracefully looſe, adown her ſhoulders flows,
(Fit to enfold the limbs of Paphos' queen)
And with the labours of the needle glows,
(h)Purfled by Nature's hand! the amorous air
And muſky-weſtern breezes faſt repair,
Her mantle proud to ſwell, and wanton with her hair:
Her hair (but rather threads of light it ſeems)
With the gay honours of the Spring entwin'd,
Copious, unbound, in nectar'd ringlets ſtreams,
Floats glittering on the ſun, and ſcents the wind
[5]Loveſick with odours!—now to order roll'd,
It melts upon her boſom's dainty mould,
Or, curling round her waiſt, diſparts its wavy gold.
Young-circling roſes, bluſhing, round them throw
The ſweet abundance of their purple rays,
And lillies, dip'd in fragrance, freſhly blow,
With blended beauties, in her angel-face:
The humid radiance beaming from her eyes
The air and ſeas illumes, the earth and ſkies,
And open, where ſhe ſmiles, the ſweets of Paradiſe.
On Zephyr's wing the laughing Goddeſs view
Diſtilling balm: ſhe cleaves the buxom air,
Attended by the ſilver-footed dew,
The ravages of winter to repair:
She gives her naked boſom to the gales,
Her naked boſom down the ether ſails;
Her boſom breathes delight; her breath the ſpring exhales.
All as the Phoenix, in Arabian ſkies,
New-burniſh'd from his ſpicy funeral pyres,
At large, (i)in roſeal undulation, flies;
His plumage dazzles, and the gazer tires:
[6]Around their King the plumy nations wait,
Attend his triumph, and augment his ſtate:
He towering claps his wings, and wins th' etherial height.
So round this Phoenix of the gaudy year
A thouſand, nay ten thouſand Sports and Smiles,
Fluttering in gold along the hemiſphere,
Her praiſes chant; her praiſes glad the iſles:
Conſcious of her approach (to deck her bowers)
Earth from her fruitful lap and boſom pours
A waſte of ſpringing ſweets, and voluntary flowers.
Narciſſus fair, in ſnowy velvet gown'd;
Ah fooliſh! ſtill to love the fountain-brim:
Sweet Hyacinth, by Phoebus erſt bemoan'd;
And tulip, flaring in her powder'd trim:
Whate'er, Armida, in thy gardens blew;
Whate'er the ſun inhales, or ſips the dew;
Whate'er compoſe the chaplet on Ianthe's brow.
[7]
He who (k)undaz'd can wander o'er her face,
May gain upon the ſolar-blaze at noon!—
What more than female ſweetneſs, and a grace
Peculiar! ſave, Ianthe, thine alone,
Ineffable effuſion of the day!
So very much the ſame, that lovers ſay,
May is Ianthe; or the dear Ianthe May.
So far as doth the harbinger of day
The leſſer lamps of night in (l)ſheen excell;
So far in ſweetneſs and in beauty May
Above all other months doth bear the bell:
So far as May doth other months exceed,
So far in virtue and in (m)goodlihead,
Above all other nymphs Ianthe bears the (n)meed.
Welcome! as to a youthful poet wine,
To fire his fancy, and enlarge his ſoul:
He weaves the laurel-chaplet with the vine,
And grows immortal as he drains the bowl:
Welcome! as beauty to the loveſick ſwain,
For which he long had ſigh'd, but ſigh'd in vain;
He darts into her arms; ſhe ſmiles away his pain.
[8]
The drowzy elements, arouz'd by thee,
Roll to harmonious meaſures, active all!
Earth, water, air, and fire, with feeling glee,
Exult to celebrate thy feſtival:
Fire burns intenſer; ſofter breathes the air;
More ſmooth the waters flow; earth ſmiles more fair:
Earth, water, air and fire, thy gladdening impulſe ſhare.
What boundleſs tides of ſplendor o'er the ſkies,
O'erflowing brightneſs, ſtream their golden rays!
Heaven's azure kindles with the varying dies,
Reflects the glory, and returns the blaze:
Air whitens; wide the tracts of ether (o)been
With colours damaſk'd rich, and goodly ſheen,
And all above is blue, and all below is green.
At thy approach the wild waves' loud uproar,
And foamy ſurges of the maddening main,
Forget to heave their mountains to the ſhore,
Diffus'd into the level of the plain:
For thee the Halcyon builds her ſummer's neſt;
For thee the Ocean ſmooths her troubled breaſt,
Gay from thy placid ſmiles, in thy own purple dreſt.
[9]
Have ye not ſeen, in gentle even-tide,
When Jupiter the earth hath richly ſhower'd,
Striding the clouds, a bow (p)diſpredden wide,
As if with light inwove, and gayly flower'd
With bright variety of blending dies?
White, purple, yellow melt along the ſkies,
Alternate colours ſink, alternate colours riſe.
The earth's embroidery then have ye eyed,
And ſmile of bloſſoms, yellow, purple, white;
Their vernal-tinctur'd leaves, luxurious, died
In Flora's livery, painted by the Light:
Light's painted children in the breezes play,
Unfold their dewy boſoms to the ray,
Their ſoft enamel ſpread, and beautify the day.
From the wide altar of the foodful earth
The flowers, the herbs, the plants their incenſe roll;
The orchards ſwell the ruby-tinctur'd birth;
The vermil-gardens breathe the ſpicy ſoul:
Grateful to May the nectar-ſpirit flies,
The wafted clouds of laviſh'd odours riſe,
The Zephyr's balmy load, perfuming all the ſkies.
[10]
The bee, the golden daughter of the Spring,
From mead to mead, in wanton labour, roves,
And loads its little thigh, or gilds its wing
With all the eſſence of the fluſhing groves:
Extracts the aromatic ſoul of flowers,
And, humming in delight, its waxen bowers
Fills with the luſcious ſpoil, and lives ambroſial hours.
Touch'd by thee, May, the flocks and luſty droves,
That low in paſtures, or on mountains bleat,
Revive their frolics and renew their loves,
Stung to the marrow with thy generous heat:
The ſtately courſer, bounding o'er the plain,
Shakes to the winds the honours of his mane,
(High arch'd his neck) and ſnuffing, hopes the dappled train.
Th' aerial ſongſters ſooth the liſtening groves:
The mellow thruſh, the (q)ouzle ſweetly ſhrill,
And little linnets celebrate their loves
In hawthorn valley, or on tufted hill:
The ſoaring lark; the lowly nightingale,
A thorn her pillow, trills her doleful tale,
And melancholy muſic dies along the dale.
[11]
This gay exuberance of the gorgeous ſpring,
The gilded mountain, and the herbag'd vale;
The woods that bloſſom, and the birds that ſing,
The murmuring fountain, and the breathing dale:
The dale, the fountains, birds and woods delight,
The vales, the mountains, and the ſpring invite,
Yet, unadorn'd by May, no longer charm the ſight.
When Nature laughs around, ſhall man alone,
Thy image, hang (ah me!) the ſickly head?
When Nature ſings, ſhall Nature's glory groan,
And languiſh for the pittance poor of bread?
O may the man that ſhall his image ſcorn,
Alive, be ground with hunger, moſt forlorn,
Die (r)unanell'd, and dead, by dogs and kites be torn.
Curs'd may he be (as if he were not ſo)
Nay doubly curs'd be ſuch a breaſt of ſteel,
Which never melted at another's woe,
Nor tenderneſs of bowels knew to feel:
His heart is black as hell, in flowing ſtore
Who hears the needy crying at his door,
Who hears them cry, (s)ne recks; but ſuffers them be poor.
[12]
But bleſt, O more than doubly bleſt be he!
Let honour crown him and eternal reſt,
Whoſe boſom, the ſweet fount of charity,
Flows out to (t)nourſle Innocence diſtreſt:
His ear is open to the widow's cries,
His hand the orphan's cheek of ſorrow dries;
Like mercy's ſelf he looks on want with pity's eyes.
In this bleſt ſeaſon, pregnant with delight,
Ne may the boading owl with ſcreeches wound
The ſolemn ſilence of the quiet night,
Ne croaking raven, with unhallow'd ſound,
Ne damned ghoſt (u)affray with deadly yell
The waking lover, rais'd by mighty ſpell,
To pale the ſtars, till Heſper ſhine it back to hell.
Ne Witches rifle gibbets, by the moon,
(With horror winking, trembling all with fear)
Of many a clinking chain, and canker'd bone:
Nor Imp in viſionary ſhape, appear,
To blaſt the thriving verdure of the plain;
Ne let Hobgoblin, ne the Ponk profane
With ſhadowy glare the light, and mad the burſting brain.
[13]
Yet fairy-elves (x)(ſo antient cuſtom's will)
The green-gown'd fairy-elves, by ſtarry ſheen,
May gambol or in valley or on hill,
And leave your footſteps on the circled green:
Full lightly trip it, dapper Mab, around;
Full featly, Ob'ron, thou, o'er graſs-turf bound:
Mab bruſhes off no dew-drops, Ob'ron prints no ground.
Ne bloody rumours violate the ear
Of cities ſack'd, and kingdoms deſolate,
With plague or ſword, with peſtilence or war;
Ne rueful murder ſtain thy aera-date;
Ne ſhameleſs calumny, for fell deſpight,
The fouleſt fiend that e'er blaſphem'd the light,
At lovely lady rail, nor grin at courteous knight.
Ne wailing in our ſtreets nor fields be heard,
Ne voice of miſery aſſault the heart;
Ne fatherleſs from table be debarr'd;
Ne piteous tear from eye of ſorrow ſtart:
But Plenty, pour thyſelf into the bowl
Of bounty-head; may never want controul
That good, good honeſt man, who feeds the famiſh'd ſoul.
[14]
Now let the trumpet's martial thunders ſleep;
The viol wake alone, and tender flute:
The Phrygian lyre with ſprightly fingers ſweep,
And, Erato, diſſolve the Lydian lute:
Yet Clio frets and burns, with honeſt pain,
To rouze and animate the martial ſtrain,
Since William charg'd the foe on fam'd Culloden's plain.
The trumpet ſleeps, but ſoon for thee ſhall wake,
Illuſtrious Chief! to ſound thy mighty name,
(Snatch'd from the malice of Lethean lake)
Triumphant-ſwelling from the mouth of Fame:
Mean-while, diſdain not (ſo the virgins pray)
This roſy crown, with myrtle wove and bay,
(Too humble crown I ween) the offering of May.
And while the virgins hail thee with their voice,
Heaping thy crouded way with greens and flowers,
And in the fondneſs of their heart rejoice
To ſooth, with dance and ſong, thy gentler hours:
Indulge the ſeaſon, and with ſweet repair
Embay thy limbs, the vernal bleſſing ſhare:
Then blaze in arms again, renew'd for future war.
[15]
Britannia's happy iſle derives from May
The choiceſt bleſſings Liberty beſtows,
When royal Charles (for ever hail the day!)
In mercy triumph'd o'er ignoble foes:
Reſtor'd with him, the Arts their drooping head
Gaily again uprear'd; the Muſes ſhade
With freſher honours bloom'd, in greener trim ar⯑ray'd.
And thou, the goodlieſt bloſſom of our iſles!
Great Frederick's and his Auguſta's joy,
Thy native month approv'd with infant ſmiles,
Sweet as the ſmiling May, Imperial Boy!
Britannia hopes thee for her future Lord,
Lov'd as thy Parents, only not ador'd!
When-e'er a George is born, Charles is again re⯑ſtor'd.
O may his Father's pant for finer fame,
And boundleſs bountyhead to human kind;
His Grandſire's glory, and his Uncle's name,
Renown'd in war! inflame his ardent mind!
So arts ſhall flouriſh 'neath his equal ſway,
So arms the hoſtile nations wide affray;
The laurel Victory, Apollo wear the bay.
Thro' kind infuſion of celeſtial power
The dullard earth May quickeneth with delight:
Full ſuddenly the ſeeds of joy (y)recure
Elaſtic ſpring, and force within (z)empight:
[16]If ſenſeleſs elements invigorate prove
By genial May, and heavy matter move,
Shall ſhepherdeſſes ceaſe, ſhall ſhepherds fail to love?
Ye ſhepherdeſſes, in a goodly round,
Purpled with health, as in the greenwood-ſhade,
Incontinent ye thump the echoing ground,
And (a)defftly lead the dance along the glade;
(O may no ſhowers your merry-makes affray!)
Hail at the opening, at the cloſing day,
All hail, ye (b)Bonnibels, to your own ſeaſon, May.
Nor ye abſent yourſelves, ye ſhepherd-ſwains,
But lend to dance and ſong the liberal May,
And while in jocund ranks you beat the plains,
Your flocks ſhall nibble and your lambkins play,
Friſking in glee. To May your girlands bring,
And ever and anon her praiſes ſing:
The woods ſhall echo May, with May the vallies ring.
Your may-pole deck with flowery coronal;
Sprinkle the flowery coronal with wine;
And, in the nimble-footed galliard, all,
Shepherds and ſhepherdeſſes lively join:
[17]Hither from village ſweet and hamlet fair,
From bordering cot and diſtant (c)glenne repair:
Let youth indulge its ſport, to (d)Eld bequeathe its care.
Ye wanton Dryads, and light-tripping Fawns,
Ye jolly Satyrs, full of (e)luſty-head,
And ye that haunt the hills, the brooks, the lawns;
O come with rural chaplets gay diſpread!
With heel ſo nimble wear the ſpringing graſs;
To ſhrilling bagpipe, or to tinkling braſs,
Or foot it to the reed: Pan pipes himſelf apace.
In this ſoft ſeaſon, when creation ſmil'd,
A quivering ſplendor on the ocean hung,
And from the fruitful froth, his faireſt child,
The queen of bliſs and beauty, Venus ſprung.
The Dolphins gambol o'er the watery way,
Carol the Naiads, while the Tritons play,
And all the ſea-green ſiſters bleſs the Holy-day.
In honour of her natal-month, the queen
Of bliſs and beauty conſecrates her hours,
Freſh as her cheek, and as her brow ſerene,
To buxom ladies, and their paramours.
[18]Love tips with golden alchimy his dart;
With rapturous anguiſh, with an honey'd ſmart
Eye languiſhes on eye, and heart diſſolves on heart.
A ſoftly-ſwelling hill, with myrtles crown'd,
(Myrtles to Venus (f)algates ſacred been)
Hight Acidale, the faireſt ſpot on ground,
For ever fragrant and for ever green,
O'erlooks the windings of a ſhady vale,
By beauty form'd for amorous regale:
Was ever hill ſo ſweet as ſweeteſt Acidale?
All down the ſides, the ſides profuſe of flowers,
An hundred rills, in ſhining mazes, flow
Thro' moſſy grottoes, amaranthine bowers,
And form a laughing flood in vale below:
Where oft their limbs the Loves and Graces (g)bay,
(When Summer ſheds inſufferable day)
And ſport, and dive, and flounce in wantonneſs of play.
No noiſe o'ercomes the ſilence of the ſhades,
Save ſhort-breath'd vows, the dear exceſs of joy;
Or harmleſs giggle of the youths and maids,
Who yield obeyſance to the Cyprian boy:
[19]Or lute, ſoft-ſighing in the paſſing gale;
Or fountain, gurgling down the ſacred vale,
Or hymn to Beauty's queen, or lover's tender tale.
Here Venus revels, here maintains her court
In light feſtivity and gladſome game:
The young and gay in frolic troops reſort,
Withouten cenſure, and withouten blame.
In pleaſure ſteep'd, and dancing in delight,
Night ſteals upon the day, the day on night:
Each knight his lady loves, each lady loves her knight.
Where lives the man (if ſuch a man there be)
In idle wilderneſs or deſert drear,
To beauty's ſacred power an enemy?
Let foul fiends (h)harrow him; I'll drop no tear.
I deem that (i)carl, by Beauty's power unmov'd,
Hated of heaven, of none but hell approv'd:
O may he never love! O never be belov'd!
Hard is his heart, unmelted by thee, May!
Unconſcious of Love's nectar-tickling ſting,
And, unrelenting, cold to Beauty's ray;
Beauty the mother and the child of Spring!
[20]Beauty and Wit declare the ſexes even;
Beauty to woman, Wit to man is given;
Neither the ſlime of earth, but each the fire of heaven.
Alliance ſweet! let Beauty, Wit approve,
As flowers to ſunſhine ope the ready breaſt:
Wit Beauty loves, and nothing elſe can love:
The beſt alone is grateful to the beſt.
Perfection has no other parallel:
Can light with darkneſs, doves with ravens dwell?
As ſoon, (k)perdie, ſhall heaven communion hold with hell.
I ſing to you, who love alone for love:
For gold the beauteous fools (O fools beſure!)
Can win; tho' brighter wit ſhall never move:
But folly is to wit the certain cure.
Curs'd be the men, (or be they young or old)
Curs'd be the women, who themſelves have ſold
To the deteſted bed for lucre baſe of gold.
Not Julia ſuch: ſhe higher honour deem'd
To languiſh in the Sulmo-Poet's arms,
Than, by the potentates of earth eſteem'd,
To give to ſceptres and to crowns her charms.
[21]Not Laura ſuch: in ſweet Vaucluſa's vale
She liſtened to her Petrarch's amorous tale:
But did poor (l)Colin Clout o'er Roſalind prevail?
Howe'er that be; (m)in Acidalian ſhade,
Embracing Julia, Ovid melts the day:
No dreams of baniſhment his loves invade;
Encircled in eternity of May.
Here Petrarch with his Laura, ſoft reclin'd
On violets, gives ſorrow to the wind:
And Colin Clout pipes to the yielding Roſalind.
[22]
Pipe on, thou ſweeteſt of th' Arcadian train,
That e'er with tuneful breath inform'd the quill:
Pipe on, of lovers the moſt loving ſwain!
Of bliſs and melody O take thy fill!
Ne envy I, if dear Ianthe ſmile,
Tho' low my numbers, and tho' rude my ſtile;
Ne quit for Acidale fair Albion's happy iſle.
Come then, Ianthe! milder than the Spring,
And grateful as the roſy month of May,
O come; the birds the hymn of Nature ſing,
Inchanting-wild, from every buſh and ſpray:
Swell the green gems, and teem along the vine,
A fragrant promiſe of the future wine,
The ſpirits to exalt, the genius to refine!
Let us our ſteps direct where Father-Thames
In ſilver windings draws his humid train,
And pours, where-e'er he rolls his naval-ſtreams,
Pomp on the city, plenty o'er the plain.
Or by the banks of Iſis ſhall we ſtray?
(Ah why ſo long from Iſis banks away!)
Where thouſand damſels dance, and thouſand ſhep⯑herds play.
Or chuſe you rather Theron's calm retreat,
Emboſom'd, Surry, in thy verdant vale,
At once the Muſes and the Graces ſeat!
There gently liſten to my faithful tale.
[23]Along the dew-bright parterres let us rove,
Or taſte the odours of the mazy grove:
Hark how the turtles coo: I languiſh too with love.
Amid the pleaſaunce of Arcadian ſcenes,
Love ſteals his ſilent arrows on my breaſt;
Nor falls of water, nor enamell'd greens,
Can ſooth my anguiſh, or invite to reſt.
You, dear Ianthe, you alone impart
Balm to my wounds, and cordial to my ſmart:
The apple of my eye, the life-blood of my heart.
With line of ſilk, with hook of barbed ſteel,
Beneath this oaken umbrage let us lay,
And from the water's cryſtal-boſom ſteal
Upon the graſſy bank the finny prey:
The Perch, with purple ſpeckled manifold;
The Eel, in ſilver labyrinth ſelf-roll'd,
And Carp, all-burniſh'd o'er with drops of ſcaly gold.
Or ſhall the meads invite, with Iris-hues
And nature's pencil gay-diverſified,
(For now the ſun has lick'd away the dews)
Fair-fluſhing and bedeck'd like virgin-bride?
Thither (for they invite us) we'll repair,
Collect and weave (whate'er is ſweet and fair)
A poſy for thy breaſt, a garland for thy hair.
[24]
Fair is the lilly, clad in balmy ſnow;
Sweet is the roſe, of ſpring the ſmiling eye;
Nipt by the winds, their heads the lillies bow;
Cropt by the hand, the roſes fade and die.
Tho' now in pride of youth and beauty dreſt,
O think, Ianthe, cruel time lays waſte
The roſes of the cheek, the lillies of the breaſt.
Weep not; but, rather taught by this, improve
The preſent freſhneſs of thy ſpringing prime:
Beſtow thy graces on the god of Love,
Too precious for the wither'd arms of Time.
In chaſte endearments, innocently gay,
Ianthe! now, now love thy ſpring away;
Ere cold October-blaſts deſpoil the bloom of May.
Now up the chalky mazes of yon hill,
With grateful diligence we wind our way;
What opening ſcenes our raviſh'd ſenſes fill,
And wide their rural luxury diſplay!
Woods, dales, and flocks, and herds, and cots and ſpires,
Villas of learned clerks, and gentle ſquires;
The villa of a friend the eye-ſight never tires.
If e'er to thee and Venus, May, I ſtrung
The gladſome lyre, when (n)livelood ſwell'd my veins,
And Eden's nymphs and Iſis' damſels ſung
In tender elegy, and paſtoral ſtrains;
[25]Collect and ſhed thyſelf on Theron's bowers,
O green his gardens! O perfume his flowers!
O bleſs his morning walks, and ſooth his evening hours!
Long, Theron, with thy Annabell enjoy
The walks of nature, ſtill to virtue kind,
For ſacred ſolitude can never cloy
The wiſdom of an uncorrupted mind!
O very long may Hymen's golden chain
To earth confine you and the rural-reign;
Then ſoar, at length, to heaven! nor pray, O muſe, in vain!
Where-e'er the muſes haunt, or poets muſe,
In ſolitary ſilence ſweetly tir'd,
Unlooſe thy boſom, May! thy ſtores effuſe,
Thy vernal ſtores, by poets moſt deſir'd,
Of living fountain, of the woodbine-ſhade,
Of Philomel, ſweet warbling from the glade:
Thy bounty, in his verſe, ſhall certes be repaid.
On Twit'nam bowers (Aonian-Twit'nam bowers!)
Thy ſofteſt plenitude of beauties ſhed,
Thick as the winter ſtars, or ſummer flowers;
(o)Albè the tuneful maſter (ah!) be dead.
[26]To Colin next he taught my youth to ſing,
My reed to warble, to reſound my ſtring:
The king of ſhepherds he, of poets he the king.
Hail, happy ſcenes, where joy would chuſe to dwell;
Hail, golden days, which Saturn deems his own;
Hail muſic, which the Muſes (p)ſcant excell;
Hail flowrets, not unworthy Venus' crown.
Ye linnets, larks, ye thruſhes, nightingales,
Ye hills, ye plains, ye groves, ye ſtreams, ye gales,
Ye ever-happy ſcenes! all you, your poet hails.
All hail to thee, O May! the crown of all!
The recompence and glory of my ſong:
Ne ſmall the recompence, ne glory ſmall,
If gentle ladies, and the tuneful throng,
With lover's myrtle, and with poet's bay May!
Fairly (q)bedight, approve the ſimple lay,
And think on Thomalin whene'er they hail thee,
ODE TO MAY.
[27]WElcome, ſweet May! far thro' a world of ſnow,
Far have I travell'd to o'ertake thy dawn;
Beneath thy footſteps virgin lillies grow;
Now ſmiles the woodland, foreſt and the lawn;
Beſide thee, lo! a pair of turtles fly,
Emblems of ſummer, and a milder ſky.
Two naked Loves, twin ſons, thy ſteps precede,
Each bears a baſket made of roſes twin'd;
Two ſporting fawns attend thee as they feed,
Two ſilver-winged Zephyrs fan behind.
Hail to thee mother of each fragrant flower,
Begot by April on a fruitful ſhower!
Sweet middle month! between the harſh extremes
Of ſummer's calentures, and winter's blaſt,
Now gladſome flow the voluntary ſtreams,
And flowing ſeem to ſay—Bleak winter's paſt;
Sweet as thou art, thy beauties more we prize
Plac'd like the line, between two differing ſkies.
Who loves not May?—go aſk the vocal grove,
The vocal grove proclaims thee with her notes,
Lately confin'd, blithe nature's children rove,
While in mid air the linnet's muſic floats:
Shrub, plant, and tree, with every gloſſy flower,
Enjoy thy beauty, and confeſs thy power.
[28]
Ye nymphs, who with the virgin lillies vie,
Now guard your virtue from the tempting ſwain,
Beneath warm May a thouſand dangers lie,
Be deaf to all love's counterfeited pain:
But when the bands of Hymen once are tied,
If love direct—conſent to be his bride.
SONG, ON MAY MORNING.
NOW the bright morning-ſtar, day's harbinger,
Comes dancing from the eaſt, and leads with her
The flowery May; who from her green lap throws
The yellow cowſlip, and the pale primroſe.
Hail, bounteous May, that doſt inſpire
Mirth, and youth, and warm deſire;
Woods and groves are of thy dreſſing,
Hill and dale doth boaſt thy bleſſing.
Thus we ſalute thee with our early ſong,
And welcome thee, and wiſh thee long.
THE SIXTEENTH OF MAY,
[29]ELiza, ſweeter than the roſe,
On which the May its dew beſtows;
Eliza, brighter than the morn,
Whoſe orient beams the May adorn;
Eliza claims my ſong to-day,
The daughter of the queen of May.
The feather'd choir from every tree
Salute the fair, and ſing with me:
Well may they ſing, and well prefer
The month that gave the world and her:
The world and ſhe began in May;
A tedious world, were ſhe away.
But oh! ye wings of fleeting time,
Be tender of her glorious prime:
Late may her eyes their fire reſign,
Still give us death, ſo ſtill they ſhine:
And let her reign, without decay,
The queen of beauty, and of May.
A DESCRIPTION OF SPRING IN LONDON.
[30]NOW new-vampt ſilks the mercer's window ſhows,
And his ſpruce prentice wears his ſunday cloaths,
His annual ſuit with niceſt taſte renew'd,
The reigning cut and colour ſtill purſued.
The barrow now, with oranges a ſcore,
Driven by at once a gameſter and a whore,
No longer gulls the ſtripling of his pence,
Who learns that poverty is nurſe to ſenſe.
Much-injur'd trader whom the law purſues,
The law which wink'd, and beckon'd to the Jews,
Why ſhould the beadle drive thee from the ſtreet?
To ſell is always a pretence to cheat.
" Large ſtewing oyſters" in a deepening groan,
No more reſounds, nor "muſſels" ſhriller tone;
Seven days to labour now is held no crime,
And Moll "new mackrel" ſcreams in ſermon-time.
In ruddy bunches radiſhes are ſpread,
And Nan with choice-pickt fallads loads her head.
Now in the ſuburb window, Chriſtmas green,
The bays and holly are no longer ſeen,
But ſprigs of garden-mint in vials grow,
And gather'd laylocks periſh as they blow.
[31]The truant ſchool-boy now at eve we meet,
Fatigued and ſweating thro' the crouded ſtreet,
His ſhoes embrown'd at once with duſt and clay,
With white-thorn loaded, which he takes for May.
Round his flapp'd hat in rings the cowſlips twine,
Or in cleft oſiers form a golden line.
On milk-pail rear'd the borrow'd ſalvers glare,
Topp'd with a tankard, which two porters bear,
Reeking they ſlowly toil o'er rugged ſtones,
And joyleſs beldames dance with aking bones:
More blithe the powder'd tye-wigg'd ſons of ſoot,
Trip to the ſhovel with a ſhoeleſs foot.
In gay Vaux-hall now ſaunter beaux and belles,
And happier cits reſort to Sadler's-wells.
THE MOONLIGHT NIGHT.
[32]Nox erat, et coelo fulgebat Luna ſereno,
Inter minora Sidera.
HOR.
HAil! empreſs of the ſtar-beſpangled ſky!
At thy benign approach night throws aſide
Her raven-colour'd veſt, and from her cave
Starts forth to viſibility. And now
With thy bright edging burniſh'd, on the eye
The tree-tops glitter. Hills, and vales, and plains,
Thy ſofteſt influence feel. The weary ox,
Forgetful of the labours of the day,
Slumbers at eaſe beneath thy kindly beam.
Tho' now the lamp, that late illum'd the day,
Its blaze withdraws, to light up other worlds,
I cannot weep its abſence, while this ſcene
Invites to ſpeculation more refin'd.
Witneſs this canopy of cluſter'd ſtars,
In dazzling order ſpread, immenſely bright!
Witneſs yon glittering mounts and valley ſtreams
Dancing beneath thy ſilver-ſhedding orb.
Mute are the choral warblers of the day;
Yet, tho' the choral warblers of the day
No more ſymphonious lull attention's ear;
And tho' nor linnet ſings, nor laughing finch
Shrill twittles from the ſpray—O ſmiling night,
[33]Still, ſtill thou haſt thy charms, while Philomel
Is thine. Ah! let me hear th' extatic ſwells
By echo's voice return'd—ſo ſweet's the ſtrain,
The nymph enamour'd doubles every note,
Save ever and anon thy ſofteſt trill
In imperfection dies upon her tongue.
If aught of ſound the troubled breaſt can ſooth,
And from its courſe avert the tide of grief,
'Tis thine, thou ſweet muſician. Tho' thy dirge
Be querulous, yet does it fill the mind
With ſolemn muſing and celeſtial wonder.
Nor yet I ſcorn, O night, thy loving bird,
As on her ivy-ſlaunting turret perch'd,
Wooing thy browneſt ſolitude, ſhe hoots
To ſome diſcordant—yet again, ere morn
Affright thine eye, and rob me of thy note!
Oh! 'tis a pleaſing melancholy air,
Which fancy well may melodize. How oft
From jarring ſtrings harmonious ſounds are drawn:
Turn upwards, eyes! and ſee yon flaming arch,
Behold—there view the Deity immenſe;
How glows each ſacred light! yon falling ſtar!
'Tis he who ſhines in all; th' eternal One
Who form'd and rules with awe the wonderous whole.
Here let the atheiſt tremble as he looks,
And bluſh into belief.—But can there live
[34]A monſter ſo abſurd?—Where art thou, then,
Oh conſcience?—What, aſleep?—Then muſt thou wake
In torments wrapt, when death diſturbs thy dream.
For know (poor crawling worm of little faith)
Thou canſt not die the wretch that thou haſt liv'd.
Here let me gaze, and, in the trance of thought,
Forget that I am mortal.—But behold,
Alas! the proſpect leſſens, and each ſtar
From the fair face of ſun retires, eclipſed
With luſtre more predominant. Farewell,
Sweet nurſe of virtue, contemplation ſage!
For I muſt leave thee now. The buſy day
My lingering chides. I go, till night return,
To plunge into that ſea of ſin, a buſtling world.
AN IMITATION OF SPENSER.
[35]YE baleful followers of the Blatant Beaſt,
Who cenſure matters far beyond your ken,
Behold, I now preſent you with a feaſt;
Ruſh forth like wolves from your ſequeſter'd den,
And mangle all the labours of my pen.
Show, ye rude louts, your lewd unhallow'd rage,
In this I ſhare the fate of greater men;
Pale Envy ever gnaws the laurel'd page,
And 'gainſt all worthy wight doth war pepetual wage.
If thee, ſweet nymph, theſe ſimple lines *aggrate,
If I may hope to merit thine eſteem,
Not with the proudeſt would I change my ſtate
Of thoſe who deeply drink Caſtalia's ſtream,
And on Parnaſſus catch th' inſpiring dream.
Say, thou dear nourſling of the Paphian queen,
Wilt thou, ah! wilt thou patronize my theme,
So ſhall this meaſure blunt the tooth of ſpleen,
Nor critic's tongue ſhall blaſt ſuch favour'd lines, I ween.
[36]
See! how the tribe of witlings ſhun the place,
And deep in ſhades conceal their fronts of braſs;
The coxcomb talks of feathers, cloaths, and lace,
Nay Codrus unimpeach'd doth let me paſs,
Codrus, of pride and ſpite a mighty maſs.
Thus when a ſet of imps at midnight play,
And tear the corſes from the hallow'd graſs;
Soon as the ſun unbars the gates of day,
They fear his heavenly light, and melt in air away.
THE SEASONS.
IN IMITATION OF SPENSER.
[37]SPRING.
Annuus agricolis ordo breviorque laborum
Summa mihi tradenda.
PRAEDIUM RUSTICUM.
ERE yet I ſing the round-revolving year,
And ſhow the toils and paſtime of the ſwain,
At *Alcon's grave I drop a pious tear;
Right well he knew to raiſe his learned ſtrain,
And, like his Milton, ſcorn'd the rhiming chain.
Ah! cruel fate, to tear him from our eyes;
Receive this wreath, albe the tribute's vain,
From the green ſod may flowers immortal riſe,
To mark the ſacred ſpot where the ſweet poet lies.
It is the cuckoo that announceth Spring,
And with his †wreakful tale the ſpouſe doth fray;
Mean while the finches harmleſs ditties ſing,
And hop, in buxom youth, from ſpray to ſpray,
Proud as Sir Paridel of rich array.
[38]The little wantons that draw Venus team
Chirp amorous thro' the grove in beavies gay;
And he, who erſt gain'd Leda's fond eſteem,
Now ſails on Thamis' tide, the glory of the ſtream!
Proud as the Turkiſh ſoldan, chaunticleer
Sees, with delight, his numerous race around:
He grants freſh favours to each female near;
For love as well as cheriſaunce renown'd.
The waddling dame that did the Gauls confound,
Her tawny ſons doth lead to rivers cold;
While Juno's *dearling, with majeſtic bound,
To charm his †leman doth his train unfold,
That glows with vivid green, that flames with burning gold.
The balmy cowſlip gilds the ſmiling plain,
The virgin ſnow-drop boaſts her ſilver hue,
An hundred tints the gaudy daiſy ſtain,
And the meek violet, in amis blue,
Creeps low to earth, and hides from public view:
But the rank nettle rears her creſt on high;
So ribaulds looſe their front unbluſhing ſhew,
While modeſt merit doth neglected lie,
And pines in lonely ſhade, unſeen of vulgar eye.
[39]
See! all around the gall-leſs *culvers bill,
Mean while the nightingale's becalming lays
Mix with the plaintive muſic of the rill,
Behold! the welkin burſts into a blaze!
Faſt by the car of light the nimble hours,
In ſongs of triumph, hail his genial rays,
And, as they Verbarwend to Thetis cooling bowers,
They bound along the ſky, and ſtrew the heavens with flowers.
And now the human boſom melts to love;
The raptur'd bard awakes his ſkilful lyre,
By running ſtreams, or in the laurel grove,
He tunes to amorous notes his ſounding wire,
All, all is harmony, and all deſire.
The happy numbers charm the blooming maid,
Her bluſhing cheeks pronounce her heart on fire,
She now conſents, then ſhuns th' embowering ſhade,
With faint reluctance yields; deſirous, yet afraid.
Now ruſtic Cuddy, with untutor'd throat,
(Tho' much admir'd, I ween, of nymph and ſwain)
By various ſongs would various ends promote.
Seeks he to prove that woman's vows are vain?
He Bateman's fortune tells, a baleful ſtrain!
[40]And if, to honour Britain he be led,
He ſings a 'prentice bold, in londs profane,
Who, all unarm'd, did ſtrike two lions dead,
Tore forth their ſavage hearts, and did a princeſs wed.
But hark! the bag-pipe ſummons to the green,
The jocund bag-pipe, that awaketh ſport;
The blitheſome laſſes, as the morning ſheen,
Around the flower-crown'd may-pole quick reſort;
The gods of pleaſure here have fix'd their court.
Quick on the wing the flying moment ſeize,
Nor build up ample ſchemes, for life is ſhort,
Short as the whiſper of the paſſing breeze.
Yet, ah! in vain I preach—mine heart is ill at eaſe.
[41]SUMMER.
BEneath yon *ſnubby oak's extended ſhade
Safe let me hide me from the eye of day;
Nor ſhall the dog-ſtar this retreat invade,
As thro' the heavens he ſpeeds his burning way:
The ſultry lion rages for his prey.
Ah Phoebus, quench thy wild deſtroying fire,
Each flower, each ſhrub doth ſink beneath thy ray,
Save the freſh laurel, that ſhall ne'er expire.
The leaves that crown a bard may brave celeſtial ire.
Or ſhall I hie to mine own hermitage,
Round which the wanton vine her arms doth wind,
There may I lonely turn the ſacred page,
Improve my reaſon, and amend my mind;
Here 'gainſt; life's ills a remedy I find.
An hundred flowers emboſs the verdant ground;
A little brook doth my ſweet cottage bind,
Its waters yield a melancholy ſound,
And ſooth to ſtudy deep, or lull to ſleep profound.
The playful inſect hopping in the graſs
Doth tire the hearer with his ſonnet ſhrill;
The pool-ſprung gnat on ſounding wing doth paſs,
And on the †ramping ſteed doth ſuck his ſill;
[42]Ah me, can little creatures work ſuch ill!
The patient cow doth, to eſchew the heat,
Her body ſteep within the neighbouring rill;
And while the lambs in fainter voices bleat,
Their mothers hang the head, in doleful plight I weet.
*Rechleſs of ſeaſons, ſee the luſty ſwains
Along the meadow ſpread the tawny hay;
The maidens too undaunted ſeek the plains,
Ne fear to ſhow their faces to the ray;
But all the honeſt badge of toil diſplay.
See how they mould the haycock's riſing head;
While wanton Colin, full of amorous play,
Down throweth Suſan, who doth ſhriek for dread.
Fear not—thou canſt be hurt upon ſo ſoft a bed.
At length the ſun doth haſten to repoſe,
And all the vault of heaven is ſtreak'd with light;
In flamy gold the ruddy welkin glows,
And, for the noon-day heat, our pains doth †quite,
For all is calm, ſerene, and paſſing bright.
Favonius gentle ſkims along the grove,
And ſheds ſweet odours from his pennons light.
The little bat in giddy orbs doth rove,
And loud the ſcreech-owl ſhrieks, to rouſe her blue-eyed love.
[43]
Menalcas came to taſte the evening gale,
His cheeks impurpled with the roſe of youth;
He won each damſel with his piteous tale,
They thought they liſten'd to the words of truth,
Yet their belief did work them muchel *ruth.
His oaths were light as goſſimer, or air,
His tongue was poiſonous as an aſpic's tooth.
Ah! ceaſe to promiſe joy, and give deſpair:
'Tis brave to ſmite the foe; 'tis baſe to wrong the fair.
The gentle Thyrſis, mild as opening morn,
Came to the lawn, and Marian there was found,
Marian whom many huſwife arts adorn,
Right well ſhe knew the apple to ſurround
With dulcet cruſt; and Thomalin renown'd
For †prow atchievements in the wreſtling-ring;
He held at nought the vantage of the ground,
But prone to earth the hardieſt wight would fling;
Such was Alcides erſt, if poets Verbarſooth do ſing.
From tree-crown'd hill, from flower-enamel'd vale,
The mild inhabitants in crouds appear
To tread a meaſure; while night's regent pale clear,
Doth thro' the ſky her ſilver chariot ſteer,
Whoſe lucid wheels were deck'd with dew-drops
The which, like pearls, deſcended on the plain.
Now every youth doth claſp his miſtreſs dear,
And every nymph rewards her conſtant ſwain.
Thrice happy he who loves, and is belov'd again.
[44]AUTUMN.
SEE jolly Autumn, clad in hunter's green,
In wholeſome *luſty-hed doth mount the ſphere,
A leafy girlond binds her temples ſheen,
Inſtudded richly with the ſpiky ear.
Her right hand bears a vine-incircled ſpear,
Such as the crew did wield whom Bacchus lad,
When to the Ganges he his courſe did ſteer;
And in her left a bugle-horn ſhe had,
On which ſhe †eft did blow, and made the heart right glad.
In ſlow proceſſion moves the tottering wain,
The ſun-burnt hinds their finiſh'd toil Daggerenſue;
Now in the barn they houſe the glittering grain,
And there the cries of "harveſt home" renew,
The honeſt farmer doth his friends Verbarſalew;
And them with jugs of ale his wife doth treat,
Which, for that purpoſe, ſhe at home did brew;
They laugh, they ſport, and homely jeſts repeat,
Then ſmack their laſſes lips, their lips as honey ſweet.
On every hill the purple-bluſhing vine
Beneath her leaves her racy fruit doth hide:
§Albe ſhe pour not floods of foaming wine,
Yet are we not potations bland denied;
[45]See where the pear-tree doth in earth abide,
Bruiſe her rich fruitage, and the grape diſdain;
The apple too will grant a generous tide,
To ſing whoſe honours Thenot rais'd his ſtrain,
Whoſe ſoul-inchanting lays ſtill charm the liſtening plain.
Thro' greyiſh miſts behold Aurora dawns,
And to his ſport the wary fowler hies;
Crouching to earth his guileful pointer fawns,
Now the thick ſtubble, now the clover tries,
To find where, with his race, the partridge lies;
Ah! luckleſs ſire, ah! luckleſs race, I ween,
Whom force compels, or ſubtle arts ſurprize;
Doom'd to eſcape the deep, and periſh on the green.
The full-mouth'd hounds purſue the timorous hare,
And the hills echo to the joyful cry;
Ah! borrow the light pennons of the air,
If you're Daggerarraught, you die, poor wretch, you die.
Nought will avail the pity-pleading eye,
[46]For our good ſquire doth much againſt you rail,
And ſaith you often magic arts do try;
At times you wave Grimalkin's ſooty tail,
Or on a beeſom vild you thro' the welkin ſail.
The ſtag is rous'd; he ſtems the threatening flood
That ſhall ere long his matchleſs ſwiftneſs quell;
And, to avoid the tumult of the wood,
With horn and hoof his purpoſe they repell.
Thus, ſhould a maid from virtue's lore yſtray,
Your ſex, my Daphne, ſhow their vengeance fell;
Your cruel ſelves with gall the ſhaft Daggerembay,
And laſh from pardon's ſhrine the penitent away.
Now ſilence charms the ſages of the gown,
To purer air doth ſpeed each crafty wight;
The well-ſqueez'd client quits the duſty town,
Grown grey in the aſſerting of his right,
With head yfraught with law, and pockets light,
Well pleas'd he wanders o'er the fallow lea,
And views each rural object with delight.
Ne'er be my lot the brawling courts to ſee;
Who truſts to lawyer's tongue doth much Verbarmiſween, perdy.
[47]
Right bleſs'd the man who free from bitter *bale,
Doth in the little peaceful hamlet dwell,
No loud contention doth his ears aſſail,
Save when the tempeſt whiſtles o'er his cell;
The fruitful down, the flower-depainted dell,
To pleaſe his eyne are variouſly array'd;
And when in roundelay his flame he'd tell,
He gains a ſmile from his beloved maid;
By ſuch a gentle ſmile an age of pain's repaid.
[48]WINTER.
THE little brook that erſt my cot did lave,
And o'er its flinty pavement ſweetly ſung,
Doth now forget to roll her wanton wave,
For winter hoar her icy chain has flung,
And ſtill'd the babbling muſic of her tongue.
The lonely woodcock ſeeks the ſplaſhy glen,
Each mountain head with fleecy ſnow is hung;
The ſnipe and duck enjoy the mooriſh fen,
Like *Eremites they live, and ſhun the ſight of men.
The †wareleſs ſheep no longer bite the mead,
No more the plough-boy turns the ſtubborn ground,
At the full crib the horned labourers feed,
Their noſtrils caſt black clouds of ſmoak around;
A ſqualid coat doth the lean ſteed ſurround.
The wily fox doth prowl abroad for prey,
Rechleſs of ſnares, or of th' avenging hound;
And truſty Lightfoot, now no longer gay,
Sleeps at the kitchen hearth his cheerleſs hours away.
Where erſt the boat, and ſlowly moving barge,
Did with delight cut thro' the dimpling plain,
Now wanton boys and men do roam at large;
The river-gods quit their uſurp'd domain,
[49]And of the wrong at Neptune's court complain.
There mote you ſee mild Avon crown'd with flowers,
And milky Wey withouten ſpot or ſtain;
There the fair ſtream that waſhes Hampton's bowers,
And Iſis who with pride beholds her learned towers.
Intent on ſport, the ever jocund throng
Quit their warm cots, and for the game prepare;
Behold the reſtleſs foot-ball whirls along,
Now near the earth, now mounted high in air.
Thus often men, in life's wild lottery fare,
Who quit true bliſs to graſp an empty toy.
Our honeſt ſwains for wealth nor titles care,
But luſty health in exerciſe employ.
The diſtant village hears the rude tumultuous joy.
The careful hedger looks the fields around
To ſee what labour may his ſkill demand;
He mends the fence, repairs the ſinking mound,
Or in long drains he cuts the lower land,
That ſhall henceforth all ſudden floods withſtand.
Mean while at home his dame, with ſilver hair,
Doth ſit incircled by a goodly band
Of lovely maids, who various works prepare,
All chaſte as Jove's wiſe child, as Cupid's mother fair.
She them diſcourſes not of faſhions nice,
Nor of the trilling notes which eunuchs ſing,
[50]Allurements vain, that prompt the ſoul to vice!
Ne tells ſhe them of Keſar or of king;
Too great the ſubject for ſo mean a ring.
Her leſſons teach to ſwell the capon's ſize;
To make the hen a numerous offspring bring;
Or how the way-ward mother to chaſtize
When from her vetchy neſt the weetleſs vagrant hies.
When gliſtering ſpangles deck the robe of night,
And all their kine in pens avoid the cold,
The buxom troops, ſtill eager of delight,
Round Damon's eyne a *drapet white infold,
He darkling gropes till he ſome one can hold.
Next Corin hides his head, and muſt impart
What wanton fair one ſmote his hand ſo bold.
He Delia names, nor did from truth depart;
For well he knew her touch, who long had fir'd his heart.
Stay I conjure you by your hopes of bliſs,
Truſt not, my Daphne, the rough-biting air,
Let not rude winds thoſe lips of ſoftneſs kiſs,
Will Eurus ſtern, the charms of beauty ſpare?
No, he will hurt my roſy-featur'd fair,
If aught ſo bright dares rugged carl invade,
Too tender thou ſuch rough aſſaults to bear;
The mountain aſh may ſtand tho' ſtrip'd of ſhade,
But at the ſlighteſt wound the ſilken flower will fade.
A FAREWELL HYMNE TO THE COUNTRY.
ATTEMPTED IN THE MANNER OF SPENSER'S EPITHALAMION.
[51]SWeet poplar ſhade, whoſe trembling leaves emong
The cheerefull birds delight to chaunt their laies;
Where oft the linnet powres the dulcet ſong,
And oft the thrilling thruſh deſcanting plaies;
Their tunes attempring to the ſilver Yare,
Which gently murmurs here,
A babbling brook; but ſwelling in his pride
Sees two fam'd towns upon his bankes appeare,
And the tall ſhips on his faire boſom ride;
Indignant then rolls his prowde waves away,
And ſomes ore half the ſea:
Sweet ſtream, with ſhade refreſht, orehung with bowres
Entrailed with the honied woodbine faire;
Where breathes the gentleſt, ſofteſt, ſimpleſt aire
Stealing freſh odors from the riſing flowres,
Joy of my calmer howres,
O ſooth me with thy murmurs whiles I ſing;
The hills, the dales, the woods, the fountaines ring.
[52]
With pleaſance oft two ſilver ſwannes I view
Pranking their ſilken plumes with conſcious pride,
A comely couplement of goodly hew,
Come ſoftly ſwimming down the cryſtal tide;
The cryſtal tide, reſplendent as it may,
Looks not ſo faire as they,
Whether their ſnowie necks they love to lave,
Or pluck with jettie bill in wanton play
The yellow flowres that flote upon the wave;
Orſdeigne to tinge their plumage, leſt they might
Soyle their pure beauties bright;
But with ſlow pomp on the clear ſurface move.
Sweet cygnets, whiter than the new-faln ſnow
That ſilvers ore Theſſalian Pindus brow;
Purer than thoſe that draw the queen of love,
Fayrer than Laeda's Jove,
Tune your melodious voices whiles I ſing;
The hills, the dales, the woods, the fountaines ring.
Oft when the modeſt morn in purple dreſt,
Wak'd by the lively larke's love-learned laye,
Unbarrs the golden light-gate of the eaſt,
And as a bridemaid leads the bluſhing daye;
The ſunnes bright harbinger before her goes
Scattring violet, ſcattring roſe;
The jolly ſunne, upriſt with luſty pride,
Shakes his fair amber locks, and round him throws
His glitterand beams to wellcome up his bride;
[53]Then bids his livery'd clouds before him flie,
And daunces up the ſkie.
Sweet is the breath of heaven with day-ſpring born;
Sweet are the flowres, that ore the damaſkt meads
To the new ſunne unfold their velvet heads;
Sweet is the dewe, the ſpangled child of morn,
That does the leaves adorn;
Sweet is the matin hymne the glad birds ſing;
The hills, the dales, the woods, the fountaines ring.
With early ſtep yon verdant ſlope I tread
Crown'd with the floriſht bowre of cremoſin health;
Whence auntient Norwic rears her towred head,
Norwic, fair nurſe of induſtrie and wealth!
Down in the dale my lowly hamlet lies,
Where truth without diſguiſe,
Where dove-like peace, and virgin virtue where.
Hence Bacon's villa greets my pleaſur'd eyes;
Bacon to Phoebus and the Muſes deare,
Seeking, uncombred with the toyles of ſtate,
This grove-emboſom'd ſeate.
The tufted hill, the valley flowre-bedight,
The ſilver ſhinings of my winding Yare,
The corn green-ſpringing, and the fallows ſeare,
The lambkins ſporting round, rural delight,
From hence enchaunt the ſight,
And wake the rural pipe, and tempt to ſing;
The hills, the dales, the woods, the fountaines ring.
[54]
Oft when the eve demure with dewy eye,
Clad in a lengthned ſtole of raven-gray,
Aſſumes the ſober empire of the ſkye,
The ſtreakt weſt glimmering to the parting day;
When golden Heſperus, forth-ſtreaming bright,
The leader of the night,
Marſhals his radiant troopes, and gives command
In heaven's hie arch their lovely lamps to light;
Shouting he walks the Gideon of the band:
When firſt the youthfull moon begins to ſhow
New-bent her bleſſed bow;
When, or upriſing from her eaſtern bowre
Full-orb'd ſhe ſtrives her glowing face to ſhroud,
Gorgeouſly mantled in a lucid cloud;
Or all her beaming brightneſs deignes to powre
The ſilver'd landſkip o'er;
And ſhepherd ſwains their evening carrols ſing;
The hills, the dales, the woods, the fountaines ring,
Ore the new-ſhaven level green I rove,
Where the freſh haycock breathes along the mead,
Or wander thro' th' uncertain-ſhaded grove,
Or the trim margent of the river tread;
Where the ſoft murmurs of the poplars tall,
To the ſtreames liquid fall
Attempred ſweet, the muſeful mind delight;
Where the lone partridge to her mate does call,
Reſponſive in his homeward-haſting flight;
[55]Where the lowe quail with modulation bland
Runnes piping ore the land;
Where, as I ſtray along the upland ground,
The farre-off clock juſt trembles to my ear;
Where the mad citties louder mirth I hear,
When ſwinging in full peal, a feſtive ſound,
The deep bells roar around:
In mute attention huſh'd I ceaſe to ſing;
Nor hills, nor dales, nor woods, nor fountaines ring.
Now night's pale fires a peacefull influence ſhed,
The flockes forget to bleat, the herds to low,
Looſely along the graſſie green diſpred:
The ſlumbring trees ſeem their tall tops to bow,
Rocking the careleſs birds that on them neſt
To gentle, gentle reſt;
Silent each one, ſave the lone nightingale;
Of all the tuneful ſiſters ſweeteſt, beſt;
She, ſoft muſitian, thro' th' encharmed dale
Powres dainty-dittied warblings to delight
The ſtillneſs of the night.
'Tis ſacred thus to tread the dewy glade;
In the calme ſolitude of that ſtill howre
To nature's God the gratefull ſoul to powre
Or in the ſilvery ſhine, or doubtfull ſhade
By quivering branches made:
Rapt with the aweful thought I ceaſe to ſing;
Nor hills, nor dales, nor woods, nor fountaines ring.
[56]
When flaming in the zenith of his powre,
Darting directly down his fiery ray,
The hotte ſunne, leaving his meridian bowre,
Enfevers with his beams the cloudleſſe day;
The gadding herd from ſuch a fervent ſkie
To the cool thicket flie,
Tormented with the bryzes teazefull ſting;
Th' enduring ſheep in th' hot ſands panting lie;
The graſshoppers, blithe inſects, daunce and ſing;
The mower ſwart his ſweeping ſcythe forſakes,
The damzels quit their rakes,
And ſeated where the freſhing ſhade is found
With joyous jolliment the daye beguile;
Sweet is the quaver'd laugh, the ſimper'd ſmile,
When, as the tale or gameſome ſong goes round,
The vocal vales reſound;
Nor leſs to me, whiles I eſſay to ſing,
The hills, the dales, the woods, the fountaines ring.
Ye lordings great, that in prowde citties wonne,
Which gently-cooling breezes never bleſſe;
In gorgeous palaces with heat foredonne,
Come here and envy at my littleneſſe.
All on a hanging hill, a ſimple home,
For its ſmall tenant roome,
Safe-neſted in the boſom of a grove,
Where pride, and ſtrife, and envie never come,
Nor any cares, ſave the ſweet cares of love:
[57]A little garden gives a cool retreat
From the daies powrefull heat;
Where flowes my gentle Yare, whoſe bankes along
Th' inwoven branches, like a girlond made,
With wanton wreathing decke a daintie ſhade;
While the ſmooth watry glaſs, reflecting ſtrong,
With bending bankes, and ſhades reſpondent vies,
Pointing to downward ſkies:
Here in this ſoft encloſure whiles I ſing,
The hills, the dales, the woods, the fountaines ring.
Here bountious nature, like a virgin faire,
Whoſe ladie fingers deck the velvet green
With cunning colourings of broidery rare
Sweetly enterchang'd the varied ſhades atween,
The graſſie groundſoil, as a lovely bride,
Hath richly beautifide,
Strowing the primroſe pale, the violet blew,
The ſilver'd ſnow-drop, and the daiſie pied,
The crocus gliſtering in its golden hew,
The cowſlip drops of Amber weeping ſtill,
The flaunting daffodil,
The virgin lillie, and the modeſt roſe,
The prettie pink, the red and white yfere;
Flowres of all hewes that paint the various yeare;
And the mild zephyr, that emong them blows,
Around ſweet odors throws,
Scenting the ſoft encloſure where I ſing,
The hills, the dales, the woods, the fountaines ring.
[58]
The chemiſt bee with buſy murmurings
Extracts the ſoul of ſweetneſs from each flowre,
Such as the Syracoſian Thyrſis ſings,
All in the ſhadow of the ſhepherd's bowre;
The ſtock-doves, darlings of the Mantuan ſwaine,
In melting murmurs plaine;
Sweet birds of ſuch a ſwaine to be the care,
The ſooteſt he that ever chaunted ſtraine,
Or with the gladfull pipe enthrald the ear;
Him, as he ſung, the graces dauncing round,
With their own girlonds crown'd ;
The nymphes that haunt the river and the grove,
Whether his ſkilfull reed he ſweetly charms,
Or ſtrikes the ſounding lyre, and ſings of arms,
Apollo him, and him the Muſes love
Their own bleſt quire above:
Ah! would they deigne their viſits whiles I ſing;
The hills, the dales, the woods, the fountaines ring.
Here the poetic birds no fear moleſts:
Did I, ſweet tenants of my garden, ſay,
With ruthleſſe hand ere marre your prettie neſts,
Or ſteal th' unfeather'd innocence away?
For you my trees the ſpring's gay livery wear;
For you the ripening year
Purples the plum, in the deep cherrie glows,
And tempers the rich honie of the pear;
For you the laughing vine with nectar flows;
[59]For you the permain, comely to behold,
Glows with irradiate gold,
The burniſht bough vermilioning; for you
The mellow'd fruit beyond its time has hung;
Well have you paid me, for you well have ſung.
On nature's muſic ſhall we not beſtowe
Gifts we to nature owe?
Fond of our fellow poets while they ſing,
The hills, the dales, the woods, the fountaines ring.
An academic leiſure here I find
With learning's lore to diſcipline my youth;
By virtue's wholeſome rules to form my mind,
To ſeek and love the wiſe man's treaſure, truth.
Oft too thy hallow'd ſons enthroned hie,
O peerleſſe poeſie!
Sounding great thoughts my raptur'd mind delight;
He firſt, the glorious child of libertie,
Maeonian Milton, beaming heavenly bright;
He who full fetouſly the tale ytold,
The Kentiſh Tityrus old;
And he above the pride of greatneſs great,
Sweet Cowley, with the gentleſt ſpirit bleſt
That ever breath'd a calme in humane breſt;
Who the poor muſes richeſt manor ſeat
The garden's mild retreat,
Wrapt in the arms of quiet lov'd to ſing;
The hills, the dales, the woods, the fountaines ring.
[60]
And he, forth-beaming thro' the myſtic ſhade
In all the might of magic ſweetly ſtrong;
Who ſteep'd in teares the pitious lines he made,
The tendreſt bard that ere empaſſion'd ſong:
Or when of love's delights he caſt to play,
Couth deftly dight the lay;
And with gay girlonds goodly beautifide,
Bound trew-love-wiſe to grace his bridale day,
With dainty carrols hymn'd his happy bride;
Lov'd Spenſer, of trew verſe the well-ſpring ſweet!
The footing of whoſe feet
I, painefull follower, aſſay to trace.
Bring fayreſt flowres, the pureſt lillies bring,
With all the purple pride of all the ſpring;
And make great ſtore of poſes trim, to grace
The prince of poets race;
And hymen, hymen, io hymen ſing;
The hills, the dales, the woods, the fountaines ring.
Witneſs ye hills, and dales, and woods, and plains,
Th' unmoved quiet of my ſilver daies,
Free here from all the cares, and all the pains,
Whoſe ſtorms do threat the citties dangerous waies:
There falſing forgery, and foule defame,
And luſt of ſclanderous blame;
There cancred tongues, ſchool'd in th' ungratious art
To blaſt the blooſme of a well-deemed name;
There malice wonneth deep in hollow hart;
[61]Ambition there and pride, the lies of life,
Sleek guile, and carled ſtrife:
Away plain honeſtie of ſimple eye,
And dove-like peace that calms the ſhepherd's day;
Away each ſcience, and each muſe away,
And ſingle truth, and ſunne-bright honour flie:
And lovely libertie:
Here then, ſweet ſhade, O ſhield me, whiles I ſing;
The hills, the dales, the woods, the fountaines ring.
Thus on his ruſtic reed the reckleſſe ſwaine,
Smit with the peacefull joys of lowly life,
The world's gay ſhows forgiving, charm'd the plaine,
Withouten envie, and withouten ſtrife:
All on a knot-graſs bank, ore-arched hie
With ivy-canopie,
And with wild roſes richly well inwove,
He lay, and tun'd his rural minſtrelſie;
When, lo! the favouring genius of the grove,
Fair Phyſis nam'd, to his entranced ſight
Appeared heavenly bright;
Looſe her fine treſſes flow'd, like golden wire,
With budding flowrets perled all atween,
And ſhaded with a daintie girlond green;
And aye in green ſhe did herſelf attire:
Beneath her feet in youthful rich array
A voluntary May
Threw ſweets, threw flowres; the birds more joyous ſing;
The hills, the dales, the woods, the fountaines ring.
[62]
Then with a ſmile that brighten'd all the ſhade,
Mild ſhe beſpake, and deign'd to preſs his hand,
Enough, fond youth, to Phyſis has been paid,
Break then thy rural pipe at her command:
Theſe woodnotes wild, this flowre-perfumed aire,
And thy ſweet-ſtreaming yare
Muſt charm no more; no more the hallow'd cell,
Where white-rob'd peace, and free-born fancy faire
With ſacred ſolitude delight to dwell.
Wake then the ſpark of glorious great intent,
In action excellent
Thot fires the noble-paſſion'd ſoul to ſhine:
In all the depths of uſeful lore ingage,
To grace thy youth, and dignifie thine age:
Ne ween that Phyſis bids thoſe paths decline,
For all thoſe paths are mine.
Change then the ſtraine; to hill, to valley tell
Farewell, ſweet ſhade: ſweet poplar ſhade, farewell.
But, ah! beware; for in this goodly chace
A vile enchauntreſs ſpreds her vaine delights;
With guilefull ſemblants charming all that paſs,
Till ſhe enſlaved hath their feeble ſprights:
And ſooth ſhe is to view a lady faire,
Of beauty paſt compare:
And aye around her crowd a gorgeous throng,
Skill'd in the mincing ſtep, the veſtment rare,
And the fine ſqueaking of an eunuch's ſong;
[63]But ſacred ſcience, tender love, trew fame,
And honour's heaven-born flame
They know not; yet the pompous name vertù
To th' idle pageant give: ſhe cruel prowd
Deals magic charms emong the careleſſe crowd,
And does them all to hideous apes tranſmew.
But fear not thou the minion's magic pride,
For Phyſis is thy guide:
Come then; to hill, to dale this burden tell,
Farewell, ſweet ſhade: ſweet poplar ſhade, farewell.
To Coſme's poliſh'd court thy ſteps I'll lead,
My ſiſter ſhe, tho' eft we ſtrangers ſeem;
Far otherwiſe of us the wiſe aread,
But follies feeble eyes of things miſdeem.
The ſtraw-roof'd cott, the paſtur'd mead I love,
The mavis-haunted grove,
The moſs-clad mountaine hoar, a rugged ſcene;
Along the ſtreamlet's mazy margent rove,
That ſweetly ſteals the broken rocks atween:
She thro' the manner'd cittie powres the flame
Of high atchieved fame,
The ſtar-bright guerdon of the great and good;
And breathes her vivid ſpirit in the mind
Whoſe generous aimes extend to all mankind,
And vindicate the worth of noble blood;
Such as, in bowre Lycaean holding place,
The man of Spargrove grace:
[64]Come then; to hill, to dale this burden tell,
Farewell, ſweet ſhade: ſweet poplar ſhade, farewell.
Als like a girlond her enring around
The ſphere-born muſes lyring heavenly ſtrains;
The graces eke with boſoms all unzon'd,
A trinal band that concord ſweet maintains;
And who is ſhe that, placed them atween,
Seems a fourth grace I ween?
So looks the rubie pretious rare, enchaced
In the bright crownet of a maiden queen.
Each ſcience too with verdant bay-leaves graced,
With honour brought from Attic land again,
Adorns the radiant train.
Come then, let nobler aimes thy ſoul inſpire:
But bring the cherub Innocence along,
And Contemplation ſage, on pineon ſtrong
High-ſoaring ore yon lamping orb of fire—
Thus pip'd the Doric oate, while echoes ſhrill,
To fountaine, dale, and hill
Reſyllabling the notes, this burden tell,
Farewell, ſweet ſhade: ſweet poplar ſhade, farewell.
LOVE VERSES.
[65]ELEGY I. TO DAMON.
Non ego celari poſſim, quid nutus amantis,
Quidve ferant miti lenia verba ſono.
Nec mihi ſunt fortes.
TIBULL.
No longer bluſh the ſecret to impart;
Too well I know what broken murmurs mean,
And ſighs that burſt, half ſtifled, from the heart.
Nor did I learn this ſkill by Ovid's rule,
The magic arts are to thy friend unknown:
I never ſtudied but in Myra's ſchool,
And only judge thy paſſion by my own.
Believe me, Love is jealous of his power;
Define diſſimulare; Deus crudelius urit.
Quos videt invitos ſuccubuiſſe ſibi.
TIBULL.
The ſtubborn feel new torments every hour;
To merit mercy we muſt kiſs the rod.
[66]
In vain, alas! you ſeek the lonely grove,
And in ſad numbers to the Thames complain;
The ſhade with kindred ſoftneſs ſooths thy love,
Sad numbers ſooth, but cannot cure, thy pain.
When Phoebus felt (as ſtory ſings) the ſmart,
By the coy beauties of his Daphne fir'd,
Nec proſunt domino, quae proſunt omnibus artes.
OVID.
Tho' all the Nine the ſacred lay inſpir'd.
Even ſhould the maid vouchſafe to hear thy ſong,
No tender feelings will its ſorrows raiſe;
For verſe hath mourn'd imagin'd woes ſo long,
She'll hear unmov'd, and, without pitying, praiſe.
Nor yet, proud maid, ſhouldſt thou refuſe thine ear,
Nor are the manners of the poet rude,
Nor pours he not the ſympathetic tear,
His heart by anguiſh, not his own, ſubdued.
When faireſt names in long oblivion rot,
(For faireſt names muſt yield to waſting time)
The poet's miſtreſs 'ſcapes the common lot,
And blooms uninjur'd in his living rhime.
ELEGY II. IN ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING.
[67]" Warm from the ſoul, and faithful to its fires."
POPE.
THou, whom long ſince I number'd for my own,
To whoſe kind view in life's firſt happy days
Each young ambition of my heart was known,
For fame my ardour, and my love of eaſe,
Say, wilt thou pardon, that a-while I thought
(The thought how vain!) my feelings to diſguiſe?
Too well thou knew'ſt, by Myra's leſſons taught,
The ſoul's ſoft language, and the voice of eyes:
Thou knew'ſt—perhaps, ere to myſelf 'twas known—
The impatient ſtruggling of the ſigh ſuppreſt;
And early ſaw'ſt, inſtructed by thy own,
The infant paſſion kindling in my breaſt:
" No longer then I'll ſeek to hide my pain,
" No longer bluſh the ſecret to impart;"
The maſk, which wrong'd thy friendſhip, I diſdain,
"
Hammond, elegy the ninth.
And boaſt the graceful weakneſs of my heart."[68]
Nor ſhall the jealous God with hand ſevere
Afflict his vaſſal, tho' a rebel long;
Already hath he breath'd the humble prayer,
And pour'd already the repentant ſong.
But, ah! in vain his art the poet tries,
The power of numbers he exerts in vain;
The maid regards them with unconſcious eyes,
And hears, but will not underſtand, the ſtrain:
Yet hath ſhe ſeen—for nothing could conceal—
The wild emotions of his labouring breaſt;
The fond attention, that devour'd her tale;
The hand that trembled, when her hand it preſt:
While his pleas'd ear upon her accents hung,
Oft hath ſhe mark'd the involuntary ſigh,
Love's "broken murmurs" forming on his tongue,
And love's warm rapture ſtarting to his eye:
And ſhe hath ſeen him whelm'd in bittereſt woe,
When her frown ſpoke ſome error unforgiven;
And ſhe hath ſeen each kindling feature glow,
When her ſmile cheer'd him with a gleam of heaven.
But, when in verſe he breathes his amorous care,
(As if ſhe knew not what to all is known
His arts ſhe praiſes, but neglects his prayer,
Nor deem the poet, or the verſe, her own.
[69]
Say then, O ſay (for, ſure, thou know'ſt full well
Each tender thought with happieſt ſkill to dreſs)
His heart's ſtrong feelings how his tongue ſhall tell!
How ſpeak—what language never can expreſs!
Teach him thoſe arts that did thy ſuit commend,
When love firſt prompted Myra to be kind;
And, that thoſe arts may proſper, let thy friend
His love's ſoft advocate in Myra find.
Then, while the happy means thy leſſon ſhows
To win the maid his paſſion to approve,
Then Myra ſhall recount—for Myra knows—
What bleſſings are in ſtore for thoſe that love:
Myra ſhall tell her, that from love alone
Flows the pure ſpring of happineſs ſincere;
And love, with power to lovers only known,
Doubles each joy, and leſſens every care;
And each warm tranſport of her conſcious heart,
And each fair hope, that doth her ſtate attend,
With generous ardor Myra ſhall impart,
And point her own example to her friend:
And if her ſenſe ſhall Damon's claim approve,
And if her candour deem his vow ſincere,
Her tongue ſhall ſpeak the intereſt of his love,
Her gentle eloquence enforce his prayer:
[70]
And all that tendereſt pity can ſuggeſt,
And each ſoft argument her thought can find,
Myra ſhall urge—O be her pleading bleſt!—
To win her fair companion to be kind:
And when—for friendſhip muſt not paſs them o'er—
She gives the frailties of his youth to fight,
O may her pencil place—he aſks no more—
Each little merit in the faireſt light!
Clara, perchance, may learn to love an heart,
(Proud tho' the boaſt, it is an honeſt pride)
Where nothing ſelfiſh ever claim'd a part,
Which owns no purpoſe it ſhould wiſh to hide;
Warm with the love of virtue and mankind,
At others bliſs where ſocial feelings glow;
And where, when ſorrow wrings the worthy mind,
The tear is ready for another's woe:
This praiſe the youth is fond to call his own;
No higher worth he ſeeks his claim to grace;
His hope he builds upon his love alone,
And his love ſtands on reaſon's ſolid baſe:
No ſudden blaze, the meteor of a day,
Its tranſient ſplendor o'er his heart doth pour;
Kindled at virtue's fire, the ſteady ray
Shall ſhine thro' life, and gild its lateſt hour.
[71]
If ſuch an heart can pleaſe, if ſuch a flame
With kindred ardour can inſpire her breaſt,
His firſt ambition hath obtain'd its aim—
To Heaven and Fortune he commits the reſt.
But if, regardleſs of the honeſt prayer,
The maid unpitying, on his love ſhould frown;
If fate's worſt ſhock the youth is doom'd to bear,
Each proſpect darken'd, and each hope o'erthrown;
Too humbly fearful of th' all-ruling power
To ſtrike the blow that ſets the ſpirit free,
Priſon'd in life, he'll wait the appointed hour,
And, patient, bend him to the hard decree:
Yet ne'er (however ſhifts the varying ſcene)
Shall her dear image from his mind depart;
Still freſh the lov'd idea ſhall remain,
Warm in each pulſe, and woven with his heart:
Unchang'd thro' life, ſtill anxious for her peace,
For her to heaven his daily prayer ſhall riſe;
And, when kind fate ſhall grant the wiſh'd releaſe,
His laſt weak breath ſhall bleſs her as it flies:
Then, when in earth's cold womb his limbs are laid,
(For, ſure, her ſervant's fall ſhall reach her ear)
Clara, perchance, will ſigh, and grant his ſhade
The kind compaſſion of a pious tear:
[72]
Yes—ſhe will weep—for gentle is her breaſt—
Tho' his love pleas'd not, ſhe will mourn his doom;
And, haply, when with flowers his grave is dreſt,
Her hand may plant a myrtle o'er his tomb.
This meed, at leaſt, his ſervice may demand;
This—and 'tis all he aſks—his truth may claim:
No breathing marble o'er his duſt ſhall ſtand;
No ſtoried urn ſhall celebrate his name:
Enough for him, that, where his aſhes lie,
When kindred ſpirits ſhall at times repair,
The proſperous youth ſhall caſt a pitying eye,
The ſlighted virgin pour her ſorrows there:
Enough for him, that pointing to his ſtone,
The ſad old man his ſtory ſhall relate,
Then ſmite his breaſt, and wiſh, with many a groan,
No child of his may meet ſo hard a fate.
THE RECANTATION.
AN ODE.
[73]BY Love too long depriv'd of reſt,
(Fell tyrant of the human breaſt!)
His vaſſal long, and worn with pain,
Indignant late I ſpurn'd the chain;
In verſe, in proſe, I ſung and ſwore
No charms ſhould e'er enſlave me more,
Nor neck, nor hair, nor lip, nor eye,
Again ſhould force one tender ſigh.
As, taught by heaven's informing power,
From every fruit and every flower,
That nature opens to the view,
The bee extracts the nectar-dew;
A vagrant thus, and free to change
From fair to fair I vow'd to range,
And part from each without regret
As pleas'd and happy as I met.
Then Freedom's praiſe inſpir'd my tongue,
With Freedom's praiſe the vallies rung,
And every night and every day,
My heart thus pour'd th' enraptur'd lay:
[74]" My cares are gone, my ſorrows ceaſe,
" My breaſt regains its wonted peace,
" And joy and hope returning prove,
" That Reaſon is too ſtrong for Love."
Such was my boaſt—but, ah! how vain!
How ſhort was Reaſon's vaunted reign!
The firm reſolve I form'd ere-while
How weak oppos'd to Clara's ſmile!
Chang'd is the ſtrain—The vallies round
With Freedom's praiſe no more reſound,
But every night and every day
My full heart pours the alter'd lay.
Offended deity, whoſe power
My rebel tongue but now forſwore,
Accept my penitence ſincere,
My crime forgive, and grant my prayer!
Let not thy ſlave, condemn'd to mourn,
With unrequited paſſion burn;
With Love's ſoft thoughts her breaſt inſpire,
And kindle there an equal fire!
It is not beauty's gaudy flower,
(The empty triumph of an hour)
Nor practis'd wiles of female art
That now ſubdue my deſtin'd heart:
[75]O no!—'Tis heaven, whoſe wondrous hand
A tranſcript of itſelf hath plann'd,
And to each outward grace hath join'd
Each lovelier feature of the mind.
Theſe charms ſhall laſt, when others fly,
When roſes fade, and lillies die;
When that dear eye's declining beam
Its living fire no more ſhall ſtream:
Bleſt then, and happy in my chain,
The ſong of Freedom flows in vain;
Nor Reaſon's harſh reproof I fear,
For Reaſon's ſelf is Paſſion here.
O dearer far than wealth or fame,
My daily thought, my nightly dream,
If yet no youth's ſucceſsful art
(Sweet hope) hath touch'd thy gentle heart,
If yet no ſwain hath bleſs'd thy choice,
Indulgent hear thy Damon's voice;
From doubts, from fears his boſom free,
And bid him live—for Love and Thee!
LOVE ELEGIES.
[76]ELEGY I.
'TIS night, dead night; and o'er the plain
Darkneſs extends her ebon ray,
While wide along the gloomy ſcene
Deep Silence holds her ſolemn ſway:
Throughout the earth no cheerful beam
The melancholic eye ſurveys,
Save where the worm's fantaſtic gleam
The 'nighted traveller betrays:
The ſavage race (ſo heaven decrees)
No longer thro' the foreſt rove;
All nature reſts, and not a breeze
Diſturbs the ſtillneſs of the grove:
All nature reſts; in Sleep's ſoft arms
The village ſwain forgets his care:
Sleep, that the ſting of Sorrow charms,
And heals all ſadneſs but Deſpair:
[77]
Deſpair alone her power denies,
And, when the ſun withdraws his rays,
To the wild beach diſtracted flies,
Or cheerleſs thro' the deſert ſtrays;
Or, to the church-yard's horrors led,
While fearful echoes burſt around,
On ſome cold ſtone he leans his head,
Or throws his body on the ground.
To ſome ſuch drear and ſolemn ſcene,
Some friendly power direct my way,
Where pale Misfortune's haggard train,
Sad luxury! delight to ſtray.
Wrapp'd in the ſolitary gloom,
Retir'd from life's fantaſtic crew,
Reſign'd, I'll wait my final doom,
And bid the buſy world adieu.
The world has now no joys for me
Nor can life now one pleaſure boaſt,
Since all my eyes deſir'd to ſee,
My wiſh, my hope, my all, is loſt;
Since ſhe, ſo form'd to pleaſe and bleſs,
So wiſe, ſo innocent, ſo fair,
Whoſe converſe ſweet made ſorrow leſs,
And brighten'd all the gloom of care;
[78]
Since ſhe is loſt:—Ye powers divine,
What have I done, or thought, or ſaid,
O ſay, what horrid act of mine
Has drawn this vengeance on my head?
Why ſhould heaven favour Lycon's claim?
Why are my heart's beſt wiſhes croſt?
What fairer deeds adorn his name?
What nobler merit can he boaſt?
What higher worth in him was found
My true heart's ſervice to outweigh?
A ſenſeleſs fop!—A dull compound
Of ſcarcely animated clay!
He dreſs'd, indeed, he danc'd with eaſe,
And charm'd her by repeating o'er
Unmeaning raptures in her praiſe,
That twenty fools had ſaid before:
But I, alas, who thought all art
My paſſion's force would meanly prove,
Could only boaſt an honeſt heart,
And claim'd no merit but my love.
Have I not ſat—ye conſcious hours
Be witneſs—while my Stella ſung,
From morn to eve, with all my powers
Rapt in the enchantment of her tongue!
[79]
Ye conſcious hours, that ſaw me ſtand
Entranc'd in wonder and ſurprize,
In ſilent rapture preſs her hand,
With paſſion burſting from my eyes,
Have I not lov'd?—O earth and heaven!
Where now is all my youthful boaſt?
The dear exchange I hop'd was given
For ſlighted fame and fortune loſt!
Where now the joys that once were mine?
Where all my hopes of future bliſs?
Muſt I thoſe joys, theſe hopes reſign?
Is all her friendſhip come to this?
Muſt then each woman faithleſs prove,
And each fond lover be undone?
Are vows no more!—Almighty Love!
The ſad remembrance let me ſhun!
It will not be—My honeſt heart
The dear ſad image ſtill retains;
And, ſpight of reaſon, ſpite of art,
The dreadful memory remains.
Ye powers divine, whoſe wondrous ſkill
Deep in the womb of time can ſee,
Behold, I bend me to your will,
Nor dare arraign your high decree.
[80]
Let her be bleſt with health, with eaſe,
With all your bounty has in ſtore;
Let ſorrow cloud my future days,
Be Stella bleſt!—I aſk no more.
But lo! where, high in yonder eaſt,
The ſtar of morning mounts apace!
Hence—let me fly the unwelcome gueſt,
And bid the Muſe's labour ceaſe.
ELEGY II.
[81]WHen, young, life's journey I began,
The glittering proſpect charm'd my eyes,
I ſaw along the extended plan
Joy after joy ſucceſſive riſe:
And Fame her golden trumpet blew;
And Power diſplay'd her gorgeous charms;
And Wealth engag'd my wandering view;
And Pleaſure wooed me to her arms:
To each by turns my vows I paid,
As Folly led me to admire;
While Fancy magnified each ſhade,
And Hope increas'd each fond deſire:
But ſoon I found 'twas all a dream;
And learn'd the fond purſuit to ſhun,
Where few can reach their purpos'd aim,
And thouſands daily are undone:
And Fame, I found, was empty air;
And Wealth had terror for her gueſt:
And Pleaſure's path was ſtrewn with care;
And Power was vanity at beſt.
[82]
Tir'd of the chace, I gave it o'er;
And, in a far ſequeſter'd ſhade,
To Contemplation's ſober power
My youth's next ſervices I paid.
There health and peace adorn'd the ſcene;
And oft, indulgent to my prayer,
With mirthful eye and frolic mien,
The Muſe would deign to viſit there:
There would ſhe oft delighted rove
The flower-enamell'd vale along;
Or wander with me thro' the grove,
And liſten to the woodlark's ſong;
Or, 'mid the foreſt's awful gloom,
While wild amazement fill'd my eyes,
Recall paſt ages from the tomb,
And bid ideal worlds ariſe.
Thus, in the Muſe's favour bleſt,
One wiſh alone my ſoul could frame,
And heaven beſtow'd, to crown the reſt,
A friend, and Thyrſis was his name.
For manly conſtancy and truth,
And worth, unconſcious of a ſtain,
He bloom'd the flower of Britain's youth,
The boaſt and wonder of the plain.
[83]
Still with our years our friendſhip grew;
No cares did then my peace deſtroy:
Time brought freſh bleſſings as he flew,
And every hour was wing'd with joy.
But ſoon the bliſsful ſcene was loſt,
Soon did the ſad reverſe appear;
Love came, like an untimely froſt,
To blaſt the promiſe of my year.
I ſaw young Daphne's angel-form,
(Fool that I was, I bleſs'd the ſmart)
And, while I gaz'd, nor thought of harm,
The dear infection ſeiz'd my heart.
She was—at leaſt in Damon's eyes—
Made up of lovelineſs and grace,
Her heart a ſtranger to diſguiſe,
Her mind as perfect as her face:
To hear her ſpeak, to ſee her move,
(Unhappy I, alas, the while!)
Her voice was joy, her look was love,
And heaven was open'd in her ſmile!
She heard me breathe my amorous prayers,
She liſten'd to the tender ſtrain,
She heard my ſighs, ſhe ſaw my tears,
And ſeem'd at length to ſhare my pain:
[84]
She ſaid ſhe lov'd—and I, poor youth!
(How ſoon, alas, can Hope perſuade!)
Thought all ſhe ſaid no more than truth,
And all my love was well repay'd.
In joys unknown to courts or kings,
With her I ſate the live-long day,
And ſaid and look'd ſuch tender things,
As none beſide could look or ſay!
How ſoon can Fortune ſhift the ſcene,
And all our earthly bliſs deſtroy?—
Care hovers round, and Grief's fell train
Still treads upon the heels of Joy.
My age's hope, my youth's beſt boaſt,
My ſoul's chief bleſſing and my pride,
In one ſad moment all were loſt,
And Daphne chang'd, and Thyrſis died.
O who, that heard her vows ere-while,
Could dream thoſe vows were inſincere?
O who could think, that ſaw her ſmile,
That fraud could find admittance there?
Yet ſhe was falſe—my heart will break!
Her frauds, her perjuries were ſuch—
Some other tongue than mine muſt ſpeak—
I have not power to ſay how much!
[85]
Ye ſwains, hence warn'd, avoid the bait,
O ſhun her paths, the traitreſs ſhun!
Her voice is death, her ſmile is fate,
Who hears, or ſees her, is undone.
And, when Death's hand ſhall cloſe my eye,
(For ſoon, I know, the day will come)
O cheer my ſpirit with a ſigh,
And grave theſe lines upon my tomb.
THE EPITAPH.
[86]COnſign'd to duſt, beneath this ſtone,
In manhood's prime is Damon laid;
Joyleſs he liv'd, and died unknown
In bleak misfortune's barren ſhade.
Lov'd by the Muſe, but lov'd in vain—
'Twas beauty drew his ruin on;
He ſaw young Daphne on the plain;
He lov'd, believ'd, and was undone.
His heart then ſunk beneath the ſtorm,
(Sad meed of unexampled truth)
And ſorrow, like an envious worm,
Devour'd the bloſſom of his youth.
Beneath this ſtone the youth is laid—
O greet his aſhes with a tear!
May heaven with bleſſings crown his ſhade,
And grant that peace he wanted here!
AN INSCRIPTION WRITTEN UPON ONE OF THE *TUBS IN HAM⯑WALKS; SEPTEMBER MDCCLX.
[87]DArk was the ſky with many a cloud,
The fearful lightnings flaſh'd around,
Low to the blaſt the foreſt bow'd,
And bellowing thunders rock'd the ground;
Faſt fell the rains upon my head,
And weak and weary were my feet,
When lo! this hoſpitable ſhed
At length ſupplied a kind retreat.
That in fair memory's faithful page
The bard's eſcape may flouriſh long,
Yet, ſhuddering from the tempeſt's rage,
He dedicates the votive ſong.
For ever ſacred be the earth
From whence the tree its vigour drew!
The hour that gave the ſeedling birth!
The foreſt where the ſcyon grew!
[88]
Long honour'd may his aſhes reſt,
Who firſt the tender ſhoot did rear!
Bleſt be his name!—But doubly bleſt
The friendly hand that plac'd it here!
O ne'er may war, or wind, or wave,
This pleaſurable ſcene deform,
But time ſtill ſpare the ſeat, which gave
The poet ſhelter from the ſtorm!
VERSES WRITTEN UPON A PEDESTAL BENEATH A ROW OF ELMS IN A MEADOW NEAR RICHMOND FERRY, BELONGING TO RICHARD OWEN CAM⯑BRIDGE, ESQ. SEPTEMBER MDCCLX.
[89]*YE green-hair'd nymphs! whom Pan allows
To guard from harm theſe favour'd boughs;
Ye blue-eyed Naiads of the ſtream,
That ſooth the warm poetic dream;
Ye elves and ſprights, that thronging round,
When midnight darkens all the ground,
In antic meaſures uncontroul'd,
Your fairy ſports and revels hold,
And up and down, where-e'er ye paſs,
With many a ringlet print the graſs;
If e'er the bard hath hail'd your power
At morn's grey dawn, or evening hour;
If e'er by moonlight on the plain
Your ears have caught th' enraptur'd ſtrain;
From every floweret's velvet head,
From reverend Thames's oozy bed,
[90]From theſe moſs'd elms, where, priſon'd deep,
Conceal'd from human eyes, ye ſleep,
If theſe your haunts be worth your care,
Awake, ariſe, and hear my prayer!
O baniſh from this peaceful plain
The perjur'd nymph, the faithleſs ſwain,
The ſtubborn heart, that ſcorns to bow,
And harſh rejects the honeſt vow:
The fop, who wounds the virgin's ear
With aught that ſenſe would bluſh to hear,
Or, falſe to honour, mean and vain,
Defames the worth he cannot ſtain:
The light coquet, with various art,
Who caſts her net for every heart,
And ſmiling flatters to the chace
Alike the worthy and the baſe:
The dame, who, proud of virtue's praiſe,
Is happy if a ſiſter ſtrays,
And, conſcious of unclouded fame,
Delighted, ſpreads the tale of ſhame:
But far, O! baniſh'd far be they,
Who hear, unmov'd, the orphan's cry,
Who ſee, nor wiſh to wipe away,
The tear that ſwells the widow's eye;
Th' unloving man, whoſe narrow mind
Diſdains to feel for human-kind,
[91]At others bliſs whoſe cheek ne'er glows,
Whoſe breaſt ne'er throbs with others woes,
Whoſe hoarded ſum of private joys
His private care alone deſtroys;
Ye fairies caſt your ſpells around,
And guard from ſuch this hallow'd ground!
But welcome all, who ſigh with truth,
Each conſtant maid and faithful youth,
Whom mutual love alone hath join'd,
Sweet union of the willing mind!
Hearts pair'd in heaven, not meanly ſold,
Law-licens'd proſtitutes for gold:
And welcome thrice, and thrice again,
The choſen few, the worthy train,
Whoſe ſteady feet, untaught to ſtray,
Still tread where virtue marks the way;
Whoſe ſouls no thought, whoſe hands have known
No deed, which honour might not own;
Who, torn with pain, or ſtung with care,
In others bliſs can claim a part,
And, in life's brighteſt hour, can ſhare
Each pang that wrings another's heart:
Ye guardian ſpirits, when ſuch ye ſee,
Sweet peace be theirs, and welcome free!
Clear be the ſky from clouds or ſhowers!
Green be the turf, and freſh the flowers!
[92]
And that the youth, whoſe pious care
Lays on your ſhrine this honeſt prayer,
May, with the reſt, admittance gain,
And viſit oft this pleaſant ſcene,
Let all who love the Muſe attend!
Who loves the Muſe is virtue's friend.
Such then alone may venture here,
Who, free from guilt, are free from fear;
Whoſe wide affections can embrace
The whole extent of human race;
Whom Virtue and her friends approve;
Whom Cambridge and the Muſes love.
ODE ON RANELAGH.
ADDRESSED TO THE LADIES. BEING A PARODY ON MR. GRAY'S CELEBRATED ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COL⯑LEGE.
[93]YE dazzling lamps, ye jocund fires,
That from yon fabric ſhine,
Where grateful pleaſure yet admires
Her *Lacy's great deſign:
And ye, who from the fields which lie
Round Chelſea, with amazement's eye,
The gardens, and the dome ſurvey,
Whoſe walks, whoſe trees, whoſe lights among,
Wander the courtly train along
Their thought-diſpelling way.
Ah, ſplendid room! ah, pleaſing ſhade!
Ah, walks belov'd in vain!
Where oft in happier times I ſtray'd,
A ſtranger then to pain:
I feel the gales, which from you blow
A momentary bliſs beſtow,
[94]As waving freſh their gladſome wing,
They ſeem to ſooth my famiſh'd ſoul,
And redolent of tea, and roll,
To breathe a ſecond ſpring.
Rotonda, ſay, for thou haſt ſeen
Full many a ſprightly race,
In thy bright round with ſtep ſerene,
The paths of pleaſure trace;
Who chiefly now delight to lave
Green hyſon in the boiling wave,
The ſable coffee which diſtill?
What lounging progeny are found,
Who ſtroll inceſſant round and round,
Like horſes in a mill?
While ſome on earneſt buſineſs dream,
And gravely ſtupid try
To ſearch each complicated ſcheme
Of public policy:
Some ladies leave the ſpacious dome,
Around the garden's maze to roam,
And unknown regions dare deſcry;
Still as they walk they look behind,
Leſt fame a ſecret foe ſhould find
From ſome malicious eye.
[95]
Loud mirth is theirs, and pleaſing praiſe
To beauty's ſhrine addreſs'd;
The ſprightly ſongs, the melting lays,
Which charm the ſoften'd breaſt;
Theirs lively wit, invention free,
The ſharp bon mot, keen repartee,
And every art coquets employ,
The thoughtleſs day, the jocund night,
The ſpirits briſk, the ſorrows light,
That fly th' approach of joy.
Alas! regardleſs of their doom,
The lovely victims rove;
No ſenſe of ſufferings yet to come
Can now their prudence move:
But ſee! where all around them wait
The miniſters of female fate,
An artful, perjur'd, cruel train;
Ah! ſhow them where in ambuſh ſtand,
To ſeize their prey, the faithleſs band
Of falſe deceitful men!
Theſe ſhall the luſt of gaming wear,
That harpy of the mind,
With all the troop of rage and fear,
That follows cloſe behind:
Or pining love ſhall waſte their youth,
Or jealouſy with rankling tooth
[96]That gnaws bright Hymen's golden chain,
Who opens wide the fatal gate,
For ſad diſtruſt, and ruthleſs hate,
And Sorrow's pallid train.
Ambition this ſhall tempt to fix
Her hopes on ſomething high,
To barter for a coach and fix
Her peace and liberty.
The ſtings of Scandal theſe ſhall try,
And Affectation's haughty eye,
That ſcowls on thoſe it us'd to greet;
The cutting ſneer, th' abuſive ſong,
And falſe report that glides along
With never-reſting feet.
And lo! where in the vale of years
A grizly tribe are ſeen;
Fancy's pale family of fears,
More hideous than their queen:
Struck with th' imaginary crew,
Which artleſs Nature never knew,
Theſe aid from quacks, and cordials beg,
While this transform'd by folly's hand,
Remains a-while at her command,
A tea-pot, or an egg.
[97]
To each her ſufferings: all muſt grieve,
And pour a ſilent groan,
At homage others charms receive,
Or ſlights that meet their own:—
But ill the voice of truth ſevere
Will ſuit the gay regardleſs ear,
Whoſe joy in mirth and revels lies!
Thought would deſtroy this paradiſe.
No more!—Where ignorance is bliſs,
'Tis folly to be wiſe.
H.P.
THE RIVAL BEAUTIES.
[98]—Tantaene animis coeleſtibus irae;
VIRG.
FRom gay St. James's Myra was return'd,
Within her breaſt the flames of envy burn'd,
Reclin'd upon the couch ſhe ſought relief,
But the ſoft plumage added to her grief;
Now to the citron cordial ſhe applies,
The cordial too its uſual balm denies;
Will not kind Morpheus one ſhort nap beſtow?
He never perches on a breaſt of woe.
What! has her peerleſs face betray'd ſome flaws?
Or does ſome mighty loſs the conflict cauſe?
Has ſome dire pimple, to diſturb her eye,
Made an irruption where the lillies lie?
Smokes there leſs incenſe at her virgin ſhrine?
Or crowns ſome rival-toaſt th' enamour'd wine?
What can ſhe dread, whoſe every charm ſubdues
The garter'd noble—and invites the muſe?
Not one of thoſe, nor all of them conjoin'd
Have ruffled the compoſure of her mind;
But at the court ſhe ſaw, what tongue can tell!
Worſe than Quevedo's viſionary hell—
[99]A female implement! and at the ſight
Her ſpirit ſunk—ſhe ſwoon'd away for ſpite!
Clarinda's hand the glittering pageant grac'd,
With which ſhe led the beaux, and men of taſte;
Diſcarded Myra ſaw the envied prize;
She ſaw—and curſt it with her heart and eyes.
So, even at church, if ſome new dreſs arrive,
The blazing meteor galls the female hive;
Each eye, arreſted, on the faſhion glotes,
And every woman imprecates, and doats;
The clerk's proud wife neglects her huſband's ſong,
And comminations fly from every tongue.
A fan! the mighty cauſe of Myra's care,
For beauties envy trifles light as air!
The faſhion dawn'd from madam Pompadour,
Newly imported to the Britiſh ſhore:
Clarinda, to improve her magazine
Of charms—had lately at the toyſhop been,
Searching for trinkets, ſhe the bawble found,
And ſeiz'd the product of a foreign ground,
Reſolving to tranſplant it to the court,
She bought, and paid a hundred guineas for't;
Arm'd with this bright umbrella ſhe appear'd,
And, wafted by its gales, to conqueſt ſteer'd;
A hecatomb of hearts were ſoon reſign'd
To young Clarinda's eyes intrench'd behind;
[100]While ſtars and garters emulating ſtrove
Which ſhould croud foremoſt to preſent his love,
His vows thro' this gay medium to enhance;
Such are thy faſhionable tools—oh France!
While thus Clarinda's innovating pride
From Myra's charms drew dukes and lords aſide,
Like a diſcarded ſtateſman, in diſgrace
The fair one to the victor left the place;
Thus, like a beaten general, forc'd to yield,
She quits the glories of the long-fought field:
In ſullen diſcontent ſhe ſeeks the gloom
To meditate revenge within her room.
At length to Venus with uplifted eyes,
And fervent prayer, the baffled maid applies:
" Oh! Venus, by thy myrtles and thy doves,
" And every ſymbol of the Paphian groves,
" By all thy bright regalia I implore,
" Oh! grant one favour to thy Myra more;
" Let not Clarinda ſuch a conqueſt boaſt,
" Nor lead of nobles, thus, her ſhining hoſt:
" For lo! what ſtars, like ſilver Cynthia's train,
" Attend her triumph, and ſupport her reign!
" See, how each garter, like the Zodiac, vies
" To grace the blue horizon of her eyes!
" Debaſe her trinket, her new-fangled toy,
" And cruſh the infant dawning of her joy,
[101]" Give me, by ſome rich implement, to win
" The men—tho' 'twere a diamond—headed pin:
" Then ſhall a thouſand hearts, a thouſand days,
" With ſweeteſt incenſe on thy altars blaze.
" Then, for each lover which thy gift imparts,
" A hymn ſhall carol to the God of Hearts."
Propitious Venus heard the maiden's prayer,
And ſent a pleaſing dream to ſooth her care:
Fair to her raptur'd fancy there aroſe
A crimſon orb, but richer far than thoſe
Which ſtately cardinals in triumph wear,
The boon and earneſt of the papal chair;
Its ample brim three rows of ſapphires grac'd,
The ceſtus, as a ribband, gave it taſte:
A thouſand brilliants, here and there diſplay'd,
With bluſhing rubies, lent it light and ſhade.
In emerald cut, a king imperial ſate
Beneath a golden canopy of ſtate,
Powder'd with hieroglyphics of his reign,
As undiſputed monarch of the main.
The conſort of his throne was ſeated nigh
In pearl, and cleareſt cryſtal form'd each eye;
Attending nobles the regalia bore,
The crown and ſceptre both of maſſy ore.
In ſolemn order the proceſſion moves,
A prelate waits to crown their happy loves.
[102]Why ſhould we here deſcribe, what all have ſeen,
The coronation of a king and queen?
Or why attempt in colours to diſplay
That ſtate, when George and Charlotte bleſt the day.
Dazzled with luſtre, Myra now awakes,
And from the viſionary model takes
A hat, which ſoon eclips'd Clarinda's fan,
Nor left the fair competitor a man.
With this ſhe claims Love's empire as her own,
Reigns abſolute, nor envies George his throne.
WOMAN'S AGE.
[103]WOman's age is ſeldom known
From fifteen to fifty-one;
Still mendacious, never certain,
Still conceal'd behind the curtain;
And tho' kind papa has wrote
Year, and month and day—to note
Miſs's age within the bible,
The leaf ſhe'll tear out as a libel
On her fame and reputation,
Age can't bear examination;
Tho' the crow-feet near her eyes
Prove ſhe's older, than ſhe's wife;
Tho' the wrinkles, like a gnomon,
Point her out, a grave old woman,
Still the matron hides the cheat
With ſweet powder, or a tète.
Phillis, confronted with grey hairs,
Retrenches half a dozen years,
While, Chloe, immature and green,
Tells every one, ſhe's paſt nineteen.
What are their different motives then?
To cheat, if poſſible, the men;
[104]Sage Phillis knows her bloom is flitting,
While Chloe fain would be thought fitting;
This ſets our teeth on edge, and that
By being over-ripe—is flat;
Thus, tho' they play a ſeparate game,
From the ſame view they take their aim;
While neither boaſts the pleaſing flavour,
Both ſtudy to attract our favour;
Tho' this is verjuice, that molaſſes,
They'll cheat their very looking-glaſſes;
Young Chloe, like a watch too faſt,
Would antedate the hour, not paſt,
While Phillis, like a clock that's down,
Will never let the hour be known:
Thus contradictory both move
Too little, or too much for love:
So have I ſeen, to ſell bad wines,
A flying horſe, on painted ſigns,
In ſeeming motion thro' the air,
Ne'er quit his wooden hemiſphere.
THE BREACH OF THE RIVERS.
[105]Quae vos dementia cepit?
VIRG.
THE rivers once their union broke,
For reaſons, like us Engliſh folk,
Becauſe they knew not why;
The gentry took it in their head
To run no more, but keep their bed,
And let the ſea go dry;
For why, forſooth, ſhould they be always going
To keep him full, and humour his o'erflowing?
They would ſupport no more, not they,
His royal tidings twice a day,
His tides of ebb and flood;
The Danube ſwore it; and the Rhine
Made oath, upon his richeſt wine,
To make the compact good.
No—no—he, truly, did not underſtand
Why his imperial ſtreams ſhould brook command.
And next appear'd the Ohio,
With caſtles laden was his brow,
[106]By which he ſolemn ſwore,
That if the Miſſiſippi join'd,
And was as well as he inclin'd,
He'd go to ſea no more;
The Miſſiſippi gave his oath, that he
Would be as true, and to the league agree.
Next ſpoke the Severn's ſtately tide;
" Sirs—I will curb old Ocean's pride—
" Here do I daily pour
" Millions of tons for Ocean's uſe,
" And truly, he'll have no excuſe,
" He'll have 'em at the hour:
" Now, by the river gods, and nymphs, not I,
" Let him draw bills on ſight upon the ſky.
" Yes, let the ſurly-mouthed main
" Draw on his magazines of rain—
" What ſay you, brother Trent?
" What ſays the Thames to this propoſal?
" Are we at this proud king's diſpoſal,
" To pay a high rack-rent
" Whene'er he pleaſes to demand our treaſure,
" And lord it o'er us at his tyrant pleaſure?"
The flames are kindled—Critics, hold—
You'll ſay th' alluſion is too bold;
[107]Can flames in rivers burn?
O! yes—Sedition's voice can change
The blood and juices, like the mange,
And to corruption turn
The ſweet and wholſome craſis of the blood—
And ſo far, Critics, the alluſion's good.
Th' aſſembly fills—Northumbrian Tyne
Swore by his ſalmon, he would join,
And by his ſooty gods,
That tho' all England ſtarv'd with cold,
He'd waft the coals no more for gold,
He matter'd not the odds:
What was't to him, or his, if he muſt creep,
And cringe to do obeiſance to the Deep?
There was not even a tench, or carp,
That did not on the topic harp;
No—nor a trout, or eel,
The meaneſt native of the ſtream
Could dwell upon the pleaſing theme
To ſave the common-weal:
The public good was now the general cry,
Even in the mouths of the ſmall ſalmon-fry.
Vox Populi, Vox Dei, loud
Was heard thro' all the finny croud;
[108]And all the rivers ſwore,
By their reſpective nymphs, that they
Would henceforth go no more to ſea,
Nor make a voyage more;
The motion was unanimous agreed
From ſmooth-wav'd Medway to the northern Tweed.
What was the dreadful conſequence?
The waters broke o'er mound and fence,
And overflow'd their banks:
An inundation, ſays my fable,
O'erflow'd each farmer's barn and ſtable,
And play'd a thouſand pranks;
A diſmal ſight, indeed, it was to ſee
The mad uproar of this wild anarchy.
But ſoon the comedy was o'er,
'Twas now a deſolated ſhore,
And every bed was dry;
Too ſoon their dread miſtake they found,
For all the fiſh were run aground,
Their ſpawn and progeny;
They and their helpleſs families were left
To ſtarve,—of Ocean's uſual ſtores bereft.
For, unſupplied, he muſt deny
His rich reciprocal ſupply,
[109]Whoſe wealth was what they gave;
And ſince they ſtopt the natural ſource,
He could make no return of courſe,
Nor ſend his briny wave
To purify and cheer their gelid ſtreams;
Such is the fatal end of harſh extremes!
How ſweet the notes of treaſon ſound
To faction's ear! how quick are found
Smooth reaſons to withdraw
Our due allegiance from the throne!
We threaten, while our heads are on,
And ſet at nought the law;
We curſe this ceſs, and damn that tax,
But never dream of Tyburn, or the axe.
LABOUR IN VAIN. A NEW SONG.
[110]IN purſuit of ſome lambs from my flocks that had ſtray'd,
One morning I rang'd o'er the plain;
But alas! after all my reſearches were made,
I perceiv'd that my labour was vain.
At length, growing hopeleſs my lambs to reſtore,
I reſolv'd to return back again;
It was uſeleſs I thought to ſeek after them more,
Since I found that my labour was vain.
On this my return pretty Phebe I ſaw,
And to love her I could not refrain;
To ſolicit a kiſs I approach'd her with awe,
But ſhe told me my labour was vain.
Dear Phebe, I cried, to my ſuit lend an ear,
And let me no longer complain;—
She replied, with a frown and an aſpect ſevere,
Young Colin your labour's in vain.
Then I eagerly claſp'd her quite cloſe to my breaſt,
And kiſs'd her and kiſs'd her again—
O! Colin, ſhe cried, if you're rude I proteſt,
That your labour ſhall ſtill be in vain.
[111]
At length, by intreaties, by kiſſes and vows,
Compaſſion ſhe took on my pain;
She now has conſented to make me her ſpouſe,
So no longer I labour in vain.
TO A GENTLEMAN, WHO DESIRED PROPER MATERIALS FOR A MONODY.
FLowrets—wreaths—thy banks along—
Silent eve—th' accuſtom'd ſong—
Silver ſlipper'd—whilom—lore—
Druid—Paynim—mountain hoar—
Dulcet—eremite—what time—
("Excuſe me—here I want a rhime.")
Black-brow'd night—Hark! ſcretch-owls ſing!
Ebon car—and raven wing—
Charnel houſes—lonely dells—
Glimmering tapers—diſmal cells—
Hallow'd haunts—and horrid piles—
Roſeate hues—and ghaſtly ſmiles—
Solemn fanes—and cypreſs bowers—
Thunder-ſtorms—and tumbling towers—
Let theſe be well together blended—
Dodſley's your man—the poem's ended.
THE ACCIDENT. A PASTORAL ELEGY.
[112]FRom roſy ſingers Morning ſhook the dew,
From Nature's charms the veil of Night ſhe drew;
Reviving colour glow'd with broken light;
The varied landſcape dawn'd upon the ſight;
The lark's firſt ſong melodious floats on air;
And Damon riſes, wak'd by Love and Care,
Unpens the fold, and o'er the glittering mead,
With thoughtful ſteps, conducts his fleecy breed.
Near, in rude majeſty, a mountain ſtood
Projecting far, and brow'd with pendant wood;
The foliage, trembling as the breezes blow,
Inverted, trembled in a brook below.
The mountain echoed every plaintive ſtrain,
The ſighing breeze return'd his ſighs again,
The gliding brook re-murmur'd to his grief,
As thus from ſong the ſhepherd ſought relief:
" When late in rural ſports I took my ſhare,
" Blithe as the blitheſt in the crouded fair,
" What tho' from ten, contending in the race,
" I ſnatch'd the prize, with yet unrivall'd pace?
" What tho', in wreſtling, arduous to excell,
" I ſtood the victor, when each rival fell?
" What tho', when Colin, oft in combat crown'd,
" The cudgel ſeiz'd, and aw'd the circle round,
[113]" I boldly dar'd the champion of the green,
" And from his head the trickling blood was ſeen?
" What tho', in ſofter ſtrife, my rural ſong
" Won the loud plaudit of the liſtening throng?
" Tho' every prize, by every voice, was mine,
" And rival hands for me the chaplet twine,
" On Robin's ſhoulders thro' the croud convey'd
" Of maids that bluſh'd, and ſhepherds that huzza'd;
" Vain all my ſtrength, activity and ſpeed,
" Vain all my ſkill to tune the vocal reed,
" No joy the chaplet, or the prize could give,
" For Phillis frown'd, the nymph for whom I live;
" Phillis! whoſe charms alone my wiſhes fir'd,
" Whoſe charms, ambition not my own inſpir'd;
" Who made my feet more ſwift, my arm more ſtrong,
" My heart more dauntleſs, and more ſweet my ſong.
" Love gave me conqueſt, but denied me bliſs,
" When from her lips ſhe wip'd the raviſh'd kiſs;
" Cruel and coy ſhe blaſted all my pride,
" And 'midſt the tranſports of my friends I ſigh'd;
" Denied her love, I'm poor with all the reſt,
" Indulg'd with that, of more than all poſſeſs'd.
" What giddy caprice rules a woman's mind,
" As fate relentleſs, and as fortune blind!
" On vanquiſh'd Colin Phillis ſhed her ſmiles,
" And all his ſorrows, and his pain beguiles;
[114]" She, from the wound I gave, with lenient care
" Waſh'd the ſtiff gore, and clipp'd the clotted hair;
" The healing ſimples with ſoft touch applied,
" Own'd and careſs'd him ſpite of female pride,
" Mourn'd his diſgrace, and now from future harms,
" Perhaps ſhe hides him in her circling arms.
" O! had kind heaven to me transferr'd his blow,
" O! had I own'd him a ſuperior foe,
" Fled from the general hiſs, with ſhame depreſt,
" To hide my bluſhes in her downy breaſt!
" To him, with rapture, every prize I'd yield,
" And all the taſteleſs honours of the field,
" For each gay trifle with her love o'erpaid,
" Bleſt, tho' forgotten, in the ſecret ſhade!
" Vain wiſh! to Colin is that bliſs decreed—
" Diſtracting thoughts diſtracting thoughts ſuc⯑ceed—
" May ſwift deſtruction ſeize the hated pair,
" Or, worſe than ſwift deſtruction, my deſpair!
" No—may the fruitleſs curſe leave Phillis free,
" But doubled, Colin! be fulfill'd in thee."
High on the neighbouring mountain's airy head
His browzing goats as happy Colin led,
Pronounc'd with haſty rage, he heard his name,
And near the brow with ſtill attention came;
Too near—the treacherous brink gives way, and lo!
He ſhrieks, and plunges in the brook below;
[115]The ſounding waters, whitening as they roſe,
Now with ſubſiding murmurs round him cloſe.
Damon, alarm'd, his falling rival knew,
And, ſwift as lightning, to his aid he flew;
Prevailing virtue triumph'd in his breaſt,
And pity love and enmity ſuppreſt;
He ſaw him gaſp emerging from the brook,
And reach'd, with generous haſte, his ſaving crook,
Caught by the drowning wretch with both his hands,
And grateful, trembling, on the bank he ſtands.
Short recollection ſerv'd him, thus to ſhow
How much a friend he roſe, who fell a foe;
" Born to ſubdue me, and ſubdued to ſave,
" Thine from this moment is the life you gave;
" Here, by the gods who ſent thee to my aid,
" I ſwear no more to ſee thy favourite maid,
" By partial favour, not by merit mine,
" To thee, more worthy, Phillis I reſign;
" Go, and my falſhood to thy miſtreſs plead,
" Go, and may heaven and love thy ſuit ſucceed.
Thus ſoon with ardent looks, with honeſt pride,
And juſt diſdain, the kindling ſwain replied:
' What Damon's faithful love eſſay'd in vain,
' He ſcorns by Colin's broken vows to gain;
' Be thine the maid, ſince fate ordains it ſo,
' And time and abſence ſhall allay my woe;
[116]' Friends, from this hour forever, let us live,
' My friendſhip's pledge, this ſpotleſs ewe I give;'
" And I, yon kid than falling ſnow more white,"
Glad Colin cried, and mutual faith they plight.
Thus buſied, Phillis, unperceiv'd, drew near,
Foredoom'd, her love now twice renounc'd, to hear;
" Take, Damon," thus the bluſhing maid begins,
" The hand, the heart, thy generous virtue wins;
" Not Colin's broken vows, but Damon's truth,
" Now blends my fate with thine, deſerving youth!
" To try thee, O! forgive if tried too far,
" Was all I meant, whate'er my actions were."
Her hand, with ſudden rapture, Damon preſt,
The joyful pair conſenting Colin bleſt;
To Damon's cot they take the flowery way,
With guiltleſs mirth to crown the happy day.
SWEET-WILLIAM, OR VERSES OCCASIONED BY THE CHRISTENING OF MR. WOOD'S SON, WHO WAS NAMED SWEET-WILLIAM, APRIL XXVII, MDCCLXIII.
[117]WIth ſong, ſweet babe, we celebrate thy birth,
And hail thee to the chequer'd ſcenes of earth:
Thy ſmiles of innocence our hearts endear,
When Spring now faireſt paints the purple year;
Promiſe of future fruit, all nature blooms,
Hills, vales, woods, gardens, ſend forth rich per⯑fumes;
Such beauty in etherial mildneſs reigns,
We match our meadows with Idalian plains;
And thee, did not thine eyes our error prove,
Thee we ſhould deem a little ſmiling Love.
Sweet-William, wellcome to the realms of day!
O, may'ſt thou bloom the ſweeteſt flower of May!
Thy lovely mother's gentle mind inherit,
Thy father's honeſt heart, and generous ſpirit—
Yes, Yes, I ſee (ſo ſtrong prophetic power!)
An embryo genius in this riſing flower,
A hand that's valiant, and a heart that's true
To ſerve his neighbours, and his nation too:
Thus in the acorn's little folds we ſee
An oak imperial in epitome;
By ſlow degrees the leaves, the boughs expand,
Riſe, ſpread, ſhade, flouriſh, and defend the land.
TO THE REV. MR. LAYNG, OCCASIONED BY HIS SERMON ON MUTUAL BE⯑NEVOLENCE, PREACHED AT THE ANNUAL MEETING OF THE GOVERNORS OF THE NORTH⯑AMPTON INFIRMARY.
[118]LET fools religion in opinion place,
And call whim, ſpleen, and ſuperſtition, grace;
Put in mock'd Virtue's legal hand a reed,
And on her throne, vile idol! rear a creed,
While weeping Charity is doom'd to ſeel
The ſmarting ſcourge of unrelenting Zeal;
And ſainted Bigotry, with impious pride,
Claims all the ſky, and damns the world beſide.
O! taught of heaven! be thine the better part,
With ſacred love to touch the kindling heart;
Still mild benevolence, like Jeſus preach,
And ſpread the truths he liv'd and died to teach;
Still build ſalvation on the Saviour's plan,
And God's own glory on good-will to man;
So ſhall good-nature at thy voice refine,
And what was moral ſhall be more—divine!
Self-love ſhall learn to taſte of ſocial joy,
And public works the miſer's hands employ;
Folly inform'd, converted Vice ſhall own,
That wiſdom, pleaſure Virtue gives alone;
Deiſts ſhall ſcorn the Chriſtian name no more.
And atheiſts God, as love immenſe, adore.
LOVE ELEGY.
WRITTEN AT — COLLEGE, OXFORD.
[119]THE ſolemn hand of ſable ſuited night
Enwraps the ſilent earth with mantle drear,
Thick murky clouds obſcure Diana's light,
Nor ſhines one ſtar the duſky ſcene to cheer.
O'er the ſad manſion, hid in awful gloom,
The Aethiop darkneſs ſpreads her ebon ſway,
Save that alone, from yonder ſtudious room,
The waſting taper ſheds a feeble ray.
Now while the tenants of this ſacred dome
Turn the grave page, or ſink to ſoft repoſe,
Along the Gothic cloiſters let me roam,
And, deep in thought, the lazy moments loſe.
Now breathes the whiſtling ſtorm a mournful ſong,
And pattering drops the drizzly tempeſt tell,
Whilſt Echo roves the lonely vaults among,
Sadly-reſponſive to the midnight bell.
And hark! the penſive owl, with boding ſtrain,
Shrieks notes of terror from the learned grove;
All! horrid ſounds! full well ye ſooth my pain,
Full well your muſic greets deſpairing love.
[120]
No longer now around the ſocial bowl
I join the jocund laugh, or cheerful lay,
But pour in ceaſeleſs groans my love-ſick ſoul,
'Till fades the lamp at bright Aurora's ray.
How, at the fragrant hour of riſing morn,
Would throbbing tranſport ruſh thro' every vein
To hear the ſwelling ſhout, and echoing horn,
Call the gay hunter to the ſportive plain!
But, ah! the ſprightly joys of youth are fled!
In ſighs and tears my waining life I wear;
So the pale lilly hangs its drooping head,
When chilling hoar-froſts blaſt the vernal year.
Philoſophy! thou guardian of the heart,
Oh, come! in all thy rigid virtue dreſt,
With manly precepts eaſe the killing ſmart,
And drive this tyrant from my wounded breaſt.
Oft would my eye, diſdaining balmy ſleep,
Thy form divine thro' every path explore,
Fathom with reſtleſs toil each maxim deep,
And hang inceſſant o'er thy awful lore.
Alas! oppos'd to Love, how weak! how frail!
Are all the reaſons of th' unfeeling ſage!
No dull advice can o'er his power prevail,
Or the keen pangs his dart inflicts aſſwage.
[121]
Yes tyrant, yes, thou muſt retain thy power,
'Till my torn boſom yields to ſtronger death,
Still muſt I love, even in that fatal hour,
And call on Delia with my lateſt breath.
And when all pale my lifeleſs limbs extend,
And Fate has ſeal'd th' irrevocable doom,
May then my memory find a faithful friend,
To write theſe numbers on my peaceful tomb.
" Here reſts a youth, who love, and ſorrow's ſlave,
" Gave up his early life to pining care,
" 'Till worn with woe, he ſought in this calm grave
" A ſafe retreat from anguiſh and deſpair."
So when the ſtone lies o'er my clay-cold head,
If chance fair Delia to the place drew near,
With one ſad ſigh ſhe may lament me dead,
And bathe the ſenſeleſs marble with a tear.
ON THE FOLLY OF ATHEISM.
[122]HOW weak the Atheiſt's argument, how odd?
Who, to be happy, firſt denies a God;
Then, with too little faith truth to believe,
Can ſhow too much, an error to conceive;
So inconſiſtent, and his folly ſuch,
He truſts too little, while he truſts too much.
A foe profeſs'd to God Almighty's laws,
Yet a blind bigot in the Devil's cauſe;
He from free-thinking hopes to gain ſome light;
Thinks free on every ſubject, but the right;
A hint there is a God raiſes a doubt,
And Prejudice puts weaker Reaſon out:
Of Reaſon proud, by Paſſion rul'd alone,
Becauſe he'd have no God, concludes there's none;
Thinks chance with blind effect nice order brings,
And harmony from wild confuſion ſprings,
Springs of itſelf—for all ſpontaneous grow,
And the created are creators too:
Then immortality he'll diſbelieve,
Yet ſtarts to think he cannot always live;
Dreading it true, a future ſtate denies,
And while he laughs at death, with fear he dies;
Deſpairing launches to ſome future ſtate,
Repents his folly—but repents too late.
ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR.
[123]THou! who art thirſty for a poet's name,
Panting for perpetuity of fame;
O! tremble to increaſe the Muſes tribe,
'Till Mother Griffiths has receiv'd a bribe:
If praiſe, like hers, can make thy piece go down,
Th' inſurance premium is but half a crown;
And who can blame her? for the bawd muſt pay
In ready caſh the hirelings of a day:
Elſe would the movement of the preſs ſtand ſtill,
And low-bred Scandal drop her venal quill.
Yet ſure one bard 'tis better to purſue
Thro' the black numbers of a dull Review,
And maim a work without the ſkill to carve,
Than that a whole Society ſhould ſtarve.
GEMINI.
*⁎* The Monthly Reviewers having taken upon them to aſſert, that we plundered the poem called the Kite, from the Gent. Mag. This is to aſſure the Public, that aſſertion is falſe and malicious. The Editors of the Poetical Calendar are poſſeſſed of three early editions of that poem; the firſt is printed in the year 1719. the ſecond at Oxford in 1722. and the third is in a collection of poems called the Flower-piece, printed in 1731. from which we copied it. What fine criti⯑ciſms may the world expect from ſuch ignorant and malevolent writers!
Appendix A CONTENTS.
[]- THompſon's hymn to May, Page 1
- Ode to May, 27
- Song on May morning, 28
- The ſixteenth of May, 29
- Deſcription of ſpring in London, 30
- The moonlight night, 32
- Mendez' imitation of Spenſer, 35
- The ſeaſons.
- Spring, 37
- Summer, 41
- Autumn, 44
- Winter, 48
- Farewell hymn to the country, 51
- Love verſes.
- Elegy I. to Damon, 65
- Elegy II. the anſwer, 67
- The recantation, 73
- Love elegies.
- Elegy I. 76
- Elegy II. 81
- An inſcription in Ham-walks, 87
- Verſes written on a pedeſtal, 89
- Ode on Ranelagh, 93
- The rival beauties, 98
- Woman's age, 103
- The breach of the rivers, 105
- Labour in vain. A ſong, 110
- Materials for a monody, 111
- The accident. A paſtoral elegy, 112
- Sweet-William, 117
- To the rev. mr. Layng, 118
- Love elegy, 119
- The folly of atheiſm, 122
- Advice to an author, 123
END OF VOL. V.
Notes
(a)
Leda's twins] Caſtor and Pollux.
(b)
The Ce⯑mini are ſuppoſed to preſide over learned men. See Pontanus in his beautiful poem called Urania, lib. ii. de Geminis.
(c)
Certes] Surely, certainly.
(d)
Rhedicyna] Oxford.
(e)
Fair as their father god] Jupiter deceived Leda in the ſhape of a ſwan as ſhe was bathing herſelf in the river Eurotas.
(f)
Ne] Nor.
(g)
Camus] A light gown.
(h)
Purſled] Flouriſhed with a needle.
(i)
In roſeal undulation] Pliny tells us, lib. xi. That the Phoenix is about the bigneſs of an eagle: the feathers round the neck ſhining like gold, the body of a purple colour, the tail blue with feathers reſembling roſes. See Claudian's fine poem on that ſubject, and an elegant tranſlation of it by mr. Tickell in the firſt vol. of the Poetical Calendar, p. 42. See alſo Marcellus Donatus, who has a ſhort diſſertation on the Phoenix in his obſervations on Tacitus. Annal. lib. vi.
(k)
Undaz'd] Undazzled.
(l)
Sheen] Brightneſs, ſhining.
(m)
Goodlihead] Beauty.
(n)
Meed] Prize.
(o)
Been] Are.
(p)
Diſpredden] Spread.
(q)
Ouzle] Blackbird.
(r)
Unanell'd] Without a funeral knell.
(s)
Ne recks] Nor is concern'd.
(t)
Nourſle] To nurſe.
(u)
Affray] Affright.
(x)
So antient cuſtom's will] The Lemuria, or rites ſacred to the Lemures, were celebrated by the Romans in May. They imagined the Lemures (in Engliſh, Fairies) to be like ghoſts of deceaſed perſons: But our traditional accounts are very different in reſpect to the nature of Fairies.
(y)
Recure] Recover.
(z)
Empight] Placed, fixed.
(a)
Defftly] Finely.
(b)
Bonnibels] Pretty women.
(c)
Glenne] A country borough.
(d)
Eld] Old age.
(e)
Luſty-head] Vigour.
(f)
Algates] Ever.
(g)
Bay] Bathe.
(h)
Harrow] Deſtroy.
(i)
Carl] A clown.
(k)
Perdie] An old word for aſſerting any thing.
(l)
Colin Clout] Spenſer uſes this name in the Shepherd's Calendar, &c. and his miſtreſs is celebrated by that of Ro⯑ſalinda.
(m)
In Acidalian ſhade, &c.] Theſe three ce⯑lebrated poets and lovers were all of them unhappy in their amours. Ovid was baniſhed on account of his paſſion for Julia. Death deprived Petrarch of his beloved Laura very early; as he himſelf tells us in his account of his own life. As for Spenſer, we may conclude that his love for Roſalinda proved unſucceſsful from his pathetical complaints, in ſeveral of his poems, of her cruelty. The author, therefore, thought it only a poetical kind of juſtice to reward them in this ima⯑ginary retreat of lovers, for the misfortunes they really ſuf⯑fered here on account of their paſſion.
(n)
Livehood] Livelineſs.
(o)
Albè] Although.
(p)
Scant] Scarcely.
(q)
Bedight] Adorn'd.
*
Pleaſe.
*
The late mr. Thomſon.
†
Revengeful.
*
Darling.
†
Lover.
*
Doves.
†
Circles, or windings.
Dagger
Bathes.
Verbar
Go.
*
Knotty.
†
Starting, flying-out.
*
Careleſs.
†
Requite.
*
Sorrow.
†
Hardy, valiant.
Verbar
Truth.
*
Vigor.
†
Often.
Dagger
Follow.
Verbar
Salute.
§
Altho'.
*
Daedalus envying Perdix his nephew's ſkill in mechanics, threw him into the ſea. He eſcaped death by being changed into a partridge.
†
Anguiſh, pain.
Dagger
Reach'd, overtaken.
*
Companions,
†
Mix.
Dagger
Bathe.
Verbar
Judges ill.
*
Sorrow.
*
Hermits.
†
Stupified.
*
A linen cloth.
*
Two ſeats in Ham walks, called Tubs, from their form, which reſembles an hogſhead ſplit in two.
*
A line of mr. Maſon's.
*
Mr. Lacy, one of the managers of Drury-lane theatre, is ſaid to have firſt planned Ranelagh.
- Citation Suggestion for this Object
- TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 5363 The poetical calendar Containing a collection of scarce and valuable pieces of poetry by the most eminent hands Intended as a supplement to Mr Dodsley s collection Written and selected by Fra. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-58C9-F