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THE POETICAL CALENDAR. VOL. VI. FOR JUNE.
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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.
LONDON: Printed by DRYDEN LEACH; For J. COOTE, at the King's Arms, in Pater-noſter-Row, MDCCLXIII.
[]THE POETICAL CALENDAR.
JUNE. AN ODE.
HArk! 'tis the woodlark's note, he feels the ſun,
And in full glee his mattins has begun,
With him the linnet and the blackbird vie,
Who ſweeteſt ſhall ſalute the ſummer ſky;
From buſh to buſh the jealouſy, like fire,
Seems to enflame the univerſal choir,
Joint is the chorus, ſweet the ſerenade,
Sweet vocal needs no inſtrumental aid.
Now ſwell the udders of the milky kine,
Now ſwells the green grape on the tender vine;
Like ripen'd ſtrawberries of red and white
The germinating bloſſoms charm the ſight;
Blended as in the rain-bow, various hues
Of flowers uncounted drink the morning dews;
Acanthus, hyacinth, and crocus meet
To make young June rich ſandals for her feet;
[2]
With backward pace a ſea-crab leads the way,
As if it fled the fond purſuit of May;
But May is gone, and leaves to buxom June
What ſhe had rear'd, with nicer care to prune;
With animating heat to warm the ſeed,
And of each plant the tender roots to feed.
Thus month to month ſucceſſive recommends
The growth of Nature to promote her ends;
Gives to each other's hands the forming care,
Firſt January binds with nipping air,
Next February lays the earth in ſnows,
And March reſtrains them as his tempeſt blows—
With milder aſpect April ſends his ſhower,
And May's warm ſun awakes herb, tree and flower,
'Till warmer ſuns, with brighter June combine
To aid young Nature in her great deſign.
ODE TO SUMMER.
[3]HAil, gentle Summer to this iſle!
Where Nature's faireſt beauties ſmile,
And breathe in every plain;
'Tis thine to bid each flower diſplay,
And open to the eye of day
The glories of its reign.
While yon few ſheep enjoy the breeze,
That ſoftly dies upon the trees,
And reſt beneath the ſhade;
This pipe, which Damon gave, ſhall raiſe
Its rural notes to ſing thy praiſe,
And aſk the Muſe's aid.
Diana's ear ſhall catch the ſound,
And all the Nymphs that ſport around
The vale, or upland lawn;
The Nymphs, that o'er the mountain's brow,
Purſue the lightly-bounding roe,
Or chaſe the flying fawn.
Even now, perchance, ſome cool retreat
Defends the lovely train from heat,
[4]And Phoebus' noontide beam;
Perchance, they twine the flowery crown
On beds of roſes, ſoft as down,
Beſide the winding ſtream.
Delightful ſeaſon! every mead
With thy fair robe of plenty ſpread,
To thee that plenty owes;
The laughing fields with joy declare,
And whiſper all in reaſon's ear,
From whence that plenty flows.
Happy the man, whoſe veſſel glides,
Safe and unhurt by Paſſion's tides,
Nor courts the guſts of praiſe!
He ſails with even, ſteady pace,
While Virtue's full-blown beauties grace
The Summer of his days.
SUMMER. A RURAL SONG.
[5]WHere the light cannot pierce, in a grove of tall trees,
With my fair one as blooming as May,
Undiſturb'd by all ſound but the ſighs of the breeze,
Let me paſs the hot noon of the day.
When the ſun leſs intenſe to the weſtward inclines,
For the meadows the groves we'll forſake,
And ſee the rays dance as inverted he ſhines
On the face of ſome river or lake.
Where my faireſt and I, on its verge as we paſs,
For 'tis ſhe that muſt ſtill be my theme,
Our two ſhadows may view on the watery glaſs,
While the fiſh are at play in the ſtream.
May the herds ceaſe to lowe, and the lambkins to bleat,
When ſhe ſings me ſome amorous ſtrain;
All be ſilent, and huſht, unleſs echo repeat
The kind words, and ſweet ſounds back again.
And when we return to our cottage at night,
Hand in hand as we ſauntering ſtray,
Let the moon's ſilver beams thro' the leaves give us light,
Juſt direct us, and chequer our way.
[6]
Let the nightingale warble its notes in our walk,
As thus gently and ſlowly we move;
And let no ſingle thought be expreſs'd in our talk,
But of friendſhip improv'd into love.
Thus enchanted each day with theſe rural delights,
And ſecure from ambition's alarms,
Soft love and repoſe ſhall divide all our nights,
And each morning ſhall riſe with new charms.
SENT TO A YOUNG LADY
WITH A FINE CARNATION.
TO thee, my Fair, this beauteous flower I ſend,
Admit it as a moralizing friend:
" In charms and ſweetneſs you may me excell,
" Yet deign to liſten while this truth I tell;
" I am your emblem, drive vain pride away,
" Both you and I ſoon bloſſom, ſoon decay."
CONTEMPLATION. AN ODE.
[7]Tecum vivere amem, tecum obeaim libens.
HOR.
COntemplation, lovely fair,
Far from ſcenes of noiſe and care,
Evermore delights to dwell
In the ſtill ſequeſter'd cell:
Lead me then, propitious power,
To thy lonely, rural bower;
To the ſilent, ſhady wood,
To the rivulet's dimpling flood:
And, on ſummer mornings, lead
To the ruſſet heath or mead:
To the cot's plain ſimple door,
The ploughman's peaceful, happy floor:
Where Phyllis brings her loaded pail,
And young affection liſps its tale;
Lead to duſky lanes or ſhades,
Where tall oaks lift high their heads:
To the ſeat of happineſs,
To the garden's lov'd receſs;
Beds with pinks and roſes gay,
The pride and boaſt of June and May,
Contemplation, nymph ſerene,
Guide to lawns, or uplands green,
[8]Or near the promontory's ſide—
Let me hear the roaring tide,
Hear old Ocean's wild waves roll;—
On the ſad knell ſlowly toll,
Or, at gloomy hour of day,
With me to the church-yard ſtray,
And meditate among the dead;
While the ſexton plies his ſpade,
There peruſe the time-worn ſtones,
Or, as he turns up human bones,
Think on what I ſoon muſt be,
Think on vaſt eternity:
'Till torches diſſipate the gloom,
And the ſable mourners come;
'Till the venerable prieſt,
In his ſnowy ſurplice dreſs'd,
Loudly begins the ſolemn lines,
And "duſt to duſt," at length conſigns.
Hail! matron lovely, tho' demure,
Ever chaſte and ever pure,
Diffuſe thy balm into my breaſt,
Bring with thee happineſs and reſt:
Sooth each melancholy ſigh,
Teach me to live, and teach to die!
VERSES WRITTEN IN AN ALCOVE AT —
[9]STranger! here prolong thy ſtay,
And the rural ſcene ſurvey:
Bloſſoms beautify the trees,
Soft and pleaſing is the breeze;
Tho' the polyanthus dies,
Fairer flowers begin to riſe.
Roſes rear their crimſon heads,
Tulips decorate yon beds;
Linnets chaunt ſweet minſtrelſy;
See how active is the bee!
Lo, ſhe flies from flower to flower,
And exerts her chymic power.
View yon grotto in the dell,
And admire each poliſh'd ſhell:
Then, with rapture, turn thine eye
To the rill that murmurs by.
Mark the diſtant mountain's ſteep,
And the ſnowy flocks of ſheep;
And the cattle grazing there.—
Stranger! God is every where.
In each favourite ſcene I ſee
Omnipreſent Deity:
Even the rill and antique rock,
Lowing herd, and harmleſs flock;
Even the Anchorite's abode,
Evince a wiſe and powerful God.
ODE ON HEALTH.
[10]SHE comes—and on each blooming cheek ſhe wears
The bluſh, which bright Aurora's pencil drew:
Her eye looks life; ſhe breathes etherial ſweets,
And decks her hair with glittering gems of dew.
She comes, and with her Hebe*, ever young,
The ſweeteſt, lovelieſt children of the ſkies:
Health, moſt good-natur'd, makes a longer ſtay,
But Hebe, charming, cruel Hebe flies.
Oh! while I feel thy ſiſter's genial ray,
Do thou, dear Health! thy beniſon beſtow:
With bounding ſpirits fill my thirſty ſoul,
And tinge my cheek with thy celeſtial glow.
Ah! leave me not, unpitied and forlorn,
But liſten to thy ſiſter's tender cry:
For me ſhe pleads—for me ſhe lifts her hand,
Oh! hear her, Goddeſs—hear her, elſe I die.
[11]
Grant me thy ſmile, and I will ſhape my courſe
To whatſoever ſpot thy footſteps lead:
Thro' bleating vallies, and thro' ſighing groves,
Or o'er the mountains tall majeſtic head.
Or when the ſun imprints his virgin kiſs,
Soft on the ſurface of the trembling wave,
At thy command I'll plunge into the flood,
And wake each drowſy Naiad, as I lave.
Liſt to my prayer—but if thou art reſolv'd
That all thy benefits to me ſhall ceaſe:
Grant me ſome little notice to prepare
My long, long journey to the Land of Peace.
SONG.
[12]SWeet are the banks, when Spring perfumes
The verdant plants, and laughing flowers,
Fragrant the violet, as it blooms,
And ſweet the bloſſoms after ſhowers.
Sweet is the ſoft, the ſunny breeze,
That fans the golden orange-grove;
But oh! how ſweeter far than theſe
The kiſſes are of her I love.
Ye roſes! bluſhing in your beds,
That with your odours ſcent the air;
Ye lillies chaſte! with ſilver heads
As my Cleora's boſom fair:
No more I court your balmy ſweets;
For I, and I alone, can prove,
How ſweeter, when each other meets,
The kiſſes are of her I love.
Her tempting eyes my gaze inclin'd,
Their pleaſing leſſon firſt I caught;
Her ſenſe, her friendſhip next confin'd
The willing pupil ſhe had taught.
Should fortune, ſtooping from her ſky,
Conduct me to her bright alcove;
Yet, like the turtle, I ſhould die,
Denied the kiſs of her I love.
ODE TO EVENING.
[13]THou tranquil daughter of the day!
On whoſe fair face autumnal Zephyrs play;
O'er whoſe ſerene unclouded eye
Sol ſheds the mildeſt luſtre of the ſky.
Thee, undiſturb'd, oh! let me hail,
And tread the carpet of thy verdant vale;
Near which, with bonnet wheaten-bound,
Sits Ceres liſtening to the ſheep-bell's ſound;
Or let me woo thee by the ſtream
Obliquely gilded by the weſtern beam,
While flies and gnats unnumber'd throng,
And faintly murmur no unpleaſing ſong.
Now to enjoy the ſilent hour
The lark deſcends from his aerial tower.
Apollo is reclin'd to reſt
Upon the down of Amphitrite's breaſt.
The bird, who loves the coming night,
Hoots querulous, and flaps his wing for flight.
With wheeling plume the bat flies by,
And mocks th' imperfect motion of the eye.
The buzzing chafer here and there
Spreads his gauze wing, and ſpins along the air.
But dark-eyed night (ſo Heaven ordains)
Comes nodding on, and blackens all the plains.
[14]The pleaſing ſcenes, which Nature drew,
Are clouded o'er, and vaniſh'd from the view.
The ſplendid morn, the noon of day,
And all the ſhades of evening are away;
But ſoon the ſplendid morn, again
Shall radiate all the firmamental plain,
And ſoon the ſun's meridian ray,
Zenith'd on high, ſhall give us back the day;
And evening! thou, with aſpect bland,
Shalt pour thy lengthening ſhadow o'er the land.
Such is thy pictur'd life, oh man!
Which daily dies, and fades as it began.
Thy infant morn ſhall ſink away,
Thy noon of youth, and evening age decay,
Then death ſhall wrap thee in his urn,
For duſt thou wert, and ſhalt to duſt return.
THE LADY AND THE LINNET. A TALE.
ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND.
[15]Sumit Myrrha novos, veteres ut ponit amictus,
Mutat amatores miſeros, ſic mutat amicos.
FRAGM. INCERT. AUT [...].
TO lift the low, the proud depreſs,
And ſuccour weakneſs in diſtreſs;
A foe forgive, and yet contend
With generous ardour for a friend:
Are virtues, tho' but thinly ſown,
Not circumſcrib'd to you alone;
Since hourly obſervation finds
They ſpring in ſome inferior minds;
Which, tho' we juſtly paſs our praiſe on,
Are not the ſound effects of reaſon;
But often flow from whim or faſhion,
From pride, or ſome impurer paſſion.
But you, whom heaven at firſt deſign'd
The boaſt and envy of your kind;
Above your ſex's cenſure plac'd,
In beauty, breeding, temper, taſte;
Who only ſhow regard to merit,
Unconſcious what yourſelf inherit;
[16]While other ladies fume and rail
In indignation at my tale;
With each reflection pick a quarrel,
And find a ſatire in each moral;
May ſafely every page peruſe,
Nor be offended with the muſe;
Where not a ſingle line appears,
Which honour dreads, or virtue fears.
A hungry hawk, in queſt of prey,
Wide o'er the foreſt wing'd his way;
Whence every bird, that haunts the glade,
Or warbles in the rural ſhade,
Diſpers'd, in wild diſorder flies
Before the tyrant of the ſkies.
A linnet, feebler than the reſt,
With weary wings and panting breaſt
Sought Sylvia's window in deſpair,
And fluttering crav'd protection there.
Compaſſion touch'd the fair one's mind,
(For female hearts are always kind.)
Upward the gliding ſaſh ſhe threw,
And in the little ſtranger flew;
There, in her fragrant boſom preſt,
The nymph revives her drooping gueſt;
Then (danger o'er, and all ſerene)
Reſtores him to his fields again.
What wondrous joy, what grateful love,
Inſpir'd the wanderer of the grove!
[17]In unexpected life elate,
When now he recollects his fate!
And ſets the friendly fair in view,
Who gave him life and freedom too!
For gratitude, to courts unknown,
And unreturn'd by man alone,
Wide thro' the wing'd creation reigns,
And dwells amidſt the humble plains;
In every verdant field and ſhade,
The juſt, the generous debt is paid.
Back from the Sylvan bower he hies,
To thank his dear deliverer flies;
And, at her window, chaunting ſtood
Her praiſe, with all the zeal he could.
There Lin his morning viſits pays,
And there he tunes his evening lays;
There oft the noon-day hour prolongs,
And pours his little ſoul in ſongs.
His heavenly airs attention drew,
And Sylvia ſoon the warbler knew;
Then uſes every charm to win,
And draw the wild muſician in;
He enters, fearleſs of a ſnare,
For how ſhould fraud inhabit there?
And now, by frequent viſits free,
At firſt he perches on her knee;
Then, grown by long acquaintance bolder,
Familiarly aſcends her ſhoulder;
[18]And, wholly now devoid of fear,
Plays with the pendant in her ear;
O'er all her neck and boſom ſtrays,
And, like a lover, learns to teaze;
Pecks on her hand, and fondly ſips
Delicious nectar from her lips.
Thrice happy bird, how wert thou bleſs'd,
Of ſuch ſuperior love poſſeſs'd!
Couldſt thou but make the tenure ſure,
And thoſe unrivall'd hours endure!
But love, a light, fantaſtic thing,
Like thee, is always on the wing;
And ſacred friendſhip oft a jeſt,
When center'd in a female breaſt!
Thus Lin the circling moments paſt
In raptures too refin'd to laſt;
When (as his conſtant court he paid)
Some envious ſongſters of the ſhade
Obſerv'd his motions to and fro,
For merit's ne'er without a foe.
They mark'd the tranſports of his eye,
His ſprightly air, and gloſſy dye;
And all agreed to know, ere night,
What gave the vagrant ſuch delight.
Strait to the beauteous bower they throng,
Nor for admittance waited long;
The nymph, whom every charm attends,
Receives her new, aerial friends;
[19]With crumbled cake, and fruitage feeds,
And feaſts them on her choiceſt ſeeds;
Did all, that kindneſs could inſpire,
To bring her coy acquaintance nigh her;
And Linny now returns, to pay
The due devotions of the day;
When to his wondering eyes aroſe
A numerous circle of his foes;
Grief touch'd his ſoul, to ſee them there,
But, with a ſeeming eaſy air,
He took his place among the reſt,
And ſat an undiſtinguiſh'd gueſt.
Alas, how ſoon can time deſtroy
The ſureſt pledge of earthly joy?
A favourite's flattering hopes defeat,
And tumble tyrants from their ſtate?
For time, indulgent but to few,
Depoſes kings—and linnets too.
He, who was once the nymph's delight,
Sits now neglected in her ſight;
In vain to charm her ear he tries,
New forms engag'd her ears and eyes!
The goldfinch ſpreads his gaudy coat,
And all were raviſh'd with his note;
While none attends to Linny's ſtrain,
For, ah, poor Linny's plumes were plain.
And now (the mournful warbler flown)
The nymph and friendly bower their own,
[20]O'er all reſerve their ſpleen prevails,
And every tongue in concert rails:
All wonder'd what her eyes could ſee
In ſuch a worthleſs thing as he!
Who ſtill purſues his private ends,
Ungrateful to his kindeſt friends;
One inſtance ſure might ſerve to ſhow him!
Alas, how little did they know him?
Some then recounted all the arts
He us'd, to vanquiſh little hearts;
Affirm'd, he ſtill was making love,
And kept a miſs in every grove;
Could trifle with the meaneſt fowl,
Nay, offer courtſhip to an owl!
Scandal, tho' pointed in the dark,
Is ſeldom known to miſs its mark;
While few will interrupt its aim,
Regardleſs of another's fame!
Even they, by whom we once were lov'd,
Thro' life for ſeveral years approv'd!
When ſpleen and envy rail aloud,
Are often carried with the croud;
Preferring, rather than contend,
To ſacrifice their neareſt friend.
Thus Sylvia yielded to the birds,
Too complaiſant to doubt their words;
Nor thought, that creatures ſo polite
Could deal in calumny and ſpite!
[21]The injur'd Linnet, with their leaves,
For decency ſhe ſtill receives;
Who, tho' he ſees his foes careſt,
Like ſome fond lover, hopes the beſt;
And doubts his own diſcerning eyes,
But, ah, how obvious is diſguiſe?
At length of hope itſelf bereft,
When now no friendly look was left,
And every mark of fondneſs fled;
He hung his wings, and droop'd his head.
And am I then reſign'd, he ſays,
To ſuch ungenerous foes as theſe?
By theſe defrauded of my bliſs?
Is all her kindneſs come to this?
Yet ah, my tongue, forbear to blame
That lov'd, that ever-honour'd name;
This heart, howe'er miſus'd at laſt,
Muſt own unnumber'd favours paſt;
And ſhall, tho' ne'er to meet again,
The dear remembrance ſtill retain.
He ſpoke—and to the window flew,
There ſat, and ſung his laſt adieu.
FOUR ODES, INTENDED FOR CHORUSES TO A TRAGEDY, AL⯑TERED FROM SHAKESPEAR, ON THE DEATH OF JULIUS CAESAR.
[22]ODE I. AFTER THE FIRST ACT. TO LIBERTY.
THE ſable queen of ſhades retires,
Encircled with her fading fires;
Yok'd to her iron car, the dragons fly,
With ſlow wing blackening many a league of ſky.
Go, melancholy Goddeſs, go,
Nurſe of deſpondency and woe.
'Tis time: the cock's ſhrill clarion calls
The dawn, and ſtrikes the prowling wolf with fear,
And bids the phantoms diſappear,
That glimmer 'midſt yon mouldring walls:
They ſtartle at the ſound,
And gliding o'er the trackleſs ground,
Loth, to their marble manſions haſte away.
No more their livid lightnings play:
[23]The terrors of aerial tumults ceaſe,
Huſh'd to Serenity and ſmiling Peace.
For, lo! in heaven's ambroſial bowers,
Wak'd by the ſtationary hours,
Parent of day, the morn unveils her eyes,
And vermeil bluſhes ſtreak the orient ſkies.
How Nature triumphs at the ſight,
Renew'd in all her beauty bright!
Her fragrant groves their incenſe yield;
The Zephyrs, from her humid ſtores, diffuſe
The ſweetneſs of mellifluous dews;
And Pleaſure paints the lillied field.
Here, gilt with ſplendid rays,
The ſpires and lofty turrets blaze;
There the canals reflect a pleaſing gleam;
While dancing down the pebbly ſtream
The ſilver radiance cheers the feather'd throng:
Woods, hills, and dales re-echo with their ſong.
Thus, like the Morn, will faireſt Freedom come,
In majeſty divine,
With dawning glory to diſperſe the gloom
Of dire oppreſſion; and illume the mind
To darkneſs and deſpondency confin'd.
Ariſe, O Liberty! 'tis thine
The charms of nature to refine;
[24]With blooming hope and harmony to pleaſe,
To crown with plenty, and to bleſs with eaſe,
To light up awful Virtue's living ray,
And pour the flood of intellectual day.
Place me in Afric's deſert lands,
Where Thirſt ſits gaſping on the ſands;
If there auſpicious Freedom fix her ſeat,
'Midſt burning blaſts, I'll hail the rude retreat;
Soon ſhall the wild, more poliſh'd grown,
Admire new beauties, not her own:
Sage Induſtry ſhall dig the well
Capacious, yawning many a fathom deep;
While lowing herds, and bleating ſheep,
Stand frequent in the cooling cell:
Soon ſhall the mantling vine
Be taught around the palm to twine;
And ſocial arts the ſtranger Naiads wake,
That ſleep beneath the diſtant lake,
Curious to view young Commerce gaily roam,
And bring full harveſts to his barren home.
Place me beneath the gelid Zone,
Near Winter's adamantine throne,
Where fartheſt Ocean foams with icy roar
Along the bleak, inhoſpitable ſhore:
If Freedom to the ſmoky dome
With fur-cloath'd mortals deign to roam;
[25]Thro' ſnowy waſtes the dome I'll ſeek:
What hinders to enjoy the freezing year!
For Property will there appear;
And cheerful Health, with roſy cheek,
Purſue the panting prey;
Or, mindful of the lengthen'd day,
Sit chaunting on the mountain's cryſtal brow,
Where hanging torrents ſhine below;
Nor will Cimmerian Sleep forget to bring
Safe Slumbers, waving at his downy wing.
Come then, Celeſtial, let thy wiſh'd return
This happier clime ſerene;
This happier clime, if Rome thy abſence mourn,
No more with ſmiles of pleaſure entertains,
Nor Baia's groves, nor rich Campania's plains:
Heartleſs we view the ſplendid ſcene
Of turrets, and the painted green;
Heartleſs the muſic of the groves we hear,
As when, new harneſs'd out by wrath and fear,
Night's chariot moves in ſtorms; and thunders hurl'd
Roll their broad terrors round the groaning world.
ODE II. AFTER THE SECOND ACT. TO FANCY.
[26]WHere art thou, Fancy, viſionary maid?
Whoſe lenient artifice and eaſy aid
Can quell the fierce diſorders of the breaſt,
And ſoothe the penſive ſoul to reſt?
Whether along the daiſy bank reclin'd,
With foliage veil'd, you court the fanning wind;
Or by the brook's loquacious channel ſtray,
Where the deep dimpled eddies play;
Haſte thee, from the blended glow
Of beauties in yon lucid bow,
With fine-ſpun light, and golden beams,
Softly weave thy waking dreams:
Bid the rang'd ideas fly,
Opening to the raviſh'd eye
A glimpſe of bliſs, where gay Deſire is found
Sporting with Youth, while Muſic wakes around.
Behold the variegated proſpect riſe!
What gallant harmony! what glad ſurprize!
The ſweet Mygdonian pipe with rural ſtrains
Collects the nymyhs and ſhepherd ſwains.
[27]Secure in yonder vale their fleecy breed,
And heifers 'midſt the neighbouring paſtures feed.
Meanwhile, with flowrets deck'd, each blitheſome pair
Have bid adieu to pine and care.
See them hand in hand advance
Circling in the ſmooth-pac'd dance;
Now to numbers quaint they ſtray,
Bounding on the mazy way!
The goldfinch and the linnet nigh
Join the ſimple minſtrelſy:
The ſimple notes, and merry gambols fire
(Plac'd by the hawthorn-hedge) each antient fire.
But, ſee! where Solitude, of ſober mien,
With Health and Modeſty, her charming maids,
Leaving the ſtraw-roof'd neighbourhood, is ſeen
To rove beneath the venerable ſhades!
O harmleſs cottages! O happy glades!
Where no misfortunes factious rage deplore,
No diſcontent the quiet breaſt invades:
How pleaſant 'tis from this far-ſeaſon'd ſhore
To hear the tumbling Ocean's wavy roar!
Now whither, with the ſun-beam's darting ſpeed,
Thy rapt enthuſiaſt, Fancy, wilt thou lead?
What other ſcenes of more ſincere delight
The goddeſs and her gueſt invite?
[28]She, like the Sybil with the golden bough,
Deſcends to ſearch the ſacred realms below.
In amaranthine bowers the bleſt appear,
By pearly grot or fountain clear:
To heroes ghoſts, or ſcepter'd kings,
The laurell'd bard divinely ſings.
Hark! the animating ſtrains
Warble thro' th' Elyſian plains:
When the pauſe admits delay,
Thus th' immortals ſeem to ſay,
(Cloſing the accents of each tuneful voice)
" For ever thus, for ever we rejoice."
What ſad tranſition? means this riſing ſhow
To drive out real pain with fancied woe?
I ſee the mourners in the darken'd room,
The ruſtic hearſe, the letter'd tomb.
Still, ſtill the wayward, wild ideas take
The ſolemn livery of Death, and wake
Tender-eyed Pity, as the village-train
The ſhrouded huſbandman ſuſtain.
What ſemblances of wretched plight
'Mid the proceſſion ſtrike the ſight?
Ah! 'tis Grief herſelf appears,
Her flowing treſſes ſteep'd in tears;
Her garments torn, her boſom bare,
Reckleſs of th' inclement air:
[29]Three orphan children mark their mother's moan,
Hang down their heads, and anſwer groan for groan.
Hence, hence, ye hapleſs images; away
Deluſive Fancy; with thy ſubtle heat
No more thy vain machinery diſplay,
Now the dank grave, and now the green retreat:
Contentment's truth ſurpaſſes thy deceit.
Siſter of Wiſdom ſhe; of aſpect mild:
Who makes the golden mean her certain ſeat,
And looks on Caſualty as Nature's child;
To heaven's beheſts ſtill nobly reconcil'd.
ODE III. AFTER THE THIRD ACT. ON TRUE GREATNESS.
[30]LET who will climb the towery ſteep
Of ſovereignty, with ſlippery ſtrides,
Where, on the boſom of the deep
Below, the pitchy pinnace rides:
A death's head flag, unfurl'd to view,
Waves ghaſtly; and a ſable crew
Gaze from the deck, and ſeem to wait,
Daſh'd down the pointed rocks, the raſh unfortunate.
Mine be the low and level way,
Amid the quiet vale to ſtray,
Safe in ſome ſylvan lodge to dwell,
And lull'd by the clear ſtream that ſpeeds
By ſhallow fords to ruſtling reeds,
And ſmall lakes, fring'd with homely aſphodel.
There ſits the calm, the rural ſage,
With Nature's volume fair in view;
And meditates the ſhining page
Replete with wonders ever new:
While wiſdom points, on either hand,
Where plants, and herbs, and flowrets ſtand
[31]In emerald groves, and ſhadowy glades,
In furzy moors, or muſky-ſmelling meads.
Truth, in her liquid glaſs ſerene,
To him explains each moral ſcene:
Oft, in the downward ſkies, a train
Of tinſel inſects he ſurveys,
Or glow-worm, with fallacious blaze,
Juſt emblem of court greatneſs, frail and vain.
Oft in his woodland walk he ſtops to mark
The ſpirited and youthful lark,
Warn'd by the dawning in the dappled eaſt,
Lift his melodious flight thro' upper air;
Late the low tenant of the ruſhy neſt
Now ſings unrival'd in his radiant ſphere.
The pondering hermit then ſees Merit roam,
Above the nurſlings of the courtly dome,
On Glory's ſparkling wheels, rais'd from its humble home.
Firſt of the families of fame
That Rome's imperial city grace,
From rural huts and hamlets came
The Fabian and Fabrician race;
With that firm Judge that could contemn
And baniſh the proud diadem.
To Sabine fields ſhe owes the vine,
Whoſe tendrils yet round Virtue's column twine;
Which braves Oppreſſion's wintry breath,
And ſtands the icy touch of Death.
[32]The leafleſs ſtock, that Fortune dooms
To wither, with returning Spring
(While the glad flocks of Freedom ſing)
Profuſe of promis'd ſweets, with double vigour blooms.
Hark! hark! 'tis Brutus' name I hear,
Join'd with his fair, heroic bride;
To Honour's hallow'd fane they ſteer
Along the favourable tide;
To her and Safety there to place
The tablet, vow'd to human race:
Blow, every kind and gentle gale
Of gratitude, and fan the ſwelling ſail.
High on a fleecy couch reclin'd,
Of white and amber clouds combin'd,
Rome's genius lifts his auguſt head;
Now ſlow deſcending nearer draws,
Hail'd with the popular applauſe,
And bids the ſolemn pageantry proceed.
Go, the triumphal ornaments diſplay;
Ye ſacred Salii lead the way:
Next led the order of Patrician blood,
In awful march, a numerous train compoſe,
And follow'd by the jubilating crowd;
As Cybelé thro' Phrygian cities goes,
Majeſtic, and with golden turrets crown'd:
A hundred gods her gorgeous car ſurround.
A thouſand tongues acclaim; the clanging cymbals ſound.
ODE IV. AFTER THE FOURTH ACT. TO CONCORD.
[33]SOul of the world, firſt Mover, ſay,
From thee what glorious being came,
Powerful to raiſe this univerſal frame?
Who taught the ponderous wheels to play?
Gave Beauty to look forth with radiant eyes,
And cloath'd with ambient Day the cryſtal ſkies?
'Twas Concord, who enthron'd above,
With ſevenfold adamantine chains
The path of wandering orbs reſtrains,
Kindles the genial fire of love,
And walks the courts of genuine light,
(While all heaven hails the wonders of her ſight)▪
Where Bliſs has baniſh'd Chance, and ſore Annoy,
And Goodneſs fills the cup of general Joy.
Nor is ſhe to the Heavens confin'd;
Forth on the Morning's wings ſhe rides,
She ſkims the glowing Evening's purple tides,
And leaves the ſetting Sun behind.
Where doves ſit cooing at the noontide hour,
And linnets warble in the woodbine bower;
[34]Where the pale moon her luſtre ſpreads,
The love-lorn bird divides her ſong,
The ſoft flute ſoothes the rural throng,
And dew-drops load the flowrets' heads;
Where the ingenuous Chorus ſings,
The delicate touch flies o'er the trembling ſtrings,
From the gilt roof the ſymphony rebounds;
Thine, Goddeſs, are the charms, and thine the ſilv [...] ſounds
The buxom air, the ſaphire main,
All height and depth confeſs thy gracious reign;
But chief is thy delight to dwell
Lodg'd in the human breaſt, thy deareſt cell.
Favour and friendſhip meet thee there,
And tender Tranſport with the guſhing tear:
There Wedlock at thy altar bends,
There halcyon Peace ſecurely broods,
And meek Tranquillity attends
To quell unruly Rage, and ſooth the ſwelling floods.
Now by the magic of thy tongue,
That call'd up firſt the rolling ſpheres,
Thro' the gay circle of revolving years,
With rapturous ſounds of myſtic ſong,
Attun'd in heavenly harmony to run:
And by the virtue of th' enchanting zone,
[35]Which when the fair Idalian queen
Accepts, with univerſal ſway,
The Smiles and winning Paſſions play
In her reſiſtleſs look and mien;
The Loves thy heavenly gift admire,
And tip their little darts with lambent fire;
Freſh wreaths the Graces bring, and form the round,
Where riſing daiſies mark the meaſur'd ground.
Now by the roſy mildneſs ſweet,
Of which when youthful Spring awakes,
From thy abundance amply ſhe partakes,
What time the ſilk-plum'd Zephyrs meet
In Saba's groves, to kiſs the bending blooms
With balmy lips, and wanton in perfumes:
And by the ripened, redolent grace,
When Summer in the Perſian fields
To ſober-ſeeming Autumn yields
Her treaſures on the loaded ſprays,
The ſky-rob'd plum, the purple vine,
The velvet peach, and damaſk nectarine;
While Plenty, waving her Heſperian bough,
Gladdens Pomona with the golden ſhow.
Great Goddeſs! with the words of Peace
Bid this wild Uproar of Contention ceaſe;
[36]Bid Amity, with gentle ray,
The woes that lowr on Faction's brow diſplay.
Shall Rome to thee a rebel prove?
For helliſh Hate abandon heavenly Love?
Here, gentle Concord, on each breaſt
Let thy ſpring-ſweetneſs bland diſtill,
Here thy ambroſial fragrance reſt,
And all mankind obey thy ſovereign will.
MELPOMENE. AN ODE.
[37]QUeen of the human heart! at whoſe command
The ſwelling tides of mighty Paſſion riſe,
Melpomene, ſupport my venturous hand,
And aid thy ſuppliant in his bold empriſe.
From the gay ſcenes of pride
Do thou his footſteps guide
To Nature's aweful courts, where nurſt of yore,
Young Shakeſpear, Fancy's child, was taught his various lore.
So may his favour'd eye explore the ſource,
To few reveal'd, whence human ſorrows charm:
So may his numbers, with pathetic force,
Bid Terror ſhake us, or Compaſſion warm,
As different ſtrains controul
The movements of the ſoul,
Adjuſt its paſſions, harmonize its tone,
To feel for others' woe, or nobly bear its own.
Deep in the covert of a ſhadowy grove,
Mid broken rocks where daſhing currents play;
Dear to the penſive pleaſures, dear to love,
And Damon's muſe, that breathes her melting lay,
This ardent prayer was made.
When lo! the ſecret ſhade,
[38]As conſcious of ſome heavenly preſence, ſhook—
Strength, firmneſs, reaſon, all—my aſtoniſh'd ſoul forſook.
Ah! whither Goddeſs! whither am I borne?
To what wild region's necromantic ſhore?
Theſe panics whence? and why my boſom torn
With ſudden terrors never felt before?
Darkneſs inwraps me round,
While from the vaſt profound
Emerging ſpectres dreadful ſhapes aſſume,
And gleaming on my ſight, add horror to the gloom.
Ha! what is he whoſe fierce indignant eye,
Denouncing vengeance, kindles into flame?
Whoſe boiſterous fury blows a ſtorm ſo high,
As with its thunder ſhakes his labouring frame.
What can ſuch rage provoke?
His words their paſſage choak:
His eager ſteps, nor time nor truce allow,
And dreadful dangers wait the menace of his brow.
Protect me, Goddeſs! whence that fearful ſhriek
Of conſternation? as grim Death had laid
His icy fingers on ſome guilty cheek,
And all the powers of manhood ſhrunk diſmay'd:
Ah ſee! beſmear'd with gore,
Revenge ſtands threatening o'er
[39]A pale delinquent, whoſe retorted eyes
In vain for pity call—the wretched victim dies.
Not long the ſpace—abandon'd to Deſpair,
With eyes aghaſt, or hopeleſs fixt on earth,
This ſlave of paſſion rends his ſcatter'd hair,
Beats his ſad breaſt, and execrates his birth:
While torn within, he feels
The pangs of whips and wheels;
And ſees, or fancies, all the fiends below,
Beckoning his frighted ſoul to realms of endleſs woe.
Before my wondering ſenſe new phantoms dance,
And ſtamp their horrid ſhapes upon my brain—
A wretch with jealous brow, and eyes aſkance,
Feeds all in ſecret on his boſom pain.
Fond love, fierce hate, aſſail;
Alternate they prevail:
While conſcious pride and ſhame with rage conſpire,
And urge the latent ſpark to flames of torturing fire.
The ſtorm proceeds—his changeful viſage trace:
From rage to madneſs every feature breaks.
A growing phrenzy grins upon his face,
And in his frightful ſtare Diſtraction ſpeaks:
His ſtraw-inveſted head
Proclaims all reaſon fled;
[40]And not a tear bedews thoſe vacant eyes—
But ſongs and ſhouts ſucceed, and laughter-mingled ſighs
Yet, yet again!—a Murderer's hand appears
Graſping a pointed dagger ſtain'd with blood!
His look malignant chills with boding fears,
That check the current of life's ebbing flood.
In midnight's darkeſt clouds
The dreary miſcreant ſhrouds
His felon ſtep—as 'twere to darkneſs given
To dim the watchful eye of all-pervading Heaven.
And hark! ah Mercy! whence that hollow ſound!
Why with ſtrange horror ſtarts my briſtling hair?
Earth opens wide, and from unhallow'd ground
A pallid Ghoſt ſlow-riſing ſteals on air,
To where a mangled corſe,
Expos'd without remorſe,
Lies ſhroudleſs, unentomb'd, he points the way—
Points to the prowling wolf exultant o'er his prey.
" Was it for this, he cries, with kindly ſhower
" Of daily gifts the traytor I careſs'd?
" For this array'd him in the robe of power,
" And lodg'd my royal ſecrets in his breaſt?
" O kindneſs ill repay'd!
" To bare the murdering blade
[41]" Againſt my life!—may Heaven his guilt explore,
" And to my ſuffering race their ſplendid rights re⯑ſtore."
He ſaid, and ſtalk'd away.—Ah Goddeſs! ceaſe,
Thus with terrific forms to rack my brain;
Theſe horrid phantoms ſhake the throne of peace,
And Reaſon calls her boaſted powers in vain;
Then change thy magic wand,
Thy dreadful troops diſband,
And gentler ſhapes, and ſofter ſcenes diſcloſe,
To melt the feeling heart, yet ſooth its tendereſt woes.
The fervent prayer was heard—With hideous ſound
Her ebon gates of darkneſs open flew;
A dawning twilight cheers the dread profound,
The train of terror vaniſhes from view.
More mild enchantments riſe;
New ſcenes ſalute my eyes,
Groves, fountains, bowers, and temples grace the plain,
And turtles coo around, and nightingales complain.
And every myrtle bower and cypreſs grove,
And every ſolemn temple teems with life;
Here glows the ſcene with fond but hapleſs love,
There with the deeper woes of human ſtrife.
In groups around the lawn,
By freſh diſaſters drawn,
[42]The ſad ſpectators ſeem transfix'd in woe,
And pitying ſighs are heard, and heart-felt ſorrows flow.
Behold that beauteous maid! her languid head
Bends like a drooping lilly charg'd with rain;
With floods of tears ſhe bathes a Lover dead,
In brave aſſertion of her honour ſlain.
Her boſom heaves with ſighs,
To Heaven ſhe lifts her eyes,
With grief beyond the power of words oppreſt,
Sinks on the lifeleſs corſe, and dies upon his breaſt.
How ſtrong the bands of Friendſhip? yet, alas!
Behind yon mouldering tower with ivy crown'd,
Of two, the foremoſt in her ſacred claſs,
One from his friend receives the fatal wound!
What could ſuch fury move!
What but ill-fated love!
The ſame fair object each fond heart enthralls,
And he, the favour'd youth, her hapleſs victim falls.
Can aught ſo deeply ſway the generous mind
To mutual truth, as female truſt in love?
Then what relief ſhall yon fair mourner find,
Scorn'd by the man who ſhould her plaints remove?
By fair, but falſe pretence,
She loſt her innocence;
[43]And that ſweet babe, the fruit of treacherous art,
Claſpt in her arms expires, and breaks the parent's heart.
Ah! who to pomp or grandeur would aſpire?
Kings are not rais'd above misfortune's frown.
That form, ſo graceful even in mean attire,
Sway'd once a ſceptre, once ſuſtain'd a crown.
From filial rage and ſtrife,
To ſcreen his cloſing life,
He quits his throne, a father's ſorrow feels,
And in the lap of Want his patient head conceals.
More yet remain'd—but lo! the penſive Queen
Appears confeſt before my dazzled ſight;
Grace in her ſteps, and ſoftneſs in her mien,
The face of ſorrow mingled with delight.
Not ſuch her nobler frame,
When kindling into flame,
And bold in Virtue's cauſe, her zeal aſpires
To waken guilty pangs, or breathe heroic fires.
Aw'd into ſilence, my rapt ſoul attends—
The Power, with eyes complacent, ſaw my fear;
And, as with grace ineffable ſhe bends,
Theſe accents vibrate on my liſtening ear.
" Aſpiring ſon of art,
" Know, tho' thy feeling heart
[44]" Glow with theſe wonders to thy fancy ſhown,
" Still may the Delian God thy powerleſs toils diſown.
" A thouſand tender ſcenes of ſoft diſtreſs
" May ſwell thy breaſt with ſympathetic woes;
" A thouſand ſuch dread forms on fancy preſs,
" As from my dreary realms of darkneſs roſe,
" Whence Shakeſpear's chilling fears,
" And Otway's melting tears—
" That aweful gloom, this melancholy plain,
" The types of every theme that ſuits the tragic ſtrain.
" But doſt thou worſhip Nature night and morn,
" And all due honour to her precepts pay?
" Canſt thou the lure of Affectation ſcorn,
" Pleas'd in the ſimpler path of Truth to ſtray?
" Haſt thou the Graces fair
" Invok'd with ardent prayer?
" They muſt attire, as Nature muſt impart,
" The ſentiment ſublime, the language of the heart.
" Then, if aſſenting Genius pour his ray,
" Warm with inſpiring influence on thy breaſt;
" Taſte, judgment, fancy, if thou canſt diſplay,
" And the deep ſource of Paſſion ſtand confeſt;
[45]" Then may the liſtening train,
" Affected, feel thy ſtrain;
" Feel Grief or Terror, Rage or Pity move:
" Change with thy varying ſcenes, and every ſcene approve."
Humbled before her ſight, and bending low,
I kiſs'd the borders of her crimſon veſt;
Eager to ſpeak, I felt my boſom glow,
But Fear upon my lips her ſeal impreſt.
While awe-ſtruck thus I ſtood,
The bowers, the lawn, the wood,
The Form celeſtial, fading on my view,
Diſſolv'd in liquid air, and all the viſion flew.
TWO ODES.
[46]ODE I. TO OBSCURITY.
DAughter of Chaos and old Night,
Cimmerian muſe, all hail!
That wrapt in never-twinkling gloom canſt write,
And ſhadoweſt meaning with thy duſky veil!
What Poet ſings, and ſtrikes the ſtrings?
It was the mighty Theban ſpoke.
He from the ever-living lyre
With magic hand elicits fire.
Heard ye the din of modern Rhimers bray?
It was cool M—n: or warm G—y
Involv'd in tenfold ſmoke.
The ſhallow Fop in antic veſt,
Tir'd of the beaten road,
Proud to be ſingularly dreſt,
Changes, with every changing moon, the mode.
Say, ſhall not then the heaven-born Muſes too
Variety perſue?
Shall not applauding Critics hail the vogue?
Whether the Muſe the ſtile of Cambria's ſons,
Or the rude gabble of the Huns,
Or the broader dialect
Of Caledonia ſhe affect,
Or take, Hibernia, thy ſtill ranker brogue?
[47]
On this terreſtrial ball
The tyrant Faſhion governs all.
She, fickle Goddeſs, whom in days of yore
The Idiot Moria, on the banks of Seine,
Unto an antic fool, hight Andrew, bore.
Long ſhe paid him with diſdain,
And long his pangs in ſilence he conceal'd:
At length, in happy hour, his love-ſick pain
On thy bleſt Calends, April, he reveal'd.
From their embraces ſprung,
Ever changing, ever ranging,
Faſhion, Goddeſs ever young.
Perch'd on the dubious height, ſhe loves to ride
Upon a weather-cock, aſtride.
Each blaſt that blows, around ſhe goes,
While nodding o'er her creſt,
Emblem of her magic power,
The light Cameleon ſtands confeſt,
Changing its hues a thouſand times an hour.
And in a veſt is ſhe array'd,
Of many a dancing moon-beam made,
Nor zoneleſs is her waiſt:
But fair and beautiful, I ween,
As the ceſtos-cinctur'd Queen,
Is with the Rainbow's ſhadowy girdle brac'd.
[48]
She bids purſue the favourite road
Of loſty cloud-capt Ode.
Meantime each Bard with eager ſpeed
Vaults on the Pegaſean ſteed:
Yet not that Pegaſus, of yore,
Which th' illuſtrious Pindar bore,
But one of nobler breed.
High blood and youth his luſty veins inſpire.
From Tottipontimoy he came,
Who knows not, Tottipontimoy, thy name?
The Bloody-ſhoulder'd Arab was his Sire.
*His White-noſe. He on fam'd Doncaſtria's plains
Reſign'd his fated breath:
In vain for life the ſtruggling courſer ſtrains.
Ah! who can run the race with death?
The tyrant's ſpeed, or man or ſteed,
Strives all in vain to fly.
He leads the chace, he wins the race,
We ſtumble, fall, and die.
Third from White-noſe ſprings
Pegaſus with eagle wings:
[49]Light o'er the plain, as dancing cork,
With many a bound he beats the ground,
While all the Turf with acclamation rings.
He won Northampton, Lincoln, Oxford, York:
He too Newmarket won.
There Granta's Son
Seiz'd on the Steed;
And thence him led (ſo fate decreed)
To where old Cam, renown'd in poet's ſong,
With his dark and inky waves
Either bank in ſilence laves,
Winding ſlow his ſluggiſh ſtreams along.
What ſtripling neat, of viſage ſweet,
In trimmeſt guiſe array'd,
Firſt the neighing ſteed aſſay'd?
His hand a taper ſwitch adorns, his heel
Sparkles refulgent with elaſtic ſteel:
The whiles he wins his whiffling way,
Prancing, ambling, round and round,
By hill, and dale, and mead, and greenſwerd gay:
'Till ſated with the pleaſing ride,
From the lofty Steed diſmounting,
He lies along, enwrapt in conſcious pride,
By gurgling rill or cryſtal fountain.
Lo! next, a Bard, ſecure of praiſe,
His ſelf-complacent countenance diſplays.
[50]His broad muſtachios, ting'd with golden die,
Flame, like a meteor, to the troubled air:
Proud his demeanor, and his eagle eye,
O'er-hung with laviſh lid, yet ſhone with glorious glare.
The grizzle grace
Of buſhy Peruke ſhadow'd o'er his face.
In large wide boots, whoſe ponderous weight
Would ſink each wight of modern date,
He rides well-pleas'd. So large a pair
Not Garagantua's ſelf might wear:
Not He, of nature fierce and cruel,
Who, if we truſt to antient Ballad,
Devour'd three pilgrims in a ſallad;
Nor He of fame germane, hight Pantagruel.
Accoutred thus, th' adventurous Youth
Seeks not the level lawn, or velvet mead,
Faſt by whoſe ſide clear ſtreams meandring creep;
But urges on amain the fiery ſteed
Up Snowdon's ſhaggy ſide, or Cambrian rock un⯑couth,
Where the venerable herd
Of goats with long and ſapient beard,
And wanton kidlings their blithe revels keep.
Now up the mountain ſee him ſtrain!
Now down the vale he's toſt,
Now flaſhes on the ſight again,
Now in the Palpable Obſcure quite loſt.
[51]
Man's feeble race eternal dangers wait,
With high or low, all, all, is woe,
Diſeaſe, miſchance, pale fear, and dubious fate.
But, o'er every peril bounding,
Ambition views not all the ills ſurrounding,
And, tiptoe on the mountain's ſteep,
Reflects not on the yawning deep.
See, ſee, he ſoars! with mighty wings outſpread,
And long reſounding mane,
The courſer quits the plain.
Aloft in air, ſee, ſee him bear
The Bard, who ſhrouds
His lyric glory in the clouds,
Too fond to ſtrike the ſtars with lofty head!
He topples headlong from the giddy height,
Deep in the Cambrian gulph immerg'd in endleſs night.
O ſteed divine! what daring ſpirit
Rides thee now? tho' he inherit
Nor the pride, nor ſelf-opinion,
Which elate the mighty Pair,
Each of Taſte the favourite minion,
Prancing thro' the deſert air;
By help mechanic of equeſtrian block
Yet ſhall he mount, with claſſic houſing grac'd,
And, all unheedful of the Critic mock,
Drive his light courſer o'er the bounds of Taſte.
ODE II. TO OBLIVION.
[52]*PArent of Eaſe! Oblivion old,
Who lov'ſt thy dwelling-place to hold,
Where ſceptred Pluto keeps his dreary ſway,
Whoſe ſullen pride the ſhivering ghoſts obey!
Thou who delighteſt ſtill to dwell
By ſome hoar and moſs-grown cell,
At whoſe dank foot Cocytus joys to roll,
Or Styx' black ſtreams, which even Jove controul!
Or if it ſuit thy better will
To chuſe the tinkling weeping rill,
Hard by whoſe ſide the ſeeded poppy red
Heaves high in air his ſweetly curling head,
While creeping in meanders ſlow
Lethe's drowzy waters flow,
And hollow blaſts, which never ceaſe to ſigh,
Hum to each care-ſtruck mind their lulla-lulla-by!
A prey no longer let me be
To that goſſip Memory,
[53]Who waves her banners trim, and proudly flies
To ſpread abroad her bribble-brabble lies.
With thee, Oblivion, let me go,
For Memory's a friend to Woe;
With thee, Forgetfulneſs, fair ſilent Queen,
The ſolemn ſtole of grief is never ſeen.
All, all is thine. Thy powerful ſway
The throng'd poetic hoſts obey.
Tho' in the van of Memory proud t' appear,
At thy command they darken in the rear.
What tho' the modern Tragic ſtrain
For nine whole days protract thy reign,
Yet thro' the Nine, like whelps of curriſh kind,
Scarcely it lives, weak, impotent, and blind.
Sacred to thee the Crambo Rhime,
The motley forms of Pantomime:
For thee from Eunuch's throat ſtill loves to flow
The ſoothing ſadneſs of his warbled woe:
Each day to thee falls Pamphlet clean:
Each month a new-born Magazine:
Hear then, O Goddeſs! hear thy votary's prayer!
And if thou deign'ſt to take one moment's care,
Attend thy Bard! who duly pays
The tribute of his votive lays;
Whoſe Muſe ſtill offers at thy ſacred ſhrine;—
Thy Bard, who calls Thee His, and makes Him Thine.
[54]O ſweet Forgetfulneſs, ſupreme
Rule ſupine o'er every theme,
O'er each ſad ſubject, o'er each ſoothing ſtrain
Of mine, O Goddeſs, ſtretch thine awful reign!
Nor let Memory ſteal one note,
Which this rude hand to thee hath wrote!
So ſhalt thou ſave me from the Poet's ſhame,
Tho' on the letter'd Rubric Dodſley poſt my Name.
O come! with opiate poppies crown'd,
Shedding ſlumbers ſoft around!
O come, fat Goddeſs, drunk with Falſtaff's ſack!—
See, where ſhe ſits on the benumb'd Torpedo's back!
Me in thy dull Elyſium lapt, O bleſs
With thy calm Forgetfulneſs!
And gently lull my ſenſes all the while
With placid poems in the ſinking ſtile!
Whether the Herring-Poet ſing,
Great Laureat of the Fiſhes' King,
Or Lycophron prophetic rave his ſill,
Wrapt in the darker ſtrains of Johnny Hill;
Or if he ſing, whoſe verſe affords
A bevy of the choiceſt words,
Who meets his Lady Muſe by moſs-grown cell,
Adorn'd with epithet and tinkling bell:
Theſe, Goddeſs, let me ſtill forget,
With all the dearth of Modern Wit!
So may'ſt thou gently o'er my youthful breaſt
Spread with thy welcome hand Oblivion's friendly veſt.
THE SILENT LOVER.
[55]PAſſions are liken'd beſt to floods and ſtreams,
The ſhallow murmur, but the deep are dumb:
So when affections yield diſcourſe, it ſeems
The bottom is but ſhallow, whence they come:
They who are rich in words, muſt needs diſcover
They are but poor in that which makes a lover.
Wrong not, ſweet miſtreſs of my heart,
The merit of true paſſion,
With thinking, that he feels no ſmart
Who ſues for no compaſſion.
Since if my plaints were not t' approve
The conqueſt of thy beauty,
It comes not from defect of love,
But fear t' exceed my duty;
For knowing that I ſue to ſerve
A ſaint of ſuch perfection,
As all deſire, tho' none deſerve,
A place in her affection.
[56]
I rather enuſe to want relief,
Than venture the revealing;
When glory recommends the grief,
Deſpair diſdains the healing:
Thus ſtrong deſires, which boil ſo high
In any mortal lover,
When Reaſon cannot bid them die,
Diſcretion then ſhould cover.
Yet, when diſcretion doth bereave
The plaints which I ſhould utter,
Your wiſe diſcretion ſhould perceive
My ſilence is a ſuitor.
Silence in love bewrays more woe
Than words, tho' ne'er ſo witty;
A beggar, who is dumb, you know
May challenge double pity.
Then wrong not, deareſt of my heart,
My love for ſecret paſſion,
He ſmarteth moſt, that hides his ſmart,
And ſues for no compaſſion.
ON THE GREAT FOG IN LONDON,
DECEMBER MDCCLXII.
[57]LOſt and bewilder'd in the thickening miſt
We ſtray amid th' irrefragable gloom,
Nor can the penetrating lance of day
Bleed the thick vein; behind a ſizy cloud
The rays of light, his orient meſſengers,
Are intercepted, nor can ſteer their courſe,
Wreckt on a coaſt of jet—even beauty's eye,
Compos'd of azure, here is impotent,
And, all-ſubduing, is itſelf ſubdued;
We joſtle each, by viſion unappriz'd
Of meeting, till, like veſſels, we run foul,
And board each other in the ſullen waſte.
This mockery of night, like vanity,
Conceals us from ourſelves, our ſhadows too,
Lately our dear aſſociates and compeers
Have, like falſe lovers, left us in the Fog,
To ſeek our own identity in vain.
Nature herſelf ſeems in the vapours now,
Dim is the proſpect—ſhall we call it ſo?
A purblind view, next to inviſible?
Or rather darkneſs viſible to ſight.
[58]'Tis a black curtain drawn acroſs the ſky
Diſguſtful, and ſhuts out the ſcenes of day.
Or if a ſun-beam glimmer—lo! the trees,
As we approach 'em, ſeem like hanging webs
Spun by the ſpider—even the great St. Paul,
With his huge dome and cupola, appears
A craggy precipice, rude, uninform'd;
Or, like the ruins of an antient fort
Upon a hill, when twilight ſhuts the day.
The Morning, like a widow, all in weeds,
Stalks forth incog, unwilling to be known,
Veil'd and diſguis'd behind the maſk of Night.
Or, if meridian Phoebus ſhow his face,
He ſeems a ball of molten copper-ore
Like a red beacon on a foggy coaſt.
Abſolute ſhade maintains deſpotic ſway,
Palpable darkneſs, for we ſee by touch,
If hearing not apprize us of approach,
The coach or waggon by its rumbling warns
To ſhun the danger, from our ears we ſee
The threatening wheels, while often touch informs,
When unawares we ſtrike againſt a poſt,
Like ſhips againſt a bank, or ſunken rock,
For ſight is uſeleſs in ſo drear a blank.
The beams of day, refracted in the cloud,
Like birds in ſtorms, are dubious where to fly,
And waſte their radiance on the tawny air.
When fable night appears in ebon car,
[59]The lamps are feeble like the ſocket-ſnuffs
Of tapers juſt expiring, ruſh-lights dim
Like dying wicks within a dreary vault.
'Tis general mourning, every colour fades,
Even the fine roſeat on the virgin's cheek
Turns to a livid blue, and charms no more.
The ſoldiers in the Park ſeem undertakers,
While every coach or carriage, like a hearſe
Diſplays the pageant of a funeral pomp.
Long ſtreets of houſes look like black perſpectives
Of charcoal proſpects, the deſign of boys;
While by no marks directed oft we miſs
Our well-known paſſage—boats upon the Thames
Appear but as the buoys of diſtant ſhips,
Or corks afloat upon the ſullen flood.
ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE HORSE.
[60]DEath is a common fortune, ſure to all,
The horſe, the jocky, and the 'ſquire muſt fall!
Bucephalus himſelf, ſome ages ſince
Has ſhar'd that fortune with his warlike prince.
Immortal Caeſar bow'd beneath the ſtroke,
And Death fell'd Milo, as he tore the oak.
Shall Rozinante's memory ſtill ſurvive,
By drole Cervantes' humour kept alive?
Shall Hudibras's ſteed by Butler's pen
Immortal reign amid the tongues of men?
And ſhall not Forreſter demand a line
To lodge his glories with the tuneful Nine?
He ſhall not want a verſe, if Phoebus' beam
Inſpire the bard, and animate his theme.
What tho' Dan Ovid deathleſs honours won,
And drove the flaming courſers of the ſun;
Tho' Rheſus ſtole the orient ſteeds of day,
When thro' the hoſtile ranks he made his way,
Yet not the horſes of the ſun ſhall vie,
Or damp the ſpirit of our elegy.
Not Pacolet, who journey'd thro' the air
In old romance, ſhall brighter glories ſhare,
[61]Nor he, hight Pegaſus, whom poets ſung,
From whoſe fam'd hoof ſweet Hippocrené ſprung,
Fabled, or real, not a horſe ſhall claim
Than Forreſter a more exalted name.
Raiſe to his ſhade the monumental buſt,
And ſing a requiem to his ſilent duſt.
His form the mimic pencil ſet at nought,
His cheſt with grace inimitable fraught,
Braided with lightning flow'd his ſilver mane,
He ſnufft impatient of the ſhining rein;
Without a rider, if he heard the hounds,
Like thought, o'er every obſtacle he bounds!
Impetuous, ſee! his pamper'd ſides rejoice
If he but hear the well-known clarion's voice,
The battle dreads him—and he ſeems alone
A mounted troop—a cavalry in one!
The whiſtling balls gave rapture to his ears,
Elate, the thunder of the train he hears,
Froth'd is the golden bit—he champs, he rears!
Swift, in the flood of war he bathes his ſides,
He mocks the danger, and the foe derides!
Oft at Newmarket was his ſpeed diſplay'd,
While others ran he fled acroſs the glade,
The eye in vain purſued him to the poſt,
The chaſm was fill'd, the ſpace between was loſt!
Beyond conception was his mighty power,
Whoſe eaſy trot was ſixteen miles an hour.
[62]
But what avail his beauty, ſpeed or ſize,
On the cold ſod a lifeleſs lump he lies,
No more, alas! to grace his rider's form,
And dauntleſs bear him thro' the battle's ſtorm,
Raiſe to his ſhade the monumental buſt,
And ſing a parting requiem to his duſt.
ANACREON, ODE I. IMITATED.
OF trumpets, drums, guns, and the bold bloody battle,
My high-ſounding muſic moſt loudly ſhould rattle;
But alas! my poor fiddle, too weak would it prove,
And can play to no tune, but the ſoft tunes of love.
T'other day with new catgut my fiddle I ſtrung,
Then "Britons ſtrike home" moſt heroicly ſung;
To ſqueeze out high notes tho' my fiddleſtick ſtrove,
My fiddle ſtill tweedled and tweedled of love.
A ſcraper from beauty no more will I rove,
But tune up my fiddle to ſonnets of love.
VERSES ADDRESSED TO THE REV. MR. (NOW BISHOP) WARBURTON, OCCASIONED BY READING HIS SERMONS.
[63]The lips of the wiſe diſperſe knowledge.
SOLOMON.
LET Rome, on man God's image to deface,
Still deem ſtupidity a mark of grace,
On ignorance build what monks devotion name;
Her faith, impiety; her glory, ſhame:
While prieſt and people ghoſtly commerce hold,
And pious frauds exchange for ſinful gold,
May Truth's divine invariable ray
Still bleſs our iſle with intellectual day,
Here, ſtill let wiſdom at each temple wait,
Trace all our ſtreets, and knock at every gate,
Still keep us ſacred, as her laſt retreat
From fools much cheated, and from knaves who cheat:
Still teach thy hands to build, a bleſt employ!
On knowledge virtue, and on virtue joy;
On Reaſon's baſe to bid Religion riſe,
'Till the tall pile ſhall end within the ſkies.
GOD IS LOVE.
[64]THou! at whoſe touch the ſnow-clad moun⯑tains ſmoke,
Eternal wiſdom! touch my lips prophane!
O! touch my heart! my heart, tho' cold, ſhall glow,
My lips breathe eloquence divine! for not
Of earth, in earth-born ſtrains, I mean to ſing
Adventurous, but of thee! thy love alone
Thy wiſdom knows, thy love my awful theme!
Let me not err, low grovelling in the duſt,
Let me not fall, high towering in the ſky—
O! where ſhall I begin? how trace the ſource
Of all! how fathom vaſt immenſity!
Long as the God has been who ne'er began,
Trac'd back and backward ſtill, but trac'd in vain,
Love has ſo long exiſted; God is Love!
Who name him other, know not yet his name;
And if they ſeek him, loſt in error's gloom
Or ſuperſtition's labyrinth, find him not.
Whate'er the glimmering lamp of reaſon ſhow'd
Of God, thro' pagan darkneſs, all was love;
Whate'er the bright effulgence of thy Son,
Bleſt revelation! has diſplay'd, all ſtill
Is love! this pendent world, thoſe rolling orbs,
Nature's whole ſyſtem ſpeaks its Maker kind.
[65]
The varied fruits and flowers, the pleaſing change
Of day and night, the painted landſcape round
Of hill and dale, clear fountain, ſhady wood,
The glittering dew of morn, the crimſon'd cloud
Of evening mild, the ſweetly varied ſong,
The peopled earth, and air, and ſea, all parts
Of one ſtupendous whole, and fram'd for bliſs,
Proclaim him good—Lord of this bleſt domain,
Not male alone, but male and female form'd,
When man receiv'd the breath of life, and took
The ſtamp divine, the image of the God,
What gift was each to each! how lovely both!
Who can their form deſcribe? or who conceive
Conſummate beauty, teſt of ſkill divine?
Thrice happy pair!—to late degenerate times
Your morn and evening ſong had ſome bleſt bard
Tranſmitted fair, in ſtrains by heaven inſpir'd,
Theſe had the gloomy bigot read abaſh'd,
And own'd, that God is Love. But man, alas!
Fell from the perfect beauty, pure deſire,
Fell to deformity, and age, and death,
And hate, and envy, violence and guilt.
He fell; yet unremitted goodneſs ſpoke
To man, apoſtate as he was, the words
Of peace; gave miſery hope, and ſhow'd above
A brighter paradiſe, than Eden's groves,
[66]His portion, when the Woman's promis'd Seed
Should bruiſe the ſerpent's head: amazing grace!
The promis'd Seed was given; the fullneſs then
Of Godhead dwelt in fleſh! high heaven itſelf
No more contains th' aſtoniſhment and joy,
But down its radiant hoſts impatient pour
And Peace proclaim on earth, Good Will to man.
Oh! join the tranſports of th' angelic choir,
And ſing, reſponding to the hallow'd ſtrain,
To God be Glory—But, tremendous ſcene!
Whom do I ſee, in yon drear waſte, forlorn!
Whom tempted there!—who ſtretch'd on earth ſweats blood!
What ruffian hand is that? whom do they drag
Betray'd, inſulted, thro' a ſcoffing crowd?
Whom do they ſcourge! whom crown with thorns remorſeleſs!
Yet hold, barbarians—ſnatch me from the ſight,
Ye whirlwinds! cruſh me, mountains—dreadful!
Horrid! on the croſs they ſtrain, they nail
The lord of life! they rear it! hark he prays—
" Father forgive, they know not what they do"—
Stupendous! what is language! what is thought!
Aſtoniſh'd nature trembles! from the graves
The dead come forth! rocks rend! the ſun with⯑holds
The day!—'tis paſt! the Saviour groans, and dies!—
[67]Oh! let me, bending to the duſt, diſſolve
In ſilent admiration! let my ſoul
Atteſt, in unexpreſſive thought, that God
Is Love! and dare I, dare a groveling worm
Rejoice in ſcenes like theſe?—O teach me, thou
My Saviour! teach me to divide aright
My love, and awe; my joy, and grief; O teach
My ſoul the trembling hope, the humble truſt,
To feel in gratitude, that God is Love!
EPIGRAM ON THE CHILDREN OF ISRAEL'S PASSAGE OUT OF EGYPT.
WHen Egypt's king God's choſen tribes pur⯑ſued,
In cryſtal walls th' admiring waters ſtood:
When thro' the deſert wild they took their way,
The rocks relented, and pour'd forth a ſea.
What limits can Almighty goodneſs know,
Since ſeas can harden, and ſince rocks can flow.
ELEGY.
[68]'TIS fate commands—reluctant I depart,
Adieu, ye ſcenes, where powerful beauty reigns,
Where Delia dwells, the miſtreſs of my heart,
Delia, the glory of Silurian plains!
From her I part for ſeven long months at leaſt,
And bid at once to her and joy farewell:
Adieu, thou peaceful ſunſhine of the breaſt,
That deign'd, while Delia near, with me to dwell!
Ah me! what woes in abſence lovers prove!
Some happier youth may boldly ſpeak his care,
May ſtrive to win my Delia's ſoul to love,
And ſhe perchance may lend a liſtening ear.
Fool that I was, ſtill ſilent to abide,
Yet eloquence itſelf were vain, I fear,
Since I've no other charms defects to hide,
Nor aught to boaſt of, but that I'm ſincere.
Oh! had ſincerity ſuffic'd alone,
Alone o'er lovely Delia to prevail!
Boldly ere now my paſſion I had ſhown,
And ſhe with tenderneſs had heard my tale.
[69]
With her, perchance, where Wye's clear waters roll,
Along the flowery mead I might have ſtray'd;
From her perchance ſome pleaſing grace have ſtole,
And learn'd perfection from my lovely maid.
Did ſhe in abſence know how I'm diſtreſs'd,
In abſence know what pangs for her I prove,
For her how frequent ſighs my bleeding breaſt,
At leaſt ſhe'd pity, if ſhe cannot love.
While round the board the ſparkling bumpers paſs,
And cheerful friends demand a toaſt from me,
I to ſome other nymph fill up the glaſs,
But while I drink it, Delia, think on thee.
Come, Daphnis, give a ſocial ſong, they cry,
To ſpeed with mirth the evening hours away;
In vain I with their wiſhes would comply,
To plaintive notes I ſing ſome loveſick lay.
Yet oft I ſhun thoſe friends, whom moſt I prize,
My taſte for mirth and converſation gone,
Even the quaint joke, and wit I now deſpiſe,
And love to wander penſively alone.
When the chaſte moon her ſilver beams diſplays,
To hear the diſtant waters roll along,
I ſtray, to hear the cattle wandering graze,
And give attention to the night-bird's ſong.
[70]
Awhile the ſtranger ſleep my eye-lid flies,
At length the loiterer to return will deign,
Silent he ſteals upon my wearied eyes,
Then fancy holds her viſionary reign.
She paints my Delia overwhelm'd with woes,
And me ſhe arms to guard my lovely maid,
Numbers ſhe makes my ſingle arm oppoſe,
Then ſhows her render'd happy by my aid.
Then brings ſhe milder ſcenes of ſoft delight,
My Delia's form before me ſtands confeſs'd,
Bland look her gloſſy eyes with luſtre bright,
Her dark hair flowing on her ſnowy breaſt.
With Delia's ſweetneſs makes ſhe Delia ſpeak,
" Daphnis! what anxious care thy boſom moves!"
To her my paſſion I all fearful break,
She hears; attends me, and with ſmiles approves.
Now from the eaſt breaks forth the grey-ey'd morn,
On night's departing wings the viſion flies,
The bitter woes of abſence now return,
And tears ſtand trembling in my cheated eyes.
Come then; ſweet Hope! in youthful ſmiles appear,
Oh! make ſlow-lingering time more ſwiftly move,
Fortune is old, and Age, with looks ſevere,
Frowns at the name of lover, and of love.
ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG GENTLEMAN.
[71]SAY, for my theme, what numbers ſhall I chuſe?
Shall I to Pindar's flights aſpire,
And imitate his heavenly fire?
Of ſmoother verſes write,
And ſome ſoft elegy indite?
To Pindar's flights aſpire, my muſe;
Unfetter'd there, unbounded may'ſt thou rove;
There beſt expreſs thy grief and love;
There no ſcant limits know,
But in free torrents flow,
Free as thy tears, and boundleſs as thy woe.
Muſt then the Grave inſatiate reign?
Muſt Fate this too tyrannic ſway maintain?
And muſt the learn'd, the good, the young,
Be the ſad ſubject of a funeral ſong?
Now Death, we find, can never ſpare,
Since he hath ſnatch'd this youth away,
Since he can thus our bliſs annoy,
And ſo much harmony deſtroy;
For ſure all harmony dwelt there.
In that fair piece of animated clay
[72]Nature had exquiſitely form'd each part,
Reſolv'd at laſt to conquer Art.
She labour'd every member to refine,
And made each feature ſeem divine:
Yet did her want of ſtrength betray,
It was too fine to laſt, and haſten'd to decay.
Nor was his ſoul ill-ſuited with his face,
Each virtue flouriſh'd there, and every grace;
Yet more than all humility took place.
His virtue, and his pleaſing air
Rais'd joy and wonder in the fair:
Theſe charms he learn'd with muſic to improve,
Muſic the food of love.
When Orpheus to the foreſts took his way,
Touch'd his mute lyre, and wak'd the ſleeping lay,
The ſavages came crouding round,
And liſtening oaks admir'd the tuneful ſound:
This youth a harder taſk perform'd,
Whene'er he play'd each icy breaſt he warm'd,
While o'er the ſtrings his flying fingers rove,
Each heart kept time, and every pulſe beat love.
Tho' bleſt with all theſe charms, he breathleſs lies—
Here draw a veil, my Muſe—then ſee him riſe
An infant ſtar juſt lighted in the ſkies.
[73]There David and Cecilia meet
The new-born Saint, with joy they greet
His coming, and his ſtrains improve,
Teach his already well-taught lyre
A note yet higher,
To ſing the mighty ſource of power and love.
There does he praiſes ſing
To heaven's eternal King,
There tunes to melody his harp ſo well,
That angels only can his notes excell.
ON ADMIRAL BYNG'S RETURN FROM MINORCA, MDCCLVI.
[74]BRitons, what unaton'd offence
Haunts your unproſperous race?
See him you ſent with honours hence
Returning with diſgrace.
Methinks upon the veſſel's ſide
I ſee your priſoner ſtand,
Curſing both winds, and bark, and tide,
That bear him to the land.
" This heart, he cries, theſe horrors ſhow
" The weakneſs of my cauſe;
" Who fears to meet his country's foe
" Muſt tremble at her laws.
" Then with what face ſhall I appear
" Before her judgment-ſeat?
" Even now they ſhout around my bier,
" That flames in every ſtreet.
" At my approach yon paly ſhore
" Would change its white to red,
" And that high cliff come whelming o'er
" On this degenerate head.
" My king (I tremble at the name)
" Tho' mercy guides his throne,
" Muſt puniſh for his people's ſhame,
" But ſcorns me for my own.
[75]" The eyes, that wept when Maclean died,
" Smile at my ſentence paſt:
" Tho' by a matron-jury tried,
" By their decree I'm caſt.
" Like Abdiel, 'midſt corruption ſound,
" See mangled Noel ſtands;
" Lo! Andrews ſhows his deadly wound;
" And blood for blood demands.
" See! Blakeney, with a ſcornful frown,
" Points to the ſecret port;
" There bids me ſet my ſuccours down,
" And ſave the waſting fort.
" Blakeney, to that important paſs
" Too well I knew to ſteer,
" But neither I nor they, alas!
" Had hearts to venture near.
" Ha! do I wake? or are my eyes
" By their own fears betray'd?
" See yon pale angry ſpectre riſe,
" My father's awful ſhade.
" Shame to my blood! I ſhake, I ſwoon,
" I die upon the ſight:
" O ſink, my bark, ſink inſtant down,
" And bury me in night!"
This ſaid, he twice eſſay'd to leap,
Twice left the veſſel's ſide;
The third time in the frowning deep
He plung'd, he ſunk, he died.
A PRAYER FOR INDIFFERENCE.
[76]OFT I've implor'd the gods in vain,
And pray'd, till I've been weary,
For once I'll try, my wiſh to gain
Of Oberon, the Fairy.
Sweet airy being, wanton ſprite,
That liv'ſt in woods unſeen,
And oft, by Cynthia's ſilver light,
Tripſt gaily o'er the green;
If ere thy pitying heart was mov'd
(As antient ſtories tell)
And for th' Athenian maid who lov'd,
Thou ſought'ſt a wondrous ſpell,
O! deign once more t' exert thy power;
Haply ſome herb, or tree,
Sovereign as juice from weſtern flower,
Conceals a balm for me.
I aſk no kind return in love,
No tempting charm to pleaſe;
Far from the heart ſuch gifts remove,
That ſighs for peace and eaſe.
[77]
Nor eaſe, nor peace, that heart can know,
That, like the needle true,
Turns at the touch of joy or woe,
But turning trembles too.
Far as diſtreſs the ſoul can wound,
'Tis pain in each degree;
Bliſs goes but to a certain bound;
Beyond is agony.
Then take this treacherous ſenſe of mind,
Which dooms me ſtill to ſmart,
Which pleaſure can to pain refine,
To pain new pangs impart.
O! haſte to ſhed the ſovereign balm,
My ſhatter'd nerves new-ſtring,
And for my gueſt, ſupremely calm,
The nymph Indifference bring.
At her approach, ſee Hope, ſee Fear,
See Expectation fly,
With Diſappointment in the rear,
That blaſts the promis'd joy.
The tears, which pity taught to flow,
My eyes ſhall then diſown;
The heart, that throbb'd at others woe,
Shall then ſcarce feel its own.
[78]
The wounds, which now each moment bleed,
Each moment then ſhall cloſe,
And peaceful days ſhall ſtill ſucceed
To nights of ſweet repoſe.
O fairy elf; but grant me this,
This one kind comfort ſend,
And ſo may never-fading bliſs
Thy flowery paths attend!
So may the glow-worm's glimmering light
Thy tiny footſteps lead
To ſome new region of delight,
Unknown to mortal tread;
And be thy acorn goblets fill'd
With heaven's ambroſial dew,
From ſweeteſt freſheſt flowers diſtill'd,
That ſhed freſh ſweets for you.
And what of life remains for me
I'll paſs in ſober eaſe,
Half-pleas'd, contented will I be;
Contented, half to pleaſe.
A MOTHER'S SOLILOQUY OVER HER DYING INFANT.
[79]TEnder ſoftneſs! infant mild!
Perfect, ſweeteſt, brighteſt child!
Tranſient luſtre! beauteous clay!
Smiling wonder of a day!
Ere the laſt convulſive ſtart
Rend thy unreſiſting heart;
Ere the long enduring ſwoon
Weigh thy precious eye-lids down;
Ah! regard a mother's moan,
Anguiſh deeper than thy own!
Faireſt eyes, whoſe dawning light
Late with rapture bleſt my ſight,
Ere your orbs extinguiſh'd be,
Bend your trembling beams on me!
Drooping ſweetneſs! verdant flower!
Blooming, withering in an hour!
Ere thy gentle breaſt ſuſtains
Lateſt, fierceſt, mortal pains,
Hear a ſuppliant; let me be
Partner in thy deſtiny!
TO THE MEMORY OF VARO, A PHYSICIAN, THE AUTHOR'S UNCLE.
[80]HOW can the muſe attempt the ſtring,
Forſaken by her guardian power:
Ah me! that ſhe ſurvives to ſing,
Her friend and patron now no more:
Yet private grief ſhe might ſuppreſs,
Since Clio bears no ſelfiſh mind;
But oh! ſhe mourns to wild exceſs,
The friend and patron of mankind:
Alas! the ſovereign healing art
Which reſcued thouſands from the grave,
Unaided left the gentleſt heart,
Nor could its ſkilful maſter ſave.
Who ſhall the helpleſs ſex ſuſtain,
Now Varo's lenient hand is gone,
Which knew ſo well to ſoften pain,
And ward all dangers but his own.
His darling muſe, his Clio dear,
Whom firſt his favour rais'd to fame,
His gentle voice vouchſaf'd to cheer;
His art upheld her tender frame.
[81]Pale envy durſt not ſhow her teeth,
Above contempt ſhe gaily ſhone
Chief favourite! till the hand of death
Endanger'd both by ſtriking one.
Perceiving well, devoid of fear,
His lateſt fatal conflict nigh,
Reclin'd on her he held moſt dear,
Whoſe breaſt receiv'd his parting ſigh;
With every art and grace adorn'd,
By man admir'd, by heaven approv'd,
Good Varo died—applauded, mourn'd,
And honour'd by the muſe he lov'd!
TO THE MEMORY OF A SISTER.
[82]IF happy ſpirits are allow'd to know,
And hover round what once they lov'd below,
Maria, gentleſt excellence, attend
To one who glories to have call'd thee friend!
Remote in merit, tho' allied in blood,
Tho' worthleſs I, and thou divinely good!
Accept, dear ſhade, from me theſe artleſs lays,
Who ſcorn, unjuſtly, or to blame or praiſe.
How thy diſcreet economy outweigh'd
The fineſt wit in utmoſt pomp diſplay'd
Let others ſing, while I attempt to paint
The glowing virtues of the friend and ſaint.
With buſineſs and devotion never cloy'd,
No moment of thy time paſt unemploy'd,
Well-natur'd mirth, mature diſcretion join'd,
Conſtant attendants on the virtuous mind:
Ah me! that heaven has from this boſom torn
The deareſt friend, whom I muſt ever mourn,
Ere Stella could diſcharge the ſmalleſt part
Of what ſhe ow'd to ſuch immenſe deſert:
Or recompenſe with aught but empty praiſe,
The ſole companion of her joyleſs days.
[83]Pleaſing thy face and form, tho' heaven confin'd
To ſcanty limits thy extenſive mind:
Witneſs the taintleſs luſtre of thy ſkin,
Bright emblem of the brighter ſoul within!
That ſoul, which eaſy, unaffected, mild,
Thro' jetty eyes with cheerful ſweetneſs ſmil'd,
But, oh could fancy reach, or language ſpeak,
The living beauties of thy lip and cheek,
Where nature's pencil, leaving art no room,
Touch'd to a miracle the vernal bloom!
To ſoundeſt prudence, life's unerring guide,
To love ſincere, religion void of pride,
To friendſhip, perfect in a female mind,
Which I can never hope again to find;
To mirth, the balm of care, from lightneſs free,
To ſtedfaſt truth, unwearied induſtry;
To every charm and grace compris'd in you,
Moſt worthy friend, a long and laſt adieu!
THE LUCID INTERVAL.
[84]WEar pleaſure, Stella, on thy face,
Nor check the riſing joy;
Nor canſt thou, ſince the heart diſplays
Its tranſport thro' the eye.
Theſe dearly—welcome hours of reſt,
This pleaſing truce from care,
Removes the mountain from thy breaſt,
Thou haſt not learnt to bear.
Tho' diſtant far from what I love,
My blooming hopes are croſt;
Yet free as air my thoughts may rove
In ſilent rapture loſt!
Then, Stella, prize thy preſent eaſe,
This interval of woe,
Since other moments bleſt as theſe,
Thy life may never know.
Snatch the fleet pleaſures ere they part;
To-morrow, (ſhould'ſt them ſay,)
Tho' pain may rend this tortur'd heart,
Yet laugh, and live to-day!
A FAREWELL TO THE WORLD.
[85]WHile ſickneſs rends this tenement of clay,
Th'approaching change with rapture I ſurvey;
O'erjoy'd to reach the goal with eager pace,
Ere my ſlow life has meaſur'd half its race.
No longer ſhall I bear, my friends to pleaſe,
The hard conſtraint of ſeeming much at eaſe,
Nor wear an outward ſmile, a look ſerene,
While piercing racks, and tortures lurk within!
Yet let me not, ungrateful, with regret,
Record the evil, and the good forget.
For both I humble adoration pay,
And bleſs the power who gives and takes away:
Long ſhall my faithful memory retain,
And oft recall each interval of pain;
Nay, to high heaven, for greater gifts I bend,
Health I've enjoy'd, and I had once a friend;
With pleaſing toil I paſt the joyous day,
And join'd at night the witty and the gay;
Our labour ſweet, if labour it might ſeem,
Allow'd the ſportive and inſtructive theme;
Yet here no lewd or uſeleſs wit was found,
We pois'd the wavering ſail with ballaſt ſound:
[86]Wit, mirth and muſic, ſciences and arts,
Improv'd, and exercis'd our nobler parts;
Learning here plac'd her richer ſtores in view;
Or, wing'd with love, the minutes gaily flew;
True merit might unequall'd luſtre wear,
For envious baſe detraction came not there.
Nay yet ſublimer joys our boſoms prov'd,
Divine benevolence, by heaven belov'd:
Wan meagre forms, torn from impending death,
Exulting, bleſt us with reviving breath:
The ſhivering wretch we cloth'd, the mourner cheer'd,
And ſickneſs ceas'd to groan when we appear'd!
Unaſk'd, our care aſſiſts, with tender art,
Their bodies, nor neglects th' immortal part.
Sometimes, in ſhades impierc'd by Cynthia's beam,
Whoſe luſtre glimmer'd on the dimpled ſtream;
We led the ſprightly dance thro' ſylvan ſcenes,
Or tript like fairies o'er the level greens;
To join the dance our blooming partners haſte,
With love for ever pure, for ever chaſte:
In every breaſt a generous fervour glows,
Soft bliſs, which mutual love alone beſtows!
From fragrant herbage, deck'd with pearly dews,
And flowerets of a thouſand various hues,
By wafting gales the mingling odours fly,
And round our heads in whiſpering breezes ſigh!
All nature ſeem'd to heighten, and improve
The halcyon hours of innocence and love:
[87]Youth, wit, good-nature, candor, ſenſe, combin'd,
To ſerve, delight, and civilize mankind;
In wiſdom's lore we every heart engage,
And triumph to reſtore the golden age!
Now cloſe the bliſsful theme, exhauſted muſe!
The lateſt bliſsful theme that thou ſhalt chuſe.
Satiate with life, what joys for me remain,
Save one dear wiſh to ballance every pain?
O'erwhelm'd with woes, deſperate and fatal all,
On tardy death, with ceaſeleſs cries I call;
So the tir'd babe, whoſe waking hour is o'er,
Whom glittering baubles can delight no more,
Reclines its head, with painful toil oppreſt,
Till borne by friendly arms to welcome reſt.
THE PICTURE.
[88]HOW rare the piece, where heaven and nature join
To frame a creature more than half divine.
Tho' wit and beauty's mingled graces meet,
Virtue and breeding muſt the work compleat:
Mild unaffected ſoftneſs let her wear,
Gay without noife, nor ſtray beyond her ſphere.
Tho rich in ſcience, and in arts refin'd,
Yet truly feminate in form and mind:
But ſince for ſafety and defence, we own,
Some male endowments ſhould her virtues crown;
Let dauntleſs fortitude and ſtrength of ſoul
Preſerve, enoble, and adorn the whole.
AN EPITAPH ON HERSELF.
[89]DEſtin'd, while living, to ſuſtain
An equal ſhare of grief and pain;
All various ills of human race
Within this breaſt had once a place:
Without complaint, ſhe learnt to bear
A living death, a long deſpair,
Till, hard oppreſt by adverſe fate,
O'ercharg'd, ſhe ſunk beneath its weight;
And to this peaceful tomb retir'd,
So much eſteem'd, ſo long deſir'd!
The painful mortal conflict o'er,
A broken heart can bleed no more.
THE HOURS OF LOVE:
IN FOUR ELEGIES.
[90]NIGHT. THE FIRST ELEGY.
NOW Cynthia ſhone ſerene with ſilver light,
And Silence reign'd ſole monarch of the night;
Now ſcarce a Zephyr fann'd the placid ſky,
But all was huſh'd—ſave Philomel and I.
Sweet, tuneful bird, who ſhun'ſt the noiſe of day,
Darkling to chant thy melancholy lay,
If it be love that makes thee loath repoſe,
Then let me mingle ſympathetic woes.
But if thy mate, regardleſs of thy pain,
Still hears thee ſing, and hears thee ſing in vain;
How ſhall my ruder voice e'er hope to move,
Or charm my gentle Delia into love?
Here let me nightly wander in the grove
To court th' idea of my abſent love,
With fancy's eye to gaze upon her charms,
And preſs the lovely phantom to my arms.
[91]
Bring, bring my Delia's image to my mind,
And for a moment let me think her kind:
Oh! 'tis in vain—imagination dies,
The fancied Delia, like the real, flies.
Oh! I am ſick, oppreſs'd with tender grief,
Bring, gentle Love, oh! bring me ſoft relief;
Quick, on the wings of expectation, fly,
Oh! help thy votary, help me, or I die.
The night's far ſpent, and ſoon the morn will riſe,
Come, gentle ſleep, and ſeal theſe weeping eyes;
Thou balm of nature ſink into my breaſt,
Shut every ſenſe—O lull my ſoul to reſt!
In ſoft repoſe the gentle Delia's laid,
Sweet be the ſlumbers of the ſleeping maid,
Let no rude thought the peaceful charm deſtroy,
But let her dream of love, and dream of joy.
Let ſome bright viſion then my form aſſume,
With charms deluſive and etherial bloom;
Then let the phantom kneel before the fair,
And tell her how I love, and how deſpair.
For oh! I think, could gentle Delia know
But half my paſſion, or but half my woe,
She'd ſurely pity, tho' ſhe'd not approve,
And tender pity is a-kin to love.
MORNING. THE SECOND ELEGY.
[92]WIſh'd morn is come—a cheerful ray of light
Peeps thro' the ſable curtains of the night;
And now I hear the towering lark, on high,
Chant his glad mattins thro' the vocal ſky.
Sleepleſs I've toſs'd the tedious night away,
And wiſh'd, impatient, for the tardy day;
What now avails the cheerful dawn of light?
Wrapt in deſpair, with me 'tis endleſs night.
All nature ſeems refreſh'd; muſt only love
No kind repoſe, no intermiſſion prove?
Even painful care is ſometimes lull'd to ſleep;
Muſt love alone eternal vigils keep?
At Delia's window I'll my ſtation take,
And ſing of love, till gentle Delia wake;
In ſofteſt ſtrain her ſlumbers I'll remove,
And ſhe ſhall wake to muſic and to love.
O! for Tibullus' voice, for Hammond's lyre,
To kindle rapture, and excite deſire!
Then ſhould ſhe melt at every tender ſtrain,
And her heart ſigh with ſympathetic pain.
[93]
This is her window—ſweeteſt Delia riſe,
O lovely maid, unveil thy radiant eyes;
With one ſoft ſmile chaſe dark deſpair away,
Ariſe, my Delia, ſmile and make it day.
She hears me not—regardleſs of my pain,
Or, if ſhe hears, ſhe hears with cold diſdain:
On this bare earth for ever let me lie,
Here let me languiſh, here deſpair and die.
But hark, a noiſe!—and now the window opes!
'Tis Delia's ſelf—'tis ſhe by all my hopes!
Soft gracious ſmiles o'er every feature play,
Bright as the radiance of the riſing day.
Hail! beauteous nymph, in native charms array'd,
Thou need'ſt from gaudy dreſs no borrow'd aid;
How ſweet that looſe attire, that careleſs air,
In artleſs negligence, divinely fair!
Come, come, my fair, together let us ſtray,
And taſte the fragrance of the early day;
So ſhall young Health, the roſy child of Morn,
With all his mother's bloom thy cheek adorn.
Look, look abroad, behold 'tis break of day;
See, on yon lawn, the tender lambkins play;
Now every linnet ſings in every grove,
And laughing Nature charms the ſoul to love.
[94]
She ſmiles aſſent—deſcend, celeſtial maid,
Come to my arms, my love, be not afraid.
Thus let me preſs my kind, conſenting fair—
Starting I woke—ſhe vaniſh'd into air!
Oh! 'twas a flattering dream; too ſoon I found;
Stretch'd at her door I ſlept upon the ground,
Where Delia's form my buſy fancy drew,
Deck'd her in ſmiles, then thought the viſion true.
Thus let me ſleep, oh! thus for ever dream,
Such heart-felt extaſies, muſt more than ſeem;
Then, like Endymion, bleſt enraptur'd boy!
I'll lie entranc'd in everlaſting joy!
NOON. THE THIRD ELEGY.
[95]NOW Phoebus vertically ſhoots his rays
With all the fervor of his noontide blaze;
Now let me ſeek ſome ſolitary grove,
And give a looſe to fancy and to love.
In what ſoft ſcene is gentle Delia laid?
Which is, at noon, my Delia's favourite ſhade?
Oft in fair Richmond's interwoven bowers,
Lonely, ſhe loiters out the ſultry hours.
Does ſhe to Merlin's* awful cave retire,
To feaſt her fancy with poetic fire?
Or to the Hermitage,† romantic vault!
Where learned buſts adorn the claſſic grot?
[96]
Oh! let me find the beauteous maid alone,
And, at her feet, pour out my artleſs moan;
No longer will I pine, in dumb deſpair,
Perhaps my Delia is as kind as fair.
Let the ſoft influence of th' enchanting ſcene,
The mazy thickets, walks for ever green,
The flowery lawn, the light-excluding grove,
Incline her to the melting voice of love.
But hark, there's muſic!—'tis my Delia's voice,
My Delia ſings, let all the grove rejoice!
Huſh every breeze, let not an aſpin move,
Let all be ſilent, Delia ſings of love.
Sweet maid, let me not interrupt thy ſong,
Let the ſoft notes ſtill warble on thy tongue;
And yet it is too much, at once, to wound
Our eyes with beauty, and our ears with ſound.
Start not, my Delia, here's no danger near,
Thy beauty guards thee—baniſh every fear;
Even Love himſelf, the tyrant of my heart,
Awes with reſpect, and takes fair Beauty's part.
Long have thy charms depriv'd my ſoul of reſt,
Long has th' infection rankled in my breaſt;
To ſpeak my tender ſorrow oft I've tried,
As oft my tongue the tender taſk denied.
[97]
Oh! hear me, gentle Delia, hear me now.
Incline propitious to my love-ſick vow:
So may thy charms no fading changes prove,
But bloom for ever, conſtant as my love.
Tho' unadorn'd with titles or with power,
Tho' Fortune ſmil'd not on my natal hour,
Yet I've a heart that's rich in fond deſire,
And my ſoul glows with more than vulgar fire.
But, if 'tis wealth alone thy love can draw,
I'll dig for treaſure in the mines of * Law;
Pierce the dull gloom of Coke's pedantic lore,
And, from his droſs, extract the pureſt: ore.
Wondering ſhall Delia hear my praiſes rung,
What flowing periods trickle from my tongue!
Inſpir'd by thee, and Love's ſuperior aid,
Like Coke I'll counſel, and like Tully plead.
Unpleaſing thus, I'll drudge away my youth,
Far from the paths of ſcience and of truth;
Wage endleſs battles at the noiſy bar,
To deck thee with the ſpoils of civil war.
[98]
For me—if 'twere not to inrich my fair,
I'd wiſh to ſhun the buſtling noiſe of care,
Far, in the centre of ſome peaceful grove,
Retir'd, to dwell with Delia and with love.
Then ſhould we feaſt on pure extatic bliſs,
Exchanging ſouls at every melting kiſs,
Wrapt in delight, my Delia then ſhould prove,
How poor all grandeur is, compar'd to love,
Ah! do not go—my gentle Delia ſtay;
You'll ſcorch your beauties in the blaze of day;
The ſun now rages in his higheſt noon—
And 'tis a pity ſure to part ſo ſoon.
But if we muſt—let's take one tender leave.
Shall we, my fair, meet here again at eve?
Oh there's celeſtial muſic in that yes!
Thus let me ſeal the promiſe of my bliſs.
EVENING. THE FOURTH ELEGY.
[99]HOW mild the evening, how ſerene the ſky!
With ſtreaky purple ting'd, etherial dye!
Calm ſtillneſs rules, no Zephyr ſeems to move,
And the ſoft hour invites the ſoul to love.
The tedious minute now approaches near,
When Delia promis'd ſhe would meet me here:
And now, to feaſt my Delia in this bower,
I've gather'd every fruit and every flower.
The velvet peach, the plum's unſullied blue,
Emblem of untouch'd beauty's virgin hue;
The pine's rich fruit, leſs nature's child than art's,
And cherries—that reſemble bleeding hearts.
To form a couch, theſe roſes here I'll ſtrow,
With theſe I'll weave a garland for her brow;
With Flora's gifts, fantaſtic, dreſs her hair,
Then gaze with wonder on the ſmiling fair!
Then will I preſs her little hand in mine,
While ſhe, with bluſhing innocence divine,
And ſoft reluctance, ſhall my hand controul,
I'll pour out all the rapture of my ſoul.
[100]
Grown bold in love, tranſported with my bliſs,
On her ripe lips I'll print a living kiſs,
Whoſe warm impreſſion fondly ſhall impart,
And ſend the ſoft infection to her heart.
Love's fire ſhall flaſh around her as I gaze,
And Delia's eye ſhall kindle in the blaze;
Thro' every vein ſhall flame the young deſire,
Like ſubtil magic of electric fire.
From ſoul to ſoul the mutual blaze thus caught,
Wiſh meeting wiſh, and thought preventing thought,
Together we'll expire in flames of love,
So Semele was once conſum'd by Jove.
But hark! ſhe comes—the punctual maid is near;
The ſilky ruſtling of her veil I hear.
I'll run to meet her—ſoft—'twas but a breeze,
That, gently breathing, fann'd the quivering trees.
And yet the time's elaps'd—why this delay?
And now the ſetting ſun has clos'd the day.
I'll climb the lofty ſummit of this tree,
Haply from thence my Delia I may ſee.
Oh! 'tis a dreary deſert all around!
I ſtrain my eye-balls, yet no Delia's found.
Now were it well, to eaſe at once my pains,
And, leaping hence, beat out my deſperate brains.
[101]
I knew ſhe would not come—deceitful maid!
How ſoon her ſmiles my eaſy faith betray'd!
Who'd think that Delia falſely thus could do?
Yet, as a woman, who could think her true?
Who knows but now, moſt laviſh of her charms,
Looſely ſhe wanton's in ſome rival's arms,
While, drunk with luſcious love, th' intemperate boy
Riots in bliſs, and ſurfeits with the joy.
Diſtracting thought! 'tis phrenzy, 'tis deſpair!
I'll fly this inſtant to th' abandon'd fair,
Her and her paramour I'll drag to light,
And feaſt cenſorious matrons with the ſight.
Yet ſtay my heart! whence this tumultuous ſpeed!
My Delia's wrong'd—ſhe's innocence indeed;
She's chaſte, ſhe's virtuous, as the veſtal flame,
'Tis I am wretch'd—ſhe's a ſpotleſs name.
THE GENIUS OF BRITAIN.
ADDRESSED TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE WIL⯑LIAM PITT, ESQ.
[102]O Thou, ordain'd at length by pitying fate
To ſave from ruin a declining ſtate;
Adorn'd with all the ſcientific ſtores,
Which bloom'd on Roman or Athenian ſhores;
At whoſe command our paſſions riſe or fall,
Obedient to the magic of thy call;
Whoſe breaſt (O never let the flame expire!)
Glows ardent with the Patriot's ſacred fire;
Attend the Bard, who ſcorns the venal lays,
Which ſervile Flattery ſpurious Greatneſs pays;
Whoſe Britiſh ſpirit, emulating thine,
Could ne'er burn incenſe at Corruption's ſhrine;
Who far from courts maintains ſuperior ſtate,
And thinks that to be free is to be great.
Careleſs of pride's imperial ſmile or frown,
A friend to all mankind, but ſlave to none.
Above temptation, and unaw'd by power,
Pleas'd with his preſent lot, nor wiſhes more,
Save that kind heaven would give his warm deſire,
What kings can't grant, nor courtiers oft require,
From each low view of ſelfiſh faction free,
To think, to ſpeak, to live, O Pitt, like thee.
THE GENIUS OF BRITAIN.
AN IAMBIC ODE. WRITTEN IN MDCCLVI.
[103]AS late o'er Britain's chalky coaſts
The Genius of the iſland flew,
The venal ſwarm of foreign hoſts
Inglorious baſking in his view,
Deep in his breaſt he felt the new diſgrace,
And honeſt bluſhes warm'd his godlike face.
Quick flaſh'd the lightning of his ſpear,
Which blaſted France on Creſſy's field,
He wheel'd the blazing ſword in air,
And on his ſhoulders ſpread the ſhield,
As when, o'er Agincourt's blood-purpled lands,
Pale Terror ſtalk'd thro' all the Gallic bands.
Soon as he caſt his eyes below,
Deep heav'd the ſympathetic ſigh,
Sudden the tears of anguiſh flow,
For ſore he felt th' indignity;
Diſcordant paſſions ſhook his heavenly frame,
Now Horror's damp, now Indignation's flame.
[104]
Ah! what avails, he cried, the blood
Shed by each patriot band of yore,
When Freedom's unpaid legions ſtood
Protectors of this ſea-girt ſhore,
When antient Wiſdom deem'd each Britiſh ſword
From hoſtile power could guard its valiant lord.
What tho' the Daniſh raven ſpread
Awhile his wings o'er Engliſh ground,
The bird of prey funereal fled
When Alfred call'd his peers around,
Whoſe fleets triumphant riding on the flood,
Deep ſtain'd each chalky cliff with Denmark's blood
Alfred on natives could depend,
And ſcorn'd a foreign force t' employ,
He thought, who dar'd not to defend
Were never worthy to enjoy;
The Realm's and Monarch's intereſt deem'd but one,
And arm'd his ſubjects to maintain their own.
What tho' weak John's divided reign
The Gallic legions tempted o'er,
When Henry's barons join'd again,
Thoſe feather'd warriors left the ſhore;
Learn, Britons, hence, you want no foreign friends,
The Lion's ſafety on himſelf depends.
[105]
Reflect on Edward's glorious name;
On my fifth Henry's martial deeds;
Think on thoſe peers of deathleſs fame,
Who met their king on Thames's meads,
When ſovereign might acknowledg'd reaſon's plea,
That heaven created man for liberty.
Tho' Rome's fell ſtar malignant ſhone,
When good Eliza rul'd this ſtate,
On Engliſh hearts ſhe plac'd her throne,
And in their happineſs her fate,
While blacker than the tempeſts of the North,
The Papal tyrant ſent his curſes forth.
Lo! where my Thames's waters glide
At great Auguſta's regal feet,
Bearing on each returning tide
From diſtant realms a golden fleet,
Which homeward wafts the fruits of every zone,
And makes the wealth of all the world your own.
Shall on his ſilver waves be borne
Of armed ſlaves a venal crew?
Lo! the old God denotes his ſcorn,
And ſhudders at th' unuſual view,
Down to his deepeſt cave retires to mourn,
And tears indignant bathe his cryſtal urn.
[106]
O! how can vaſſals born to bear
The galling weight of Slavery's chain,
A Patriot's noble ardor ſhare,
Or Freedom's ſacred cauſe maintain?
Britons, exert your own unconquer'd might,
A Freeman beſt defends a Freeman's right.
Look back on every deathleſs deed
For which your Sires recorded ſtand;
To battle, let your nobles lead
The ſons of toil, a hardy band;
The ſword on each rough peaſant's thigh be worn,
And war's green wreathes the ſhepherd's front adorn.
But ſee! upon his utmoſt ſhores
America's ſad Genius lies,
Each waſted province he deplores,
And caſts on me his languid eyes,
Bleſs'd with heaven's favourite ordinance I fly
To raiſe th' oppreſs'd, and humble tyranny.
This ſaid, the Viſion weſtward fled,
His wrinkled brow denouncing war;
The way fire-mantled Vengeance led,
And Juſtice drove his airy car;
Behind firm-footed Peace her olive bore,
And Plenty's horn pour'd bleſſings on the ſhore.
FRIENDSHIP AND LOVE.
A DIALOGUE. ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY.
[107]FRIENDSHIP.
IN vain thy lawleſs ſires contend with mine,
Tho' crowds unnumber'd fall before thy ſhrine;
Let youths, who ne'er aſpir'd to noble fame,
And the ſoft virgin, kindle at thy flame,
Thee, ſon of indolence and vice, I ſcorn,
By reaſon nouriſh'd, and of virtue born.
LOVE.
Vain is that boaſted reaſon 'gainſt my dart,
I pierce the ſage's, as the vulgar heart,
All ages, ſexes, the ſoft torment ſhare,
The hoary patriot, and the blooming fair.
To narrow limits is thy ſway confin'd,
To ſome few breaſts, I triumph o'er mankind.
FRIENDSHIP.
From grovelling ſources ever ſprings thy power,
Still varying fancy, and frail beauty's flower:
[108]Then with its cauſe the ſhort-liv'd ardour flies,
A flaſh of paſſion that but gleams and dies.
Mine on fair virtue rais'd, ſtill lives the ſame,
In generous hearts a conſtant equal flame.
LOVE.
Love is not always that degenerate thing,
I too from virtue, as from beauty ſpring.
Thou, to the ſame dull circle ever true,
Know'ſt but one form all tempers to ſubdue;
Wide is my empire, manifold my arts,
And various are the plumes that wing my darts.
Here a fair face allures deſiring eyes,
There modeſty and ſenſe enſlave the wiſe.
Thus while each power with equal warmth con⯑tends,
The clouds divide, an heavenly form deſcends,
Wings o'er his ſhoulders mantling wav'd, behind
His ſnowy garments floated in the wind;
A wreathe of mingled flowers adorn'd his head,
Immortal flowers by mold etherial fed,
Graceful he mov'd in youth and beauty's pride,
His cheeks Aurora's opening bluſhes dy'd,
A flaming torch he bore, approaching now,
Fair Hymen, guardian of the nuptial vow,
They knew and paus'd, he firſt the ſilence broke.
Celeſtial muſic warbled as he ſpoke.
[109]HYMEN.
Ceaſe, rival powers, with rage unjuſt to glow,
Ye both to men the nobleſt gifts beſtow.
Howe'er by folly or by vice abus'd,
Bſeſſings are turn'd to curſes when miſus'd.
Mine be the praiſe the gifts of both to blend,
And to the virtuous lover join the friend.
Thus ſhall life glide away in mutual joys,
Sweets that ne'er tire, and rapture that ne'er cloys.
So bleſt an union, Anna may'ſt thou prove,
A conſtant friendſhip, in a tender love.
A SONG.
[110]THE ſhape alone let others prize,
The features of the fair;
I look for ſpirit in her eyes,
And meaning in her air.
A damaſk cheek, an ivory arm,
Shall ne'er my wiſhes win,
Give me an animated form,
That ſpeaks a mind within.
A face where awful honour ſhines,
Where ſenſe and ſweetneſs move,
And angel innocence refines
The tenderneſs of love.
Theſe are the ſoul of beauty's frame,
Without whoſe vital aid,
Unfiniſh'd all her features ſeem,
And all her roſes dead.
But ah! where both their charms unite,
How perfect is the view,
With every image of delight,
With graces ever new.
[111]
Of power to charm the greateſt woe,
The wildeſt rage controul,
Diffuſing mildneſs o'er the brow,
And rapture thro' the ſoul.
Their power but faintly to expreſs
All language muſt deſpair,
But go behold Arpaſia's face,
And read it perfect there.
INSCRIPTION FOR AN OAK IN PENSHURST PARK.
STranger kneel here! to age due homage pay!
When great Eliza held Britannia's ſway
My growth began—the ſame illuſtrious morn,
Joy to the hour! ſaw gallant Sidney born:
Sidney, the darling of Arcadia's ſwains!
Sidney, the terror of the martial plains!
He periſh'd early; I juſt ſtay behind
An hundred years; and lo! my clefted rind,
My wither'd boughs foretell deſtruction nigh;
We all are mortal; oaks and heroes die.
AN ODE FOR HIS MAJESTY'S BIRTH-DAY.
[112]RECITATIVE.
DAughters of Jove, prime ſource of ſacred ſong,
Ye tuneful fair! Maeonian maids!
Leave awhile the bliſsful throng,
Around your favourite Helicon,
And with your preſence grace Britannia's ſhades.
AIR.
By Tempe's green groves;
By the Graces and Loves;
By your numbers divine;
By the notes ye refine:
Deſcend, ſweet nymphs; deſcend, and ſing
The natal-day of Britain's king.
RECITATIVE.
Again the roſy hours appear,
That ſtrew'd with bliſs the happy year;
That made with joy the vallies ring,
When Britain gain'd a Britiſh king.
[113]AIR.
Hence! ye factious herd, away!
A patriot zeal inſpires my breaſt,
With grateful voice, to hail the day,
That bade Britannia's ſons be bleſt:
Bade Britannia's ſons be bleſt;
When every virtue under heaven,
That dignifies the human breaſt,
To grace our future king was given.
RECITATIVE.
Supreme of all celeſtial powers!
Bleſs our monarch's ſocial hours.
AIR.
With blooming youth, and melting charms,
May Charlotte bleſs his faithful arms!
Every nuptial bliſs prepare
Youth can give, or age can ſhare;
Faith and truth deſerve thy care.
RECITATIVE.
Softly ſweet, to Britain's heir,
Let the ready numbers flow;
Make him, ye Graces! all your care,
And your choiceſt gifts beſtow;
[114]That the virtues of the ſire
May the growing ſon inſpire.
AIR.
With zeal his infant cradle tend,
Ye powers! that virtue's cauſe befriend:
Prolong the life, to Britain dear;
The ſons of Freedom claim your care.
RECITATIVE.
Come, lovely Liberty! advance
With all thy ſmiling train;
Broken lie the ſword and lance,
Oppos'd to ſpoil thy reign.
AIR.
Liberty! the woods;
Liberty! the floods;
Liberty! the flowery vallies ring:
Rocks rebound,
Caves reſound,
" Long live the king."
INSCRIPTION FOR THE MONUMENT OF GENERAL WOLFE.
[115]STop to feel the force of truth!
Here the generous and the brave,
He who fought, who fell in youth,
Bids thee like himſelf behave.
Virtuous love diſplay'd its power,
Friendſhip claim'd to part the prize;
That prepar'd the nuptial bower,
This the banquet of the wiſe.
Where the rage of nature reigns,
Far in yon Canadian land,
(Rocks and ſteeps protect the plains)
Waiting Glory wav'd her hand:
" Hither, Hero, aim thine eye;
" Save thy country ſuffering here!
" Blow domeſtic praiſes by;
" Be to every Briton dear!"
From the tempting vale he flew,
Heard his dying foe confeſs
In his death the honours due.—
Britons! if ye can, do leſs!
SONG IN PRAISE OF WOMAN.
[116]MY temples with cluſters of grapes I'll entwine,
And barter all joy for a goblet of wine.
In ſearch of a Venus no longer I'll run,
But ſtop and forget her at Bacchus's tun.
Yet why this reſolve to relinquiſh the fair?
'Tis a folly with ſpirits, like mine, to deſpair.
And what mighty charms can be found in a glaſs,
If not fill'd to the health of a favourite laſs?
'Tis woman, whoſe charms every rapture impart,
And lend a new ſpring to the pulſe of the heart.
The miſer himſelf (ſo ſupreme is her ſway)
Grows convert to love, and reſigns her his key.
At the ſound of her voice Sorrow lifts up her head,
And Poverty liſtens well-pleas'd from her ſhed;
Whilſt Age, in half-extaſy hobbling along,
Beats time with his crutch to the tune of her ſong.
Then bring me a goblet from Bacchus's hoard,
The largeſt, and deepeſt, that ſtands on the board:
I'll fill up a brimmer, and drink to the fair,
'Tis the thirſt of a lover, and pledge me who dare.
W.W.
CLOE'S SOLILOQUY.
[117]IF Love and Reaſon ne'er agree,
And Virtue trembles at his power,
May heaven from Love pronounce me free,
And guard me thro' each tender hour.
But if the pleaſures Love beſtows,
Are ſuch as Reaſon pleas'd allows,
Are ſuch as ſmiling Virtue knows,
To Love I'll pay my virgin vows.
And ſuch they are—for looſe deſires
But ill deſerve the tender name;
They blaſt, like lightning's tranſient fires,
But Love's a pure and conſtant flame.
Love ſcorns a ſordid ſelfiſh bliſs,
And only for its object lives;
Feels mutual truth endear the kiſs,
And taſtes no joys but thoſe it gives.
Love's more than language can reveal,
Or thought can reach, tho' thought is free,
'Tis only felt—'tis what I feel—
And hope, that Damon feels for me.
THE DEVIL-PAINTER. A TALE.
FOR THE PETIT-MAITRES AND BEAUX ESPRITS.
[118]HAppy the favour'd man who knows
On him what talent heaven beſtows!
Whoſe life is to that ſphere confin'd,
Which ſuits his happieſt turn of mind!
The crowd, to endleſs error born,
Forſake their proper ſphere with ſcorn;
The critic's, poet's, painter's name
Aſſume, and ſweat to purchaſe ſhame;
When Nature (for the fault is theirs)
Meant them for aldermen or mayors.
One dunce I knew, whom no reſtraint
Could keep from pencil and from paint.
Him Hogarth's praiſe had ſo bewitch'd,
That every rival finger itch'd.
He'd calk and dawb, and ſtink and ſmear
From morn to night, from year to year.
But ſtill, with ſome unlucky touch,
Gave here too little, there too much;
Each piece he drew a monſtrous birth,
Like nought in air, or ſeas, or earth.
Some laugh'd, and ſome look'd grave—ſome ſneer'd,
None prais'd—'twas ſpite—he perſever'd.
[119]It chanc'd the Graces once he bought;
'Twas Titian's piece from Venice brought.
To copy this, but ſtill in vain,
He tried, gave out, and tried again.
At length one ſquallid figure roſe,
With goggle eyes, and crooked noſe,
Diſtorted limbs, a ſatyr's rump,
A rude, unfiniſh'd, ſhapeleſs lump.
Awhile his work he eyed, then ſwore
He ne'er would copy Titian more.
" I'll paint, he cried, for fame, not pelf,
" And draw originals myſelf."
Strait to his piece a tail he put,
Huge curling horns, and cloven foot,
Stuck aſſes ears beſide the face,
And to a Devil turn'd his Grace:
This was indeed a maſter-ſtroke,
The more deform'd, the more it ſpoke.
What tho' the few, whoſe judging eyes
The monſtrous medley-ſhape deſpiſe,
Affirm'd that now 'twas like no more
To Satan, than a Grace before;
To him, that horns, nor hoofs, nor tail
Belong. No matter—Let them rail.—
The many, ſmit with chill amaze,
Confeſs the fiend, and trembling praiſe.
" How like! 'tis Satan's ſelf, they cry;
" His cloven foot, his ſawcer eye."
[120]Children ran ſcreaming from the ſight,
And women ſhriek'd, and ſwoon'd with fright.
Our artiſt now, elate with pride,
Looks big, and moves with ſtately ſtride;
Contracts his brow ſevere and awing,
A firſt-rate hand—at devil-drawing.
Each coxcomb, thus, in nature's ſpite,
At wit will nibble, wrong or right.
In vain they copy, and they ſteal,
Their folly ſtill their jeſts reveal.
They rhime—it pleaſes foe nor friend;
They next to repartee deſcend.
'Tis dull—no laughter gains them fame;
They fall to pun—'tis juſt the ſame.
Then, tir'd with unſucceſsful gleanings
Of wit, they try at double meanings;
In which of humour no more trace is,
Than in our Goblin of the Graces;
Yet ſee them, all their labours paſt,
Crown'd with the wiſh'd ſucceſs at laſt,
Proud of their power, with hints obſcene,
To give fair modeſty the ſpleen,
To make bawds, whores, and coxcombs ſnigger,
They ſtrut—no train'd-band cit looks bigger,
While all the good, polite and wiſe
The pert, dull, graceleſs apes deſpiſe.
FURTHER ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR, AND MORE PLAUSIBLE.
TO MR. GEMINI, SEE POETICAL CALENDAR FOR MAY, PAGE CXXIII.
[121]DEar Gem, I'll help you to a hint,
Which never yet appear'd in print,
That moſt infallibly ſecures
The favour of theſe dread Reviewers:
Firſt then get paper, pen and ink,
Ne'er take the needleſs pains to think,
But dip your quill, and write away,
No matter—poem or eſſay;
Fill up your pages plenius, plenius,
Againſt all judgment, and all genius;
And ſoon you'll view, with pleaſing look,
Your labour ſwell'd into a book:
North-Britiſh Strahan muſt be your printer▪
He'll get your work diſpatch'd by winter;
And, as he prints Ralph's rough Review,
He'll ſay the ſweeteſt things of you.
Tho' you, with common ſenſe at ſtrife,
Write dull as Griffiths, or his wife,
This prudent ſcheme will raiſe your name,
And fill your purſe, and give you fame.
[122]
But I, whom no ſuch fools can awe,
Who mind not all they ſay a ſtraw,
Rather than with their praiſe be cram'd,
Should deem it honour to be damn'd:
For what ſo keenly ridicules
As the puff flummery of fools?
But if their feeble laſh you fear,
And will not by this compaſs ſteer,
Once more I'll aid you, frank and free,
With counſel, and without a fee:
Exert the whole of your ill-nature,
And invocate the muſe of ſatire;
Prove undeniably at once
Ralph G—s both a knave and dunce:
If you want facts for your behoof,
Aſcanius may ſupply one proof—
Think you that piece too ſtale and common?
See "memoirs of a pleaſurable woman"—
Produce miſs Fanny Hill—I'll anſwer,
She'll die—who? Dame Griffiths of a CANCER.
Appendix A CONTENTS.
[]- JUne. An ode, Page 1
- Ode to ſummer, 3
- Summer. A rural ſong, 5
- Verſes ſent with a carnation, 6
- Contemplation. An ode, 7
- Verſes wrote in an alcove, 9
- Ode on health, 10
- Song, 12
- Ode to evening, 13
- The lady and the linnet, 15
- Four odes.
- Ode I. 22
- Ode II. 26
- Ode III. 30
- Ode IV. 33
- Melpomone. An ode, 37
- Two odes.
- I. To obſcurity, 46
- II. To oblivion, 52
- The ſilent lover, 55
- On the great fog in London, 57
- On the death of a favourite horſe, 60
- Anacreon, ode I. imitated, 62
- Verſes to biſhop Warburton, 63
- God is love, 64
- On the paſſage, &c. 67
- Elegy, 68
- On the death of a young gentleman, 71
- On admiral Byng's return, &c. 74
- Prayer for indifference, 76
- A mother's ſoliloquy, 79
- To the memory of Varo, 80
- To the memory of a ſiſter, 82
- The lucid interval, 84
- Farewell to the world, 85
- [124]The picture, Page 88
- Epitaph on herſelf, 89
- The hours of love, four elegies.
- Elegy I. 90
- Elegy II. 92
- Elegy III. 95
- Elegy IV. 99
- The genius of Britain, 103
- Friendſhip and love, 107
- A ſong, 110
- Inſcription for an oak, 111
- Ode for the king's birth-day, 112
- Inſcription for gen. Wolfe's monument, 115
- Song in praiſe of woman, 116
- Cloe's ſoliloquy, 117
- The Devil-Painter, 118
- Further advice to an author, 121
END OF VOL. VI.
Notes
*
Goddeſs of Youth.
*
The Author is either miſtaken in this place, or has elſe indulged himſelf in a very unwarrantable poetical licence. White-noſe was not the Sire, but a Son of the Godolphin Arabian. See my Calendar. HEBER.
*
According to Lillaeus, who beſtows the Parental Function on Oblivion.
‘Verba Obliviſcendi regunt Genitivum. LIB. XIII. CAP. VIII.’There is a ſimilar paſſage in Buſbaeus.
*
Merlin's cave in Richmond gardens, where there is a collection of Engliſh claſſics, to which mr. Pope alludes in this line:
Even Merlin's cave is half unfurniſh'd yet.
†
The Hermitage is a grotto in the ſame gardens, in which are placed the buſts of ſeveral learned men.
*
The author is deſigned for the profeſſion of the bar.
- Zitationsvorschlag für dieses Objekt
- TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 5364 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-5C0B-2