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WILLIAM SHENSTONE Eſqr.

[...] Thomas Hull

Cook Sc

Printed for John Bell near Exeter Exchange Strand London July. 177 [...]

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BELL'S EDITION. The POETS of GREAT BRITAIN COMPLETE FROM CHAUCER to CHURCHILL.
SHENSTONE, VOLUME I.
Conſtant as Cryſtal dews impearl the Lawn
Shall Strephon's tear bedew Ophelia's Urn!
Elegy the 4th Ophelias Urn

[...] del

Hall ſculp

[...]rinted for John Bell near Exeter Exchange Strand London Sept: 1778.

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THE POETICAL WORKS OF WILL. SHENSTONE.

IN TWO VOLUMES.

WITH THE LIFE OF THE AUTHOR, AND A DESCRIPTION OF THE LEASOWES.

—Saepe ego longos
Cantando puerum memini me condere ſoles.
VIRG.

IMITATION.

—Right well I call to mind
When (yet a boy) whole ſuns and lengthen'd days
I oft' employ'd in chanting ſylvan lays.
Yet while he woo'd the gentle throng,
With liquid lay and melting ſong,
The liſt'ning herd around him ſtray'd,
In wanton friſk the lambkins play'd,
And every Naiad ceas'd to lave
Her azure limbs amid the wave:
The Graces danc'd; the roſy band
Of Smiles and Loves went hand in hand,
And purple Pleaſures ſtrew'd the way
With ſweeteſt flow'rs; and every ray
Of each fond Muſe with rapture fir'd,
To glowing thoughts his breaſt inſpir'd;
The hills rejoic'd, the vallies rung,
All Nature ſmil'd while SHENSTONE ſung.
VERSES by —

VOL. I.

EDINBURG: AT THE Apollo Preſs, BY THE MARTINS. Anno 1778.

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THE POETICAL WORKS OF WILLIAM SHENSTONE.

VOL. I.

CONTAINING HIS ELEGIES, &c. &c. &c.

Ill was he ſkill'd to guide his wand'ring ſheep,
And unforeſeen diſaſter thinn'd his fold,
Yet at another's loſs the ſwain would weep,
And for his friend his very crook was ſold.—
He lov'd the Muſe; ſhe taught him to complain;
He ſaw his tim'rous loves on her depend:
He lov'd the Muſe, altho' ſhe taught in vain;
He lov'd the Muſe, for ſhe was Virtue's friend.—
He wiſh'd for wealth, for much he wiſh'd to give;
He griev'd that virtue might not wealth obtain:
piteous of woes, and hopeleſs to relieve,
The penſive proſpect ſadden'd all his ſtrain.
I ſaw him faint! I ſaw him ſink to reſt!
Like one ordain'd to ſwell the vulgar throng;
As tho' the Virtues had not warm'd his breaſt,
As tho' the Muſes not inſpir'd his tongue.
ELEGY III.

EDINBURG: AT THE Apollo Preſs, BY THE MARTINS. Anno 1778.

PREFACE.

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A GREAT part of the Poetical Works of Mr. Shenſtone, particularly his Elegies and Paſtorals, are (as he himſelf expreſſes it) ‘"The exact tranſcripts of the ſituation of his own mind,"’ and abound in frequent alluſions to his own place, the beautiful ſcene of his retirement from the world. Excluſively, therefore, of our natural curioſity to be acquainted with the hiſtory of an author whoſe Works we peruſe with pleaſure, ſome ſhort account of Mr. Shenſtone's perſonal character, and ſituation in life, may not only be agreeable, but abſolutely neceſſary, to the reader, as it is impoſſible he ſhould enter into the true ſpirit of his writings if he is entirely ignorant of thoſe circumſtances of his life, which ſometimes ſo greatly influenced his reflections.

I could wiſh, however, that this taſk had been allotted to ſome perſon capable of performing it in that maſterly manner which the ſubject ſo well deſerves. To confeſs the truth, it was chiefly to prevent his Remains from falling into the hands of any one ſtill leſs qualified to do him juſtice, that I have unwillingly ventured to undertake the publication of them myſelf.

Mr. Shenſtone was the eldeſt ſon of a plain uneducated gentleman in Shropſhire, who farmed his own eſtate. The father, ſenſible of his ſon's extraordinary capacity, reſolved to give him a learned education, [vi] and ſent him a commoner to Pembroke College in Oxford, deſigning him for the church; but though he had the moſt awful notions of the wiſdom, power, and goodneſs, of God, he never could be perſuaded to enter into orders. In his private opinions he adhered to no particular ſect, and hated all religious diſputes. But whatever were his own ſentiments, he always ſhewed great tenderneſs to thoſe who differed from him. Tenderneſs, indeed, in every ſenſe of the word, was his peculiar characteriſtic; his friends, his domeſtics, his poor neighbours, all daily experienced his benevolent turn of mind. Indeed this virtue in him was often carried to ſuch exceſs, that it ſometimes bordered upon weakneſs; yet if he was convinced that any of thoſe ranked amongſt the number of his friends had treated him ungenerouſly, he was not eaſily reconciled. He uſed a maxim, however, on ſuch occaſions, which is worthy of being obſerved and imitated; ‘"I never,"’ ſaid he, ‘"will be a revengeful enemy; but I cannot, it is not in my nature, to be half a friend."’ He was in his temper quite unſuſpicious, but if ſuſpicion was once awakened in him, it was not laid aſleep again without difficulty.

He was no economiſt; the generoſity of his temper prevented him from paying a proper regard to the uſe of money: he exceeded, therefore, the bounds of his paternal fortune, which before he died was conſiderably incumbered. But when one recollects the perfect [vii] paradiſe he had raiſed around him, the hoſpitality with which he lived, his great indulgence to his ſervants, his charities to the indigent, and all done with an eſtate not more than three hundred pounds a-year, one ſhould rather be led to wonder that he left any thing behind him, than to blame his want of economy. He left, however, more than ſufficient to pay all his debts, and by his will appropriated his whole eſtate for that purpoſe.

It was perhaps from ſome conſiderations on the narrowneſs of his fortune that he forbore to marry, for he was no enemy to wedlock, had a high opinion of many among the fair ſex, was fond of their ſociety, and no ſtranger to the tendereſt impreſſions. One, which he received in his youth, was with difficulty ſurmounted. The lady was the ſubject of that ſweet paſtoral, in four parts, which has been ſo univerſally admired; and which, one would have thought, muſt have ſubdued the loftieſt heart, and ſoftened the moſt obdurate.

His perſon, as to height, was above the middle ſtature, but largely and rather inelegantly formed: his face ſeemed plain till you converſed with him, and then it grew very pleaſing. In his dreſs he was negligent even to a fault, though, when young, at the univerſity, he was accounted a beau. He wore his own hair, which was quite gray very early, in a particular manner; not from any affectation of ſingularity, but from a maxim he had laid down, that without too [viii] ſlaviſh a regard to faſhion, every one ſhould dreſs in a manner moſt ſuitable to his own perſon and figure. In ſhort, his faults were only little blemiſhes, thrown in by Nature, as it were on purpoſe, to prevent him from riſing too much above that level of imperfection allotted to humanity.

His character, as a writer, will be diſtinguiſhed by ſimplicity with elegance, and genius with correctneſs. He had a ſublimity equal to the higheſt attempts; yet, from the indolence of his temper, he choſe rather to amuſe himſelf in culling flowers at the foot of the mount, than to take the trouble of climbing the more arduous ſteeps of Parnaſſus: but whenever he was diſpoſed to riſe, his ſteps, though natural, were noble, and always well ſupported. In the tenderneſs of Elegiac poetry he hath not been excelled; in the ſimplicity of Paſtoral, one may venture to ſay he had very few equals. Of great ſenſibility himſelf, he never failed to engage the hearts of his readers; and amidſt the niceſt attention to the harmony of his numbers, he always took care to expreſs, with propriety, the ſentiments of an elegant mind. In all his writings his greateſt difficulty was to pleaſe himſelf. I remember a paſſage in one of his Letters, where, ſpeaking of his Love Songs, he ſays,—‘"Some were written on occaſions a good deal imaginary, others not ſo; and the reaſon there are ſo many is, that I wanted to write one good ſong, and could never pleaſe myſelf."’ It was this diffidence which occaſioned him [ix] to throw aſide many of his pieces before he had beſtowed upon them his laſt touches. I have ſuppreſſed ſeveral on this account; and if, among thoſe which I have ſelected, there ſhould be diſcovered ſome little want of his finiſhing poliſh, I hope it will be attributed to this cauſe, and, of courſe, be excuſed: yet I flatter myſelf there will always appear ſomething well worthy of having been preſerved: and though I was afraid of inſerting what might injure the character of my friend, yet, as the ſketches of a great maſter are always valuable, I was unwilling the public ſhould loſe any thing material of ſo accompliſhed a writer. In this dilemma it will eaſily be conceived that the taſk I had to perform would become ſomewhat difficult; how I have acquitted myſelf the public muſt judge. Nothing, however, except what he had already publiſhed, has been admitted without the advice of his moſt judicious friends; nothing altered without their particular concurrence. It is impoſſible to pleaſe every one; but 'tis hoped that no reader will be ſo unreaſonable as to imagine that the Author wrote ſolely for his amuſement: his talents were various; and though it may perhaps be allowed that his excellence chiefly appeared in ſubjects of tenderneſs and ſimplicity, yet he frequently condeſcended to trifle with thoſe of humour and drollery: theſe, indeed he himſelf in ſome meaſure degraded, by the title which he gave them of Levities; but had they been entirely rejected, the public would have been deprived [x] of ſome jeux d'eſprits, excellent in their kind, and Mr. Shenſtone's character as a writer would have been but imperfectly exhibited.

But the talents of Mr. Shenſtone were not confined merely to poetry; his character, as a man of clear judgment and deep penetration, will beſt appear from his Proſe Works; it is there we muſt ſearch for the acuteneſs of his underſtanding, and his profound knowledge of the human heart. It is to be lamented, indeed, that ſome things here are unfiniſhed, and can be regarded only as fragments: many are left as ſingle thoughts, but which, like the ſparks of diamonds, ſhew the richneſs of the mine to which they belong; or, like the foot of a Hercules, diſcover the uncommon ſtrength and extraordinary dimenſions of that hero. I have no apprehenſion of incurring blame from any one for preſerving theſe valuable Remains; they will diſcover to every reader the Author's ſentiments on ſeveral important ſubjects; and there can be very few to whom they will not impart many thoughts which they would never perhaps have been able to draw from the ſource of their own reflections.

But I believe little need be ſaid to recommend the writings of this gentleman to public attention. His character is already ſufficiently eſtabliſhed; and if he be not injured by the inability of his editor, there is no doubt but he will ever maintain an eminent ſtation among the beſt of our Engliſh writers.

R. DODSLEY.

A PREFATORY ESSAY ON ELEGY.

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IT is obſervable that diſcourſes prefixed to poetry are contrived very frequently to inculcate ſuch tenets as may exhibit the performance to the greateſt advantage: the fabric is very commonly raiſed in the firſt place, and the meaſures by which we are to judge of its merit are afterwards adjuſted.

There have been few rules given us by the critics concerning the ſtructure of Elegiac poetry; and far be it from the author of the following trifles to dignify his own opinions with that denomination: he would only intimate the great variety of ſubjects, and the different ſtyles* in which the writers of Elegy have hitherto indulged themſelves, and endeavour to ſhield the following ones by the latitude of their example.

If we conſider the etymology of the word, the epithet which Horace gives it, or the confeſſion which Ovid makes concerning it, I think we may conclude thus much however, that Elegy, in its true and genuine acceptation, includes a tender and querulous idea; that it looks upon this as its peculiar characteriſtic, and ſo long as this is thoroughly ſuſtained, admits of a variety of ſubjects, which by its [xii] manner of treating them it renders its own: it throws its melancholyſtole over pretty differentobjects, which, like the dreſſes at a funeral proceſſion, gives them all a kind of ſolemn and uniform appearance.

It is probable that Elegies were written, at firſt, upon the death of intimate friends and near relations; celebrated beauties, or favourite miſtreſſes: beneficent governors and illuſtrious men: one may add, perhaps, of all thoſe who are placed by Virgil in the laurel grove of his Elyſium, (Vide Hurd's Diſſertation on Horace's Epiſtle) ‘Quique ſui memores alios ſecere merendo.’ After theſe ſubjects were ſufficiently exhauſted, and the ſeverity of fate diſplayed in the moſt affecting inſtances, the poets ſought occaſion to vary their complaints, and the next tender ſpecies of ſorrow that preſented itſelf was the grief of abſent or neglected lovers; and this indulgence might be indeed allowed them, but with this they were not contented: they had obtained a ſmall corner in the province of love, and they took advantage from thence, to overrun the whole territory: they ſung its ſpoils, triumphs, ovations, and rejoicings*, as well as the captivity and exequies that attended it: they gave the name of Elegy to their pleaſantries as well as lamentations, till at laſt, through their abundant fondneſs for the myrtle, they forgot that the cypreſs was their peculiar garland.

[xiii] In this it is probable they deviated from the original deſign of Elegy, and it ſhould ſeem that any kind of ſubjects, treated in ſuch a manner as to diffuſe a pleaſing melancholy, might far better deſerve the name than the facetious mirth and libertine feſtivity of the ſucceſsful votaries of Love.

But, not to dwell too long upon an opinion which may ſeem, perhaps, introduced to favour the following performance, it may not be improper to examine into the uſe and end of Elegy. The moſt important end of all poetry is to encourage virtue. Epic and tragedy chiefly recommend the public virtues; Elegy is of a ſpecies which illuſtrates and endears the private. There is a truly virtuous pleaſure connected with many penſive contemplations, which it is the province and excellency of Elegy to enforce: this, by preſenting ſuitable ideas, has diſcovered ſweets in melancholy which we could not find in mirth, and has led us, with ſucceſs, to the duſty urn, when we could draw no pleaſure from the ſparkling bowl. As Paſtoral conveys an idea of ſimplicity and innocence, it is in particular the taſk and merit of Elegy to ſhew the innocence and ſimplicity of rural life to advantage; and that in a way diſtinct from Paſtoral, as much as the plain but judicious landlord may be imagined to ſurpaſs his tenant both in dignity and underſtanding. It ſhould alſo tend to elevate the more tranquil virtues of humility, diſintereſtedneſs, ſimplicity, and innocence: [xiv] but then there is a degree of elegance and refinement no way inconſiſtent with theſe rural virtues, and that raiſes Elegy above that merum rus, that unpoliſhed ruſticity, which has given our Paſtoral writers their higheſt reputation.

Wealth and ſplendor will never want their proper weight; the danger is leſt they ſhould too much preponderate: a kind of poetry, therefore, which throws its chief influence into the otherſcale, that magnifies the ſweets of liberty and independence, that endears the honeſt delights of love and friendſhip, that celebrates the glory of a good name after death, that ridicules the futile arrogance of birth, that recommends the innocent amuſement of letters, and inſenſibly prepares the mind for that humanity it inculcates; ſuch a kind of poetry may chance to pleaſe, and if it pleaſe, ſhould ſeem to be of ſervice.

As to the ſtyle of Elegy, it may be well enough determined from what has gone before: it ſhould imitate the voice and language of grief, or, if a metaphor of dreſs be more agreeable, it ſhould be ſimple and diffuſe, and flowing as a mourner's veil. A verſification, therefore, is deſirable, which, by indulging a free and unconſtrained expreſſion, may admit of that ſimplicity which Elegy requires.

Heroic metre, with alternate rhyme, ſeems well enough adapted to this ſpecies of poetry; and, however exceptionable upon other occaſions, its inconveniencies [xv] appear to loſe their weight in ſhorter Elegies, and its advantages ſeem to acquire an additional importance. The world has an admirable example of its beauty in a collection of Elegies* not long ſince publiſhed, the product of a gentleman of the moſt exact taſte, and whoſe untimely death merits all the tears that Elegy can ſhed.

It is not impoſſible that ſome may think this metre too lax and proſaic; others, that even a more diſſolute variety of numbers may have ſuperior advantages: and in favour of theſe laſt might be produced the example of Milton in his Lycidas, together with one or two recent and beautiful imitations of his verſification in that monody. But this kind of argument, I am apt to think, muſt prove too much, ſince the writers I have in view ſeem capable enough of recommending any metre they ſhall chuſe; though it muſt be owned alſo, that the choice they make of any is at the ſame time the ſtrongeſt preſumption in its favour.

Perhaps it may be no great difficulty to compromiſe the diſpute. There is no one kind of metre that is diſtinguiſhed by rhymes but is liable to ſome objection or other. Heroic verſe, where every ſecond line is terminated by a rhyme, (with which the judgment requires that the ſenſe ſhould in ſome meaſure alſo terminate) is apt to render the expreſſion either ſcanty or conſtrained; and this is ſometimes obſervable [xvi] in the writings of a poet lately deceaſed, though I believe no one ever threw ſo much ſenſe together, with ſo much eaſe, into a couplet, as Mr Pope: but as an air of conſtraint too often accompanies this metre, it ſeems by no means proper for a writer of Elegy.

The previous rhyme in Milton's Lycidas is very frequently placed at ſuch a diſtance from the following, that it is often dropt by the memory (much better employed in attending to the ſentiment) before it be brought to join its partner; and this ſeems to be the greateſt objection to that kind of verſification: but then the peculiar eaſe and variety it admits of are, no doubt, ſufficient to overbalance the objection, and to give it the preference to any other, in an Elegy of length.

The chief exception, to which ſtanza of all kinds is liable, is, that it breaks the ſenſe too regularly when it is continued through a long poem; and this may be, perhaps, the fault of Mr. Waller's excellent panegyric. But if this fault be leſs diſcernible in ſmaller compoſitions, as I ſuppoſe it is, I flatter myſelf that the advantages I have before mentioned, reſulting from alternate rhyme, (with which ſtanza is, I think, connected) may at leaſt, in ſhorter Elegies, be allowed to outweigh its imperfections.

I ſhall ſay but little of the different kinds of Elegy. The melancholy of a lover is different, no doubt, from what we feel on other mixed occaſions. The mind in [xvii] which love and grief at once predominate is ſoftened to an exceſs. Love-elegy, therefore, is more negligent of order and deſign, and, being addreſſed chiefly to the ladies, requires little more than tenderneſs and perſpicuity. Elegies that are formed upon promiſcuous incidents, and addreſſed to the world in general, inculcate ſome ſort of moral, and admit a different degree of reaſoning, thought, and order.

The Author of the following Elegies entered on his ſubjects occaſionally, as particular incidents in life ſuggeſted, or diſpoſitions of mind recommended them to his choice. If he deſcribes a rural landſcape, or unfolds the train of ſentiments it inſpired, he fairly drew his picture from the ſpot, and felt very ſenſibly the affection he communicates: if he ſpeaks of his humble ſhed, his flocks and his fleeces, he does not counterfeit the ſcene, who having (whether thro' choice or neceſſity is not material) retired betimes to country ſolitudes, and ſought his happineſs in rural employments, has a right to conſider himſelf as a real ſhepherd. The flocks, the meadows, and the grottos, are his own, and the embelliſhment of his farm his ſole amuſement. As the ſentiments, therefore, were inſpired by Nature, and that in the earlier part of his life, he hopes they will retain a natural appearance, diffuſing at leaſt ſome part of that amuſement which, he freely acknowledges, he received from the compoſition of them.

[xviii] There will appear, perhaps, a real inconſiſtency in the moral tenour of the ſeveral Elegies, and the ſubſequent ones may ſometimes ſeem a recantation of the preceding. The reader will ſcarcely impute this to overſight, but will allow that men's opinions, as well as tempers, vary; that neither public nor private, active nor ſpeculative, life, are unexceptionably happy, and, conſequently, that any change of opinion concerning them may afford an additional beauty to poetry, as it gives us a more ſtriking repreſentation of life.

If the Author has hazarded, throughout, the uſe of Engliſh or modern alluſions, he hopes it will not be imputed to an entire ignorance, or to the leaſt diſeſteem of the ancient learning. He has kept the ancient plan and method in his eye, though he builds his edifice with the materials of his own nation. In other words, through a fondneſs for his native country, he has made uſe of the flowers it produced, tho', in order to exhibit them to the greater advantage, he has endeavoured to weave his garland by the beſt model he could find; with what ſucceſs, beyond his own amuſement, muſt be left to judges leſs partial to him than either his acquaintance or his friends.—If any of thoſe ſhould be ſo candid as to approve the variety of ſubjects he has choſen, and the tenderneſs of ſentiment he has endeavoured to impreſs, he begs the metre alſo may not be too ſuddenly condemned. The [xix] public ear, habituated of late to a quicker meaſure, may perhaps conſider this as heavy and languid; but an objection of that kind may gradually loſe its force, if this meaſure ſhould be allowed to ſuit the nature of Elegy.

If it ſhould happen to be conſidered as an objection, with others, that there is too much of a moral caſt diſſuſed through the whole, it is replied, that he endeavoured to animate the poetry ſo far as not to render this objection too obvious, or to riſk excluding the faſhionable reader; at the ſame time never deviating from a fixed principle, that poetry without morality is but the bloſſom of a fruit-tree. Poetry is, indeed, like that ſpecies of plants which may bear at once both fruits and bloſſoms, and the tree is by no means in perfection without the former, however it may be embelliſhed by the flowers which ſurround it.

ADVERTISEMENT
TO THE READER.

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TO this edition is ſubjoined (for the ſake of thoſe readers to whom it may not prove unwelcome) an explanation, or, rather, in moſt places, a liberal imitation, of all the Latin inſcriptions and quotations throughout this Work by Mr. Hull. That gentleman's well-known friendſhip for Mr. Shenſtone, and willingneſs to oblige, being his ſole inducements to this (as he chuſes to have it call'd) trifling addition, the editor thinks it no more than a juſt return of gratitude to let his purchaſers know to whom they are beholden for it. Be it remembered, however, that it was executed in a country retirement, where our eminent tranſlators of the Claſſics were not at hand to be conſulted.

A DESCRIPTION OF THE LEASOWES*. The ſeat of the late William Shenſtone, Eſq.

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THE Leaſowes is ſituate in the pariſh of Hales Owen, a ſmall market-town in the county of Salop, but ſurrounded by other counties, and thirty miles from Shrewſbury, as it is near ten to the borders of Shropſhire. Though a paternal eſtate, it was never diſtinguiſhed for any peculiar beauties till the time of its late owner. It was reſerved for a perſon of his ingenuity both to diſcover and improve them, which he has done ſo effectually, that it is now conſidered as amongſt the principal of thoſe delightful ſcenes which perſons of taſte, in the preſent age, are deſirous to ſee. Far from violating its natural beauties, Mr. Shenſtone's only ſtudy was to give them their full effect; and although the form in which things now [xxii] appear be indeed the conſequence of much thought and labour, yet the hand of Art is no way viſible either in the ſhape of ground, the diſpoſition of trees, or (which are here ſo numerous and ſtriking) the romantic fall of his caſcades.

But I will now proceed to a more particular deſcription. About half a mile ſhort of Hales Owen, in your way from Birmingham to Bewdley, you quit the great road, and turn into a green lane on the left hand, where, deſcending in a winding manner to the bottom of a deep valley finely ſhaded, the firſt object that occurs is a kind of ruinated wall, and a ſmall gate, within an arch, inſcribed, ‘"The Priory Gate."’ Here, it ſeems, the company ſhould properly begin their walk, but generally chuſe to go up with their horſes or equipage to the houſe, from whence returning, they deſcend back into the valley. Paſſing through a ſmall gate at the bottom of the fine ſwelling lawn that ſurrounds the houſe, you enter upon a winding path, with a piece of water on your right. The path and water, overſhadowed with trees that grow upon the ſlopes of this narrow dingle, render the ſcene at once cool, gloomy, ſolemn, and ſequeſtered, and form ſo ſtriking a contraſt to the lively ſcene you have juſt left, that you ſeem all on a ſudden landed in a ſubterraneous kind of region. Winding forward down the valley, you paſs beſide a ſmall root-houſe, where, on a tablet, are theſe lines:

[xxiil]
" Here in cool grot and moſſy cell,
" We rural Fays and Faeries dwell;
" Tho' rarely ſeen by mortal eye,
" When the pale moon, aſcending high,
" Darts thro' yon' limes her quiv'ring beams,
" We friſk it near theſe cryſtal ſtreams.
" Her beams, reflected from the wave,
" Afford the light our revels crave;
" The turf, with daiſies broider'd o'er,
" Exceeds, we wot, the Parian floor;
" Nor yet for artful ſtrains we call,
" But liſten to the water's fall.
" Would you then taſte our tranquil ſcene,
" Be ſure your boſoms be ſerene,
" Devoid of hate, devoid of ſtrife,
" Devoid of all that poiſons life;
" And much it 'vails you in their place
" To graft the love of human race.
" And tread with awe theſe favour'd bowers,
" Nor wound the ſhrubs nor bruiſe the flowers;
" So may your path with ſweets abound,
" So may your couch with reſt be crown'd!
" But harm betide the wayward ſwain
" Who dares our hallow'd haunts profane!"

Theſe ſentiments correſpond as well as poſſible with the ideas we form of the abode of Fairies, and, appearing deep in this romantic valley, ſerve to keep alive ſuch enthuſiaſtic images while this ſort of ſcene continues.

You now paſs through The Priory Gate before mentioned, and are admitted into a part of the valley ſomewhat different from the former, tall trees, high irregular ground, and rugged ſcars. The right preſents you with, perhaps, the moſt natural, if not the moſt ſtriking, of the many caſcades here found; [xxiv] the left with a ſloping grove of oaks; and the centre with a pretty circular landſcape appearing through the trees, of which Hales Owen ſteeple, and other objects at a diſtance, form an intereſting part. The ſeat beneath the ruinated wall has theſe lines of Virgil inſcribed, ſuiting well with the general tenour of Mr. Shenſtone's late ſituation:

— " Lucis habitamus opacis,
" Riparumque toros et prata recentia rivis
" Incolimus"

You now proceed a few paces down the valley to another bench, where you have this caſcade in front, which, together with the internal arch and other appendages, make a pretty irregular picture. I muſt obſerve, once for all, that a number of theſe protempore benches (two ſtumps with a tranſverſe board) ſeem chiefly intended as hints to ſpectators, leſt in paſſing curſorily through the farm they might ſuffer any of that immenſe variety the place furniſhes to eſcape their notice. The ſtream attending us, with its agreeable murmurs, as we deſcend along this pleaſing valley, we come next to a ſmall ſeat, where we have a ſloping grove upon the right, and on the left a ſtriking viſta to the ſteeple of Hales Owen, [xxv] which is here ſeen in a new light. We now deſcend farther down this ſhady and ſequeſtered valley, accompanied on the right by the ſame brawling rivulet running over pebbles, till it empties itſelf into a fine piece of water at the bottom. The path here winding to the left conforms to the water before mentioned, running round the foot of a ſmall hill, and accompanying this ſemicircular lake into another winding valley, ſomewhat more open, and not leſs pleaſing, than the former: however, before we enter this, it will be proper to mention a ſeat about the centre of this water-ſcene, where the ends of it are loſt in the two vallies on each ſide, and in front it is inviſibly connected with another piece of water, of about twenty acres, open to Mr. Shenſtone, but not his property. This laſt was a performance of the monks, and part of a prodigious chain of fiſh-ponds that belonged to Hales Abbey. The back ground of this ſcene is very beautiful, and exhibits a picture of villages and varied ground finely held up to the eye.

I ſpeak of all this as already finiſhed, but through ſome misfortune in the mound that pounds up the water it is not completed.

We now leave The Priory upon the left, which is not meant for an object here, and wind along into the other valley: and here I cannot but take notice of the judgment which formed this piece of water; for although it be not very large, yet, as it is formed [xxvi] by the concurrence of three vallies, in which two of the ends are hid, and in the third it ſeems to join with the large extent of water below, it is, to all appearance, unbounded. I muſt confeſs I never ſaw a more natural bed for water, or any kind of lake that pleaſed me better; but it may be right to mention, that this water, in its full extent, has a yet more important effect from Mr. Shenſtone's houſe, where it is ſeen to a great advantage. We now, by a pleaſing ſerpentine walk, enter a narrow glade in the valley, the ſlopes on each ſide finely covered with oaks and beeches, on the left of which is a common bench, which affords a retiring place ſecluded from every eye, and a ſhort reſpite, during which the eye repoſes on a fine amphitheatre of wood and thicket.

We now proceed to a ſeat beneath a prodigiouſly fine canopy of ſpreading oak, on the back of which is this inſcription:

" Huc ades, O Meliboee! caper tibi ſalvus et hoedi;
" Et ſi quid cessare potes, requieſce ſub umbra."

The picture before it is that of a beautiful homeſcene; a ſmall lawn of well-varied ground, encompaſſed with hills and well-grown oaks, and embelliſhed with a caſt of the piping Faunus, amid trees [xxvii] and ſhrubs on a ſlope upon the left, and on the right, and nearer the eye, with an urn thus inſcribed: ‘" Ingenio et amicitiae
" Gvlielmi Somerville."’
And on the oppoſite ſide, ‘" G. S. poſvit,
" Debita ſpargens lacrima favillam
" Vatis amici."’
The ſcene is incloſed on all ſides by trees; in the middle only there is an opening, where the lawn is continued, and winds out of ſight.

Here entering a gate, you are led through a thicket of many ſorts of willows, into a large root-houſe, inſcribed to the Right Honourable the Earl of Stamford. It ſeems that worthy peer was preſent at the firſt opening of the caſcade, which is the principal object from the root-houſe, where the eye is preſented with a fairy viſion, conſiſting of an irregular and romantic fall of water, very unuſual, one hundred and fifty yards in continuity; and a very ſtriking ſcene it affords. Other caſcades may poſſibly have the advantage of a greater deſcent and a larger torrent; but a more wild and romantic appearance of water, and at the ſame time ſtrictly natural, is what [xxviii] I never ſaw in any place whatever. This ſcene, tho' comparatively ſmall, is yet aggrandized with ſo much art, that we forget the quantity of water which flows through this cloſe and overſhaded valley, and are ſo much tranſported with the intricacy of ſcene, and the concealed height from whence it flows, that we, without reflection, add the idea of magnificence to that of beauty. In ſhort, it is not but upon reflection that we find the ſtream is not a Niagara, but rather a water-fall in miniature; and that the ſame artifice, upon a larger ſcale, were there large trees inſtead of ſmall ones, and a river inſtead of a rill, would be capable of forming a ſcene that would exceed the utmoſt of our ideas. But I will not dwell longer upon this inimitable ſcene; thoſe who would admire it properly muſt view it, as ſurely as thoſe that view it muſt admire it beyond almoſt any thing they ever ſaw.

Proceeding on the right-hand path, the next ſeat affords a ſcene of what Mr. Shenſtone uſed to call his Foreſt ground, conſiſting of wild green ſlopes peeping through dingle, or irregular groupes of trees, a confuſed mixture of ſavage and cultivated ground, held up to the eye, and forming a landſcape fit for the pencil of Salvator Roſa.

Winding on beſide this lawn, which is over-arched with ſpreading trees, the eye catches, at intervals, over an intermediate hill, the ſpire of Hales church, [xxix] forming here a perfect obeliſk—the urn to Mr. Somerville, &c.; and now paſſing through a kind of thicket, we arrive at a natural bower of almoſt circular oaks, inſcribed in the manner following:

" To Mr. DODSLEY.
" Come then, my Friend! thy ſylvan taſte diſplay;
" Come hear thy Faunus tune his ruſtic lay:
" Ah! rather come, and in theſe dells diſown
" The care of other ſtrains, and tune thine own."

On the bank above it, amid the fore-mentioned ſhrubs, is a ſtatue of the piping Faun, which not only embelliſhes this ſcene, but is alſo ſeen from the court before the houſe, and from other places: it is ſurrounded by venerable oaks, and very happily ſituated. From this bower alſo you look down upon the fore-mentioned irregular ground, ſhut up with trees on all ſides, except ſome few openings to the more pleaſing parts of this groteſque and hilly country. The next little bench affords the firſt, but not moſt ſtriking, view of The Priory. It is indeed a ſmall building, but ſeen as it is beneath trees, and its extremity alſo hid by the ſame, it has in ſome ſort the dignity and ſolemn appearance of a larger edifice.

Paſſing through a gate, we enter a ſmall open grove, where the firſt ſeat we find affords a pictureſque view, through trees, of a clump of oaks at a diſtance, overſhadowing a little cottage upon a green hill: we thence immediately enter a perfect dome or circular temple of magnificent beeches, in the centre of which it was [xxx] intended to place an antique altar, or a ſtatue of Pan. The path ſerpentizing through this open grove, leads us by an eaſy aſcent to a ſmall bench with this motto,

— " Me gelidum nemus
" Nympharumque leves cum ſatyris chori
" Secernant populo."
HOR.

which alludes to the retired ſituation of the grove. There is alſo ſeen, through an opening to the left, a pleaſing landſcape of a diſtant hill, with a whited farm-houſe upon the ſummit; and to the right hand a beautiful round ſlope, crowned with a clump of large firs, with a pyramidal ſeat on its centre, to which, after no long walk, the path conduct us.

But we firſt come to another view of The Priory, more advantageous, and at a better diſtance, to which the eye is led down a green ſlope, through a ſcenery of tall oaks, in a moſt agreeable manner, the grove we have juſt paſſed on one ſide, and a hill of trees and thicket on the other, conducting the eye to a narrow opening through which it appears.

We now aſcend to a ſmall bench, where the circumjacent country begins to open; in particular a glaſs-houſe appears between two large clumps of trees, at about the diſtance of four miles; the glaſs-houſes in this country not ill reſembling a diſtant pyramid. [xxxi] Aſcending to the next ſeat, which is in the Gothic form, the ſcene grows more and more extended; woods and lawns, hills and vallies, thicket and plain, agreeably intermingled. On the back of this ſeat is the following inſcription, which the Author told me that he choſe to fix here, to ſupply what he thought ſome want of life in this part of the farm, and to keep up the ſpectator's attention till he came to ſcale the hill beyond.

INSCRIPTION.

' Shepherd, wouldſt thou here obtain
' Pleaſure unalloy'd with pain,
' Joy that ſuits the rural ſphere?
' Gentle Shepherd! lend an ear.
' Learn to reliſh calm delight,
' Verdant vales and fountains bright,
' Trees that nod on ſloping hills,
' Caves that echo, tinkling rills.
' If thou canſt no charm diſcloſe
' In the ſimpleſt bud that blows,
' Go, forſake thy plain and fold,
' Join the crowd, and toil for gold.
' Tranquil pleaſures never cloy;
' Baniſh each tumultuous joy;
' All but love—for love inſpires
' Fonder wiſhes, warmer fires.
' Love and all its joys be thine—
' Yet ere thou the reins reſign,
' Hear what Reaſon ſeems to ſay,
' Hear attentive, and obey.
" Crimſon leaves the roſe adorn,
" But beneath them lurks a thorn;
" Fair and flow'ry is the brake,
" Yet it hides the 'vengeful ſnake.
[xxxii]
" Think not ſhe, whoſe empty pride
" Dares the fleecy garb deride,
" Think not ſhe who, light and vain,
" Scorns the ſheep can love the ſwain.
" Artleſs deed and ſimple dreſs
" Mark the choſen ſhepherdeſs;
" Thoughts by decency controll'd,
" Well conceiv'd, and freely told:
" Senſe that ſhuns each conſcious air,
" Wit that falls ere well aware;
" Generous pity, prone to ſigh
" If her kid or lambkin die.
" Let not lucre, let not pride,
" Draw thee from ſuch charms aſide;
" Have not thoſe their proper ſphere?
" Gentler paſſions triumph here.
" See! to ſweeten thy repoſe,
" The bloſſom buds, the fountain flows;
" Lo! to crown thy healthful board,
" All that milk and fruits afford.
" Seek no more—the reſt is vain;
" Pleaſure ending ſoon in pain;
" Anguiſh lightly gilded o'er:
" Cloſe thy wiſh, and ſeek no more."

And now, paſſing through a wicket, the path winds up the back part of a circular green hill, diſcovering little of the country till you enter a clump of ſtately firs upon the ſummit. Over-arched by theſe firs is an octagonal ſeat, the back of which is ſo contrived as to form a table or pedeſtal for a bowl or goblet, thus inſcribed— ‘" To all friends round The Wrekin!"’ This facetious inſcription, being an old Shropſhire health, is a commemoration of his country friends, [xxxiii] from which this part of Shropſhire is divided: add to this that The Wrekin, that large and venerable hill, appears full in front, at the diſtance of about thirty miles.

The ſcene is a very fine one, divided by the firs into ſeveral compartments, each anſwering to the octagonal ſeat in the centre; to each of which is allotted a competent number of ſtriking objects to make a complete picture. A long ſerpentine ſtream waſhes the foot of this hill, and is loſt behind trees at one end, and a bridge thrown over at the other. Over this the eye is carried from very romantic homeſcenes to very beautiful ones at a diſtance. It is impoſſible to give an idea of that immenſe variety, that fine configuration of parts, which engage our attention from this place. In one of the compartments you have a ſimple ſcene of a cottage, and a road winding behind a farm-houſe half covered with trees, upon the top of ſome wild ſloping ground; and in another a view of the town, appearing from hence as upon the ſhelving banks of a large piece of water in the flat. Suffice it to ſay, that the hill and vale, plain and woodland, villages and ſingle houſes, blue diſtant mountains that ſkirt the horizon, and green hills romantically jumbled, that form the intermediate ground, make this ſpot more than commonly ſtriking—nor is there to be ſeen an acre of level ground through the large extent to which the eye is carried.

[xxxiv] Hence the path winds on betwixt two ſmall benches, each of which exhibits a pleaſing landſcape, which cannot eſcape the eye of a connoiſſeur.

Here we wind through a ſmall thicket, and ſoon enter a cavity in the hill, filled with trees, in the centre of which is a ſeat, from whence is diſcovered, gleaming acroſs the trees, a conſiderable length of the ſerpentine ſtream before mentioned, running under a ſlight ruſtic bridge to the right: hence we aſcend in a kind of Gothic alcove, looking down a ſlope, ſided with large oaks and tall beeches, which together over-arch the ſcene. On the back of this building is found the following

INSCRIPTION.

" O you that bathe in courtlye blyſſe,
" Or toyle in Fortune's giddy ſpheare,
" Do not too raſhlye deeme amyſſe
" Of him that bydes contented here.
" Nor yet diſdeigne the ruſſet ſtoale
" Which o'er each careleſſe lymbe he flyngs;
" Nor yet deryde the beechen bowle
" In whyche he quaffs the lympid ſprings.
" Forgive him, if at eve or dawne,
" Devoide of worldlye cark, he ſtray,
" Or all beſide ſome flowerye lawne
" He waſte his inoffenſive daye.
" So may he pardonne fraud and ſtrife,
" If ſuch in courtlye haunt he ſee;
" For faults there beene in buſye life
" From whyche theſe peaceful glennes are free."

Below this alcove is a large ſloping lawn, finely bounded, croſſed by the ſerpentine water before mentioned, [xxxv] and interſperſed with ſingle, or clumps of oaks at agreeable diſtances. Further on the ſcene is finely varied, the hills riſing and falling towards the oppoſite concavities, by the ſide of a long winding vale, with the moſt graceful confuſion. Among other ſcenes that form this landſcape, a fine hanging wood, backed and contraſted with a wild heath, interſected with croſs roads, is a very conſiderable object. Near adjoining to this is a ſeat, from whence the water is ſeen to advantage in many different ſtages of its progreſs; or where (as a poetical friend once obſerved) the proprietor has taken the Naiad by the hand, and led her an irregular dance into the valley.

Proceeding hence through a wicket, we enter upon another lawn, beyond which is a new theatre of wild ſhaggy precipices, hanging coppice ground, and ſmooth round hills between, being not only different, but even of an oppoſite character, to the ground from which we paſſed. Walking along the head of this lawn, we come to a ſeat under a ſpreading beech, with this

INSCRIPTION.

" Hoc erat in votis: modus agri non ita magnus,
" Hortus ubi, et tecto vicinus jugis aquae fons,
" Et paulum ſylvae ſuper his foret. Auctius atque
" Dii melius fecere."—

IMITATION.

This was my wiſh—an humble ſpot of ground,
A garden well-diſpos'd, and fenc'd around,
A bubbling fountain, to my dwelling nigh,
With cryſtal treaſures ſtor'd, and never dry,
The whole defended by a modeſt wood.—
This was my wiſh—my wiſh the gods allow'd,
And ev'n beyond that wiſh indulgently beſtow'd.

[xxxvi] In the centre of the hanging lawn before you is diſcovered the houſe, half hid with trees and buſhes: a little hanging wood, and a piece of winding water, iſſues through a noble clump of large oaks and ſpreading beeches. At the diſtance of about ten or twelve miles Lord Stamford's grounds appear, and beyond theſe the Clee hills in Shropſhire. The ſcene here conſiſts of admirably-varied ground, and is, I think, a very fine one. Hence paſſing ſtill along the top of the lawn, we croſs another gate, and behind the fence being to deſcend into the valley. About half way down is a ſmall bench, which throws the eye upon a near ſcene of hanging woods and ſhaggy wild declivities, intermixed with ſmooth green ſlopes and ſcenes of cultivation.

We now return again into the great lawn at bottom, and ſoon come to a ſeat, which gives a nearer view of the water before mentioned, between the trunks of high overſhadowing oaks and beeches, beyond which the winding line of trees is continued down the valley to the right. To the left, at a diſtance, the top of Clent hill appears, and the houſe upon a ſwell, amidſt trees and buſhes. In the centre, the eye is carried by a ſideling view down a length of [xxxvii] lawn, till it reſts upon the town and ſpire of Hales, with ſome pictureſque and beautiful ground riſing behind it.

Somewhat out of the path, and in the centre of a noble clump of ſtately beeches, is a ſeat inſcribed to Mr. Spence, in theſe words:‘IOSEPHO SPENCE,
eximio noſtro Critoni;
cvi dicari vellet
Mvſarvm omnivm et Gratiarvm chorvs,
dicat amicitia.
1758.’

We now, through a ſmall gate, enter what is called The Lover's Walk, and proceed immediately to a ſeat where the water is ſeen very advantageouſly at full length; which, though not large, is ſo agreeably ſhaped, and has its bounds ſo well concealed, that the beholder may receive leſs pleaſure from many lakes of greater extent. The margin on one ſide is fringed with alders, the other is overhung with moſt ſtately oaks and beeches, and the middle beyond the water preſents the Hales Owen ſcene, with a group of houſes on the ſlope behind, and the horizon well [xxxviii] fringed with the wood. Now winding a few paces round the margin of the water, we come to another ſmall bench, which preſents the former ſcene ſomewhat varied, with the addition of a whited village among trees upon a hill. Proceeding on, we enter the pleaſing gloom of this agreeable walk, and come to a bench beneath a ſpreading beech that overhangs both walk and water, which has been called The Aſſignation Seat, and has this inſcription on the back of it:

" Nerine Galatea! thymo mihi dulcior Hyblae,
" Candidior cygnis, hedera formoſior alba!
" Cum primum paſti repetent praeſepia tauri,
" Si qua tui Corydonis habet te cura, venito."

Here the path begins gradually to aſcend beneath a depth of ſhade, by the ſide of which is a ſmall bubbling rill, either forming little peninſulas, rolling over pebbles, or falling down ſmall caſcades, all under cover, and taught to murmur very agreeably. This very ſoft and penſive ſcene, very properly ſtyled The Lover's Walk, is terminated with an ornamented urn, inſcribed to Miſs Dolman, a beautiful and amiable relation of Mr. Shenſtone's, who died of the ſmall-pox, about twenty-one years of age, in the following words on one ſide:[xxxix] Peramabili ſuae conſobrinae
M. D.’
On the other ſide:‘Ah! Maria!
pvellarvm elegantiſſima!
ah Flore venvſtatis abrepta,
vale!
hev qvanto minvs eſt
cvm reliqvis verſari,
qvant tvi
meminiſſe!’

The aſcent from hence winds ſomewhat more ſteeply to another ſeat, where the eye is thrown over a rough ſcene of broken and furzy ground, upon a piece of water in the flat, whoſe extremities are hid behind trees and ſhrubs, amongſt which the houſe appears, and makes upon the whole no unpleaſing picture. The path ſtill winds under cover up the hill, the ſteep declivity of which is ſomewhat eaſed by the ſerpentine ſweep of it, till we come to a ſmall bench, with this line from Pope's Eloiſa:

[xl]
" Divine oblivion of low-thoughted Care!"

The opening before it preſents a ſolitary ſcene of trees, thickets, and precipice, and terminates upon a green hill, with a clump of firs on the top of it.

We now find the great uſe as well as beauty of the ſerpentine path in climbing up this wood, the firſt ſeat of which, alluding to the rural ſcene before it, has the following lines from Virgil:

— " Hic latis otia fundis
" Speluncae, vivique lacus, hic frigida Tempe,
" Mugituſque boum, molleſque ſub arbore ſomni."

Here the eye looking down a ſlope beneath the ſpreading arms of oak and beech trees, paſſes firſt over ſome rough furzy ground, then over water to the large ſwelling lawn, in the centre of which the houſe is diſcovered among trees and thickets: this forms the fore ground. Beyond this appears a ſwell of waſte furzy land, diverſified with a cottage, and a road that winds behind a farm-houſe and a fine clump of trees. The back ſcene of all is a ſemicircular range of hills, diverſified with woods, ſcenes of cultivation, and incloſures, to about four or five miles' diſtance.

Still winding up into the wood, we come to a ſlight ſeat, opening through the trees to a bridge of five [xli] piers, croſſing a large piece of water at about half a mile's diſtance. The next ſeat looks down from a conſiderable height, along the ſide of a ſteep precipice, upon irregular and pleaſing ground. And now we turn upon a ſudden into a long ſtraight-lined walk in the wood, arched over with tall trees, and terminating with a ſmall ruſtic building. Though the walk, as I ſaid, be ſtraight-lined, yet the baſe riſes and falls ſo agreeably, as leaves no room to cenſure its formality. About the middle of this avenue, which runs the whole length of this hanging wood, we arrive unexpectedly at a lofty Gothic ſeat, whence we look down a ſlope, more conſiderable than that before mentioned, through the wood on each ſide. This view is indeed a fine one, the eye firſt travelling down over well-variegated ground into the valley, where is a large piece of water, whoſe ſloping banks give all the appearance of a noble river. The ground from hence riſes gradually to the top of Clent hill, at three or four miles' diſtance, and the landſcape is enriched with a view of Hales Owen, the late Lord Dudley's houſe, and a large wood of Lord Lyttleton's. It is impoſſible to give an adequate deſcription of this view, the beauty of it depending upon the great variety of objects and beautiful ſhape of ground, and all at ſuch a diſtance as to admit of being ſeen diſtinctly.

Hence we proceed to the ruſtic building before mentioned, a ſlight and unexpenſive edifice, formed [xlii] of rough unhewn ſtone, commonly called here The Temple of Pan, having a trophy of the Tibia and Syrinx, and this inſcription over the entrance:

" Pan primus calamos cera conjungere plures
" Edocuit; Pan curat oves, oviumque magiſtros."

Hence mounting once more to the right, through this dark umbrageous walk, we enter at once upon a lightſome high natural terrace, whence the eye is thrown over all the ſcenes we have ſeen before, together with many fine additional ones, and all beheld from a declivity that approaches as near a precipice as is agreeable. In the middle is a ſeat with this inſcription: ‘Divini gloria rvris!’ To give a better idea of this, by far the moſt magnificent ſcene here, it were, perhaps, beſt to divide it into two diſtinct parts—the noble concave in the front, and the rich valley towards the right.—In regard to the former, if a boon companion could enlarge his idea of a punch-bowl, ornamented within with all the romantic ſcenery the Chineſe ever yet deviſed, it would, perhaps, afford him the higheſt idea he could poſſibly conceive of earthly happineſs: [xliii] he would certainly wiſh to ſwim in it. Suffice it to ſay, that the horizon, or brim, is as finely varied as the cavity. It would be idle here to mention the Clee hills, the Wrekin, the Welſh mountains, or Caer Caradoc, at a prodigious diſtance; which, though they finiſh the ſcene agreeably, ſhould not be mentioned at the Leaſowes, the beauty of which turns chiefly upon diſtinguiſhable ſcenes. The valley upon the right is equally enriched, and the oppoſite ſide thereof well fringed with woods, and the high hills on one ſide this long winding vale rolling agreeably into the hollows on the other. But theſe are a kind of objects which, though really noble in the ſurvey, will not ſtrike a reader in deſcription as they would a ſpectator upon the ſpot.

Hence returning back into the wood, and croſſing Pan's Temple, we go directly down the ſlope into another part of Mr. Shenſtone's grounds, the path leading down through very pleaſing home-ſcenes of well-ſhaped ground, exhibiting a moſt perfect concave and convex, till we come at a ſeat under a noble beech, preſenting a rich variety of fore-ground, and at, perhaps, half a mile's diſtance, the Gothic alcove on a hill well covered with wood, a pretty cottage under trees in the more diſtant part of the concave, and a farm-houſe upon the right, all pictureſque objects.

The next and the ſubſequent ſeat afford pretty much the ſame ſcenes a little enlarged, with the addition [xliv] of that remarkable clump of trees called Frankly Beeches, adjoining to the old family-ſeat of the Lyttletons, and from whence the preſent Lord Lyttleton derives his title.

We come now to a handſome Gothic ſcreen, backed with a clump of firs, which throws the eye in front full upon a caſcade in the valley, iſſuing from beneath a dark ſhade of poplars. The houſe appears in the centre of a large ſwelling lawn, buſhed with trees and thicket. The pleaſing variety of eaſy ſwells and hollows, bounded by ſcenes leſs ſmooth and cultivated, affords the moſt delightful picture of domeſtic retirement and tranquillity.

We now deſcend to a ſeat incloſed with handſome pales, and backed with firs, inſcribed to Lord Lyttleton. It preſents a beautiful view up a valley contracted gradually, and ending in a group of moſt magnificent oaks and beeches. The right-hand ſide is enlivened with two ſtriking caſcades, and a winding ſtream ſeen at intervals between tufts of trees and woodland. To the left appears the hanging wood already mentioned, with the Gothic ſcreen on the ſlope in the centre.

Winding ſtill downwards, we come to a ſmall ſeat, where one of the offices of the houſe, and a view of a cottage on very high ground, is ſeen over the tops of the trees of the grove in the adjacent valley, giving an agreeable inſtance of the abrupt inequality of [xlv] ground in this romantic well-variegated country. The next ſeat ſhews another face of the ſame valley, the water gliding calmly along betwixt two ſeeming groves without any caſcade, as a contraſt to the former one, where it was broken by caſcades: the ſcene very ſignificantly alluded to by the motto,

" Rura mihi, et rigul placeant in vallibus amnes,
" Flumina amem, ſilvaſque inglorius!"

We deſcend now to a beautiful gloomy ſcene, called Virgil's Grove, where, on the entrance, we paſs by a ſmall obeliſk on the right hand, with this inſcription: ‘P. Virgilio Maroni
Lapis iſte cvm lvco ſacer eſto
Before this is a ſlight bench, where ſome of the ſame objects are ſeen again, but in a different point of light. It is not very eaſy either to paint or deſcribe this delightful grove: however, as the former has been more than once attempted, I will hope to apologize for an imperfect deſcription, by the difficulty found [xlvi] by thoſe who have aimed to ſketch it with their pencil. Be it, therefore, firſt obſerved, that the whole ſcene is opaque and gloomy, conſiſting of a ſmall deep valley or dingle, the ſides of which are incloſed with irregular tufts of hazel and other underwood, and the whole overſhadowed with lofty trees riſing out of the bottom of the dingle, through which a copious ſtream makes its way through moſſy banks, enamelled with primroſes, and variety of wild wood flowers. The firſt ſeat we approach is thus inſcribed:

Celeberrimo Poetae
IACOBO THOMSON,
Prope fontes illi non faſtiditos
G. S.
Sedem hanc ornavit.
" Quae tibi, quae tali reddam pro carmine dona?
" Nam neque me tantum venientis sibilus auſtri,
" Nec percussa juvant fluctu tam littora, nec quae
" Saxoſas inter decurrunt fl umina valles."

This ſeat is placed upon a ſteep bank on the edge of the valley, from which the eye is here drawn down [xlvii] into the flat below, by the light that glimmers in front, and by the ſound of various caſcades, by which the winding ſtream is agreeably broken. Oppoſite to this ſeat the ground riſes again in an eaſy concave to a kind of dripping fountain, where a ſmall rill trickles down a rude nich of rock-work, through fern, liverwort, and acquatic weeds, the green area in the middle, through which the ſtream winds, being as well ſhaped as can be imagined. After falling down theſe caſcades, it winds under a bridge of one arch, and then empties itſelf into a ſmall lake which catches it a little below. This terminates the ſcene upon the right; and after theſe objects have for ſome time amuſed the ſpectator, his eye rambles to the left, where one of the moſt beautiful caſcades imaginable is ſeen, by way of incident, through a kind of viſta or glade, falling down a precipice overarched with trees, and ſtrikes us with ſurpriſe. It is impoſſible to expreſs the pleaſure which one feels on this occaſion; for though ſurpriſe alone is not excellence, it may ſerve to quicken the effect of what is beautiful. I believe none ever beheld this grove without a thorough ſenſe of ſatisfaction; and were one to chuſe any particular ſpot of this perfectly Arcadian farm, it ſhould, perhaps, be this; although it ſo well contraſts both with the terrace and with ſome other ſcenes, that one cannot wiſh them ever to be divided. We now proceed to a ſeat at the bottom of a large root on the ſide of a ſlope, with this inſcription:

[xlviii]INSCRIPTION.

' O let me haunt this peaceful ſhade,
' Nor let Ambition e'er invade
' The tenants of this leafy bower,
' That ſhun her paths, and ſlight her power.
' Hither the peaceful halcyon flies
' From ſocial meads and open ſkies,
' Pleas'd by this rill her courſe to ſteer,
' And hide her ſapphire plumage here.
' The trout, bedropp'd with crimſon ſtains,
' Forſakes the river's proud domains,
' Forſakes the ſun's unwelcome gleam,
' To lurk within this humble ſtream.
' And ſure I hear the Naiad ſay,
" Flow, flow, my Stream! this devious way;
" Tho' lovely ſoft thy murmurs are,
" Thy waters lovely, cool, and fair.
" Flow, gentle Stream! nor let the vain
" Thy ſmall unſully'd ſtores diſdain;
" Nor let the penſive ſage repine,
" Whoſe latent courſe reſembles thine."

The view from it is a calm tranquil ſcene of water, gliding through ſloping ground, with a ſketch through the trees of the ſmall pond below.

The ſcene in this place is that of water ſtealing along through a rude ſequeſtered vale, the ground on each ſide covered with weeds and field flowers, as that before is kept cloſe ſhaven. Farther on we loſe all ſight of water, and only hear the noiſe, without having the appearance; a kind of effect which the Chineſe are fond of producing in what they call their Scenes of enchantment. We now turn, all on a ſudden, upon the high caſcade which we admired before in [xlix] viſta. The ſcene around is quite a grotto of native ſtone running up it, roots of trees overhanging it, and the whole ſhaded over head. However, we firſt approach, upon the left, a chalybeat ſpring, with an iron bowl chained to it, and this inſcription upon a ſtone: ‘Fons Ferrvginevs
Divae qvae ſeceſſv iſto frvi concedit.’
Then turning to the right, we find a ſtone ſeat, making part of the aforeſaid cave, with this well-applied inſcription:

Intus aqvae dulces, vivoqve ſedilia ſaxo;
Nympharvm domvs.

which I have often heard Mr. Shenſtone term the definition of a grotto. We now wind up a ſhady path on the left hand, and croſſing the head of this caſcade, paſs beſide the river that ſupplies it in our way up to the houſe. One ſeat firſt occurs under a ſhady oak as we aſcend the hill; ſoon after we enter the ſhrubbery, which half ſurrounds the houſe, where we find two ſeats, thus inſcribed to two of his moſt particular friends. The firſt thus:[l] Amicitiae et meritis
RICHARDI GRAVES:
Ipſae te, Tityre! pinvs,
Ipſi te fontes, ipſa haec arbvſta, vocabant.’
and a little further the other, with the following inſcription: ‘Amicitiae et meritis
RICHARDI JAGO.’
From this laſt is an opening down the valley over a large ſliding lawn, well edged with oaks, to a piece of water croſſed by a conſiderable bridge in the flat—the ſteeple of Hales, a village amid trees, making on the whole a very pleaſing picture. Thus winding through flowering ſhrubs, beſide a menageric for doves, we are conducted to the ſtables. But let it not be forgot, that on the entrance into this ſhrubbery the firſt object that ſtrikes us is a Venus de Medicis, beſide a baſon of gold-fiſh, encompaſſed round with ſhrubs, and illuſtrated with the following inſcription;

[li]
—"Semi-reducta Venus."
" To Venus, Venus here retir'd,
" My ſober vows I pay;
" Not her on Paphian plains admir'd,
" The bold, the pert, the gay;
" Not her whoſe am'rous leer prevail'd
" To bribe the Phrygian boy;
" Not her who, clad in armour, fail'd
" To ſave diſaſt'rous Troy.
" Freſh riſing from the foamy tide,
" She ev'ry boſom warms,
" While half withdrawn ſhe ſeems to hide,
" And half reveals, her charms.
" Learn hence, ye boaſtful ſons of Taſte!
" Who plan the rural ſhade,
" Learn hence to ſhun the vicious waſte
" Of pomp, at large diſplay'd.
" Let ſweet Concealment's magic art
" Your mazy bounds inveſt,
" And while the ſight unveils a part,
" Let Fancy paint the reſt.
" Let coy Reſerve with Coſt unite
" To grace your wood or field,
" No ray obtruſive pall the ſight,
" In aught you paint or build.
" And far be driv'n the ſumptuous glare
" Of gold, from Britiſh groves,
" And far the meretricious air
" Of China's vain alcoves.
" Tis baſhful Beauty ever twines
" The moſt coercive chain;
" 'Tis ſhe that ſovereign rule declines,
" Who beſt deſerves to reign."

VERSES TO MR. SHENSTONE.

[]

Written on a Ferme Ornée, near Birmingham,

'TIS Nature here bids pleaſing ſcenes ariſe,
And wiſely gives them Cynthio to reviſe;
To veil each blemiſh, brighten ev'ry grace,
Yet ſtill preſerve the lovely parent's face.
How well the Bard obeys each valley tells,
Theſe lucid ſtreams, gay meads, and lonely cells,
Where modeſt Art in ſilence lurks conceal'd,
While Nature ſhines, ſo gracefully reveal'd,
That ſhe triumphant claims the total plan,
And with freſh pride adopts the work of man.

TO WILLIAM SHENSTONE, ESQ. AT THE LEASOWES.

" Veilem in amicitia ſic erraremus!"
HOR.
SEE! the tall youth, by partial Fate's decree,
To affluence born, and from reſtraint ſet free;
Eager he ſeeks the ſcenes of gay reſort,
The Mall, the rout, the playhouſe, and the court:
[liii] Soon for ſome varniſh'd nymph of dubious fame,
Or powder'd peereſs, counterfeits a flame.
Behold him now, enraptur'd, ſwear and ſigh,
Dreſs, dance, drink, revel, all he knows not why,
Till by kind Fate reſtor'd to country air,
He marks the roſes of ſome rural fair;
Smit with her unaffected native charms,
A real paſſion ſoon his boſom warms;
And, wak'd from idle dreams, he takes a wife,
And taſtes the genuine happineſs of life.
Thus, in the vacant ſeaſon of the year,
Some Templar gay begins his wild career:
From ſeat to ſeat o'er pompous ſcenes he flies,
Views all with equal wonder and ſurpriſe,
Till, ſick of domes, arcades, and temples, grown,
He hies fatigu'd, not ſatisfy'd, to Town.
Yet if ſome kinder genius point his way
To where the Muſes o'er thy Leaſowes ſtray,
Charm'd with the ſylvan beauties of the place,
Where Art aſſumes the ſweets of Nature's face,
Each hill, each dale, each conſecrated grove,
Each lake, and falling ſtream, his rapture move.
Like the ſage captive in Calypſo's grot,
The cares, the pleaſures, of the world forgot,
Of calm content he hails the genuine ſphere,
And longs to dwell a bliſsful hermit here.

VERSES RECEIVED BY THE POST,

[liv]
HEALTH to the Bard in Leaſowes' happy groves;
Health, and ſweet converſe with the Muſe he loves!
The humbleſt vot'ry of the tuneful Nine,
With trembling hand, attempts her artleſs line,
In numbers ſuch as untaught Nature brings,
As flow, ſpontaneous, like thy native ſprings.
But, ah! what airy forms around me riſe!
The ruſſet mountain glows with richer dyes;
In circling dance a pigmy crowd appear,
And, hark! an infant voice ſalutes my ear!
' Mortal! thy aim we know, thy taſk approve;
' His merit honour, and his genius love:
' For us what verdant carpets has he ſpread,
' Where, nightly, we our myſtic mazes tread!
' For us each ſhady grove and rural ſeat,
' His falling ſtreams and flowing numbers ſweet!
' Didſt thou not mark, amid the winding dell,
' What tuneful verſe adorns the moſſy cell?
' There ev'ry Fairy of our ſprightly train
' Reſort, to bleſs the woodland and the plain:
' There, as we move, unbidden beauties glow,
' The green turf brightens, and the violets blow;
' And there with thoughts ſublime we bleſs the ſwain,
' Nor we inſpire, nor he attends, in vain.
[lv]
' Go, ſimple Rhimer! bear this meſſage true;
' The truths that Fairies dictate none ſhall rue.
' Say to the Bard in Leaſowes' happy grove,
' Whom Dryads honour, and whom Fairies love—
" Content thyſelf no longer that thy lays,
" By others foſter'd, lend to others praiſe;
" No longer to the fav'ring world refuſe
" The welcome treaſures of thy poliſh'd Muſe;
" The ſcatter'd blooms that boaſt thy valu'd name,
" Collect, unite, and give the wreath to Fame;
" Ne'er can thy virtues, or thy verſe, engage
" More ſolid praiſe than in this happieſt age,
" When ſenſe and merit's cheriſh'd by the throne,
" And each illuſtrious privilege their own.
" Tho' modeſt be thy gentle Muſe, I ween,
" Oh! lead her bluſhing from the daiſy'd green,
" A fit attendant on Britannia's Queen."
Ye ſportive Elves! as faithful I relate
Th' intruſted mandates of your Fairy ſtate,
Viſit theſe wilds again with nightly care;
So ſhall my kine, of all the herd, repair
In healthful plight to fill the copious pail;
My ſheep lie pent with ſafety in the dale;
My poultry fear no robber in the rooſt;
My linen more than common whiteneſs boaſt:
Let order, peace, and houſewifery, be mine;
Shenſtone! be fancy, fame, and fortune, thine!
COTSWOULDIA.

ON THE DISCOVERY OF AN ECHO AT EDGBASTON.

[lvi]
HA! what art thon, whoſe voice unknown
Pours on theſe plains its tender moan?
Art thou the nymph in Shenſtone's dale,
Who doſt with plaintive note bewail
That he forſakes th' Aonian maids,
To court inconſtant rills and ſhades?
Mourn not, ſweet Nymph!—Alas! in vain
Do they invite and thou complain—
Yet while he woo'd the gentle throng,
With liquid lay and melting ſong,
The liſt'ning herd around him ſtray'd,
In wanton friſk the lambkins play'd,
And every Naïad ceas'd to lave
Her azure limbs amid the wave:
The Graces danc'd; the roſy band
Of Smiles and Loves went hand in hand,
And purple Pleaſures ſtrew'd the way
With ſweeteſt flow'rs; and every ray
Of each fond Muſe with rapture fir'd,
To glowing thoughts his breaſt inſpir'd;
The hills rejoic'd, the vallies rung,
All Nature ſmil'd while Shenſtone ſung.
[lvii]
So charm'd his lay; but now no more—
Ah! why doſt thou repeat—"No more?"
Ev'n now he hies to deck the grove,
To deck the ſcene the Muſes love,
And ſoon again will own their ſway,
And thou reſound the peerleſs lay,
And with immortal numbers fill
Each rocky cave and vocal hill.

VERSES BY MR. DODSLEY, ON HIS FIRST ARRIVAL AT THE LEASOWES, 1754.

" How ſhall I fix my wand'ring eye? where find
" The ſource of this enchantment? Dwells it in
" The woods? or waves there not a magic wand
" O'er the tranſlucent waters? Sure, unſeen,
" Some fav'ring power directs the happy lines
" That ſketch theſe beauties; ſwells the riſing hills,
" And ſcoops the dales to Nature's fineſt forms,
" Vague, undetermin'd, infinite; untaught
" By line or compaſs, yet ſupremely fair!"
So ſpake Philenor, as with raptur'd gaze
He travers'd Damon's farm: from diſtant plains
He ſought his friend's abode; nor had the fame
Of that new-form'd Arcadia reach'd his ear.
And thus the ſwain, as o'er each hill and dale,
Thro' lawn or thicket, he purſu'd his way:
" What is it gilds the verdure of theſe meads
[lviii] " With hues more bright than Fancy paints the flowers
" Of Paradiſe? What Naïad's guiding hand
" Leads, thro' the broider'd vale, theſe lucid rills,
" That, murm'ring as they flow, bear melody
" Along their banks, and thro' the vocal ſhades
" Improve the muſic of the woodland choir?
" What penſive Dryad rais'd yon' ſolemn grove,
" Where minds contemplative, at cloſe of day
" Retiring, muſe o'er Nature's various works,
" Her wonders venerate, or her ſweets enjoy?—
" What room for doubt? ſome rural deity,
" Preſiding, ſcatters o'er th' unequal lawns,
" In beauteous wildneſs, yon' fair-ſpreading trees,
" And, mingling woods and waters, hills and dales,
" And herds and bleating flocks, domeſtic fowl,
" And thoſe that ſwim the lake, ſees riſing round
" More pleaſing landſcapes than in Tempe's vale
" Penéus water'd. Yes, ſome ſylvan god
" Spreads wide the varied proſpect, waves the woods,
" Lifts the proud hills, and clears the ſhining lakes,
" While, from the congregated waters pour'd,
" The burſting torrent tumbles down the ſteep
" In foaming fury: fierce, irregular,
" Wild, interrupted, croſs'd with rocks and roots
" And interwoven trees; till, ſoon abſorb'd,
" An opening cavern all its rage entombs.
" So vaniſh human glories! ſuch the pomp
" Of ſwelling warriors, of ambitious kings,
[lix] " Who fret and ſtrut their hour upon the ſtage
" Of buſy life, and then are heard no more!
" Yes, 'tis enchantment all—And ſee! the ſpells,
" The pow'rful incantations, magic verſe,
" Inſcrib'd on ev'ry tree, alcove, or urn.—
" Spells!—Incantations!—Ah! my tuneful Friend!
" Thine are the numbers, thine the wonderous work!—
" Yes, great Magician! now I read thee right,
" And lightly weigh all ſorcery but thine.
" No Naïad's leading ſtep conducts the rill,
" Nor ſylvan god preſiding ſkirts the lawn
" In beauteous wildneſs, with fair-ſpreading trees,
" Nor magic wand has circumſcrib'd the ſcene:
" 'Tis thine own taſte, thy genius that preſides,
" Nor needs there other deity, nor needs
" More potent ſpells than they."—No more the ſwain,
For, lo! his Damon, o'er the tufted lawn
Advancing, leads him to the ſocial dome.

TO MR. R. D. ON THE DEATH OF MR. SHENSTONE.

" Thee, Shepherd! thee the woods and deſert caves,
" With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown,
" And all their echoes, mourn."
MILT.
'Tis paſt, my Friend! the tranſient ſcene is clos'd!
The fairy pile, th' enchanted viſion, rais'd
By Damon's magic ſkill is loſt in air!
[lx]
What tho' the lawns and pendent woods remain,
Each tinkling ſtream, each ruſhing cataract,
With lapſe inceſſant echoes thro' the dale?
Yet what avails the lifeleſs landſcape now?
The charm's diſſolv'd; the Genius of the wood,
Alas! is flown—for Damon is no more.
As when from fair Lycaeum, crown'd with pines,
Or Maenalus, with leaves autumnal ſtrew'd,
The tuneful Pan retires, the vocal hills
Reſound no more, and all Arcadia mourns.
Yet here we fondly dream'd of laſting joys;
Here we had hop'd, from noiſy throngs retir'd,
To drink large draughts of Friendſhip's cordial ſtream,
In ſweet oblivion wrapt, by Damon's verſe,
And ſocial converſe, many a ſummer's day.
Romantic wiſh! in vain frail mortals trace
Th' imperfect ſketch of human bliſs—Whilſt yet
Th' enraptur'd ſire his well-plann'd ſtructure views
Majeſtic riſing 'midſt his infant groves,
Sees the dark laurel ſpread its gloſſy ſhade,
Its languid bloom the purple lilac blend,
Or pale laburnum drop its penſile chain,
Death ſpreads the fatal ſhaft, and bids his heir
Tranſplant the cypreſs round his father's tomb.
Oh! teach me then, like you, my Friend! to raiſe
To moral truths my grov'lling ſong; for, ah!
Too long, by lawleſs Fancy led aſtray,
Of Nymphs and groves I've dream'd, and dancing Fauns,
[lxi] Or Naïad leaning o'er her tinkling urn.
Oh! could I learn to ſanctify my ſtrains
With hymns, like thoſe by tuneful Meyrick ſung—
Or rather catch the melancholy ſounds
From Warton's reed, or Maſon's lyre—to paint
The ſudden gloom that damps my ſoul—But ſee!
Melpomene herſelf has ſnatch'd the pipe
With which ſad Lyttleton his Lucia mourn'd,
And plaintive cries, My Shenſtone is no more!
R. G.

VERSES WRITTEN AT THE GARDENS OF WILLIAM SHENSTONE, ESQ. NEAR BIRMINGHAM, 1756.

" Ille terrarum mihi praeter omnes
" Angulus ridet."
HOR.
WOULD you theſe lov'd receſſes trace,
And view fair Nature's modeſt face?
See her in ev'ry field-flower bloom,
O'er ev'ry thicket ſhed pre [...]ume?
By verdant groves, and vocal hills,
By moſſy grots, near purling rills,
Where'er you turn your wond'ring eyes,
Behold her win without diſguiſe.
[lxii]
What tho' no pageant trifles here,
As in the glare of courts, appear?
Tho' rarely here be heard the name
Of rank or title, power or fame?
Yet, if ingenuous be your mind,
A bliſs more pure and unconfin'd
Your ſtep attends—Draw freely nigh,
And meet the Bard's benignant eye:
On him no pedant forms await,
No proud reſerve ſhuts up his gate;
No ſpleen, no party views, control
That warm benevolence of ſoul
Which prompts the friendly gen'rous part,
Regardleſs of each venal art,
Regardleſs of the world's acclaim,
And courteous with no ſelfiſh aim.
Draw freely nigh, and welcome find,
If not the coſtly, yet the kind.
Oh! he will lead you to the cells
Where ev'ry Muſe and Virtue dwells,
Where the green Dryads guard his woods,
Where the blue Naïads guide his floods,
Where all the Siſter Graces gay,
That ſhap'd his walk's meand'ring way,
Stark-naked, or but wreath'd with flowers,
Lie ſlumb'ring ſoft beneath his bowers.
Wak'd by the ſtock-dove's melting ſtrain,
Behold them riſe! and, with the train
[lxiii] Of Nymphs that haunt the ſtream or grove,
Or o'er the flow'ry champain rove,
Join hand in hand—attentive gaze—
And mark the dance's myſtic maze.
" Such is the waving line," they cry,
" For ever dear to Fancy's eye!
" Yon' ſtream that wanders down the dale,
" The ſpiral wood, the winding vale,
" The path which, wrought with hidden ſkill,
" Slow twining, ſcales yon' diſtant hill,
" With fir inveſted—all combine
" To recommend the waving line.
" The wreathed rod of Bacchus fair,
" The ringlets of Apollo's hair,
" The wand by Maïa's offspring borne,
" The ſmooth volutes of Ammon's horn,
" The ſtructure of the Cyprian dame,
" And each fair female's beauteous frame,
" Shew, to the pupils of Deſign,
" The triumphs of the waving line."
Then gaze, and mark that union ſweet
Where fair convex and concave meet,
And while, quick ſhifting as you ſtray,
The vivid ſcenes on fancy play,
The lawn, of aſpect ſmooth and mild,
The foreſt ground groteſque and wild,
The ſhrub that ſcents the mountain gale,
The ſtream rough daſhing down the dale,
[lxiv] From rock to rock in eddies toſt,
The diſtant lake in which 'tis loſt,
Blue hills gay beaming thro' the glade,
Lon [...] urns that ſolemnize the ſhade,
Sweet interchange of all that charms
In groves, meads, dingles, riv'lets, farms!
If aught the fair confuſion pleaſe,
With laſting health and laſting eaſe,
To him who form'd the bliſsful bow'r,
And gave thy life one tranquil hour,
Wiſh peace and freedom—theſe poſſeſt,
His temp'rate mind ſecures the reſt.
But if thy ſoul ſuch bliſs deſpiſe,
Avert thy dull incurious eyes;
Go, fix them there where gems and gold,
Improv'd by art, their pow'r unfold;
Go, try in courtly ſcenes to trace
A fairer form of Nature's face;
Go, ſcorn Simplicity—but know
That all our heart-felt joys below,
That all which Virtue loves to name,
Which Art conſigns to laſting fame,
Which fixes Wit or Beauty's throne,
Derives its ſource from her alone.
ARCADIO.

TO WILLIAM SHENSTONE, ESQ. IN HIS SICKNESS.

[lxv]
YE flow'ry Plains! ye breezy Woods!
Ye Bowers and gay Alcoves!
Ye falling Streams! ye ſilver Floods!
Ye Grottoes, and ye Groves!
Alas! my heart feels no delight,
Tho' I your charms ſurvey,
While he conſumes in pain the night,
In languid ſighs the day.
The flowers diſcloſe a thouſand blooms,
A thouſand ſcents diffuſe,
Yet all in vain they ſhed perfumes,
In vain diſplay their hues.
Reſtrain, ye Flowers! your thoughtleſs pride,
Recline your gaudy heads,
And ſadly drooping, ſide by ſide,
Embrace your humid beds.
Tall Oaks! that o'er the woodland ſhade
Your lofty ſummits rear,
Ah! why, in wonted charms array'd,
Expand your leaves ſo fair!
[lxvi]
For, lo! the flowers as gayly ſmile,
As wanton waves the tree,
And tho' I ſadly 'plain the while,
Yet they regard not me.
Ah! ſhould the Fates an arrow ſend,
And ſtrike the fatal wound,
Who, who ſhall then your ſweets defend,
Or fence your beauties round?
But hark! perhaps the plumy throng
Have learn'd my plaintive tale,
And ſome ſad dirge or mournful ſong
Comes floting in the gale.
Ah, no! they chant a ſprightly ſtrain
To ſooth an am'rous mate,
Unmindful of my anxious pain,
And his uncertain fate.
But ſee! theſe little murm'ring rills
With fond repinings rove,
And trickle wailing down the hills,
Or weep along the grove.
Oh! mock not if, beſide your ſtream,
You hear me, too, repine,
Or aid with ſighs your mournful theme,
And fondly call him mine.
[lxvii]
Ye envious Winds! the cauſe diſplay,
In whiſpers as ye blow,
Why did your treach'rous gales convey
The poiſon'd ſhafts of woe?
Did he not plant the ſhady bower,
Where you ſo blithly meet?
The ſcented ſhrub, and fragrant flower,
To make your breezes ſweet?
And muſt he leave the wood, the field,
The dear Arcadian reign?
Can neither verſe nor virtue ſhield
The guardian of the plain?
Muſt he his tuneful breath reſign,
Whom all the Muſes love?
That round his brow their laurels twine,
And all his ſongs approve.
Preſerve him, mild Omnipotence!
Our Father, King, and God!
Who clear'ſt the paths of life and ſenſe,
Or ſtopp'ſt them at thy nod.
Bleſs'd Power! who calm'ſt the raging deep,
His valued health reſtore,
Nor let the ſons of Genius weep,
Nor let the Good deplore.
[lxviii]
But if thy boundleſs wiſdom knows
His longer date an ill,
Let not my ſoul a wiſh diſcloſe
To contradict thy will.
For happy, happy were the change,
For ſuch a godlike mind,
To go where kindred ſpirits range,
Nor leave a wiſh behind.
And tho' to ſhare his pleaſures here
Kings might their ſtate forego,
Yet muſt he feel ſuch raptures there
As none can taſte below.

VERSES LEFT ON A SEAT,

O EARTH! to his remains indulgent be,
Who ſo much care and coſt beſtow'd on thee;
Who crown'd thy barren hills with uſeful ſhade,
And cheer'd with tinkling rills each ſilent glade;
Here taught the day to wear a thoughtful gloom,
And there enliven'd Nature's vernal bloom.
Propitious Earth! lie lightly on his head,
And ever on his tomb thy vernal glories ſpread!

CORYDON, A PASTORAL. TO THE MEMORY OF WILLIAM SHENSTONE, ESQ.

[lxix]
I.
COME, Shepherds! we'll follow the h [...]rſe,
And ſee our lov'd Corydon laid;
Tho' ſorrow may blemiſh the verſe,
Yet let the ſad tribute be paid.
They call'd him the Pride of the plain:
In ſooth he was gentle and kind;
He mark'd in his elegant ſtrain
The graces that glow'd in his mind.
II.
On purpoſe he planted yon' trees,
That birds in the covert might dwell;
He cultur'd his thyme for the bees,
But never would rifle their cell.
Ye Lambkins! that play'd at his feet,
Go bleat—and your maſter bemoan:
His muſic was artleſs and ſweet,
His manners as mild as your own.
III.
No verdure ſhall cover the vale,
No bloom on the bloſſoms appear;
The ſweets of the foreſt ſhall fail,
And winter diſcolour the year.
[lxx] No birds in our hedges ſhall ſing,
(Our hedges, ſo vocal before)
Since he that ſhould welcome the ſpring
Can greet the gay ſeaſon no more.
IV.
His Phyllis was fond of his praiſe,
And poets came round in a throng;
They liſten'd, and envy'd his lays,
But which of them equall'd his ſong?
Ye Shepherds! henceforward be mute,
For loſt is the Paſtoral ſtrain;
So give me my Corydon's flute,
And thus—let me break it in twain.

ELEGIES, WRITTEN ON MANY DIFFERENT OCCASIONS.

[]
Tantum inter denſas, umbroſa cacumina, fagas
Aſſidue veniebat; ibi haec incondita, ſolus,
Montibus et ſilvis ſtudio jactabat inani!
VIRG.

IMITATION.

The ſpreading beech alone he would explore
With frequent ſtep; beneath its ſhady top,
(Ah! profitleſs employ!) to hills and groves
Theſe indigeſted lays he wont repeat.

ELEGY I. He arrives at his retirement in the country, and takes occaſion to expatiate in praiſe of ſimplicity. To a Friend.

FOR rural virtues, and for native ſkies,
I bade Auguſta's venal ſons farewell;
Now 'mid the trees I ſee my ſmoke ariſe,
Now hear the fountains bubbling round my cell.
O may that Genius which ſecures my reſt
Preſerve this villa for a friend that's dear!
Ne'er may my vintage glad the ſordid breaſt,
N'er tinge the lip that dares be unſincere!
Far from theſe paths, ye faithleſs Friends! depart;
Fly my plain board, abhor my hoſtile name!
Hence, the ſaint verſe that flows not from the heart,
But mourns in labour'd ſtrains, the price of fame!
[72]
O lov'd Simplicity! be thine the prize!
Aſſiduous Art correct her page in vain!
His be the palm who, guiltleſs of diſguiſe,
Contemns the pow'r the dull reſourſe to feign!
Still may the mourner, laviſh of his tears,
For lucre's venal meed invite my ſcorn!
Still may the bard, diſſembling doubts and tears,
For praiſe, for flatt'ry ſighing, ſigh forlorn!
Soft as the line of love-ſick Hammond flows,
'Twas his fond heart effus'd the melting theme;
Ah! never could Aonia's hill diſcloſe
So fair a fountain or ſo lov'd a ſtream.
Ye loveleſs Bards! intent with artful pains
To form a ſigh, or to contrive a tear!
Forego your Pindus, and on — plains
Survey Camilla's charms, and grow ſincere.
But thou, my Friend! while in thy youthful ſoul
Love's gentle tyrant ſeats his awful throne,
Write from thy boſom—let not Art control
The ready pen that makes his edicts known.
Pleaſing when youth is long expir'd, to trace
The forms our pencil or our pen deſign'd!
" Such was our youthful air, and ſhape, and face!
" Such the ſoft image of our youthful mind!"
[73]
Soft whilſt we ſleep beneath the rural bow'rs,
The Loves and Graces ſteal unſeen away,
And where the turf diffus'd its pomp of flow'rs,
We wake to wintry ſcenes of chill decay!
Curſe the ſad fortune that detains thy fair;
Praiſe the ſoft hours that gave thee to her arms;
Paint thy proud ſcorn of ev'ry vulgar care,
When hope exalts thee, or when doubt alarms.
Where with Oenone thou haſt worn the day,
Near font or ſtream, in meditation, rove;
If in the grove Oenone lov'd to ſtray,
The faithful Muſe ſhall meet thee in the grove.

ELEGY II. On poſthumous reputation. To a Friend.

O GRIEF of griefs! that Envy's frantic ire
Should rob the living virtue of its praiſe;
O fooliſh Muſes! that with zeal aſpire
To deck the cold inſenſate ſhrine with bays.
When the free ſpirit quits her humble frame,
To tread the ſkies with radiant garlands crown'd,
Say, will ſhe hear the diſtant voice of Fame?
Or, hearing, fancy ſweetneſs in the ſound?
[74]
Perhaps even Genius pours a ſlighted lay;
Perhaps ev'n Friendſhip ſheds a fruitleſs tear;
Ev'n Lyttleton but vainly trims the bay,
And fondly graces Hammond's mournful bier.
Tho' weeping virgins haunt his favour'd urn,
Renew their chaplets and repeat their ſighs;
Tho' near his tomb Sabaean odours burn,
The loit'ring fragrance will it reach the ſkies?
No; ſhould his Delia votive wreaths prepare,
Delia might place the votive wreaths in vain;
Yet the dear hope of Delia's future care
Once crown'd his pleaſures and diſpell'd his pain.
Yes—the fair proſpect of ſurviving praiſe
Can ev'ry ſenſe of preſent joys excel;
For this great Hadrian choſe laborious days,
Thro' this, expiring, bade a gay farewell.
Shall then our youths, who Fame's bright fabric raiſe,
To life's precarious date confine their care?
O teach them you, to ſpread the ſacred baſe,
To plan a work thro' lateſt ages fair!
Is it ſmall tranſport, as with curious eye
You trace the ſtory of each Attic ſage,
To think your blooming praiſe ſhall time defy?
Shall waft, like odours, thro' the pleaſing page?
[75]
To mark the day when, thro' the bulky tome,
Around your name the varying ſtyle refines?
And readers call their loſt attention home,
Led by that index where true genius ſhines?
Ah! let not Britons doubt their ſocial aim,
Whoſe ardent boſoms catch this ancient fire;
Cold int'reſt melts before the vivid flame,
And patriot ardours but with life expire.

ELEGY III. On the untimely death of a certain learned acquaintance.

IF proud Pygmalion quit his cumb'rous frame,
Funereal pomp the ſcanty tear ſupplies,
Whilſt heralds loud, with venal voice, proclaim,
Lo! here the brave and the puiſſant lies.
When humbler Alcon leaves his drooping friends,
Pageant nor plume diſtinguiſh Alcon's bier;
The faithful Muſe with votive ſong attends,
And blots the mournful numbers with a tear.
He little knew the ſly penurious art,
That odious art which Fortune's fav'rites know;
Form'd to beſtow, he felt the warmeſt heart,
But envious Fate forbade him to beſtow.
[76]
He little knew to ward the ſecret wound;
He little knew that mortals could enſnare;
Virtue he knew; the nobleſt joy he found
To ſing her glories, and to paint her fair!
Ill was he ſkill'd to guide his wand'ring ſheep,
And unforeſeen diſaſter thinn'd his fold;
Yet at another's loſs the ſwain would weep,
And for his friend his very crook was ſold.
Ye ſons of Wealth! protect the Muſes' train;
From winds protect them, and with food ſupply;
Ah! helpleſs they, to ward the threaten'd pain,
The meagre famine, and the wintry ſky!
He lov'd a nymph; amidſt his ſlender ſtore
He dar'd to love; and Cynthia was his theme;
He breath'd his plaints along the rocky ſhore,
They only echo'd o'er the winding ſtream.
His nymph was fair! the ſweeteſt bud that blows
Revives leſs lovely from the recent ſhow'r;
So Philomel enamour'd eyes the roſe;
Sweet bird! enamour'd of the ſweeteſt flow'r.
He lov'd the Muſe; ſhe taught him to complain;
He ſaw his tim'rous loves on her depend:
He lov'd the Muſe, altho' ſhe taught in vain;
He lov'd the Muſe, for ſhe was Virtue's friend.
[77]
She guides the foot that treads on Parian floors;
She wins the ear when formal pleas are vain;
She tempts Patricians from the fatal doors
Of Vice's brothel forth to Virtue's fane.
He wiſh'd for wealth, for much he wiſh'd to give;
He griev'd that virtue might not wealth obtain:
Piteous of woes, and hopeleſs to relieve,
The penſive proſpect ſadden'd all his ſtrain.
I ſaw him faint! I ſaw him ſink to reſt!
Like one ordain'd to ſwell the vulgar throng;
As tho' the Virtues had not warm'd his breaſt,
As tho' the Muſes not inſpir'd his tongue.
I ſaw his bier ignobly croſs the plain;
Saw peaſant hands the pious rite ſupply:
The gen'rous ruſtics mourn'd the friendly ſwain,
But Pow'r and Wealth's unvarying cheek was dry!
Such Alcon fell; in meagre want forlorn!
Where were ye then, ye pow'rful Patrons! where?
Would ye the purple ſhould your limbs adorn,
Go waſh the conſcious blemiſh with a tear.

ELEGY IV. Ophelia's urn. To Mr. G—.

[78]
THRO' the dim veil of ev'ning's duſky ſhade,
Near ſome lone fane, or yew's funereal green,
What dreary forms has magic Fear ſurvey'd!
What ſhrouded ſpectres Superſtition ſeen!
But you, ſecure, ſhall pour your ſad complaint,
Nor dread the meagre phantom's wan array;
What none but Fear's officious hand can paint,
What none but Superſtition's eye ſurvey.
The glimm'ring twilight and the doubtful dawn
Shall ſee your ſtep to theſe ſad ſcenes return:
Conſtant, as cryſtal dews impearl the lawn,
Shall Strephon's tear bedew Ophelia's urn.
Sure nought unhallow'd ſhall preſume to ſtray
Where ſleep the reliques of that virtuous maid;
Nor aught unlovely bend its devious way
Where ſoft Ophelia's dear remains are laid.
Haply thy Muſe, as with unceaſing ſighs
She keeps late vigils on her urn reclin'd,
May ſee light groups of pleaſing viſions riſe,
And phantoms glide, but of celeſtial kind.
[79]
Then Fame, her clarion pendent at her ſide,
Shall ſeek forgiveneſs of Ophelia's ſhade;
" Why has ſuch worth, without diſtinction, dy'd?
" Why, like the deſert's lily, bloom'd to fade?"
Then young Simplicity, averſe to feign,
Shall, unmoleſted, breathe her ſofteſt ſigh,
And Candour with unwonted warmth complain,
And Innocence indulge a wailful cry.
Then Elegance, with coy judicious hand,
Shall cull freſh flow'rets for Ophelia's tomb;
And Beauty chide the Fates' ſevere command,
That ſhew'd the frailty of ſo fair a bloom!
And Fancy then, with wild ungovern'd woe,
Shall her lov'd pupil's native taſte explain;
For mournful ſable all her hues forego,
And aſk ſweet ſolace of the Muſe in vain!
Ah! gentle Forms! expect no fond relief;
Too much the ſacred Nine their loſs deplore:
Well may ye grieve, nor find an end of grief—
Your beſt, your brighteſt, fav'rite is no more.

ELEGY V. He compares the turbulence of love with the tranquillity of friendſhip. To Meliſſa his friend.

[80]
FROM Love, from angry Love's inclement reign
I paſs a while to Friendſhip's equal ſkies;
Thou, gen'rous Maid! reliev'ſt my partial pain,
And cheer'ſt the victim of another's eyes.
'Tis thou, Meliſſa, thou deſerv'ſt my care;
How can my will and reaſon diſagree?
How can my paſſion live beneath deſpair?
How can my boſom ſigh for aught but thee?
Ah! dear Meliſſa! pleas'd with thee to rove,
My ſoul has yet ſurviv'd its drearieſt time;
Ill can I bear the various clime of Love!
Love is a pleaſing but a various clime.
So ſmiles immortal Maro's fav'rite ſhore,
Parthenope, with ev'ry verdure crown'd;
When ſtraight Veſuvio's horrid caldrons roar,
And the dry vapour blaſts the regions round.
Oh! bliſsful regions! oh! unrivall'd plains!
When Maro to theſe fragrant haunts retir'd!
Oh! fatal realms! and, oh! accurs'd domains!
When Pliny 'mid ſulphureous clouds expir'd!
[81]
So ſmiles the ſurface of the treach'rous main,
As o'er its waves the peaceful halcyons play,
When ſoon rude winds their wonted rule regain,
And ſky and ocean mingle in the fray.
But let or air contend or ocean rave;
Ev'n Hope ſubſide, amid the billows toſt;
Hope, ſtill emergent, ſtill contemns the wave,
And not a feature's wonted ſmile is loſt.

ELEGY VI. To a Lady, on the language of birds.

COME then, Dione, let us range the grove,
The ſcience of the feather'd choirs explore,
Hear linnets argue, larks deſcant of love,
And blame the gloom of ſolitude no more.
My doubt ſubſides—'tis no Italian ſong,
Nor ſenſeleſs ditty, cheers the vernal tree:
Ah! who that hears Dione's tuneful tongue
Shall doubt that muſic may with ſenſe agree?
And come, my Muſe! that lov'ſt the ſylvan ſhade,
[...]volve the mazes, and the miſt diſpel;
Tranſlate the ſong; convince my doubting maid
[...]o ſolemn derviſe can explain ſo well.—
[82]
Penſive beneath the twilight ſhades I ſate,
The ſlave of hopeleſs vows and cold diſdain!
When Philomel addreſs'd his mournful mate,
And thus I conſtru'd the mellifluent ſtrain.
" Sing on, my bird!—the liquid notes prolong,
" At ev'ry note a lover ſheds his tear;
" Sing on, my bird!—'tis Damon hears thy ſong,
" Nor doubt to gain applauſe when lovers hear.
" He the ſad ſource of our complaining knows,
" A foe to Tereus and to lawleſs love!
" He mourns the ſtory of our ancient woes;
" Ah! could our muſic his complaint remove!
" Yon' plains are govern'd by a peerleſs maid;
" And ſee! pale Cynthia mounts the vaulted ſky,
" A train of lovers court the chequer'd ſhade;
" Sing on, my bird! and hear thy mates reply.
" Erewhile no ſhepherd to theſe woods retir'd,
" No lover bleſs'd the glow-worm's pallid ray;
" But ill-ſtar'd birds that, liſt'ning, not admir'd,
" Or liſt'ning, envy'd our ſuperior lay.
" Cheer'd by the ſun, the vaſſals of his pow'r,
" Let ſuch by day unite their jarring ſtrains,
" But let us chuſe the calm, the ſilent, hour,
" Nor want fit audience while Dione reigns."

ELEGY VII. He deſcribes his viſion to an acquaintance.

[83]
Caetera per terras omnes animalia, &c.
VIRG.

IMITATION.

All animals beſide, o'er all the earth, &c.
ON diſtant heaths, beneath autumnal ſkies,
Penſive I ſaw the circling ſhade deſcend;
Weary and faint I heard the ſtorm ariſe,
While the ſun vaniſh'd like a faithleſs friend.
No kind companion led my ſteps aright;
No friendly planet lent its glimm'ring ray;
Ev'n the lone cot refus'd its wonted light,
Where Toil in peaceful ſlumber clos'd the day.
Then the dull bell had giv'n a pleaſing ſound;
The village cur 'twere tranſport then to hear;
In dreadful ſilence all was huſh'd around,
While the rude ſtorm alone diſtreſs'd mine ear.
As led by Orwell's winding banks I ſtray'd,
Where tow'ring Wolſey breath'd his native air,
A ſudden luſtre chas'd the flitting ſhade,
The ſounding winds were huſh'd, and all was fair.
[84]
Inſtant a grateful form appear'd confeſt;
White were his locks, with awful ſcarlet crown'd,
And livelier far than Tyrian ſeem'd his veſt,
That with the glowing purple ting'd the ground.
" Stranger!" he ſaid, "amid this pealing rain,
" Benighted, loneſome, whither wouldſt thou ſtray?
" Does wealth or pow'r thy weary ſtep conſtrain?
" Reveal thy wiſh, and let me point the way.
" For know, I trod the trophy'd paths of pow'r,
" Felt ev'ry joy that fair Ambition brings,
" And leſt the lonely roof of yonder bow'r
" To ſtand beneath the canopies of kings.
" I bade low hinds the tow'ring ardour ſhare,
" Nor meanly roſe to bleſs myſelf alone;
" I ſnatch'd the ſhepherd from his fleecy care,
" And bade his wholeſome dictate guard the throne.
" Low at my feet the ſuppliant peer I ſaw;
" I ſaw proud empires my deciſion wait;
" My will was duty, and my word was law,
" My ſmile was tranſport, and my frown was fate."
Ah me! ſaid I, nor pow'r I ſeek, nor gain;
Nor urg'd by hope of ſame theſe toils endure;
A ſimple youth, that feels a lover's pain,
And from his friend's condolence hopes a cure.
[85]
He, the dear youth! to whoſe abodes I roam,
Nor can mine honours nor my fields extend;
Yet for his ſake I leave my diſtant home,
Which oaks emboſom, and which hills defend.
Beneath that home I ſcorn the wintry wind;
The Spring, to ſhade me, robes her faireſt tree;
And if a friend my graſs-grown threſhold find,
O how my lonely cot reſounds with glee!
Yet, tho' averſe to gold in heaps amaſs'd,
I wiſh to bleſs, I languiſh to beſtow;
And tho' no friend to Fame's obſtrep'rous blaſt,
Still to her dulcet murmurs not a foe.
Too proud with ſervile tone to deign addreſs;
Too mean to think that honours are my due;
Yet ſhould ſome patron yield my ſtores to bleſs,
I ſure ſhould deem my boundleſs thanks were few.
But tell me, thou! that like a meteor's fire
Shott'ſt blazing forth, diſdaining dull degrees,
Should I to wealth, to fame, to pow'r, aſpire,
Muſt I not paſs more rugged paths than theſe?
Muſt I not groan beneath a guilty load,
Praiſe him I ſcorn, and him I love betray?
Does not felonious Envy bar the road?
Or Falſehood's treach'rous foot beſet the way?
[86]
Say, ſhould I paſs thro' Favour's crowded gate,
Muſt not fair Truth inglorious wait behind?
Whilſt I approach the glitt'ring ſcenes of ſtate,
My beſt companion no admittance find?
Nurs'd in the ſhades by Freedom's lenient care,
Shall I the rigid ſway of Fortune own?
Taught by the voice of pious Truth, prepare
To ſpurn an altar, and adore a throne?
And when proud Fortune's ebbing tide recedes,
And when it leaves me no unſhaken friend,
Shall I not weep that e'er I left the meads,
Which oaks emboſom, and which hills defend?
Oh! if theſe ills the price of pow'r advance,
Check not my ſpeed where ſocial joys invite!
The troubled viſion caſt a mournful glance,
And, ſighing, vaniſh'd in the ſhades of night.

ELEGY VIII. He deſcribes his early love of poetry, and its conſequences. To Mr. G—, 1745*.

AH me! what envious magic thins my fold?
What mutter'd ſpell retards their late increaſe?
Such leſs'ning fleeces muſt the ſwain behold,
That e'er with Doric pipe eſſays to pleaſe.
[87]
I ſaw my friends in ev'ning circles meet;
I took my vocal reed, and tun'd my lay;
I heard them ſay my vocal reed was ſweet:
Ah, fool! to credit what I heard them ſay.
Ill-fated Bard! that ſeeks his ſkill to ſhow,
Then courts the judgment of a friendly ear;
Not the poor vet'ran, that permits his foe
To guide his doubtful ſtep, has more to fear.
Nor could my G— miſtake the critic's laws,
Till pious Friendſhip mark'd the pleaſing way:
Welcome ſuch error! ever bleſs'd the cauſe!
Ev'n tho' it led me boundleſs leagues aſtray.
Couldſt thou reprove me, when I nurs'd the flame
On liſt'ning Cherwell's oſier banks reclin'd?
While foe to Fortune, unſeduc'd by Fame,
I ſooth'd the bias of a careleſs mind.
Youth's gentle kindred, Health and Love, were met;
What tho' in Alma's guardian arms I play'd?
How ſhall the Muſe thoſe vacant hours forget?
Or deem that bliſs by ſolid cares repaid?
Thou know'ſt how tranſport thrills the tender breaſt
Where Love and Fancy fix their op'ning reign;
How Nature ſhines, in livelier colours dreſt,
To bleſs their union, and to grace their train.
[88]
So firſt when Phoebus met the Cyprian queen,
And favour'd Rhodes beheld their paſſion crown'd,
Unuſual flow'rs enrich'd the painted green,
And ſwift ſpontaneous roſes bluſh'd around.
Now ſadly lorn, from Twitnam's widow'd bow'r
The drooping Muſes take their caſual way,
And where they ſtop a flood of tears they pour,
And where they weep no more the fields are gay.
Where is the dappled pink, the ſprightly roſe?
The cowſlip's golden cup no more I ſee:
Dark and diſcolour'd ev'ry flow'r that blows,
To form the garland, Elegy! for thee—
Enough of tears has wept the virtuous dead;
Ah! might we now the pious rage control!
Huſh'd be my grief ere ev'ry ſmile be fled,
Ere the deep-ſwelling ſigh ſubvert the ſoul!
If near ſome trophy ſpring a ſtripling bay,
Pleas'd we behold the graceful umbrage riſe,
But ſoon too deep it works its baneful way,
And low on earth the proſtrate ruin lies*.

ELEGY IX. He deſcribes his diſintereſtedneſs to a friend.

[89]
I NE'ER muſt tinge my lip with Celtic wines;
The pomp of India muſt I ne'er diſplay;
Nor boaſt the produce of Peruvian mines,
Nor with Italian ſounds deceive the day.
Down yonder brook my cryſtal bev'rage flows;
My grateful ſheep their annual fleeces bring;
Fair in my garden buds the damaſk roſe,
And from my grove I hear the throſtle ſing.
My fellow ſwains! avert your dazzled eyes;
In vain allur'd by glitt'ring ſpoils they rove;
The Fates ne'er meant them for the ſhepherd's prize,
Yet gave them ample recompenſe in love.
They gave you vigour from your parents' veins;
They gave you toils; but toils your ſinews brace;
They gave you nymphs that own their am'rous pains,
And ſhades, the refuge of the gentle race.
To carve your loves, to paint your mutual flames,
See! poliſh'd fair, the beech's friendly rind!
To ſing ſoft carols to your lovely dames,
See vocal grots, and echoing vales aſſign'd!
[90]
Wouldſt thou, my Strephon! Love's delighted ſlave!
Tho' ſure the wreaths of chivalry to ſhare,
Forego the ribbon thy Matilda gave,
And giving, bade thee in remembrance wear?
Ill fare my peace, but ev'ry idle toy,
If to my mind my Delia's form it brings,
Has truer worth, imparts ſincerer joy,
Than all that bears the radiant ſtamp of kings.
O my ſoul weeps, my breaſt with anguiſh bleeds,
When Love deplores the tyrant pow'r of Gain!
Diſdaining riches as the futile weeds,
I riſe ſuperior, and the rich diſdain.
Oft' from the ſtream, ſlow-wand'ring down the glade,
Penſive I hear the nuptial peal rebound;
" Some miſer weds," I cry, "the captive maid,
" And ſome fond lover ſickens at the ſound."
Not Somerville, the Muſe's friend of old,
Tho' now exalted to yon' ambient ſky,
So ſhunn'd a ſoul diſtain'd with earth and gold,
So lov'd the pure, the gen'rous breaſt, as I.
Scorn'd be the wretch that quits his genial bowl,
His loves, his friendſhips, ev'n his ſelf, reſigns;
Perverts the ſacred inſtinct of his ſoul,
And to a ducat's dirty ſphere confines.
[91]
But come, my Friend! with taſte, with ſcience, bleſt,
Ere age impair me, and ere gold allure;
Reſtore thy dear idea to my breaſt,
The rich depoſite ſhall the ſhrine ſecure.
Let others toil to gain the ſordid ore,
The charms of independence let us ſing;
Bleſs'd with thy friendſhip, can I wiſh for more?
I'll ſpurn the boaſted wealth of Lydia's king*.

ELEGY X. To Fortune, ſuggeſting his motive for repining at her diſpenſations.

ASK not the cauſe why this rebellious tongue
Loads with freſh curſes thy deteſted ſway;
Aſk not, thus branded in my ſofteſt ſong,
Why ſtands the flatter'd name which all obey?
'Tis not that in my ſhed I lurk forlorn,
Nor ſee my roof on Parian columns riſe;
That on this breaſt no mimic ſtar is borne,
Rever'd, ah! more than thoſe that light the ſkies.
'Tis not that on the turf ſupinely laid,
I ſing or pipe, but to the flocks that graze;
And, all inglorious, in the loneſome ſhade
My finger ſtiffens, and my voice decays.
[92]
Not that my fancy mourns thy ſtern command,
When many an embryo dome is loſt in air;
While guardian Prudence checks my eager hand,
And ere the turf is broken, cries, "Forbear:
" Forbear, vain Youth! be cautious, weigh thy gold,
" Nor let yon' riſing column more aſpire;
" Ah! better dwell in ruins than behold
" Thy fortunes mould'ring, and thy domes entire.
" Honorio built, but dar'd my laws deſy;
" He planted, ſcornful of my ſage commands;
" The peach's vernal bud regal'd his eye,
" The fruitage ripen'd for more frugal hands."
See the ſmall ſtream that pours its murm'ring tide
O'er ſome rough rock that would its wealth diſplay,
Diſplays it aught but penury and pride?
Ah! conſtrue wiſely what ſuch murmurs ſay.
How would ſome flood, with ampler treaſures bleſt,
Diſdainful view the ſcantling drops diſtil!
How muſt Velino* ſhake his reedy creſt!
How ev'ry cygnet mock the boaſtive rill!
Fortune! I yield; and ſee, I give the ſign;
At noon the poor mechanic wanders home,
Collects the ſquare, the level, and the line,
And with retorted eye forſakes the dome.
[93]
Yes, I can patient view the ſhadeleſs plains;
Can unrepining leave the riſing wall;
Check the fond love of art that fir'd my veins,
And my warm hopes in full purſuit recall.
Deſcend, ye Storms! deſtroy my riſing pile;
Loos'd be the whirlwind's unremitting ſway;
Contented I, altho' the gazer ſmile
To ſee it ſcarce ſurvive a winter's day.
Let ſome dull dotard baſk in thy gay ſhrine,
As in the ſun regales his wanton herd;
Guiltleſs of envy, why ſhould I repine
That his rude voice, his grating reed's, preferr'd?
Let him exult, with boundleſs wealth ſupply'd,
Mine and the ſwain's reluctant homage ſhare;
But, ah! his tawdry ſhepherdeſs's pride,
Gods! muſt my Delia, muſt my Delia, bear?
Muſt Delia's ſoftneſs, elegance, and eaſe,
Submit to Marian's dreſs? to Marian's gold?
Muſt Marian's robe from diſtant India pleaſe?
The ſimple fleece my Delia's limbs enfold?
" Yet ſure on Delia ſeems the ruſſet fair;
" Ye glitt'ring daughters of Diſguiſe, adieu!"
So talk the wiſe, who judge of ſhape and air,
But will the rural thane decide ſo true?
[94]
Ah! what is native worth eſteem'd of clowns?
'Tis thy falſe glare, O Fortune! thine they ſee;
'Tis for my Delia's ſake I dread thy frowns,
And my laſt gaſp ſhall curſes breathe on thee.

ELEGY XI. He complains how ſoon the pleaſing novelty of life is over.

To Mr. J—.
AH me! my Friend! it will not, will not laſt!
This fairy ſcene that cheats our youthful eyes;
The charm diſſolves; th' aërial muſic's paſt;
The banquet ceaſes, and the viſion flies.
Where are the ſplendid forms, the rich perfumes,
Where the gay tapers, where the ſpacious dome?
Vaniſh'd the coſtly pearls, the crimſon plumes,
And we, delightleſs, left to wander home!
Vain now are books, the ſage's wiſdom vain!
What has the world to bribe our ſteps aſtray?
Ere Reaſon learns by ſtudy'd laws to reign,
The weaken'd paſſions, ſelf-ſubdu'd, obey.
Scarce has the ſun ſev'n annual courſes roll'd,
Scarce ſhewn the whole that Fortune can ſupply,
Since not the miſer ſo careſs'd his gold
As I, for what it gave, was heard to ſigh.
[95]
On the world's ſtage I wiſh'd ſome ſprightly part,
To deck my native fleece with tawdry lace!
'Twas life, 'twas taſte, and—oh! my fooliſh heart!
Subſtantial joy was fix'd in pow'r and place.
And you, ye works of Art! allur'd mine eye,
The breathing picture and the living ſtone:
" Tho' gold, tho' ſplendour, Heav'n and Fate deny,
" Yet might I call one Titian ſtroke my own!"
Smit with the charms of Fame, whoſe lovely ſpoil,
The wreath, the garland, fire the poet's pride,
I trimm'd my lamp, conſum'd the midnight oil—
But ſoon the paths of health and fame divide!
Oft', too, I pray'd, 'twas Nature form'd the pray'r,
To grace my native ſcenes, my rural home;
To ſee my trees expreſs their planter's care,
And gay, on Attic models, raiſe my dome.
But now 'tis o'er, the dear deluſion's o'er!
A ſtagnant breezeleſs air becalms my ſoul;
A fond aſpiring candidate no more,
I ſcorn the palm before I reach the goal.
O Youth! enchanting ſtage, profuſely bleſs'd!
Bliſs ev'n obtruſive courts the frolic mind;
Of health neglectful, yet by health careſs'd,
Careleſs of favour, yet ſecure to find.
[96]
Then glows the breaſt, as op'ning roſes fair;
More free, more vivid, than the linnet's wing;
Honeſt as light, tranſparent ev'n as air,
Tender as buds, and laviſh as the ſpring.
Not all the force of manhood's active might,
Not all the craft to ſubtle age aſſign'd,
Not ſcience ſhall extort that dear delight,
Which gay deluſion gave the tender mind.
Adieu, ſoft raptures! tranſports void of care!
Parent of raptures, dear Deceit! adieu;
And you, her daughters, pining with deſpair,
Why, why ſo ſoon her fleeting ſteps purſue!
Tedious again to curſe the drizling day!
Again to trace the wint'ry tracts of ſnow!
Or, ſooth'd by vernal airs, again ſurvey
The ſelf-ſame hawthorns bud, and cowſlips blow!
O Life! how ſoon of ev'ry bliſs forlorn!
We ſtart falſe joys, and urge the devious race;
A tender prey; that cheers our youthful morn,
Then ſinks untimely, and defrauds the chaſe.

ELEGY XII. His recantation.

[97]
No more the Muſe obtrudes her thin diſguiſe,
No more with awkward fallacy complains
How ev'ry fervour from my boſom flies,
And Reaſon in her loneſome palace reigns.
Ere the chill winter of our days arrive,
No more ſhe paints the breaſt from paſſion free;
I feel, I feel one loit'ring wiſh ſurvive—
Ah! need I, Florio, name that wiſh to thee?
The ſtar of Venus uſhers in the day,
The firſt, the lovelieſt of the train that ſhine!
The ſtar of Venus lends her brighteſt ray,
When other ſtars their friendly beams reſign.
Still in my breaſt one ſoft deſire remains,
Pure as that ſtar, from guilt, from int'reſt, free;
Has gentle Delia tripp'd acroſs the plains,
And need I, Florio, name that wiſh to thee?
While, cloy'd to find the ſcenes of life the ſame,
I tune with careleſs hand my languid lays,
Some ſecret impulſe wakes my former flame,
And fires my ſtrain with hopes of brighter days.
[98]
I ſlept not long beneath yon' rural bow'rs,
And, lo! my crook with flow'rs adorn'd I ſee;
Has gentle Delia bound my crook with flow'rs,
And need I, Florio, name my hopes to thee?

ELEGY XIII. To a friend, on ſome ſlight occaſion eſtranged from him.

HEALTH to my friend, and many a cheerful day!
Around his ſeat may peaceful ſhades abide!
Smooth flow the minutes, fraught with ſmiles, away,
And till they crown our union gently glide!
Ah me! too ſwiftly fleets our vernal bloom!
Loſt to our wonted friendſhip, loſt to joy!
Soon may thy breaſt the cordial wiſh reſume,
Ere wintry doubt its tender warmth deſtroy!
Say, were it ours, by Fortune's wild command,
By chance to meet beneath the Torrid Zone,
Wouldſt thou reject thy Damon's plighted hand?
Wouldſt thou with ſcorn thy once-lov'd friend diſown?
Life is that ſtranger land, that alien clime;
Shall kindred ſouls forego their ſocial claim?
Launch'd in the vaſt abyſs of ſpace and time,
Shall dark ſuſpicion quench the gen'rous flame?
[99]
Myriads of ſouls, that knew one parent mould,
See ſadly ſever'd by the laws of Chance!
Myriads, in Time's perennial liſt enroll'd,
Forbid by Fate to change one tranſient glance!
But we have met—where ills of ev'ry form,
Where paſſions rage, and hurricanes deſcend;
Say, ſhall we nurſe the rage, aſſiſt the ſtorm,
And guide them to the boſom—of a friend?
Yes, we have met—thro' rapine, fraud, and wrong:
Might our joint aid the paths of peace explore!
Why leave thy friend amid the boiſt'rous throng,
Ere death divide us, and we part no more?
For, oh! pale Sickneſs warns thy friend away;
For me no more the vernal roſes bloom!
I ſee ſtern Fate his ebon wand diſplay,
And point the wither'd regions of the tomb.
Then the keen anguiſh from thine eye ſhall ſtart,
Sad as thou follow'ſt my untimely bier;
" Fool that I was—if friends ſo ſoon muſt part,
" To let ſuſpicion intermix a fear."

ELEGY XIV. Declining an invitation to viſit foreign countries, he takes occaſion to intimate the advantages of his own. To Lord Temple.

[100]
WHILE others, loſt to friendſhip, loſt to love,
Waſte their beſt minutes on a foreign ſtrand,
Be mine with Britiſh nymph or ſwain to rove,
And court the Genius of my native land.
Deluded Youth! that quits theſe verdant plains,
To catch the follies of an alien ſoil!
To win the vice his genuine ſoul diſdains,
Return exultant, and import the ſpoil!
In vain he boaſts of his deteſted prize;
No more it blooms, to Britiſh climes convey'd;
Cramp'd by the impulſe of ungenial ſkies,
See its freſh vigour in a moment fade!
Th' exotic folly knows its native clime,
An awkward ſtranger, if we waft it o'er;
Why then theſe toils, this coſtly waſte of time,
To ſpread ſoft poiſon on our happy ſhore?
I covet not the pride of foreign looms;
In ſearch of foreign modes I ſcorn to rove;
Nor for the worthleſs bird of brighter plumes
Would change the meaneſt warbler of my grove.
[101]
No diſtant clime ſhall ſervile airs impart,
Or form theſe limbs with pliant eaſe to play;
Trembling I view the Gaul's illuſive art
That ſteals my lov'd ruſticity away.
'Tis long ſince Freedom fled th' Heſperian clime,
Her citron groves, her flow'r-embroider'd ſhore;
She ſaw the Britiſh oak aſpire ſublime,
And ſoft Campania's olive charms no more.
Let partial ſuns mature the weſtern mine,
To ſhed its luſtre o'er th' Iberian maid;
Mien, beauty, ſhape, O native ſoil! are thine;
Thy peerleſs daughters aſk no foreign aid.
Let Ceylon's envy'd plant* perfume the ſeas,
Till torn to ſeaſon the Batavian bowl;
Ours is the breaſt whoſe genuine ardours pleaſe,
Nor need a drug to meliorate the ſoul.
Let the proud Soldan wound th'Arcadian groves,
Or with rude lips th'Aonian fount profane;
The Muſe no more by flow'ry Ladon roves,
She ſeeks her Thomſon on the Britiſh plain.
Tell not of realms by ruthleſs war diſmay'd;
Ah! hapleſs realms! that war's oppreſſion feel!
In vain may Auſtria boaſt her Noric blade,
If Auſtria bleed beneath her boaſted ſteel.
[102]
Beneath her palm Idume vents her moan;
Raptur'd, ſhe once beheld its friendly ſhade;
And hoary Memphis boaſts her tombs alone,
The mournful types of mighty pow'r decay'd!
No Creſcent here diſplays its baneful horns;
No turban'd hoſt the voice of Truth reproves;
Learning's free ſource the ſage's breaſt adorns,
And poets, not inglorious, chant their loves.
Boaſt, favour'd Media! boaſt thy flow'ry ſtores;
Thy thouſand hues by chymic ſuns refin'd;
'Tis not the dreſs or mien my ſoul adores,
'Tis the rich beauties of Britannia's mind.
While Grenville's* breaſt could virtue's ſtoresafford,
What envy'd flota bore ſo fair a freight?
The mine compar'd in vain its latent hoard,
The gem its luſtre, and the gold its weight.
Thee, Grenville! thee, with calmeſt courage fraught!
Thee, the lov'd image of thy native ſhore!
Thee, by the Virtues arm'd, the Graces taught!
When ſhall we ceaſe to boaſt or to deplore?
Preſumptuous War, which could thy life deſtroy,
What ſhall it now in recompenſe decree?
While friends that merit ev'ry earthly joy
Feel ev'ry anguiſh; feel—the loſs of thee!
[103]
Bid me no more a ſervile realm compare,
No more the Muſe of partial praiſe arraign;
Britannia ſees no foreign breaſt ſo fair,
And if ſhe glory, glories not in vain.

ELEGY XV. In memory of a private family* in Worceſterſhire.

FROM a lone tow'r with rev'rend ivy crown'd,
The pealing bell awak'd a tender ſigh;
Still as the village caught the waving ſound,
A ſwelling tear diſtream'd from ev'ry eye.
So droop'd, I ween, each Briton's breaſt of old,
When the dull curfew ſpoke their freedom fled;
For, ſighing as the mournful accent roll'd,
" Our hope," they cry'd, "our kind ſupport, is dead!"
'Twas good Palemon!—Near a ſhaded pool,
A group of ancient elms umbrageous roſe;
The flocking rooks, by Inſtinct's native rule,
This peaceful ſcene for their aſylum choſe.
A few ſmall ſpires, to Gothic fancy fair,
Amid the ſhades emerging ſtruck the view;
'Twas here his youth reſpir'd its earlieſt air;
'Twas here his age breath'd out its laſt adieu.
[104]
One favour'd ſon engag'd his tend'reſt care;
One pious youth his whole affection crown'd;
In his young breaſt the virtues ſprung ſo fair,
Such charms diſplay'd, ſuch ſweets diffus'd around.
But whilſt gay tranſport in his face appears,
A noxious vapour clogs the poiſon'd ſky,
Blaſts the fair crop—the ſire is drown'd in tears,
And, ſcarce ſurviving, ſees his Cynthio die!
O'er the pale corſe we ſaw him gently bend;
Heart-chill'd with grief—"My thread," he cry'd, "is ſpun!
" If Heav'n had meant I ſhould my life extend,
" Heav'n had preſerv'd my life's ſupport, my ſon.
" Snatch'd in thy prime! alas! the ſtroke were mild,
" Had my frail form obey'd the Fates' decree!
" Bleſs'd were my lot, O Cynthio! O my child!
" Had Heav'n ſo pleas'd, and I had dy'd for thee."
Five ſleepleſs nights he ſtemm'd this tide of woes;
Five irkſome ſuns he ſaw, thro' tears, forlorn!
On his pale corſe the ſixth ſad morning roſe;
From yonder dome the mournful bier was borne.
'Twas on thoſe * Downs, by Roman hoſts annoy'd,
Fought our bold fathers, ruſtic, unrefin'd!
Freedom's plain ſons, in martial cares employ'd!
They ting'd their bodies, but unmaſk'd their mind.
[105]
'Twas there, in happier times, this virtuous race,
Of milder merit, fix'd their calm retreat;
War's deadly crimſon had forſook the place,
And Freedom fondly lov'd the choſen ſeat.
No wild ambition fir'd their tranquil breaſt,
To ſwell with empty ſounds a ſpotleſs name;
If foſt'ring ſkies, the ſun, the ſhow'r, were bleſt,
Their bounty ſpread; their fields' extent the ſame.
Thoſe fields, profuſe of raiment, food, and fire,
They ſcorn'd to leſſen, careleſs to extend;
Bade Luxury to laviſh courts aſpire,
And Avarice to city breaſts deſcend.
None to a virgin's mind preferr'd her dow'r,
To fire with vicious hopes a modeſt heir:
The ſire, in place of titles, wealth, or pow'r,
Aſſign'd him virtue; and his lot was fair.
They ſpoke of Fortune as ſome doubtful dame,
That ſway'd the natives of a diſtant ſphere;
From Lucre's vagrant ſons had learn'd her fame,
But never wiſh'd to place her banners here.
Here youth's free ſpirit, innocently gay,
Enjoy'd the moſt that Innocence can give;
Thoſe wholeſome ſweets that border Virtue's way;
Thoſe cooling fruits, that we may taſte and live.
[106]
Their board no ſtrange ambiguous viand bore;
From their own ſtreams their choicer fare they drew;
To lure the ſcaly glutton to the ſhore,
The ſole deceit their artleſs boſom knew!
Sincere themſelves, ah! too ſecure to find
The common boſom, like their own, ſincere!
'Tis its own guilt alarms the jealous mind;
'Tis her own poiſon bids the viper fear.
Sketch'd on the lattice of th' adjacent fane,
Their ſuppliant buſts implore the reader's pray'r:
Ah! gentle ſouls! enjoy your bliſsful reign,
And let frail mortals claim your guardian care.
For ſure to bliſsful realms the ſouls are flown
That never flatter'd, injur'd, cenſur'd, ſtrove;
The friends of Science! muſic all their own;
Muſic, the voice of Virtue and of Love!
The journeying peaſant, thro' the ſecret ſhade
Heard their ſoft lyres engage his liſt'ning ear,
And haply deem'd ſome courteous angel play'd;
No angel play'd—but might with tranſport hear.
For theſe the ſounds that chaſe unholy Strife!
Solve Envy's charm, Ambition's wretch releaſe!
Raiſe him to ſpurn the radiant ills of life,
To pity pomp, to be content with peace.
[107]
Farewell, pure Spirits! vain the praiſe we give,
The praiſe you ſought from lips angelic flows;
Farewell! the virtues which deſerve to live
Deſerve an ampler bliſs than life beſtows.
Laſt of his race, Palemon, now no more
The modeſt merit of his line diſplay'd;
Then pious Hough Vigornia's mitre wore—
Soft ſleep the duſt of each deſerving ſhade.

ELEGY XVI. He ſuggeſts the advantages of birth to a perſon of merit, and the folly of a ſuperciliouſneſs that is built upon that ſole foundation.

WHEN genius, grac'd with lineal ſplendour, glows,
When title ſhines, with ambient virtues crown'd,
Like ſome fair almond's flow'ry pomp it ſhows,
The pride, the perſume, of the regions round.
Then learn, ye Fair! to ſoften ſplendour's ray;
Endure the ſwain, the youth of low degree;
Let meekneſs join'd its temp'rate beam diſplay;
'Tis the mild verdure that endears the tree.
Pity the ſcandal'd ſwain, the ſhepherd's boy;
He ſighs to brighten a neglected name;
Foe to the dull appulſe of vulgar joy,
He mourns his lot; he wiſhes, merits fame.
[108]
In vain to groves and pathleſs vales we fly;
Ambition there the bow'ry haunt invades;
Fame's awful rays fatigue the courtier's eye,
But gleam ſtill lovely thro' the chequer'd ſhades.
Vainly, to guard from Love's unequal chain,
Has Fortune rear'd us in the rural grove;
Should ****'s eyes illume the deſert plain,
Ev'n I may wonder, and ev'n I muſt love.
Nor unregarded ſighs the lowly hind;
Tho' you contemn, the gods reſpect his vow;
Vindictive rage awaits the ſcornful mind,
And vengeance, too ſevere! the gods allow.
On Sarum's plain I met a wand'ring fair;
The look of ſorrow, lovely ſtill, ſhe bore;
Looſe flow'd the ſoft redundance of her hair,
And on her brow a flow'ry wreath ſhe wore.
Oft' ſtooping as ſhe ſtray'd, ſhe cull'd the pride
Of ev'ry plain; ſhe pillag'd ev'ry grove!
The fading chaplet daily ſhe ſupply'd,
And ſtill her hand ſome various garland wove.
Erroneous Fancy ſhap'd her wild attire;
From Bethlem's walls the poor lympatic ſtray'd;
Seem'd with her air her accent to conſpire,
When as wild Fancy taught her, thus ſhe ſaid:
[109]
" Hear me, dear Youth! oh! hear an hapleſs maid,
" Sprung from the ſceptred line of ancient kings!
" Scorn'd by the world, I aſk thy tender aid;
" Thy gentle voice ſhall whiſper kinder things.
" The world is frantic—fly the race profane—
" Nor I nor you ſhall its compaſſion move;
" Come, friendly let us wander and complain,
" And tell me, Shepherd! haſt thou ſeen my love?
" My love is young—but other loves are young;
" And other loves are fair, and ſo is mine;
" An air divine diſcloſes whence he ſprung;
" He is my love who boaſts that air divine.
" No vulgar Damon robs me of my reſt;
" Ianthe liſtens to no vulgar vow;
" A prince, from gods deſcended, fires her breaſt;
" A brilliant crown diſtinguiſhes his brow.
" What, ſhall I ſtain the glories of my race,
" More clear, more lovely bright, than Heſper's beam?
" The porc'lain pure with vulgar dirt debaſe?
" Or mix with puddle the pellucid ſtream?
" See thro' theſe veins the ſapphire current ſhine!
" 'Twas Jove's own nectar gave th' ethereal hue:
" Can baſe plebeian forms contend with mine,
" Diſplay the lovely white, or match the blue?
[110]
" The painter ſtrove to trace its azure ray;
" He chang'd his colours, and in vain he ſtrove:
" He frown'd—I, ſmiling, view'd the faint eſſay:
" Poor youth! he little knew it flow'd from Jove.
" Pitying his toil, the wondrous truth I told,
" How am'rous Jove trepann'd a mortal fair;
" How thro' the race the gen'rous current roll'd,
" And mocks the poet's art and painter's care.
" Yes, from the gods, from earlieſt Saturn, ſprung
" Our ſacred race, thro' demigods convey'd,
" And he, ally'd to Phoebus, ever young,
" My godlike boy! muſt wed their duteous maid.
" Oft', when a mortal vow profanes my ear,
" My ſire's dread fury murmurs thro' the ſky;
" And ſhould I yield—his inſtant rage appears;
" He darts th' uplifted vengeance—and I die.
" Have you not heard unwonted thunders roll?
" Have you not ſeen more horrid lightnings glare?
" 'Twas then a vulgar love enſnar'd my ſoul;
" 'Twas then—I hardly 'ſcap'd the fatal ſnare.
" 'Twas then a peaſant pour'd his am'rous vow,
" All as I liſten'd to his vulgar ſtrain;—
" Yet ſuch his beauty—would my birth allow,
" Dear were the youth, and bliſsful were the plain.
[111]
" But, oh! I faint! why waſtes my vernal bloom,
" In fruitleſs ſearches ever doom'd to rove?
" My nightly dreams the toilſome path reſume,
" And ſhall I die—before I find my love?
" When laſt I ſlept, methought my raviſh'd eye
" On diſtant heaths his radiant form ſurvey'd;
" Tho' night's thick clouds encompaſs'd all the ſky,
" The gems that bound his brow diſpell'd the ſhade,
" O how this boſom kindled at the ſight!
" Led by their beams I urg'd the pleaſing chaſe,
" Till on a ſudden theſe withheld their light—
" All, all things envy the ſublime embrace.
" But now no more—Behind the diſtant grove
" Wanders my deſtin'd youth, and chides my ſtay:
" See, ſee! he graſps the ſteel—Forbear, my Love—
" Ianthe comes; thy princeſs haſtes away."
Scornful ſhe ſpoke, and, heedleſs of reply,
The lovely maniac bounded o'er the plain,
The piteous victim of an angry ſky!
Ah me! the victim of her proud diſdain.

ELEGY XVII. He indulges the ſuggeſtions of ſpleen: an Elegy to the winds.

[112]
Aeole! namque tibi divum Pater atque hominum rex,
Et mulcere dedit mentes et tollere vento.

IMITATION.

O Aeolus! to thee the Sire ſupreme
Of gods and men the mighty pow'r bequeath'd
To rouſe or to aſſuage the human mind.
STERN Monarch of the winds! admit my pray'r;
A while thy fury check, thy ſtorms confine;
No trivial blaſt impels the paſſive air,
But brews a tempeſt in a breaſt like mine.
What bands of black ideas ſpread their wings!
The peaceful regions of Content invade!
With deadly poiſon taint the cryſtal ſprings!
With noiſome vapour blaſt the verdant ſhade!
I know their leader, Spleen, and the dread ſway
Of rigid Eurus, his deteſted ſire;
Thro' one my bloſſoms and my fruits decay;
Thro' one my pleaſures and my hopes expire.
Like ſome pale ſtripling, when his icy way,
Relenting, yields beneath the noontide beam,
I ſtand aghaſt and, chill'd with fear, ſurvey
How far I've tempted life's deceitful ſtream.
[113]
Where, by remorſe impell'd, repuls'd by fears,
Shall wretched Fancy a retreat explore?
She flies the ſad preſage of coming years,
And ſorr'wing dwells on pleaſures now no more.
Again with patrons and with friends ſhe roves,
But friends and patrons never to return;
She ſees the Nymphs, the Graces, and the Loves,
But ſees them weeping o'er Lucinda's urn.
She viſits, Iſis! thy forſaken ſtream,
Oh! ill forſaken for Boeotian air;
She deems no flood reflects ſo bright a beam,
No reed ſo verdant, and no flow'rs ſo fair.
She deems beneath thy ſacred ſhades were peace,
Thy bays might ev'n the civil ſtorm repel;
Reviews thy ſocial bliſs, thy learned eaſe,
And with no cheerful accent cries Farewell!
Farewell, with whom to theſe retreats I ſtray'd,
By youthful ſports, by youthful toils, ally'd;
Joyous we ſojourn'd in thy circling ſhade,
And wept to find the paths of life divide.
She paints the progreſs of my rival's vow,
Sees ev'ry Muſe a partial ear incline,
Binds with luxuriant bays his favour'd brow,
Nor yields the refuſe of his wreath to mine.
[114]
She bids the flatt'ring mirror, form'd to pleaſe,
Now blaſt my hope, now vindicate deſpair;
Bids my fond verſe the love-ſick parley ceaſe,
Accuſe my rigid fate, acquit my fair.
Where circling rocks defend ſome pathleſs vale,
Superfluous mortal! let me ever rove;
Alas! there Echo will repeat the tale—
Where ſhall I find the ſilent ſcenes I love?
Fain would I mourn my luckleſs fate alone,
Forbid to pleaſe, yet fated to admire;
Away, my friends! my ſorrows are my own;
Why ſhould I breathe around my ſick deſire?
Bear me, ye Winds! indulgent to my pains,
Near ſome ſad ruin's ghaſtly ſhade to dwell,
There let me fondly eye the rude remains,
And from the mould'ring refuſe build my cell.
Genius of Rome! thy proſtrate pomp diſplay,
Trace ev'ry diſmal proof of Fortune's pow'r;
Let me the wreck of theatres ſurvey,
Or penſive ſit beneath ſome nodding tow'r.
Or where ſome duct, by rolling ſeaſons worn,
Convey'd pure ſtreams to Rome's imperial wall,
Near the wide breach in ſilence let me mourn,
Or tune my dirges to the water's fall.
[115]
Genius of Carthage! paint thy ruin'd pride;
Tow'rs, arches, fanes, in wild confuſion ſtrown;
Let baniſh'd Marius*, low'ring by thy ſide,
Compare thy fickle fortunes with his own.
Ah no! thou Monarch of the ſtorms! forbear;
My trembling nerves abhor thy rude control,
And ſcarce a pleaſing twilight ſooths my care,
Ere one vaſt death, like darkneſs, ſhocks my ſoul.
Forbear thy rage—on no perennial baſe
Is built frail Fear, or Hope's deceitful pile;
My pains are fled—my joy reſumes its place,
Should the ſky brighten, or Meliſſa ſmile.

ELEGY XVIII. He repeats the ſong of Colin, a diſcerning ſhepherd, lamenting the ſtate of the woollen manufactory.

[116]
Ergo omni ſtudio glaciem ventoſque nivales,
Quo minus eſt illis curae mortalis egeſtas,
Avertes; victumque feres.
VIRG.

IMITATION.

Thou, therefore, in proportion to their lack
Of human aid, with all thy care defend
From frozen ſeaſons and inclement blaſts,
And give them timely food.
NEAR Avon's bank, on Arden's flow'ry plain,
A tuneful ſhepherd* charm'd the liſt'ning wave,
And ſunny Cotſol' fondly lov'd the ſtrain,
Yet not a garland crowns the ſhepherd's grave!
Oh! loſt Ophelia! ſmoothly flow'd the day
To feel his muſic with my flames agree,
To taſte the beauties of his melting lay,
To taſte, and fancy it was dear to thee.
When for his tomb, with each revolving year,
I ſteal the muſk-roſe from the ſcented brake,
I ſtrew my cowſlips, and I pay my tear,
I'll add the myrtle for Ophelia's ſake.
[117]
Shiv'ring beneath a leafleſs thorn he lay,
When Death's chill rigour ſeiz'd his flowing tongue;
The more I found his falt'ring notes decay,
The more prophetic truth ſublim'd the ſong.
" Adieu, my Flocks!" he ſaid, "my wonted care,
" By ſunny mountain or by verdant ſhore;
" May ſome more happy hand your fold prepare,
" And may you need your Colin's crook no more!
" And you, ye Shepherds! lead my gentle ſheep,
" To breezy hills or leafy ſhelters lead;
" But if the ſky with ſhow'rs inceſſant weep,
" Avoid the putrid moiſture of the mead.
" Where the wild thyme perfumes the purpled heath,
" Long loit'ring, there your fleecy tribes extend—
" But what avails the maxims I bequeath?
" The fruitleſs gift of an officious friend!
" Ah! what avails the tim'rous lambs to guard,
" Tho' nightly cares with daily labours join,
" If foreign ſloth obtain the rich reward,
" If Gallia's craft the pond'rous fleece purloin?
" Was it for this, by conſtant vigils worn,
" I met the terrors of an early grave?
" For this I led 'em from the pointed thorn?
" For this I bath'd 'em in the lucid wave?
[118]
" Ah! heedleſs Albion! too benignly prone
" Thy blood to laviſh and thy wealth reſign!
" Shall ev'ry other virtue grace thy throne,
" But quick-ey'd Prudence never yet be thine?
" From the fair natives of this peerleſs hill
" Thou gav'ſt the ſheep that browze Iberian plains;
" Their plaintive cries the faithleſs region fill,
" Their fleece adorns an haughty foe's domains.
" Ill-fated flocks! from cliff to cliff they ſtray;
" Far from their dams, their native guardians, far!
" Where the ſoft ſhepherd, all the livelong day,
" Chants his proud miſtreſs to his hoarſe guittar.
" But Albion's youth her native fleece deſpiſe;
" Unmov'd they hear the pining ſhepherd's moan;
" In ſilky folds each nervous limb diſguiſe,
" Allur'd by ev'ry treaſure but their own.
" Oft' have I hurry'd down the rocky ſteep,
" Anxious to ſee the wintry tempeſt drive;
" Preſerve," ſaid I, "preſerve your fleece, my Sheep!
" Ere long will Phillis, will my love, arrive.
" Ere long ſhe came: ah! woe is me! ſhe came,
" Rob'd in the Gallic loom's extraneous twine;
" For gifts like theſe they give their ſpotleſs fame,
" Reſign their bloom, their innocence reſign.
[119]
" Will no bright maid, by worth, by titles, known,
" Give the rich growth of Britiſh hills to Fame?
" And let her charms, and her example, own
" That Virtue's dreſs and Beauty's are the ſame?
" Will no fam'd chief ſupport this gen'rous maid?
" Once more the patriot's arduous path reſume?
" And, comely from his native plains array'd,
" Speak future glory to the Britiſh loom?
" What pow'r unſeen my raviſh'd fancy fires?
" I pierce the dreary ſhade of future days;
" Sure 'tis the genius of the land inſpires,
" To breathe my lateſt breath in *** praiſe.
" O might my breath for *** praiſe ſuffice,
" How gently ſhould my dying limbs repoſe!
" O might his future glory bleſs mine eyes,
" My raviſh'd eyes! how calmly would they cloſe!
" *** was born to ſpread the gen'ral joy;
" By virtue rapt, by party uncontroll'd;
" Britons for Britain ſhall the crook employ;
" Britons for Britain's glory ſhear the fold."

ELEGY XIX. Written in ſpring 1743.

[120]
AGAIN the lab'ring hind inverts the ſoil;
Again the merchant ploughs the tumid wave;
Another ſpring renews the ſoldier's toil,
And finds me vacant in the rural cave.
As the ſoft lyre diſplay'd my wonted loves,
The penſive pleaſure and the tender pain,
The ſordid Alpheus hurry'd thro' my groves,
Yet ſtopp'd to vent the dictates of diſdain.
He glanc'd contemptuous o'er my ruin'd fold;
He blam'd the graces of my fav'rite bow'r;
My breaſt, unſully'd by the luſt of gold;
My time, unlaviſh'd in purſuit of pow'r.
Yes, Alpheus! fly the purer paths of Fate;
Abjure theſe ſcenes, from venal paſſions free;
Know in this grove I vow'd perpetual hate,
War, endleſs war, with lucre and with thee.
Here, nobly zealous, in my youthful hours
I dreſs'd an altar to Thalia's name;
Here, as I crown'd the verdant ſhrine with flow'rs,
Soft on my labours ſtole the ſmiling dame.
[121]
" Damon," ſhe cry'd, "if, pleas'd with honeſt praiſe,
" Thou court ſucceſs by virtue or by ſong,
" Fly the falſe dictates of the venal race,
" Fly the groſs accents of the venal tongue.
" Swear that no lucre ſhall thy zeal betray;
" Swerve not thy foot with Fortune's vot'ries more;
" Brand thou their lives, and brand their lifeleſs day—"
The winning phantom urg'd me, and I ſwore.
Forth from the ruſtic altar ſwift I ſtray'd,
" Aid my firm purpoſe, ye celeſtial Pow'rs!
" Aid me to quell the ſordid breaſt," I ſaid;
And threw my jav'lin tow'rds their hoſtile tow'rs*.
Think not regretful I ſurvey the deed,
Or added years no more the zeal allow;
Still, ſtill obſervant, to the grove I ſpeed,
The ſhrine embelliſh, and repeat the vow.
Sworn from his cradle Rome's relentleſs foe,
Such gen'rous hate the Punic champion bore;
Thy lake, O Thraſimene! beheld it glow,
And Cannae's walls and Trebia's crimſon ſhore.
But let grave annals paint the warrior's fame;
Fair ſhine his arms in hiſtory enroll'd;
Whilſt humbler lyres his civil worth proclaim,
His nobler hate of avarice and gold.—
[122]
Now Punic pride its final eve ſurvey'd,
Its hoſts exhauſted, and its fleets on fire;
Patient the victor's lurid frown obey'd,
And ſaw th' unwilling elephants retire.
But when their gold depreſs'd the yielding ſcale,
Their gold in pyramidic plenty pil'd,
He ſaw th' unutterable grief prevail;
He ſaw their tears, and in his fury ſmil'd.
" Think not," he cry'd, "ye view the ſmiles of eaſe,
" Or this firm breaſt diſclaims a patriot's pain;
" I ſmile, but from a ſoul eſtrang'd to peace,
" Frantic with grief, delirious with diſdain.
" But were it cordial, this deteſted ſmile,
" Seems it leſs timely than the grief ye ſhow?
" O Sons of Carthage! grant me to revile
" The ſordid ſource of your indecent woe.
" Why weep ye now? ye ſaw with tearleſs eye
" When your fleet periſh'd on the Punic wave;
" Where lurk'd the coward tear, the lazy ſigh,
" When Tyre's imperial ſtate commenc'd a ſlave?
" 'Tis paſt—O Carthage! vanquiſh'd, honour'd ſhade!
" Go, the mean ſorrows of thy ſons deplore;
" Had Freedom ſhar'd the vow to Fortune paid,
" She ne'er, like Fortune, had forſook thy ſhore."
[123]
He ceas'd—Abaſh'd the conſcious audience hear,
Their pallid cheeks a crimſon bluſh unfold,
Yet o'er that virtuous bluſh diſtreams a tear,
And falling, moiſtens their abandon'd gold*.

ELEGY XX. He compares his humble fortune with the diſtreſs of others, and his ſubjection to Delia with the miſerable ſervitude of an African ſlave.

WHY droops this heart with fancy'd woes forlorn?
Why ſinks my ſoul beneath each wintry ſky?
What penſive crowds, by ceaſeleſs labours worn,
What myriads, wiſh to be as bleſs'd as I!
What tho' my roofs devoid of pomp ariſe,
Nor tempt the proud to quit his deſtin'd way?
Nor coſtly art my flow'ry dales diſguiſe,
Where only ſimple Friendſhip deigns to ſtray?
See the wild ſons of Lapland's chill domain,
That ſcoop their couch beneath the drifted ſnows!
How void of hope they ken the frozen plain,
Where the ſharp eaſt for ever, ever blows!
[124]
Slave tho' I be, to Delia's eyes a ſlave,
My Delia's eyes endear the bands I wear;
The ſigh ſhe cauſes well becomes the brave,
The pang ſhe cauſes 'tis ev'n bliſs to bear.
See the poor native quit the Libyan ſhores,
Ah! not in love's delightful fetters bound!
No radiant ſmile his dying peace reſtores,
Nor love, nor fame, nor friendſhip, heals his wound.
Let vacant bards diſplay their boaſted woes;
Shall I the mockery of grief diſplay?
No; let the Muſe his piercing pangs diſcloſe,
Who bleeds and weeps his ſum of life away!
On the wild beach in mournful guiſe he ſtood,
Ere the ſhrill boatſwain gave the hated ſign;
He dropp'd a tear unſeen into the flood,
He ſtole one ſecret moment to repine.
Yet the Muſe liſten'd to the plaints he made,
Such moving plaints as Nature could inſpire;
To me the Muſe his tender plea convey'd,
But ſmooth'd and ſuited to the ſounding lyre.
" Why am I raviſh'd from my native ſtrand?
" What ſavage race protects this impious gain?
" Shall foreign plagues infeſt this teeming land,
" And more than ſea-born monſters plough the main?
[125]
" Here the dire locuſts' horrid ſwarms prevail;
" Here the blue aſps with livid poiſon ſwell;
" Here the dry dipſa writhes his ſinuous mail;
" Can we not here ſecure from envy dwell?
" When the grim lion urg'd his cruel chaſe,
" When the ſtern panther ſought his midnight prey,
" What fate reſerv'd me for this Chriſtian race*?
" O race more poliſh'd, more ſevere, than they!
" Ye prouling Wolves! purſue my lateſt cries;
" Thou hungry Tyger! leave thy reeking den;
" Ye ſandy Waſtes! in rapid eddies riſe;
" O tear me from the whips and ſcorns of men!
" Yet in their face ſuperior beauty glows;
" Are ſmiles the mien of Rapine and of Wrong?
" Yet from their lip the voice of mercy flows,
" And ev'n religion dwells upon their tongue.
" Of bliſsful haunts they tell, and brighter climes,
" Where gentle minds, convey'd by Death, repair;
" But ſtain'd with blood, and crimſon'd o'er with crimes,
" Say, ſhall they merit what they paint ſo fair!
" No; careleſs, hopeleſs of thoſe fertile plains,
" Rich by our toils, and by our ſorrows gay,
" They ply our labours and enchance our pains,
" And feign theſe diſtant regions to repay.
[126]
" For them our tuſky elephant expires;
" For them we drain the mine's embowell'd gold;
" Where rove the brutal nations' wild deſires?—
" Our limbs are purchas'd and our life is ſold!
" Yet ſhores there are, bleſs'd ſhores for us remain,
" And favour'd iſles, with golden fruitage crown'd,
" Where tufted flow'rets paint the verdant plain,
" Where ev'ry breeze ſhall med'cine ev'ry wound.
" There the ſtern tyrant that embitters life
" Shall, vainly ſuppliant, ſpread his aſking hand;
" There ſhall we view the billows' raging ſtrife,
" Aid the kind breaſt, and waft his boat to land."

ELEGY XXI. Taking a view of the country from his retirement, he is led to meditate on the character of the ancient Britons. Written at the time of a rumoured tax upon luxury, 1746.

THUS Damon ſung—What tho' unknown to praiſe
Umbrageous coverts hide my Muſe and me,
Or 'mid the rural ſhepherds flow my days?
Amid the rural ſhepherds I am free.
To view ſleek vaſſals crowd a ſtately hall,
Say, ſhould I grow myſelf a ſolemn ſlave?
To find thy tints, O Titian! grace my wall,
Forego the flow'ry fields my fortune gave?
[127]
Lord of my time, my devious path I bend
Thro' fringy woodland or ſmooth-ſhaven lawn,
Or penſile grove or airy cliff aſcend,
And hail the ſcene by Nature's pencil drawn.
Thanks be to Fate—tho' nor the racy vine,
Nor fatt'ning olive clothe the fields I rove,
Sequeſter'd ſhades and gurgling founts are mine,
And ev'ry ſilvan grot the Muſes love.
Here if my viſta point the mould'ring pile,
Where hood and cowl Devotion's aſpect wore,
I trace the tott'ring reliques with a ſmile,
To think the mental bondage is no more.
Pleas'd if the glowing landſcape wave with corn,
Or the tall oaks, my country's bulwark, riſe;
Pleas'd if mine eye, o'er thouſand vallies borne,
Diſcern the Cambrian hills ſupport the ſkies.
And ſee Plinlimmon! ev'n the youthful ſight
Scales the proud hill's ethereal cliffs with pain!
Such, Caer-Caradoc! thy ſtupendous height,
Whoſe ample ſhade obſcures th' Iernian main.
Bleak, joyleſs regions! where, by Science fir'd,
Some prying ſage his lonely ſtep may bend;
There, by the love of novel plants inſpir'd,
Invidious view the clamb'ring goats aſcend.
[128]
Yet for thoſe mountains, clad with laſting ſnow,
The freeborn Briton left his greeneſt mead,
Receding ſullen from his mightier foe,
For here he ſaw fair Liberty recede.
Then if a chief perform'd a patriot's part,
Suſtain'd her drooping ſons, repell'd her foes,
Above or Perſian luxe or Attic art
The rude majeſtic monument aroſe.
Progreſſive ages caroll'd forth his fame,
Sires to his praiſe attun'd their children's tongue,
The hoary Druid fed the gen'rous flame,
While in ſuch ſtrains the rev'rend wizard ſung:
" Go forth, my Sons!—for what is vital breath,
" Your gods expell'd, your liberty reſign'd?
" Go forth, my Sons!—for what is inſtant death
" To ſouls ſecure perennial joys to find?
" For ſcenes there are, unknown to war or pain,
" Where drops the balm that heals a tyrant's wound;
" Where patriots, bleſs'd with boundleſs freedom, reign,
" With miſletoe's myſterious garlands crown'd.
" Such are the names that grace your myſtic ſongs,
" Your ſolemn woods reſound their martial fire;
" To you, my Sons! the ritual meed belongs,
" If in the cauſe you vanquiſh or expire.
[129]
" Hark! from the ſacred oak that crowns the groves
" What awful voice my raptur'd boſom warms!
" This is the favour'd moment Heav'n approves,
" Sound the ſhrill trump; this inſtant ſound, to arms."
Theirs was the ſcience of a martial race,
To ſhape the lance or decorate the ſhield;
Ev'n the fair virgin ſtain'd her native grace
To give new horrors to the tented field.
Now for ſome cheek where guilty bluſhes glow,
For ſome falſe Florimel's impure diſguiſe,
The liſted youth nor War's loud ſignal know,
Nor Virtue's call, nor Fame's imperial prize.
Then, if ſoft concord lull'd their fears to ſleep,
Inert and ſilent ſlept the manly car,
But ruſh'd horrific o'er the fearful ſteep,
If Freedom's awful clarion breath'd to war.
Now the ſleek courtier, indolent and vain,
Thron'd in the ſplendid carriage, glides ſupine,
To taint his virtue with a foreign ſtrain,
Or at a fav'rite's board his faith reſign.
Leave then, O Luxury! this happy ſoil;
Chaſe her, Britannia! to ſome hoſtile ſhore;
Or fleece the baneful peſt with annual ſpoil*,
And let thy virtuous offspring weep no more.

ELEGY XXII. Written in the year — when the rights of ſepulture were ſo frequently violated.

[130]
SAY, gentle Sleep! that lov'ſt the gloom of night,
Parent of dreams! thou great Magician! ſay,
Whence my late viſion thus endures the light,
Thus haunts my fancy thro' the glare of day.
The ſilent moon had ſcal'd the vaulted ſkies,
And anxious Care reſign'd my limbs to reſt;
A ſudden luſtre ſtruck my wond'ring eyes,
And Silvia ſtood before my couch confeſt.
Ah! not the nymph ſo blooming and ſo gay,
That led the dance beneath the feſtive ſhade,
But ſhe that in the morning of her day
Entomb'd beneath the graſs-green ſod was laid.
No more her eyes their wonted radiance caſt,
No more her breaſt inſpir'd the lover's flame;
No more her cheek the Paeſtan roſe ſurpaſt,
Yet ſeem'd her lip's ethereal ſmile the ſame.
Nor ſuch her hair as deck'd her living face,
Nor ſuch her voice as charm'd the liſt'ning crowd;
Nor ſuch her dreſs as heighten'd ev'ry grace;
Alas! all vaniſh'd for the mournful ſhroud!
[131]
Yet ſeem'd her lip's ethereal charm the ſame;
That dear diſtinction ev'ry doubt remov'd;
Periſh the lover whoſe imperfect flame
Forgets one feature of the nymph he lov'd.
" Damon," ſhe ſaid, "mine hour allotted flies;
" Oh! do not waſte it with a fruitleſs tear!
" Tho' griev'd to ſee thy Silvia's pale diſguiſe,
" Suſpend thy ſorrow, and attentive hear.
" So may thy Muſe with virtuous fame be bleſt!
" So be thy love with mutual love repaid!
" So may thy bones in ſacred ſilence reſt!
" Faſt by the reliques of ſome happier maid!
" Thou know'ſt how, ling'ring on a diſtant ſhore,
" Diſeaſe invidious nipt my flow'ry prime;
" And, oh! what pangs my tender boſom tore,
" To think I ne'er muſt view my native clime!
" No friend was near to raiſe my drooping head,
" No dear companion wept to ſee me die;
" Lodge me within my native ſoil, I ſaid,
" There my fond parents' honour'd reliques lie.
" Tho' now debarr'd of each domeſtic tear,
" Unknown, forgot, I meet the fatal blow;
" There many a friend ſhall grace my woeful bier,
" And many a ſigh ſhall riſe and tear ſhall flow.
[132]
" I ſpoke, nor Fate forebore his trembling ſpoil;
" Some venal mourner lent his careleſs aid,
" And ſoon they bore me to my native ſoil,
" Where my fond parents' dear remains were laid.
" 'Twas then the youths from ev'ry plain and grove
" Adorn'd with mournful verſe thy Silvia's bier;
" 'Twas then the Nymphs their votive garlands wove,
" And ſtrew'd the fragrance of the youthful year.
" But why, alas! the tender ſcene diſplay?
" Could Damon's foot the pious path decline?
" Ah, no! 'twas Damon firſt attun'd his lay,
" And ſure no ſonnet was ſo dear as thine.
" Thus was I boſom'd in the peaceful grave,
" My placid ghoſt no longer wept its doom,
" When ſavage robbers ev'ry ſanction brave,
" And with outrageous guilt defraud the tomb!
" Shall my poor corſe, from hoſtile realms convey'd,
" Loſe the cheap portion of my native ſands?
" Or, in my kindred's dear embraces laid,
" Mourn the vile ravage of barbarian hands?
" Say, would thy breaſt no deathlike torture feel,
" To ſee my limbs the felon's gripe obey?
" To ſee them gaſh'd beneath the daring ſteel?
" To crowds a ſpectre, and to dogs a prey?
[133]
" If Paean's ſons theſe horrid rites require,
" If Health's fair ſcience be by theſe refin'd,
" Let guilty convicts for their uſe expire,
" And let their breathleſs corſe avail mankind.
" Yet hard it ſeems, when Guilt's laſt fine is paid,
" To ſee the victim's corſe deny'd repoſe;
" Now, more ſevere, the poor offenceleſs maid
" Dreads the dire outrage of inhuman foes.
" Where is the faith of ancient Pagans fled?
" Where the fond care the wand'ring manes claim?
" Nature, inſtinctive, cries, Protect the dead,
" And ſacred be their aſhes and their fame!
" Ariſe, dear Youth! ev'n now the danger calls;
" Ev'n now the villain ſnuffs his wonted prey:
" See! ſee! I lead thee to you' ſacred walls—
" Oh! fly to chaſe theſe human wolves away."

ELEGY XXIII. Reflections ſuggeſted by his ſituation.

[134]
BORN near the ſcene for Kenelm's* fate renown'd,
I take my plaintive reed, and range the grove,
And raiſe my lay, and bid the rocks reſound
The ſavage force of empire and of love.
Faſt by the centre of yon' various wild,
Where ſpreading oaks embow'r a Gothic fane,
Kendrida's arts a brother's youth beguil'd;
There Nature urg'd her tend'reſt pleas in vain.
Soft o'er his birth and o'er his infant hours,
Th' ambitious maid could ev'ry care employ,
Then with aſſiduous fondneſs cropt the flow'rs,
To deck the cradle of the princely boy.
But ſoon the boſom's pleaſing calm is flown;
Love fires her breaſt; the ſultry paſſions riſe:
A favour'd lover ſeeks the Mercian throne,
And views her Kenelm with a rival's eyes.
[135]
How kind were Fortune! ah! how juſt were Fate!
Would Fate or Fortune Mercia's heir remove!
How ſweet to revel on the couch of ſtate!
To crown at once her lover and her love!
See, garniſh'd for the chaſe, the fraudful maid
To theſe lone hills direct his devious way;
The youth, all prone, the ſiſter-guide obey'd,
Ill-fated youth! himſelf the deſtin'd prey.
But now nor ſhaggy hill nor pathleſs plain
Forms the lone refuge of the ſylvan game,
Since Lyttleton has crown'd the ſweet domain
With ſofter pleaſures and with fairer fame.
Where the rough bowman urg'd his headlong ſteed,
Immortal bards, a poliſh'd race, retire;
And where hoarſe ſcream'd the ſtrepenthorn, ſucceed
The melting graces of no vulgar lyre.
See Thomſon, loit'ring near ſome limpid well,
For Britain's friend the verdant wreath prepare!
Or, ſtudious of revolving ſeaſons, tell
How peerleſs Lucia made all ſeaſons fair!
See *** from civic garlands fly,
And in theſe groves indulge his tuneful vein!
Or from yon' ſummit, with a guardian's eye,
Obſerve how Freedom's hand attires the plain!
[136]
Here Pope!—ah! never muſt that tow'ring mind
To his lov'd haunts or dearer friend return!
What art, what friendſhips! oh! what fame reſign'd!
—In yonder glade I trace his mournful urn.
Where is the breaſt can rage or hate retain,
And theſe glad ſtreams and ſmiling lawns behold?
Where is the breaſt can hear the woodland ſtrain,
And think fair Freedom well exchang'd for gold?
Thro' theſe ſoft ſhades delighted let me ſtray,
While o'er my head forgotten ſuns deſcend!
Thro' theſe dear vallies bend my caſual way,
Till ſetting life a total ſhade extend!
Here far from courts, and void of pompous cares,
I'll muſe how much I owe mine humbler fate,
Or ſhrink to find how much Ambition dares,
To ſhine in anguiſh, and to grieve in ſtate!
Can'ſt thou, O Sun! that ſpotleſs throne diſcloſe,
Where her bold arm has left no ſanguine ſtain?
Where, ſhew me where, the lineal ſceptre glows,
Pure as the ſimple crook that rules the plain?
Tremendous pomp! where hate, diſtruſt, and fear,
In kindred boſoms ſolve the ſocial tie;
There not the parent's ſmile is half ſincere,
Nor void of art the conſort's melting eye.
[137]
There with the friendly wiſh, the kindly flame,
No face is brighten'd and no boſoms beat;
Youth, manhood, age, avow one ſordid aim,
And ev'n the beardleſs lip eſſays deceit.
There coward Rumours walk their murd'rous round;
The glance that more then rural blame inſtills;
Whiſpers that, ting'd with friendſhip, doubly wound,
Pity that injures, and concern that kills.
There anger whets, but love can ne'er engage;
Careſſing brothers part but to revile;
There all men ſmile, and Prudence warns the wiſe
To dread the fatal ſtroke of all that ſmile.
There all are rivals! ſiſter, ſon, and ſire,
With horrid purpoſe hug deſtructive arms;
There ſoft-ey'd maids in murd'rous plots conſpire,
And ſcorn the gentler miſchief of their charms.
Let ſervile minds one endleſs watch endure;
Day, night, nor hour, their anxious guard reſign;
But lay me, Fate! on flow'ry banks ſecure,
Tho' my whole ſoul be, like my limbs, ſupine.
Yes; may my tongue diſdain a vaſſal's care;
My lyre reſound no proſtituted lays;
More warm to merit, more elate to wear
The cap of Freedom than the crown of bays.
[138]
Sooth'd by the murmurs of my pebbled flood,
I wiſh it not o'er golden ſands to flow;
Cheer'd by the verdure of my ſpiral wood,
I ſcorn the quarry where no ſhrub can grow.
No midnight pangs the ſhepherd's peace purſue;
His tongue, his hand, attempts no ſecret wound;
He ſings his Delia, and, if ſhe be true,
His love at once and his ambition's crown'd.

ELEGY XXIV. He takes occaſion, from the fate of Eleanor of Bretagne*, to ſuggeſt the imperfect pleaſures of a ſolitary life.

WHEN Beauty mourns, by Fate's injurious doom,
Hid from the cheerful glance of human eye;
When Nature's pride inglorious waits the tomb,
Hard is that heart which checks the riſing ſigh.
Fair Eleonora! would no gallant mind
The cauſe of Love, the cauſe of Juſtice, own?
Matchleſs thy charms, and was no life reſign'd
To ſee them ſparkle from their native throne?
[139]
Or had fair Freedom's hand unveil'd thy charms,
Well might ſuch brows the regal gem reſign;
Thy radiant mien might ſcorn the guilt of arms,
Yet Albion's awful empire yield to thine.
O ſhame of Britons! in one ſullen tow'r
She wet with royal tears her daily cell;
She found keen anguiſh ev'ry roſe devour:
They ſprung, they ſhone, they faded, and they fell.
Thro' one dim lattice, fring'd with ivy round,
Succeſſive ſuns a languid radiance threw,
To paint how fierce her angry guardian frown'd,
To mark how faſt her waning beauty flew.
This Age might bear; then ſated Fancy palls,
Nor warmly hopes what ſplendour can ſupply;
Fond Youth inceſſant mourns, if rigid walls
Reſtrain its liſt'ning ear, its curious eye.
Believe me ** the pretence is vain!
This boaſted calm that ſmooths our early days;
For never yet could youthful mind reſtrain
Th' alternate pant for pleaſure and for praiſe.
Ev'n me, by ſhady oak or limpid ſpring,
Ev'n me, the ſcenes of poliſh'd life allure;
Some genius whiſpers, "Life is on the wing,
" And hard his lot that languiſhes obſcure.
[140]
" What tho' thy riper mind admire no more—
" The ſhining cincture and the broider'd fold
" Can pierce like lightning thro' the figur'd ore,
" And melt to droſs the radiant forms of gold.
" Furs, ermines, rods, may well attract thy ſcorn,
" The futile preſents of capricious Pow'r!
" But wit, but worth, the public ſphere adorn,
" And who but envies then the ſocial hour?
" Can Virtue, careleſs of her pupil's meed,
" Forget how ** ſuſtains the ſhepherd's cauſe?
" Content in ſhades to tune a lonely reed,
" Nor join the ſounding paean of applauſe?
" For public haunts, impell'd by Britain's weal,
" See Grenville quit the Muſe's fav'rite eaſe;
" And ſhall not ſwains admire his noble zeal?
" Admiring praiſe, admiring ſtrive to pleaſe?
" Life," ſays the ſage, "affords no bliſs ſincere,
" And courts and cells in vain our hopes renew;
" But, ah! where Grenville charms the liſt'ning ear,
" 'Tis hard to think the cheerleſs maxim true.
" The groves may ſmile, the rivers gently glide,
" Soft thro' the vale reſound the loneſome lay;
" Ev'n thickets yield delight, if taſte preſide,
" But can they pleaſe when Lyttleton's away?
[141]
" Pure as the ſwain's the breaſt of *** glows;
" Ah! were the ſhepherd's phraſe like his refin'd!
" But how improv'd the gen'rous dictate flows
" Thro' the clear medium of a poliſh'd mind!
" Happy the youths who, warm with Britain's love,
" Her inmoſt wiſh in *** periods hear!
" Happy that in the radiant circle move,
" Attendant orbs, where Lonſdale gilds the ſphere!
" While rural faith, and ev'ry poliſh'd art,
" Each friendly charm, in *** conſpire,
" From public ſcenes all penſive muſt you part;
" All joyleſs to the greeneſt fields retire!
" Go, plaintive Youth! no more by fount or ſtream,
" Like ſome lone halcyon, ſocial pleaſure ſhun;
" Go, dare the light, enjoy its cheerful beam,
" And hail the bright proceſſion of the ſun.
" Then, cover'd by thy ripen'd ſhades, reſume
" The ſilent walk, no more by paſſion toſt;
" Then ſeek thy ruſtic haunts, the dreary gloom,
" Where ev'ry art that colours life is loſt."—
In vain! the liſt'ning Muſe attends in vain!
Reſtraints in hoſtile bands her motions wait—
Yet will I grieve, and ſadden all my ſtrain,
When injur'd Beauty mourns the Muſe's fate.

ELEGY XXV. To Delia, with ſome flowers; complaining how much his benevolence ſuffers on account of his humble fortune.

[142]
WHATE'ER could Sculpture's curious art employ,
Whate'er the laviſh hand of Wealth can ſhow'r,
Theſe would I give—and ev'ry gift enjoy
That pleas'd my fair—but Fate denies my pow'r.
Bleſs'd were my lot to feed the ſocial fires!
To learn the latent wiſhes of a friend!
To give the boon his native taſte admires,
And for my tranſport on his ſmile depend!
Bleſs'd, too, is he whoſe ev'ning ramble ſtrays
Where droop the ſons of Indigence and Care!
His little gifts their gladden'd eyes amaze,
And win, at ſmall expenſe, their fondeſt pray'r!
And, oh! the joy, to ſhun the conſcious light;
To ſpare the modeſt bluſh; to give unſeen!
Like ſhow'rs that fall behind the veil of night,
Yet deeply tinge the ſmiling vales with green.
But happieſt they who drooping realms relieve!
Whoſe virtues in our cultur'd vales appear!
For whoſe ſad fate a thouſand ſhepherds grieve,
And fading fields allow the grief ſincere.
[143]
To call loſt Worth from its oppreſſive ſhade,
To fix its equal ſphere, and ſee it ſhine,
To hear it grateful own the gen'rous aid;
This, this is tranſport—but muſt ne'er be mine.
Faint is my bounded bliſs; nor I refuſe
To range where daiſies open, rivers roll,
While proſe or ſong the languid hours amuſe,
And ſooth the fond impatience of my ſoul.
A while I'll weave the roofs of jaſmine bow'rs,
And urge with trivial cares the loit'ring year;
A while I'll prune my grove, protect my flow'rs,
Then, unlamented, preſs an early bier!
Of thoſe lov'd flow'rs the lifeleſs corſe may ſhare,
Some hireling hand a fading wreath beſtow;
The reſt will breath as ſweet, will glow as fair,
As when their maſter ſmil'd to ſee them glow.
The ſequent morn ſhall wake the ſylvan quire;
The kid again ſhall wanton ere 'tis noon;
Nature will ſmile, will wear her beſt attire;
O! let not gentle Delia ſmile ſo ſoon!
While the rude herſe conveys me ſlow away,
And careleſs eyes my vulgar fate proclaim,
Let thy kind tear my utmoſt worth o'erpay,
And, ſoftly ſighing, vindicate my fame.—
[144]
O Delia! cheer'd by thy ſuperior praiſe,
I bleſs the ſilent path the Fates decree;
Pleas'd, from the liſt of my inglorious days
To raze the moments crown'd with bliſs and thee.

ELEGY XXVI. Deſcribing the ſorrow of an ingenuous mind on the melancholy event of a licentious amour.

WHY mourns my friend? why weeps his downcaſt eye?
That eye where mirth, where fancy, us'd to ſhine;
Thy cheerful meads reprove that ſwelling ſigh;
Spring ne'er enamell'd fairer meads than thine.
Art thou not lodg'd in Fortune's warm embrace?
Wert thou not form'd by Nature's partial care?
Bleſs'd in thy ſong, and bleſs'd in ev'ry grace
That wins the friend, or that enchants the fair!
" Damon," ſaid he, "thy partial praiſe reſtrain;
" Not Damon's friendſhip can my peace reſtore:
" Alas! his very praiſe awakes my pain,
" And my poor wounded boſom bleeds the more.
" For, oh! that Nature on my birth had frown'd,
" Or Fortune fix'd me to ſome lowly cell!
" Then had my boſom 'ſcap'd this fatal wound,
" Nor had I bid theſe vernal ſweets farewell.
[145]
" But led by Fortune's hand, her darling child,
" My youth her vain licentious bliſs admir'd;
" In Fortune's train the ſyren Flatt'ry ſmil'd,
" And raſhly hallow'd all her queen inſpir'd.
" Of folly ſtudious, ev'n of vices vain,
" Ah, vices gilded by the rich and gay!
" I chas'd the guileleſs daughters of the plain,
" Nor dropp'd the chaſe till Jeſſy was my prey.
" Poor artleſs maid! to ſtain thy ſpotleſs name
" Expenſe, and Art, and Toil, united ſtrove;
" To lure a breaſt that felt the pureſt flame,
" Suſtain'd by virtue, but betray'd by love.
" School'd in the ſcience of Love's mazy wiles,
" I cloth'd each feature with affected ſcorn;
" I ſpoke of jealous doubts and fickle ſmiles,
" And, ſeigning, left her anxious and forlorn.
" Then while the fancy'd rage alarm'd her care,
" Warm to deny, and zealous to diſprove,
" I bade my words the wonted ſoftneſs wear,
" And ſeiz'd the minute of returning love.
" To thee, my Damon, dare I paint the reſt?
" Will yet thy love a candid ear incline?
" Aſſur'd that virtue, by misfortune preſs'd,
" Feels not the ſharpneſs of a pang like mine.
[146]
" Nine envious moons matur'd her growing ſhame,
" Ere while to flaunt it in the face of day,
" When, ſcorn'd of Virtue, ſtigmatiz'd by Fame,
" Low at my feet deſponding Jeſſy lay."
" Henry," ſhe ſaid, "by thy dear form ſubdu'd,
" See the ſad reliques of a nymph undone!
" I find, I find this riſing ſob renew'd;
" I ſigh in ſhades, and ſicken at the ſun.
" Amid the dreary gloom of night I cry,
" When will the morn's once pleaſing ſcenes return?
" Yet what can morn's returning ray ſupply,
" But foes that triumph, or but friends that mourn?
" Alas! no more that joyous morn appears
" That led the tranquil hours of ſpotleſs fame,
" For I have ſteep'd a father's couch in tears,
" And ting'd a mother's glowing cheek with ſhame.
" The vocal birds that raiſe their matin ſtrain,
" The ſportive lambs, increaſe my penſive moan;
" All ſeem to chaſe me from the cheerful plain,
" And talk of truth and innocence alone.
" If thro' the garden's flow'ry tribes I ſtray,
" Where bloom the jaſmines that could once allure,
" Hope not to find delight in us," they ſay,
" For we are ſpotleſs, Jeſſy; we are pure."
[147]
" Ye Flow'rs! that well reproach a nymph ſo frail,
" Say, could ye with my virgin fame compare?
" The brighteſt bud that ſcents the vernal gale
" Was not ſo fragrant, and was not ſo fair.
" Now the grave old alarm the gentler young,
" And all my fame's abhorr'd contagion flee;
" Trembles each lip, and falters ev'ry tongue,
" That bids the morn propitious ſmile on me.
" Thus for your ſake I ſhun each human eye,
" I bid the ſweets of blooming youth adieu;
" To die I languiſh, but I dread to die,
" Leſt my ſad fate ſhould nouriſh pangs for you.
" Raiſe me from earth; the pains of want remove,
" And let me, ſilent, ſeek ſome friendly ſhore;
" There only, baniſh'd from the form I love,
" My weeping virtue ſhall relapſe no more.
" Be but my friend; I aſk no dearer name;
" Be ſuch the meed of ſome more artful fair;
" Nor could it heal my peace or chaſe my ſhame,
" That Pity gave what Love refus'd to ſhare.
" Force not my tongue to aſk its ſcanty bread,
" Nor hurl thy Jeſſy to the vulgar crew;
" Not ſuch the parent's board at which I fed!
" Not ſuch the precept from his lips I drew!
[148]
" Haply, when age has ſilver'd o'er my hair,
" Malice may learn to ſcorn ſo mean a ſpoil;
" Envy may ſlight a face no longer fair,
" And Pity welcome to my native ſoil."
" She ſpoke—nor was I born of ſavage race,
" Nor could theſe hands a niggard boon aſſign;
" Grateful ſhe claſp'd me in a laſt embrace.
" And vow'd to waſte her life in pray'rs for mine.
" I ſaw her foot the lofty bark aſcend,
" I ſaw her breaſt with ev'ry paſſion heave;
" I left her—torn from ev'ry earthly friend;
" Oh! my hard boſom! which could bear to leave!
" Brief let me be; the fatal ſtorm aroſe;
" The billows rag'd, the pilot's art was vain;
" O'er the tall maſt the circling ſurges cloſe;
" My Jeſſy—flotes upon the wat'ry plain!
" And—ſee my youth's impetuous fires decay;
" Seek not to ſtop Reflection's bitter tear;
" But warn the frolic, and inſtruct the gay,
" From Jeſſy floting on her wat'ry bier!"

LEVITIES: OR, PIECES OF HUMOUR.

[]

FLIRT AND PHIL: A DECISION FOR THE LADIES.

A WIT, by learning well refin'd,
A beau, but of the rural kind,
To Silvia made pretences;
They both profeſs'd an equal love,
Yet hop'd by diff'rent means to move
Her judgment or her ſenſes.
Young ſprightly Flirt, of blooming mien,
Watch'd the beſt minutes to be ſeen,
Went—when his glaſs advis'd him;
While meagre Phil of books inquir'd,
A wight for wit and parts admir'd,
And witty ladies priz'd him.
Silvia had wit, had ſpirits too;
To hear the one, the other view,
Suſpended held the ſcales:
Her wit, her youth, too, claim'd its ſhare;
Let none the preference declare,
But turn up—heads or tails.

STANZAS To the memory of an agreeable Lady, buried in marriage to a perſon undeſerving her.

[150]
'TWAS always held, and ever will,
By ſage mankind, diſcreeter
T' anticipate a leſſer ill
Than undergo a greater.
When mortals dread diſeaſes, pain,
And languiſhing conditions,
Who don't the leſſer ills ſuſtain
Of phyſic—and phyſicians?
Rather than loſe his whole eſtate,
He that but little wiſe is,
Full gladly pays four parts in eight
To taxes and exciſes.
Our merchants Spain has near undone
For loſt ſhips not requiting;
This bears our noble K—, to ſhun
The loſs of blood—in fighting!
With num'rous ills, in ſingle life,
The bachelor's attended;
Such to avoid he takes a wife—
And much the caſe is mended!
[151]
Poor Gratia, in her twentieth year,
Foreſeeing future woe,
Choſe to attend a monkey here
Before an ape below.

COLEMIRA. A CULINARY ECLOGUE.

Nec tantum Veneris, quantum ſtudioſa culinae.

IMITATION.

Inſenſible of ſoft deſire,
Behold Colemira prove
More partial to the kitchen fire
Than to the fire of Love.
NIGHT'S ſable clouds had half the globe o'erſpread,
And ſilence reign'd, and folks were gone to bed,
When love, which gentle ſleep can ne'er inſpire,
Had ſeated Damon by the kitchen fire.
Penſive he lay, extended on the ground,
The little Lares kept their vigils round;
The fawning cats compaſſionate his caſe,
And pur around, and gently lick his face:
To all his plaints the ſleeping curs reply,
And with hoarſe ſnorings imitate a ſigh.
Such gloomy ſcenes with lovers' minds agree,
And ſolitude to them is beſt ſociety.
[152]
" Could I," he cry'd, "expreſs how bright a grace
" Adorns thy morning hands and well-waſh'd face,
" Thou wouldſt, Colemira, grant what I implore,
" And yield me love, or waſh thy face no more.
" Ah! who can ſee, and ſeeing not admire,
" Whene'er ſhe ſets the pot upon the fire!
" Her hands outſhine the fire and redder things;
" Her eyes are blacker than the pots ſhe brings.
" But ſure no chamber-damſel can compare,
" When in meridian luſtre ſhines my fair,
" When warm'd with dinner's toil, in pearly rills,
" Adown her goodly cheek the ſweat diſtills.
" Oh! how I long, how ardently deſire,
" To view thoſe roſy fingers ſtrike the lyre!
" For late, when bees to change their climes began,
" How did I ſee 'em thrum the ſrying-pan!
" With her I ſhould not envy G— his queen,
" Tho' ſhe in royal grandeur deck'd be ſeen;
" Whilſt rags, juſt ſever'd from my fair one's gown,
" In ruſſet pomp and greaſy pride hang down.
" Ah! how it does my drooping heart rejoice,
" When in the hall I hear thy mellow voice!
" How would that voice exceed the village bell,
" Wouldſt thou but ſing, "I like thee paſſing well!"
[153]
" When from the hearth ſhe bade the pointers go,
" How ſoft, how eaſy, did her accents flow!
" Get out," ſhe cry'd; "when ſtrangers come to ſup
" One ne'er can raiſe thoſe ſnoring devils up."
" Then, full of wrath, ſhe kick'd each lazy brute,
" Alas! I envy'd ev'n that ſalute:
" 'Twas ſure miſplac'd—Shock ſaid, or ſeem'd to ſay,
" He had as lief I had the kick as they.
" If ſhe the myſtic bellows take in hand,
" Who like the fair can that machine command!
" O may'ſt thou ne'er by Aeolus be ſeen,
" For he would ſure demand thee for his queen!
" But ſhould the flame this rougher aid refuſe,
" And only gentler med'cines be of uſe,
" With full-blown cheeks ſhe ends the doubtful ſtrife,
" Foments the infant flame, and puffs it into life.
" Such arts as theſe exalt the drooping fire,
" But in my breaſt a fiercer flame inſpire:
" I burn! I burn! O! give thy puffing o'er,
" And ſwell thy cheeks and pout thy lips no more!
" With all her haughty looks, the time I've ſeen
" When this proud damſel has more humble been,
" When with nice airs ſhe hoiſt the pancake round,
" And dropt it, hapleſs fair! upon the ground.
[154]
" Look, with what charming grace, what winning tricks,
" The artful charmer rubs the candleſticks!
" So bright ſhe makes the candleſticks ſhe handles,
" Oft' have I ſaid—there were no need of candles.
" But thou, my Fair! who never wouldſt approve,
" Or hear the tender ſtory of my love,
" Or mind how burns my raging breaſt—a button—
" Perhaps art dreaming of—a breaſt of mutton."
Thus ſaid, and wept, the ſad deſponding ſwain,
Revealing to the ſable walls his pain;
But nymphs are free with thoſe they ſhould deny;
To thoſe they love more exquiſitely coy.
Now chirping crickets raiſe their tinkling voice,
The lambent flames in languid ſtreams ariſe,
And ſmoke in azure folds evaporates and dies.

ON CERTAIN PASTORALS.

SO rude and tuneleſs are thy lays,
The weary audience vow
'Tis not th' Arcadian ſwain that ſings,
But 'tis his herds that low.

ON MR. C— OF KIDDERMINSTER'S POETRY.

[155]
THY verſes, Friend! are Kidderminſter* ſtuff,
And I muſt own you've meaſur'd out enough.

TO THE VIRTUOSI.

HAIL, curious Wights! to whom ſo fair
The form of mortal flies is!
Who deem thoſe grubs beyond compare,
Which common ſenſe deſpiſes.
Whether o'er hill, moraſs, or mound,
You make your ſportſman ſallies,
Or that your prey, in gardens found,
Is urg'd thro' walks and allies;
Yet in the fury of the chaſe
No ſlope could e'er retard you,
Bleſs'd if one fly repay the race,
Or painted wing reward you.
Fierce as Camilla o'er the plain
Purſu'd the glitt'ring ſtranger,
Still ey'd the purple's pleaſing ſtain,
And knew not fear nor danger.
[156]
'Tis you diſpenſe the fav'rite meat
To Nature's filmy people,
Know what conſerves they chuſe to eat,
And what liqueurs to tipple.
And if her brood of inſects dies,
You ſage aſſiſtance lend her;
Can ſtoop to pimp for am'rous flies,
And help 'em to engender.
'Tis you protect their pregnant hour;
And, when the birth's at hand,
Exerting your obſtetric pow'r,
Prevent a mothleſs land.
Yet, oh! howe'er your tow'ring view
Above groſs objects riſes,
Whate'er refinements you purſue,
Hear what a friend adviſes:
A friend who, weigh'd with your's, muſt prize
Domitian's idle paſſion,
That wrought the death of teazing flies,
But ne'er their propagation.
Let Flavia's eyes more deeply warm,
Nor thus your hearts determine,
To ſlight Dame Nature's faireſt form
And ſigh for Nature's vermine.
[157]
And ſpeak with ſome reſpect of beaus,
Nor more as triflers treat 'em;
'Tis better learn to ſave one's clothes
Than cheriſh moths that eat 'em.

THE EXTENT OF COOKERY.

‘Aliuſque et idem.’

EXPLANATION. ‘Another and the ſame.’

WHEN Tom to Cambridge firſt was ſent,
A plain brown bob he wore,
Read much, and look'd as tho' he meant
To be a fop no more.
See him to Lincoln's-Inn repair,
His reſolution flag,
He cheriſhes a length of hair,
And tucks it in a bag.
Nor Coke nor Salkeld he regards,
But gets into the Houſe,
And ſoon a judge's rank rewards
His pliant votes and bows.
Adieu, ye Bobs! ye Bags! give place;
Full bottoms come inſtead:
Good L—d! to ſee the various ways
Of dreſſing a calf's head!

THE PROGRESS OF ADVICE. A COMMON CASE.

[158]
‘Suade, nam certum eſt.’

EXPLANATION. ‘Adviſe it, for 'tis fix'd.’

SAYS Richard to Thomas (and ſeem'd half afraid)
" I am thinking to marry thy miſtreſs's maid;
" Now, becauſe Mrs. Lucy to thee is well known,
" I will do't if thou bidd'ſt me, or let it alone.
" Nay, don't male a jeſt on't; 'tis no jeſt to me;
" For 'faith I'm in earneſt; ſo, prithee, be free.
" I have no fault to find with the girl ſince I knew her,
" But I'd have thy advice ere I tie myſelf to her."
Said Thomas to Richard, "To ſpeak my opinion,
" There is not ſuch a bitch in King George's dominion;
" And I firmly believe, if thou knew'ſt her as I do,
" Thou wouldſt chuſe out a whipping-poſt firſt to be ty'd to.
" She's peeviſh, ſhe's thieviſh, ſhe's ugly, ſhe's old,
" And a liar, and a fool, and a ſlut, and a ſcold."
Next day Richard haſten'd to church and was wed,
And ere night had inform'd her what Thomas had ſaid.

SLENDER'S GHOST. VIDE SHAKESPEARE.

[159]
BENEATH a churchyard yew,
Decay'd and worn with age,
At duſk of eve methought I ſpy'd
Poor Slender's Ghoſt, that whimp'ring cry'd,
" O ſweet! O ſweet Anne Page!"
Ye gentle Bards! give ear,
Who talk of am'rous rage,
Who ſpoil the lily, rob the roſe,
Come learn of me to weep your woes:
" O ſweet! O ſweet Anne Page!"
Why ſhould ſuch labour'd ſtrains
Your formal Muſe engage?
I never dream'd of flame or dart,
That fir'd my breaſt or pierc'd my heart,
But ſigh'd, "O ſweet Anne Page!"
And you! whoſe love-ſick minds
No med'cine can aſſuage,
Accuſe the leech's art no more,
But learn of Slender to deplore;
" O ſweet! O ſweet Anne Page!"
[160]
And ye! whoſe ſouls are held
Like linnets in a cage,
Who talk of fetters, links, and chains,
Attend, and imitate my ſtrains;
" O ſweet! O ſweet Anne Page!"
And you! who boaſt or grieve
What horrid wars ye wage,
Of wounds receiv'd from many an eye,
Yet mean as I do, when I ſigh
" O ſweet! O ſweet Anne Page!"
Hence ev'ry fond conceit
Of ſhepherd or of ſage;
'Tis Slender's voice, 'tis Slender's way,
Expreſſes all you have to ſay,
" O ſweet! O ſweet Anne Page!"

THE INVIDIOUS. MART.

O FORTUNE! if my pray'r of old
Was ne'er ſolicitous for gold,
With better grace thou may'ſt allow
My ſuppliant wiſh, that aſks it now:
Yet think not, Goddeſs! I require it
For the ſame end your clowns deſire it.
[161]
In a well-made effectual ſtring
Fain would I ſee Lividio ſwing;
Hear him from Tyburn's height haranguing;
But ſuch a cur's not worth one's hanging.
Give me, O Goddeſs! ſtore of pelf,
And he will tie the knot himſelf.

THE PRICE OF AN EQUIPAGE.

Servum ſi potes, Ole, non habere,
Et regem potes, Ole, non habere.
MART.
" If thou from Fortune doſt no ſervant crave,
" Believe me thou no maſter need'ſt to have."
I ASK'D a friend, amidſt the throng,
Whoſe coach it was that trail'd along?
" The gilded coach there—don't ye mind?
" That with the footmen ſtuck behind."
" O Sir!" ſays he, "what! han't you ſeen it?
" 'Tis Damon's coach, and Damon in it.
" 'Tis odd, methinks, you have forgot
" Your friend, your neighbour, and—what not!
" Your old acquaintance Damon!"—"True;
" But faith his Equipage is new."
" Bleſs me," ſaid I, "where can it end?
" What madneſs has poſſeſs'd my friend?
" Four powder'd ſlaves, and thoſe the talleſt,
" Their ſtomachs, doubtleſs, not the ſmalleſt!
[162] " Can Damon's revenue maintain,
" In lace and food, ſo large a train?
" I know his land—each inch o' ground—
" 'Tis not a mile to walk it round—
" If Damon's whole eſtate can bear
" To keep his lad and one-horſe chair,
" I own 'tis paſt my comprehenſion."
" Yes, Sir; but Damon has a penſion—"
Thus does a falſe ambition rule us,
Thus pomp delude, and folly fool us;
To keep a race of flick'ring knaves,
He grows himſelf the worſt of ſlaves.

HINT FROM VOITURE.

LET Sol his annual journies run,
And when the radiant taſk is done,
Confeſs, thro' all the globe, 'twould poſe him
To match the charms that Celia ſhows him.
And ſhould he boaſt he once had ſeen
As juſt a form, as bright a mien,
Yet muſt it ſtill for ever poſe him
To match—what Celia never ſhows him.

INSCRIPTION.

[163]
To the memory
Of A. L. Eſquire,
Juſtice of the peace for this county;
Who, in the whole courſe of his pilgrimage
Thro' a trifling ridiculous world,
Maintaining his proper dignity,
Notwithſtanding the ſcoffs of ill-diſpos'd perſons,
And wits of the age,
That ridicul'd his behaviour,
Or cenſur'd his breeding,
Following the dictates of Nature,
Deſiring to eaſe the afflicted,
Eager to ſet the priſoners at liberty,
Without having for his end
The noiſe or report ſuch things generally cauſe
In the world,
(As he was ſeen to perform them of none)
But the ſole relief and happineſs
Of the party in diſtreſs,
Himſelf reſting eaſy
When he could render that ſo;
Not griping or pinching himſelf
To hoard up ſuperfluities;
Not coveting to keep in his poſſeſſion
What gives more diſquietude than pleaſure,
But charitably diffuſing it
To all round about him;
[164] Making the moſt ſorrowful countenance
To ſmile,
In his preſence;
Always beſtowing more than he was aſk'd,
Always imparting before he was deſir'd;
Not proceeding in this manner
Upon every trivial ſuggeſtion,
But the moſt mature and ſolemn deliberation;
With an incredible preſence and undauntedneſs
Of mind,
With an inimitable gravity and economy
Of face,
Bidding loud defiance
To politeneſs and the faſhion,
Dar'd let a f—t.

TO A FRIEND.

HAVE you ne'er ſeen, my gentle Squire!
The humours of your kitchen fire?
Says Ned to Sal, "I lead a ſpade;
" Why don't ye play?—the girl's afraid—
" Play ſomething—any thing—but play—
" 'Tis but to paſs the time away—
" Phoo—how ſhe ſtands—biting her nails—
" As tho' ſhe play'd for half her vails—
" Sorting her cards, hagling and picking—
" We play for nothing, do us? Chicken!
[165] " That card will do—'blood never doubt it,
" Its not worth while to think about it."
Sal thought, and thought, and miſs'd her aim,
And Ned, ne'er ſtudying, won the game.
Methinks, old Friend! 'tis wondrous true
That verſe is but a game at loo:
While many a bard, that ſhews ſo clearly
He writes for his amuſement merely,
Is known to ſtudy, fret, and toil,
And play for nothing all the while,
Or praiſe at moſt, for wreaths of yore
Ne'er ſignify'd a farthing more,
Till having vainly toil'd to gain it,
He ſees your flying pen obtain it.
Thro' fragrant ſcenes the trifler roves,
And hallow'd haunts that Phoebus loves,
Where with ſtrange heats his boſom glows,
And myſtic flames the god beſtows.
You now none other flame require
Than a good blazing parlour fire;
Write verſes—to defy the ſcorners
In ſhit-houſes and chimney-corners.
Sal found her deep-laid ſchemes were vain—
The cards are cut—come, deal again—
No good comes on it when one lingers—
I'll play the cards come next my fingers—
Fortune could never let Ned loo her,
When ſhe had left it wholly to her.
[166]
Well, now who wins?—why, ſtill the ſame—
For Sal has loſt another game.
" I've done, (ſhe mutter'd;) I was ſaying,
" It did not argufy my playing.
" Some folks will win, they cannot chuſe,
" But think or not think—ſome muſt loſe.
" I may have won a game or ſo—
" But then it was an age ago—
" It ne'er will be my lot again—
" I won it of a baby then—
" Give me an ace of trumps, and ſee!
" Our Ned will beat me with a three!
" 'Tis all by luck that things are carry'd—
" He'll ſuffer for it when he's marry'd."
Thus Sal, with tears in either eye,
While victor Ned ſate titt'ring by.
Thus I, long envying your ſucceſs,
And bent to write and ſtudy leſs,
Sate down, and ſcribbled in a trice
Juſt what you ſee—and you deſpiſe.
You, who can frame a tuneful ſong,
And hum it as you ride along,
And, trotting on the king's highway,
Snatch from the hedge a ſprig of bay,
Accept this verſe, howe'er it flows,
From one that is your friend in proſe.
What is this wreath, ſo green, ſo fair!
Which many wiſh, and few muſt wear?
[167] Which ſome men's indolence can gain,
And ſome men's vigils ne'er obtain?
For what muſt Sal or poet ſue,
Ere they engage with Ned or you?
For luck in verſe, for luck at loo?
Ah, no! 'tis genius gives you fame,
And Ned, thro' ſkill, ſecures the game.

THE POET AND THE DUN, 1741.

Theſe are meſſengers
That feelingly perſuade me what I am.
SHAKESPEARE.
COMES a Dun in the morning and raps at my door—
" I made bold to call—'tis a twelvemonth and more—
" I'm ſorry, believe me, to trouble you thus, Sir—
" But Job would be paid, Sir, had Job been a mercer."
My friend, have but patience—"Ay, theſe are your ways."
I have got but one ſhilling to ſerve me two days—
But, Sir—prithee take it, and tell your attorney
If I ha'n't paid your bill I have paid for your journey.
Well, now thou art gone, let me govern my paſſion,
And calmly conſider—Conſider? vexation!
What whore that muſt paint, and muſt put on falſe locks,
And counterfeit joy in the pangs of the pox!
What beggar's wife's nephew, now ſtarv'd, and now beaten,
Who, wanting to eat, fears himſelf ſhall be eaten!
[168] What porter, what turnſpit, can deem his caſe hard!
Or what Dun boaſt of patience that thinks of a Bard!
Well, I'll leave this poor trade, for no trade can be poorer,
Turn ſhoeboy, or courtier, or pimp, or procurer;
Get love, and reſpect, and good living, and pelf,
And dun ſome poor dog of a poet myſelf.
One's credit, however, of courſe will grow better.
Here enters the footman, and brings me a letter.
" Dear Sir! I receiv'd your obliging epiſtle,
" Your fame is ſecure—bid the critics go whiſtle.
" I read over with wonder the poem you ſent me,
" And I muſt ſpeak your praiſes, no ſoul ſhall prevent me.
" The audience, believe me, cry'd out ev'ry line
" Was ſtrong, was affecting, was juſt, was divine;
" All pregnant, as gold is, with worth, weight, and beauty,
" And to hide ſuch a genius was—far from your duty.
" I foreſee that the court will be hugely delighted:
" Sir Richard for much a leſs genius was knighted.
" Adieu, my good Friend! and for high life prepare ye;
" I could ſay much more, but you're modeſt, I ſpare ye."
Quite fir'd with the flatt'ry, I call for my paper,
And waſte that and health, and my time, and my taper:
I ſcribble 'till morn, when with wrath no ſmall ſtore,
Comes my old friend the mercer, and raps at my door.
" Ah, Friend! 'tis but idle to make ſuch a pother,
" Fate, Fate has ordain'd us to plague one another."

WRITTEN AT AN INN AT HENLEY.

[169]
To thee, fair Freedom! I retire
From flatt'ry, cards, and dice, and din;
Nor art thou found in manſions higher
Than the low cot or humble Inn.
'Tis here with boundleſs pow'r I reign,
And ev'ry health which I begin
Converts dull Port to bright Champaigne;
Such freedom crowns it at an Inn.
I fly from pomp, I fly from plate!
I fly from Falſehood's ſpecious grin!
Freedom I love, and form I hate,
And chuſe my lodgings at an Inn.
Here, Waiter! take my ſordid ore,
Which lackies elſe might hope to win;
It buys, what courts have not in ſtore,
It buys me freedom at an Inn.
Whoe'er has travell'd life's dull round,
Where'er his ſtages may have been,
May ſigh to think he ſtill has found
The warmeſt welcome at an Inn.

A SIMILE.

WHAT village but has ſometimes ſeen
The clumſy ſhape, the frightful mien,
[170] Tremendous claws, and ſhagged hair,
Of that grim brute yclep'd a bear?
He from his dam, the learn'd agree,
Receiv'd the curious form you ſee,
Who with her plaſtic tongue alone
Produc'd a viſage—like her own—
And thus they hint, in myſtic faſhion,
The pow'rful force of education*.—
Perhaps yon' crowd of ſwains is viewing
Ev'n now, the ſtrange exploits of Bruin,
Who plays his antics, roars aloud,
The wonder of a gaping crowd!
So have I known an awkward lad,
Whoſe birth has made a pariſh glad,
Forbid, for fear of ſenſe, to roam,
And taught by kind mamma at home,
Who gives him many a well-try'd rule,
With ways and means—to play the fool.
In ſenſe the ſame, in ſtature higher,
He ſhines, ere long, a rural ſquire,
Pours forth unwitty jokes, and ſwears,
And bawls, and drinks, but chiefly ſtares:
His tenants of ſuperior ſenſe
Carouſe and laugh at his expenſe,
And deem the paſtime I'm relating
To be as pleaſant as bear-baiting.

THE CHARMS OF PRECEDENCE. A TALE.

[171]
" SIR, will you pleaſe to walk before?"
" —No, pray, Sir—you are next the door."
" —Upon mine honour I'll not ſtir—"
" Sir, I'm at home; conſider, Sir—"
" Excuſe me, Sir; I'll not go firſt."
" Well, if I muſt be rude, I muſt—
" But yet I wiſh I could evade it—
" 'Tis ſtrangely clowniſh, be perſuaded—"
Go forward, Cits! go forward, Squires!
Nor ſcruple each what each admires.
Life ſquares not, Friends! with your proceeding,
It flies while you diſplay your breeding;
Such breeding as one's granam preaches,
Or ſome old dancingmaſter teaches.
O for ſome rude tumultuous fellow,
Half crazy, or, at leaſt, half mellow,
To come behind you unawares,
And fairly puſh you both down ſtairs!
But Death's at hand—let me adviſe ye,
Go forward, Friends! or he'll ſurpriſe ye.
Beſides, how inſincere you are!
Do ye not flatter, lie, forſwear,
And daily cheat, and weekly pray,
And all for this—to lead the way?
[172]
Such is my theme, which means to prove,
That tho' we drink, or game, or love,
As that or this is moſt in faſhion,
Precedence is our ruling paſſion.
When college-ſtudents take degrees,
And pay the beadle's endleſs fees,
What moves that ſcientific body,
But the firſt cutting at a gaudy?
And whence ſuch ſhoals, in bare conditions,
That ſtarve and languiſh as phyſicians,
Content to trudge the ſtreets, and ſtare at
The fat apothecary's chariot?
But that, in Charlotte's chamber (ſee
Moliere's Medicin malgre lui)
The leech, howe'er his fortunes vary,
Still walks before th' apothecary.
Flavia in vain has wit and charms,
And all that ſhines, and all that warms;
In vain all human race adore her,
For—Lady Mary ranks before her.
O Celia! gentle Celia! tell us,
You who are neither vain nor jealous!
The ſofteſt breaſt, the mildeſt mien!
Would you not feel ſome little ſpleen,
Nor bite your lip, nor furl your brow,
If Florimel, your equal now,
Should one day gain precedence of ye?
Firſt ſerv'd—tho' in a diſh of coffee?
[173] Plac'd firſt, altho' where you are found
You gain the eyes of all around?
Nam'd firſt, tho' not with half the fame
That waits my charming Celia's name?
Hard fortune! barely to inſpire
Our fix'd eſteem and fond deſire!
Barely, where'er you go, to prove
The ſource of univerſal love!—
Yet be content, obſerving this,
Honour's the offspring of caprice;
And worth, howe'er you have purſu'd it,
Has now no pow'r—but to exclude it:
You'll find your gen'ral reputation
A kind of ſupplemental ſtation.
Poor Swift, with all his worth, could ne'er,
He tells us, hope to riſe a peer;
So, to ſupply it, wrote for fame,
And well the wit ſecur'd his aim.
A common patriot has a drift
Not quite ſo innocent as Swift;
In Britain's cauſe he rants, he labours;
" He's honeſt, faith."—Have patience, Neighbours,
For patriots may ſometimes deceive,
May beg their friends' reluctant leave
To ſerve them in a higher ſphere,
And drop their virtue to get there.—
As Lucian tells us, in his faſhion,
How ſouls put off each earthly paſſion,
[174] Ere on Elyſium's flow'ry ſtrand
Old Charon ſuffer'd 'em to land;
So, ere we meet a court's careſſes,
No doubt our ſouls muſt change their dreſſes;
And ſouls there be who, bound that way,
Attire themſelves ten times a-day.
If then 'tis rank which all men covet,
And ſaints alike and ſinners love it;
If place, for which our courtiers throng
So thick, that few can get along,
For which ſuch ſervile toils are ſeen,
Who's happier than a king?—a queen.
Howe'er men aim at elevation,
'Tis properly a female paſſion:
Women and beaus, beyond all meaſure,
Are charm'd with rank's ecſtatic pleaſure.
Sir, if your drift I rightly ſcan,
You'd hint a beau were not a man:
Say women then are fond of places;
I wave all diſputable caſes.
A man, perhaps, would ſomething linger,
Were his lov'd rank to coſt—a finger;
Or were an ear or toe the price on't,
He might delib'rate once or twice on't,
Perhaps aſk Gataker's advice on't;
And many, as their frame grows old,
Would hardly purchaſe it with gold.
[175]
But women wiſh Precedence ever;
'Tis their whole life's ſupreme endeavour;
It fires their youth with jealous rage,
And ſtrongly animates their age:
Perhaps they would not ſell outright,
Or maim a limb—that was in ſight;
Yet on worſe terms they ſometimes chuſe it,
Nor ev'n in puniſhments refuſe it.
Preeminence in pain! you cry,
All fierce and pregnant with reply:
But lend your patience and your ear,
An argument ſhall make it clear.
But hold, an argument may fail,
Beſide, my title ſays, A Tale.
Where Avon rolls her winding ſtream,
Avon! the Muſes' fav'rite theme;
Avon! that fills the farmers' purſes,
And decks with flow'rs both farms and verſes,
She viſits many a fertile vale—
Such was the ſcene of this my Tale;
For 'tis in Ev'ſham's Vale, or near it,
That folks with laughter tell and hear it.
The ſoil, with annual plenty bleſs'd,
Was by young Corydon poſſeſs'd.
His youth alone I lay before ye,
As moſt material to my ſtory;
For ſtrength and vigour too, he had 'em,
And 'twere not much amiſs to add 'em.
[176]
Thrice happy lout! whoſe wide domain
Now green with graſs, now gilt with grain,
In ruſſet robes of clover deep,
Or thinly veil'd, and white with ſheep;
Now fragrant with the bean's perfume,
Now purpled with the pulſe's bloom,
Might well with bright alluſion ſtore me,—
But happier bards have been before me!
Amongſt the various year's increaſe
The ſtripling own'd a field of peaſe,
Which, when at night he ceas'd his labours,
Were haunted by ſome female neighbours.
Each morn diſcover'd to his ſight
The ſhameful havoc of the night;
Traces of this they left behind 'em,
But no inſtructions where to find 'em.
The devil's works are plain and evil,
But few or none have ſeen the devil.
Old Noll, indeed, if we may credit
The words of Echard, who has ſaid it,
Contriv'd with Satan how to fool us,
And bargain'd face to face to rule us;
But then Old Noll was one in ten,
And ſought him more than other men.
Our ſhepherd, too, with like attention,
May meet the female fiends we mention.
He roſe one morn at break of day,
And near the field in ambuſh lay;
[177] When, lo! a brace of girls appears,
The third a matron much in years.
Smiling amidſt the peaſe, the ſinners
Sate down to cull their future dinners,
And caring little who might own 'em,
Made free as tho' themſelves had fown 'em.
'Tis worth a ſage's obſervation
How love can make a jeſt of paſſion.
Anger had forc'd the ſwain from bed,
His early dues to love unpaid!
And Love, a god that keeps a pother,
And will be paid one time or other,
Now baniſh'd Anger out o' door,
And claim'd the debt withheld before.
If Anger bid our youth revile,
Love form'd his features to a ſmile;
And knowing well 'twas all grimace
To threaten with a ſmiling face,
He in few words expreſs'd his mind—
And none would deem them much unkind.
The am'rous youth, for their offence,
Demanded inſtant recompenſe;
That recompenſe from each, which ſhame
Forbids a baſhful Muſe to name:
Yet, more this ſentence to diſcover,
'Tis what Bett ** grants her lover,
When he, to make the ſtrumpet willing,
Has ſpent his fortune—to a ſhilling.
[178]
Each ſtood a while, as 'twere ſuſpended,
And loath to do what—each intended.
At length, with ſoft pathetic ſighs,
The matron, bent with age, replies:
" 'Tis vain to ſtrive—juſtice, I know,
" And our ill ſtars, will have it ſo—
" But let my tears your wrath aſſuage,
" And ſhew ſome deference for age:
" I from a diſtant village came,
" Am old, G— knows, and ſomething lame;
" And if we yield, as yield we muſt,
" Diſpatch my crazy body firſt."
Our ſhepherd, like the Phrygian ſwain,
When circled round on Ida's plain
With goddeſſes, he ſtood ſuſpended,
And Pallas's grave ſpeech was ended,
Own'd what ſhe aſk'd might be his duty,
But paid the compliment to beauty.

EPILOGUE TO THE TRAGEDY OF CLEONE.

WELL, Ladies—ſo much for the tragic ſtyle—
And now the cuſtom is to make you ſmile.
To make us ſmile!—methinks I hear you ſay—
Why, who can help it, at ſo ſtrange a play?
The captain gone three years!—and then to blame
The faultleſs conduct of his virtuous dame!
[179] My ſtars!—what gentle belle would think it treaſon,
When thus provok'd, to give the brute ſome reaſon?
Out of my houſe!—this night, forſooth, depart!
A modern wife had ſaid—"With all my heart—
" But think not, haughty Sir! I'll go alone;
" Order your coach—conduct me ſafe to Town—
" Give me my jewels, wardrobe, and my maid—
" And, pray, take care my pinmoney be paid."
Such is the language of each modiſh fair;
Yet memoirs, not of modern growth, declare
The time has been when modeſty and truth
Were deem'd additions to the charms of youth;
When women hid their necks, and veil'd their faces,
Nor romp'd, nor rak'd, nor ſtar'd, at public places,
Nor took the airs of Amazons for graces:
Then plain domeſtic virtues were the mode,
And wives ne'er dream'd of happineſs abroad;
They lov'd their children, learn'd no flaunting airs,
But with the joys of wedlock mix'd the cares.
Thoſe times are paſt—yet ſure they merit praiſe,
For marriage triumph'd in thoſe golden days;
By chaſte decorum they affection gain'd;
By faith and fondneſs what they won maintain'd.
'Tis yours, ye Fair! to bring thoſe days a gen,
And form anew the hearts of thoughtleſs men;
Make beauty's luſtre amiable as bright,
And give the ſoul as well as ſenſe delight;
[180] Reclaim from folly a fantaſtic age,
That ſoorns the preſs, the pulpit, and the ſtage.
Let truth and tenderneſs your breaſts adorn,
The marriage chain with tranſport ſhall be worn;
Each blooming virgin, rais'd into a bride,
Shall double all their joys, their cares divide;
Alleviate grief, compoſe the jars of ſtrife,
And pour the balm that ſweetens human life.

A PASTORAL ODE, TO THE HONOURABLE SIR RICHARD LYTTLETON.

[]
THE morn diſpens'd a dubious light,
A ſullen miſt had ſtolen from ſight
Each pleaſing vale and hill,
When Damon left his humble bowers
To guard his flocks, to fence his flowers,
Or check his wand'ring rill.
Tho' ſchool'd from Fortune's paths to fly,
The ſwain beneath each low'ring ſky
Would oft' his fate bemoan,
That he, in ſylvan ſhades forlorn,
Muſt waſte his cheerleſs ev'n and morn,
Nor prais'd, nor lov'd, nor known.
No friend to Fame's obſtrep'rous noiſe,
Yet to the whiſpers of her voice,
Soft murm'ring, not a foe,
The pleaſures he thro' choice declin'd,
When gloomy fogs depreſs'd his mind,
It griev'd him to forego.
[182]
Griev'd him to lurk the lakes beſide,
Where coots in ruſhy dingles hide,
And moorcocks ſhun the day,
While caitiff bitterns, undiſmay'd,
Remark the ſwain's familiar ſhade,
And ſcorn to quit their prey.
But ſee the radiant ſun once more
The bright'ning face of heav'n reſtore,
And raiſe the doubtful dawn,
And more to gild his rural ſphere,
At once the brighteſt train appear
That ever trod the lawn.
Amazement chill'd the ſhepherd's frame,
To think Bridgewater's* honour'd name
Should grace his ruſtic cell;
That ſhe, on all whoſe motions wait
Diſtinction, titles, rank, and ſtate,
Should rove where ſhepherds dwell.
But true it is, the gen'rous mind,
By candour ſway'd, by taſte refin'd,
Will nought but vice diſdain;
Nor will the breaſt where fancy glows
Deem every flower a weed that blows
Amid the deſert plain.
[183]
Beſeems it ſuch, with honour crown'd,
To deal its lucid beams around,
Nor equal meed receive;
At moſt ſuch garlands from the field,
As cowſlips, pinks, and panſies, yield,
And rural hands can weave.
Yet ſtrive, ye Shepherds! ſtrive to find,
And weave the faireſt of the kind,
The prime of all the ſpring,
If haply thus yon' lovely fair
May round her temples deign to wear
The trivial wreaths you bring.
O how the peaceful halcyons play'd,
Where'er the conſcious lake betray'd
Athenia's placid mien!
How did the ſprightlier linnets throng,
Where Paphia's charms requir'd the ſong,
'Mid hazel copſes green!
Lo, Dartmouth on thoſe banks reclin'd,
While buſy Fancy calls to mind
The glories of his line!
Methinks my cottage rears its head,
The ruin'd walls of yonder ſhed,
As thro' enchantment, ſhine.
[184]
But who the nymph that guides their way?
Could ever nymph deſcend to ſtray
From Hagley's fam'd retreat?
Elſe by the blooming features fair,
The faultleſs make, the matchleſs air,
'Twere Cynthia's form complete.
So would ſome tuberoſe delight,
That ſtruck the pilgrim's wond'ring ſight
'Mid lonely deſerts drear,
All as at eve the ſov'reign flower
Diſpenſes round its balmy power,
And crowns the fragrant year.
Ah! now no more, the ſhepherd cry'd,
Muſt I Ambition's charms deride,
Her ſubtle force diſown;
No more of Fauns or Fairies dream,
While Fancy, near each cryſtal ſtream,
Shall paint theſe forms alone.
By low-brow'd rock or pathleſs mead,
I deem'd that ſplendour ne'er ſhould lead
My dazzled eyes aſtray;
But who, alas! will dare contend,
If beauty add, or merit blend
Its more illuſtrious ray?
[185]
Nor is it long—O plaintive ſwain!
Since Guernſey ſaw, without diſdain,
Where, hid in woodlands green,
The partner of his early days*,
And once the rival of his praiſe,
Had ſtol'n thro' life unſeen.
Scarce faded is the vernal flower,
Since Stamford left his honour'd bow'r
To ſmile familiar here:
O form'd by Nature to diſcloſe
How fair that courteſy which flows
From ſocial warmth ſincere!
Nor yet have many moons decay'd
Since Pollio ſought this lonely ſhade,
Admir'd this rural maze:
The nobleſt breaſt that Virtue fires,
The Graces love, the Muſe inſpires,
Might pant for Pollio's praiſe.
Say, Thomſon here was known to reſt;
For him yon' vernal ſeat I dreſt,
Ah! never to return!
In place of wit and melting ſtrains,
And ſocial mirth, it now remains
To weep beſide his urn.
[186]
Come then, my Lelius! come once more,
And fringe the melancholy ſhore
With roſes and with bays,
While I each wayward Fate accuſe,
That envy'd his impartial Muſe,
To ſing your early praiſe.
While Philo, to whoſe favour'd ſight
Antiquity, with full delight,
Her inmoſt wealth diſplays,
Beneath yon' ruin's moulder'd wall
Shall muſe, and with his friend recall
The pomp of ancient days.
Here, too, ſhall Conway's name appear,
He prais'd the ſtream ſo lovely clear,
That ſhone the reeds among;
Yet clearneſs could it not diſcloſe,
To match the rhetoric that flows
From Conway's poliſh'd tongue.
Ev'n Pitt, whoſe fervent periods roll
Reſiſtleſs thro' the kindling ſoul
Of ſenates, councils, kings!
Tho' form'd for courts, vouchſaf'd to rove,
Inglorious, thro' the ſhepherd's grove,
And ope his baſhful ſprings.
[187]
But what can courts diſcover more
Than theſe rude haunts have ſeen before,
Each fount and ſhady tree?
Have not theſe trees and fountains ſeen
The pride of courts, the winning mien
Of peerleſs Ayleſbury?
And Grenville, ſhe whoſe radiant eyes
Have mark'd by ſlow gradation riſe
The princely piles of Stow;
Yet prais'd theſe unembelliſh'd woods,
And ſmil'd to ſee the babbling floods
Thro' ſelf-worn mazes flow.
Say Dartmouth, who your banks admir'd,
Again beneath your caves retir'd,
Shall grace the penſive ſhade;
With all the bloom, with all the truth,
With all the ſprightlineſs of youth,
By cool reflection ſway'd?
Brave, yet humane, ſhall Smith appear;
Ye Sailors! tho' his name be dear,
Think him not yours alone:
Grant him in other ſpheres to charm;
The ſhepherds' breaſts tho' mild are warm,
And ours are all his own.
[188]
O Lyttleton! my honour'd gueſt,
Could I deſcribe thy gen'rous breaſt,
Thy firm, yet poliſh'd, mind;
How public love adorns thy name,
How Fortune, too, conſpires with Fame,
The ſong ſhould pleaſe mankind.

A PASTORAL BALLAD, IN FOUR PARTS. Written 1733.

[]
Arbuſta humileſque myricae.
VIRG.

EXPLANATION.

Groves and lowly ſhrubs.

I. ABSENCE.

YE Shepherds! ſo cheerful and gay,
Whoſe flocks never careleſsly roam,
Should Corydon's happen to ſtray,
Oh! call the poor wanderers home.
Allow me to muſe and to ſigh,
Nor talk of the change that ye find;
None once was ſo watchful as I;
—I have left my dear Phyllis behind.
Now I know what it is to have ſtrove
With the torture of doubt and deſire;
What it is to admire and to love,
And to leave her we love and admire.
Ah! lead forth my flock in the morn,
And the damps of each ev'ning repel;
Alas! I am faint and forlorn,
—I have bade my dear Phyllis farewell.
[190]
Since Phyllis vouchſaf'd me a look,
I never once dream'd of my vine,
May I loſe both my pipe and my crook
If I knew of a kid that was mine.
I priz'd ev'ry hour that went by
Beyond all that had pleas'd me before;
But now they are paſt, and I ſigh,
And I grieve that I priz'd them no more.
But why do I languiſh in vain?
Why wander thus penſively here?
Oh! why did I come from the plain,
Where I fed on the ſmiles of my dear?
They tell me my favourite maid,
The pride of that valley, is flown;
Alas! where with her I have ſtray'd
I could wander with pleaſure alone.
When forc'd the fair nymph to forego,
What anguiſh I felt at my heart!
Yet I thought—but it might not be ſo—
'Twas with pain that ſhe ſaw me depart.
She gaz'd as I ſlowly withdrew;
My path I could hardly diſcern:
So ſweetly ſhe bade me adieu,
I thought that ſhe bade me return.
[191]
The pilgrim that journeys all day
To viſit ſome far-diſtant ſhrine,
If he bear but a relique away,
Is happy, nor heard to repine.
Thus widely remov'd from the fair,
Where my vows, my devotion, I owe,
Soft hope is the relique I bear,
And my ſolace wherever I go.

II. HOPE.

MY banks they are furniſh'd with bees,
Whoſe murmur invites one to ſleep;
My grottoes are ſhaded with trees,
And my hills are white-over with ſheep.
I ſeldom have met with a loſs,
Such health do my fountains beſtow;
My fountains, all border'd with moſs,
Where the harebells and violets grow.
Not a pine in my grove is there ſeen
But with tendrils of woodbine is bound;
Not a beech's more beautiful green
But a ſweetbriar entwines it around:
Not my fields, in the prime of the year,
More charms than my cattle unfold;
Not a brook that is limpid and clear,
But it glitters with fiſhes of gold.
[192]
One would think ſhe might like to retire
To the bow'r I have labour'd to rear;
Not a ſhrub that I heard her admire,
But I haſted and planted it there.
O how ſudden the jeſſamine ſtrove
With the lilac to render it gay!
Already it calls for my love
To prune the wild branches away.
From the plains, from the woodlands, and groves,
What ſtrains of wild melody flow!
How the nightingales warble their loves
From thickets of roſes that blow!
And when her bright form ſhall appear,
Each bird ſhall harmoniouſly join
In a concert ſo ſoft and ſo clear,
As—ſhe may not be fond to reſign.
I have found out a gift for my fair;
I have found where the wood-pigeons breed;
But let me that plunder forbear,
She will ſay 'twas a barbarous deed:
For he ne'er could be true, ſhe averr'd,
Who could rob a poor bird of its young;
And I lov'd her the more when I heard
Such tenderneſs fall from her tongue.
[193]
I have heard her with ſweetneſs unfold
How that pity was due to—a dove;
That it ever attended the bold,
And ſhe call'd it the ſiſter of Love.
But her words ſuch a pleaſure convey,
So much I her accents adore,
Let her ſpeak, and whatever ſhe ſay,
Methinks I ſhould love her the more.
Can a boſom ſo gentle remain
Unmov'd when her Corydon ſighs!
Will a nymph that is fond of the plain,
Theſe plains and this valley deſpiſe?
Dear regions of ſilence and ſhade!
Soft ſcenes of contentment and eaſe!
Where I could have pleaſingly ſtray'd,
If aught in her abſence could pleaſe.
But where does my Phyllida ſtray?
And where are her grots and her bow'rs?
Are the groves and the vallies as gay,
And the ſhepherds as gentle, as ours?
The groves may perhaps be as fair,
And the face of the vallies as fine,
The ſwains may in manners compare,
But their love is not equal to mine.

III. SOLICITUDE.

[194]
WHY will you my paſſion reprove?
Why term it a folly to grieve?
Ere I ſhew you the charms of my love,
She is fairer than you can believe.
With her mien ſhe enamours the brave,
With her wit ſhe engages the free,
With her modeſty pleaſes the grave;
She is ev'ry way pleaſing to me.
O you that have been of her train,
Come and join in my amorous lays!
I could lay down my life for the ſwain
That will ſing but a ſong in her praiſe.
When he ſings, may the nymphs of the town
Come trooping, and liſten the while;
Nay, on him let not Phyllida frown,
—But I cannot allow her to ſmile.
For when Paridel tries in the dance
Any favour with Phyllis to find,
O how with one trivial glance
Might ſhe ruin the peace of my mind!
In ringlets he dreſſes his hair,
And his crook is beſtudded around;
And his pipe—oh! may Phyllis beware
Of a magic there is in the ſound!
[195]
'Tis his with mock paſſion to glow;
'Tis his in ſmooth tales to unfold
" How her face is as bright as the ſnow,
" And her boſom, be ſure, is as cold:
" How the nightingales labour the ſtrain,
" With the notes of his charmer to vie;
" How they vary their accents in vain,
" Repine at her triumphs, and die."
To the grove or the garden he ſtrays,
And pillages every ſweet,
Then ſuiting the wreath to his lays,
He throws it at Phyllis's feet.
" O Phyllis!" he whiſpers, "more fair,
" More ſweet, than the jeſſamine's flow'r!
" What are pinks in a morn to compare?
" What is eglantine after a ſhow'r?
" Then the lily no longer is white,
" Then the roſe is depriv'd of its bloom,
" Then the violets die with deſpight,
" And the woodbines give up their perfume."
Thus glide the ſoft numbers along,
And he fancies no ſhepherd his peer;
—Yet I never ſhould envy the ſong,
Were not Phyllis to lend it an ear.
[196]
Let his crook be with hyacinths bound,
So Phyllis the trophy deſpiſe;
Let his forehead with laurels be crown'd,
So they ſhine not in Phyllis's eyes.
The language that flows from the heart
Is a ſtranger to Paridel's tongue;
—Yet may ſhe beware of his art,
Or ſure I muſt envy the ſong.

IV. DISAPPOINTMENT.

YE Shepherds! give ear to my lay,
And take no more heed of my ſheep;
They have nothing to do but to ſtray,
I have nothing to do but to weep.
Yet do not my folly reprove;
She was fair—and my paſſion begun;
She ſmil'd—and I could not but love;
She is faithleſs—and I am undone.
Perhaps I was void of all thought;
Perhaps it was plain to foreſee
That a nymph ſo complete would be ſought
By a ſwain more engaging than me.
Ah! love ev'ry hope can inſpire,
It baniſhes wiſdom the while,
And the lip of the nymph we admire
Seems for ever adorn'd with a ſmile.
[197]
She is faithleſs, and I am undone;
Ye that witneſs the woes I endure,
Let reaſon inſtruct you to ſhun
What it cannot inſtruct you to cure.
Beware how you loiter in vain
Amid nymphs of an higher degree;
It is not for me to explain
How fair and how fickle they be.
Alas! from the day that we met
What hope of an end to my woes?
When I cannot endure to forget
The glance that undid my repoſe.
Yet time may diminiſh the pain:
The flow'r, and the ſhrub, and the tree,
Which I rear'd for her pleaſure in vain,
In time may have comfort for me.
The ſweets of a dew-ſprinkled roſe,
The ſound of a murmuring ſtream,
The peace which from ſolitude flows,
Henceforth ſhall be Corydon's theme.
High tranſports are ſhewn to the ſight,
But we are not to find them our own;
Fate never beſtow'd ſuch delight
As I with my Phyllis had known.
[198]
O ye Woods! ſpread your branches apace,
To your deepeſt receſſes I fly,
I would hide with the beaſts of the chaſe,
I would vaniſh from every eye.
Yet my reed ſhall reſound thro' the grove
With the ſame ſad complaint it begun;
How ſhe ſmil'd, and I could not but love!
Was faithleſs, and I am undone!

Appendix A CONTENTS.

[]
  • PREFACE, giving a brief account of the Author, Page 5
  • A prefatory Eſſay on Elegy, 11
  • Advertiſement, 20
  • A Deſcription of the Leaſowes, the Author's country-ſeat, by R. Dodſley, 21
VERSES TO MR. SHENSTONE.
  • Written on a Ferme Ornée, near Birmingham, by the late Lady Luxborough, 52
  • To William Shenſtone, Eſq. at the Leaſowes. By Mr Graves, ib.
  • Verſes received by the poſt, from a Lady unknown, 1761, 54
  • On the diſcovery of an Echo at Edgbaſton, By — — 56
  • Verſes by Mr. Dodſley, on his firſt arrival at the Leaſowes, 1754, 57
  • To Mr. R. D. on the death of Mr. Shenſtone, 59
  • Verſes written at the Gardens of William Shenſtone, Eſq. near Birmingham, 1756, 61
  • To William Shenſtone, Eſq. in his ſickneſs. By Mr. Woodhouſe, 65
  • Verſes left on a ſeat, the hand unknown, 68
  • Corydon, a Paſtoral. To the memory of William Shenſtone, Eſq. By Mr. J. Cunningham, 69
ELEGIES, WRITTEN ON MANY DIFFERENT OCCASIONS.
  • I. He arrives at his retirement in the country, and takes occaſion to expatiate in praiſe of ſimplicity. To a Friend, Page 71
  • II. On poſthumous reputation. To a Friend, 73
  • III. On the untimely death of a certain learned acquaintance, 75
  • IV. Ophelia's urn. To Mr. G—, 78
  • V. He compares the turbulence of love with the tranquillity of friendſhip. To Meliſſa his friend, 80
  • VI. To a Lady, on the language of birds, 81
  • VII. He deſcribes his viſion to an acquaintance, 83
  • VIII. He deſcribes his early love of poetry, and its conſequences. To Mr G—, 1745, 86
  • IX. He deſcribes his diſintereſtedneſs to a friend, 89
  • X. To Fortune, ſuggeſting his motive for repining at her diſpenſations, 91
  • XI. He complains how ſoon the pleaſing novelty of life is over. To Mr. J—, 94
  • XII. His recantation, 97
  • XIII. To a friend, on ſome ſlight occaſion eſtranged from him, 98
  • XIV. Declining an invitation to viſit foreign countries, he takes occaſion to intimate the advantages of his own. To Lord Temple, 100
  • [201] XV. In memory of a private family in Worceſterſhire, Page 103
  • XVI. He ſuggeſts the advantages of birth to a perſon of merit, and the folly of a ſuperciliouſneſs that is built upon that ſole foundation, 107
  • XVII. He indulges the ſuggeſtions of ſpleen: an Elegy to the winds, 112
  • XVIII. He repeats the ſong of Colin, a diſcerning ſhepherd, lamenting the ſtate of the woollen manufactory, 116
  • XIX. Written in ſpring 1743, 120
  • XX. He compares his humble fortune with the diſtreſs of others, and his ſubjection to Delia with the miſerable ſervitude of an African ſlave, 123
  • XXI. Taking a view of the country from his retirement, he is led to meditate on the character of the ancient Britons. Written at the time of a rumoured tax upon luxury, 1746, 126
  • XXII. Written in the year — when the rights of ſepulture were ſo frequently violated, 130
  • XXIII. Reflections ſuggeſted by his ſituation, 134
  • XXIV. He takes occaſion, from the fate of Eleanor of Bretagne, to ſuggeſt the imperfect pleaſures of a ſolitary life, 138
  • [202] XXV. To Delia, with ſome flowers; complaining how much his benevolence ſuffers on account of his humble fortune, Page 142
  • XXVI. Deſcribing the ſorrow of an ingenuous mind on the melancholy event of a licentious amour, 144
LEVITIES: OR, PIECES OF HUMOUR.
  • Flirt and Phil: A deciſion for the Ladies, 149
  • Stanzas to the memory of an agreeable Lady, buried in marriage to a perſon undeſerving her, 150
  • Colemira. A culinary Eclogue, 151
  • On certain Paſtorals, 154
  • On Mr. C— of Kidderminſter's poetry, 155
  • To the Virtuoſi, ib.
  • The Extent of Cookery, 157
  • The Progreſs of Advice. A common caſe, 158
  • Slender's Ghoſt, 159
  • The Invidious, 160
  • The Price of an Equipage, 161
  • Hint from Voiture, 162
  • Inſcription, 163
  • To a Friend, 164
  • The Poet and the Dun, 1741, 167
  • Written at an Inn at Henley, 169
  • A Simile, ib.
  • The Charms of Precedence. A Tale, 171
  • [203] Epilogue to the tragedy of Cleone, Page 178
  • A Paſtoral Ode, to the Hon. Sir Richard Lyttleton, 181
  • A Paſtoral Ballad, in four parts. Written 1733.
    • I. Abſence, 189
    • II. Hope, 191
    • III. Solicitude, 194
    • IV. Diſappointment, 196

Appendix B

From the APOLLO PRESS, by the MARTINS, May 16. 1778.

END OF VOLUME FIRST.
Notes
*
This eſſay was written near twenty years ago.
ε-λεγειν, ε-particulam dolendi.
‘Miſerabiles elegos. Hor.
‘Heu nimis ex vero nunc tibi nomen erit. Ovid. de Morte Tibulli.
*
‘Dicite Io Paean, et Io bis dicite Paean. Ovid.
*
N.B. This preface was written near twenty years ago.
*
The following Deſcription was intended to give a friend ſome idea of the Leaſowes—which having been ſo juſtly admired by perſons of the beſt taſte, and celebrated by the Muſe of ſuch an original genius as Mr. Shenſtone, it is hoped the public will not be diſpleaſed with this ſlight attempt to perpetuate thoſe beauties, which time, or the different taſte of ſome future poſſeſſor, may deſtroy.

IMITATION.

—We dwell in ſhady groves,
And ſeek the groves with cooling ſtreams refreſh'd,
And trace the verdant banks.

IMITATION.

Hither, O Meliboeus! bend thy way;
Thy herds, thy goats, ſecure from harm, repoſe;
If happy leiſure ſerve a while to ſtay,
Here reſt thy limbs beneath theſe ſhady boughs.

TRANSLATION.

To the genius and friendſhip
of
WILLIAM SOMERVILLE,
By W. S.
Sprinkling the aſhes of a friendly bard
With tributary tears.

EXPLANATION.

—May the cool grove,
And gay aſſembled nymphs with ſylvans mix'd,
Conceal me from the world!

EXPLANATION. ‘Dedicated by friendſhip
to JOSEPH SPENCE,
our moſt excellent Crito,
whom
the unanimous conſent
of every Muſe and Grace
made choice of
to be ſo diſtinguiſhed.’

IMITATION.

O Galatea! Nereus' lovely child,
Sweeter than Hybla thyme, more undefil'd
Than down of ſwan, or ivy's pureſt white,
When the full oxen, warn'd by fading light,
Home to the ſtall their ſober footſteps bend,
If Damon's dear, to Damon's call attend.

EXPLANATION. ‘—Sacred to the memory
of
a moſt amiable kinſwoman.
Ah! Maria!
moſt elegant of nymphs!
ſnatched from us
in thy bloom of beauty,
ah! farewell!’

‘How much inferior
is the living converſation
of others
to the bare remembrance
of thee!’

IMITATION.

Here tranquil leiſures in the ample field,
Here caves and living lakes their pleaſures yield;
Here vales invite where ſports the cooling breeze,
And peaceful ſleep beneath embow'ring trees,
While lowing herds ſurround.

IMITATION.

Pan, god of ſhepherds, firſt inſpir'd our ſwains
Their pipes to frame, and tune their rural ſtrains;
Pan from impending harm the fold defends,
And Pan the maſter of the fold befriends.

EXPLANATION.‘O glory of the ſylvan ſcene divine!’

IMITATION.

Woods, vales, and running ſtreams, my mind enchant;
The woods and ſtreams inglorious let me haunt.

EXPLANATION. ‘To
P. Virgilius Maro,
This obeliſk
and grove
is conſecrated.’

Note.—It was cuſtomary with the Romans to give a praenomen, or firſt name, in the manner of our Chriſtian names; accordingly Virgil had that of Publius. He derived the addition of Maro from his father, who was ſo called.

EXPLANATION. ‘To the much celebrated Poet JAMES THOMSON, This ſeat was placed near his favourite ſprings by W. S.’

IMITATION.

How ſhall I thank thy Muſe, ſo form'd to pleaſe?
For not the whiſp'rings of the ſouthern breeze,
Nor banks ſtill-beaten by the breaking wave,
Nor limpid rills that pebbly vallies lave,
Yield ſuch delight.—

EXPLANATION. ‘To the Goddeſs
who beſtowed the enjoyment
of theſe retreats,
This chalybeat ſpring
is conſecrated.’

IMITATION.

Within are wholeſome ſprings, and marble ſeats
Carv'd in the living rock, of Nymphs the bleſs'd retreats.

EXPLANATION. ‘To the
friendſhip and merits
of
RICHARD GRAVES.’

EXPLANATION. ‘Thee, Tityrus! the pines
The cryſtal ſprings, the very groves, invok'd.’

EXPLANATION. ‘To the
friendſhip and merits
of
RICHARD JAGO.’

EXPLANATION. ‘Venus half-retired.’

IMITATION.

In friendſhip thus, O! be we ſtill beguil'd!

IMITATION.

Whate'er the beauties others boaſt,
That ſpot of ground delights me moſt.
*
N.B. Written after the death of Mr. Pope.
*
Alludes to what is reported of the bay-tree, that if it is planted too near the walls of an edifice, its roots will work their way underneath, till they deſtroy the foundation.
*
Croeſus.
*
A river in Italy, that falls 100 yards perpendicular.
*
The cinnamon.
*
Written about the time of Captain Grenville's death.
*
The Penns of Harborough; a place whoſe name in the Saxon language alludes to an army: and there is a tradition that there was a battle fought on the Downs adjoining, betwixt the Britons and the Romans.
*
Harborough Downs.
*
‘"Inopemque vitam in tugurio ruinarum Carthaginenſium toleravit, cum Marius inſpiciens Carthaginem, illa intuens Marium, alter alteri poſſent eſſe ſolatio." Liv.

EXPLANATION. ‘Marius endured a life of poverty under ſhelter of the Carthaginian ruins; and while he contemplated Carthage, and Carthage beheld him, they might be ſaid mutually to reſemble and account for each other.’

*
Mr. Somerville.
*
The Roman ceremony in declaring war.
Hannibal.
*
By the terms forced ipon the Carthaginians by Scipio, they were to deliver up all the elephants, and to pay near two millions Sterling.
*
Spoke by a ſavage.
*
Alludes to a tax upon luxury, then in debate.
*
Kenelm, in the Saxon heptarchy, was heir to the kingdom of Mercia, but being very young at his father's death, was, by the artifices of his ſiſter and her lover, deprived of his crown and life together. The body was found in a piece of ground near the top of Clent hill, exactly facing Mr. Shenſtone's houſe, near which place a church was afterwards erected to his memory, ſtill uſed for divine worſhip, and called St. Kenelm's. See Plot's Hiſtory of Staffordſhire.
*
Eleanor of Bretagne, the lawful heireſs of the Engliſh crownn, upon the death of Arthur, in the reign of King John. She was eſteemed the beauty of her time; was impriſoned forty years (till the time of her death) in Briſtol caſtle.
*
Kidderminſter, famous for a coarſe woollen manufacture.
See Virgil.
*
Of a fond matron's education.
*
The Ducheſs of Bridgewater, married to Sir Richard Lyttleton.
*
They were ſchoolfellows.
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Zitationsvorschlag für dieses Objekt
TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 5259 The poetical works of Will Shenstone In two volumes With the life of the author and a description of the Leasowes pt 1. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-60C4-A