ELOISA TO ABELARD.
[]IN theſe deep ſolitudes and awful cells,
Where heav'nly penſive, contem⯑plation dwells,
And ever-muſing melancholy reigns;
What means this tumult in a Veſtal's veins?
Why rove my thoughts beyond this laſt retreat?
Vhy feels my heart its long-forgotten heat?
Yet, yet I love!—From Abelard it came,
And Eloiſa yet muſt kiſs the name.
[6]Dear fatal name! reſt ever unreveal'd,
Nor paſs theſe lips in holy ſilence ſeal'd.
Hide it, my heart, within that cloſe diſguiſe,
Where, mix'd with God's, his lov'd Idea lies.
Oh write it not, my hand—The name appears
Already written—waſh it out, my tears!
In vain loſt Eloiſa weeps and prays,
Her heart ſtill dictates, and her hand obeys.
Relentleſs walls! whoſe darkſom round contains
Repentant ſighs, and voluntary pains:
Ye rugged rocks! which holy knees have worn;
Ye grots and caverns ſhagg'd with horrid thorn:
Shrines! where their vigils pale-ey'd virgins keep,
And pitying ſaints, whoſe ſtatues learn to weep!
Tho' cold like you, unmov'd, and ſilent grown,
I have not yet forgot my ſelf to ſtone.
Heav'n claims me all in vain, while he has part,
Still rebel nature holds out half my heart;
[7] Nor pray'rs nor faſts its ſtubborn pulſe reſtrain,
Nor tears, for ages, taught to flow in vain.
Soon as thy letters trembling I uncloſe,
That well-known name awakens all my woes.
O name for ever ſad! for ever dear!
Still breath'd in ſighs, ſtill uſher'd with a tear.
I tremble too where-e'er my own I find,
Some dire misfortune follows cloſe behind.
Line after line my guſhing eyes o'erflow,
Led thro' a ſad variety of woe:
Now warm in love, now with'ring in thy bloom,
Loſt in a convent's ſolitary gloom!
There ſtern religion quench'd th' unwilling flame,
There dy'd the beſt of paſſions, Love and Fame.
Yet write, oh write me all, that I may join
Griefs to thy grieſs, and echo ſighs to thine.
Nor foes nor fortune take this pow'r away:
And is my Abelard leſs kind than they?
[8] Tears ſtill are mine, and thoſe I need not ſpare,
Love but demands what elſe were ſhed in pray'r;
No happier task theſe faded eyes purſue,
To read and weep is all they now can do.
Then ſhare thy pain, allow that ſad relief;
Ah more than ſhare it! give me all thy grief.
Heav'n firſt taught letters for ſome wretches aid,
Some baniſh'd lover, or ſome captive maid;
They live, they ſpeak, they breathe what love inſpires,
Warm from the ſoul, and faithful to its fires,
The virgins wiſh without her fears impart,
Excuſe the bluſh, and pour out all the heart,
Speed the ſoft intercourſe from ſoul to ſoul,
And waft a ſigh from Indus to the Pole.
Thou know'ſt how guiltleſs firſt I met thy flame,
When Love approach'd me under Friendfhip's name;
My fancy form'd thee of Angelick kind,
Some emanation of th' all-beauteous Mind.
[9] Thoſe ſmiling eyes, attemp'ring ev'ry ray,
Shone ſweetly lambent with celeſtial day:
Guiltleſs I gaz'd; heav'n liſten'd while you ſung;
And truths
* divine came mended from that tongue.
From lips like thoſe what precept fail'd to move?
Too ſoon they taught me 'twas no ſin to love.
Back thro' the paths of pleaſing ſenſe I ran,
Nor wiſh'd an Angel whom I lov'd a Man.
Dim and remote the joys of ſaints I fee,
Nor envy them, that heav'n I loſe for thee.
How oft', when preſs'd to marriage, have I ſaid,
Curſe on all laws but thoſe which love has made?
Love, free as air, at ſight of human ties,
Spreads his light wings, and in a moment flies.
Let wealth, let honour, wait the wedded dame,
Auguſt her deed, and ſacred be her fame;
Before true paſſion all thofe views remove,
Fame, wealth, and honour! what are you to Love?
[10] The jealous God, when we profane his fires,
Thoſe reſtleſs paſſions in revenge inſpires;
And bids them make miſtaken mortals groan,
Who ſeek in love for ought but love alone.
Should at my feet the world's great maſter fall,
Himſelf, his throne, his world, I'd ſcorn 'em all:
Not Caeſar's empreſs wou'd I deign to prove;
No, make me miſtreſs to the man I love:
If there be yet another name more free,
More fond than miſtreſs, make me that to thee!
O happy ſtate! when ſouls each other draw,
When love is liberty, and nature law:
All then is full, poſſeſſing, and poſſeſt,
No craving Void left aking in the breaſt:
Ev'n thought meets thought e'er from the lips it part,
And each warm wiſh ſprings mutual from the heart.
This ſure is bliſs (if bliſs on earth there be)
And once the lot of Abelard and me.
[11]Alas how chang'd! what ſudden horrors riſe?
A naked Lover bound and bleeding lies!
Where, where was Eloiſe? her voice, her hand,
Her ponyard had oppos'd the dire command.
Barbarian ſtay! that bloody hand reſtrain;
The crime was common, common be the pain.
I can no more; by ſhame, by rage ſuppreſt,
Let tears, and burning bluſhes ſpeak the reſt.
Canſt thou forget that ſad, that ſolcmn day,
When victims at yon' altar's foot we lay?
Canſt thou forget what tears that moment fell,
When, warm in youth, I bade the world farewell?
As with cold lips I kiſs'd the ſacred veil,
The ſhrines all trembled, and the lamps grew pale:
Heav'n ſcarce believ'd the conqueſt it ſurvey'd,
And Saints with wonder heard the vows I made.
Yet then, to thoſe dread altars as I drew,
Not on the Croſs my eyes were fix'd, but you;
[12] Not grace, or zeal, love only was my call,
And if I loſe thy love, I loſe my all.
Come! with thy looks, thy words, relieve my woe;
Thoſe ſtill at leaſt are left thee to beſtow.
Still on that breaſt enamour'd let me lie,
Still drink delicious poiſon from thy eye,
Pant on thy lip, and to thy heart be preſt;
Give all thou canſt—and let me dream the reſt.
Ah no! inſtruct me other joys to prize,
With other beauties charm my partial eyes,
Full in my view ſet all the bright abode,
And make my ſoul quit Abelard for God.
Ah think at leaſt thy flock deſerve thy care,
Plants of thy hand, and children of thy pray'r.
From the falſe world in early youth they fled,
By thee to mountains, wilds, and deſerts led.
You
* rais'd theſe hallow'd walls; the deſert ſmil'd,
And Paradiſe was open'd in the Wild.
[13] No weeping orphan ſaw his father's ſtores
Our ſhrines irradiate, or emblaze the floors;
No ſilver ſaints, by dying miſers giv'n,
Here brib'd the rage of ill-requited heav'n:
But ſuch plain roofs as piety could raiſe,
And only vocal with the Maker's praiſe.
In theſe lone walls (their days eternal bound)
Theſe moſs-grown domes with ſpiry turrets crown'd,
Where awful arches make a noon-day night,
And the dim windows ſhed a ſolemn light;
Thy eyes diffus'd a reconciling ray,
And gleams of glory brighten'd all the day.
But now no face divine contentment wears,
'Tis all blank fadneſs, or continual tears.
See how the force of others pray'rs I try,
(Oh pious fraud of am'rous charity!)
But why ſhould I on others pray'rs depend?
Come thou, my father, brother, husband, friend!
Ah let thy handmaid, ſiſter, daughter move,
And, all thoſe tender names in one, thy love!
[14] The darkſom pines that o'er yon' rocks reclin'd
Wave high, and murmur to the hollow wind,
The wand'ring ſtreams that ſhine between the hills,
The grots that echo to the tinkling rills,
The dying gales that pant upon the trees,
The lakes that quiver to the curling breeze;
No more theſe ſcenes my meditation aid,
Or lull to reſt the viſionary maid:
But o'er the twilight groves, and dusky caves,
Long-founding iſles, and intermingled graves,
Black Melancholy ſits, and round her throws
A death-like ſilence, and a dread repoſe:
Her gloomy preſence ſaddens all the ſcene,
Shades ev'ry flow'r, and darkens ev'ry green,
Deepens the murmur of the falling floods,
And breathes a browner horror on the woods.
Yet here for ever, ever muſt I ſtay;
Sad proof how well a lover can obey!
[15] Death, only death, can break the laſting chain;
And here ev'n then, ſhall my cold duſt remain,
Here all its frailties, all its flames reſign,
And wait, 'till 'tis no ſin to mix with thine.
Ah wretch! believ'd the ſpouſe of God in vain,
Confeſs'd within the ſlave of love and man.
Aſſiſt me heav'n! but whence aroſe that pray'r?
Sprung it from piety, or from deſpair?
Ev'n here, where frozen chaſtity retires,
Love finds an altar for forbidden fires.
I ought to grieve, but cannot what I ought;
I mourn the lover, not lament the fault;
I view my crime, but kindle at the view,
Repent old pleaſures, and ſollicit new:
Now turn'd to heav'n, I weep my paſt offence,
Now think of thee, and curſe my innocence.
Of all, affliction taught a lover yet,
'Tis ſure the hardeſl ſcience to forget!
[16] How ſhall I loſe the ſin, yet keep the ſenſe,
And love th' offender, yet deteſt th' offence?
How the dear object from the crime remove,
Or how diſtinguiſh penitence from love?
Unequal task! a paſſion to reſign,
For hearts ſo touch'd, ſo pierc'd, ſo loſt as mine.
E'er ſuch a ſoul regains its peaceful ſtate,
How often muſt it love, how often hate!
How often hope, deſpair, reſent, regret,
Conceal, diſdain—do all things but forget.
But let heav'n ſeize it, all at once 'tis fir'd,
Not touch'd, but rapt; not waken'd, but inſpir'd!
Oh come! oh teach me nature to ſubdue,
Renounce my love, my life, my ſelf—and you.
Fill my fond heart with God alone, for he
Alone can rival, can ſucceed to thee,
How happy is the blameleſs Veſtal's lot?
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
[17]Eternal ſun-ſhine of the ſpotleſs mind!
Each pray'r accepted, and each wiſh reſign'd;
Labour and reſt, that equal periods keep;
' Obedient ſlumbers that can wake and weep;
Deſires compos'd, affections ever even,
Tears that delight, and ſighs that waft to heav'n.
Grace ſhines around her with ſereneſt beams,
And whiſp'ring Angels prompt her golden dreams.
For her the Spouſe prepares the bridal ring,
For her white virgins Hymenaeals ſing;
For her th' unfading Roſe of Eden blooms,
And wings of Seraphs ſhed divine perfumes;
To founds of heav'nly harps, ſhe dies away,
and melts in viſions of eternal day.
Far other dreams my erring ſoul employ,
Far other raptures, of unholy joy:
When at the cloſe of each ſad, ſorrowing day,
Fancy reſtores what vengeance ſnatch'd away,
[18] Then conſcience ſleeps, and leaving nature free,
All my looſe ſoul unbounded ſprings to thee.
O curſt, dear horrors of all-conſcious night!
How glowing guilt exalts the keen delight!
Provoking Daemons all reſtraint remove,
And ſtir within me ev'ry ſource of love.
I hear thee, view thee, gaze o'er all thy charms,
And round thy phantom glue my claſping arms.
I wake—no more I hear, no more I view,
The phantom flies me, as unkind as you.
I call aloud; it hears not what I ſay;
I ſtretch my empty arms; it glides away:
To dream once more I cloſe my willing eyes;
Ye ſoft illuſions, dear deceits, ariſe!
Alas no more!—methinks we wandring go
Thro' dreary waſtes, and weep each other's woe;
Where round ſome mould'ring tow'r pale ivy creeps,
And low-brow'd rocks hang nodding o'er the deeps.
Sudden you mount! you becken from the skies;
Clouds interpoſe, waves roar, and winds ariſe.
[19] I ſhriek, ſtart up, the ſame ſad proſpect find,
And wake to all the griefs I left behind.
For thee the fates, ſeverely kind, ordain
A cool ſuſpenſe from pleaſure and from pain;
Thy life a long, dead calm of fix'd repoſe;
No pulſe that riots, and no blood that glows.
Still as the ſea, e'er winds were taught to blow,
Or moving Spirit bade the waters flow;
Soft as the ſlumbers of a ſaint forgiv'n,
And mild as opening gleams of promis'd heav'n.
Come Abelard! for what haſt thou to dread?
The torch of Venus burns not for the dead;
Cut from the root my periſh'd joys I ſee,
And love's warm tyde for ever ſtopt in thee.
Nature ſtands check'd; Religion diſapproves;
Ev'n thou art cold—yet Eloiſa loves.
Ah hopeleſs, laſting flames! like thoſe that burn
To light the dead, and warm th' unfruitful urn.
[20]What ſcenes appear where-e'er I turn my view,
The dear Ideas, where I fly purſue,
Riſe in the grove, before the altar riſe,
Stain all my ſoul, and wanton in my eyes!
I waſte the Matin lamp in ſighs for thee,
Thy image ſteals between my God and me,
Thy voice I ſeem in ev'ry hymn to hear,
With ev'rv bead I drop too ſoft a tear.
When from the Cenſer clouds of flagrance roll,
And ſwelling organs lift the riſing ſoul;
One thought of thee puts all the pomp to flight,
Prieſtis, Tapers, Temples, ſwim before my fight:
In ſeas of flame my plunging ſoul is drown'd,
While Altars blaze, and Angels tremble round.
While proſtrate here in humble grief I lie,
Kind, virtuous drops juſt gath'ring in my eye,
While praying, trembling, in the duſt I roll,
And dawning grace is opening on my ſoul.
[21] Come, if thou dar'ſt, all charming as thou art!
Oppoſe thy ſelf to heav'n; diſpute my heart;
Come, with one glance of thoſe deluding eyes,
Blot out each bright Idea of the skies.
Take back that grace, thoſe ſorrows, and thoſe tears,
Take back my fruitleſs penitence and pray'rs,
Snatch me, juſt mounting, from the bleſt abode,
Aſſit the Fiends, and tear me from my God!
No, fly me, fly me! far as Pole from Pole;
Riſe Alps between us! and whole oceans roll!
Ah come not, write not, think not once of me,
Nor ſhare one pang of all I felt for thee.
Thy oaths I quit, thy memory reſign,
Forget, renounce me, hate whate'er was mine.
Fair eyes, and tempting looks (which yet I view!)
Long lov'd, ador'd ideas! all adieu!
O grace ſerene! oh virtue heav'nly fair!
Divine oblivion of low-thoughted care!
[22] Freſh blooming hope, gay daughter of the sky?
And faith, our early immortality!
Enter each mild, each amicable gueſt;
Receive, and wrap me in eternal reſt!
See in her Cell ſad Eloiſa ſpread,
Propt in ſome tomb, a neighbour of the dead!
In each low wind methinks a ſpirit calls,
And more than echoes talk along the walls.
Here, as I watch'd the dying lamps around,
From yonder ſhrine I heard a hollow ſound.
Come, ſiſter come! (it ſaid, or ſeem'd to ſay)
Thy place is here, ſad ſiſter come away!
Once like thy ſelf, I trembled, wept, and pray'd,
Love's victim then, tho' now a ſainted maid:
But all is calm in this eternal ſleep;
Here grief forgets to groan, and love to weep,
Ev'n ſuperſtition loſes ev'ry fear:
For God, not man, abſolves our frailties here.
[23]I come, ye ghoſts! prepare your roſeate bow'rs,
Celeſtial palms, and ever blooming flow'rs,
Thither, where ſinners may have reſt, I go,
Where flames refin'd in breaſts ſeraphic glow.
Thou, Abelard! the laſt ſad office pay,
And ſmooth my paſſage to the realms of day:
See my lips tremble, and my eye-balls roll,
Suck my laſt breath, and catch the flying ſoul!
Ah no—in ſacred veſtments may'ſt thou ſtand,
The hallow'd taper trembling in thy hand,
Preſent the Croſs before my lifted eye,
Teach me at once, and learn of me to die.
Ah then, thy once-lov'd Eloiſa ſee!
It will be then no crime to gaze on me.
See from my cheek the tranſient roſes fly!
See the laſt ſparkle languiſh in my eye!
Till ev'ry motion, pulſe, and breath, be o'er;
And ev'n my Abelard belov'd no more.
[24] O death all-eloquent! you only prove
What duſt we doat on, when 'tis man we love.
Then too, when fate ſhall thy fair frame deſtroy,
(That cauſe of all my guilt, and all my joy)
In trance ecſtatic may thy pangs be drown'd,
Bright clouds deſcend, and Angels watch thee round,
From opening skies may ſtreaming glories ſhine,
And Saints embrace thee with a love like mine.
May
* one kind grave unite each hapleſs name,
And graft my love immortal on thy ſame.
Then ages hence, when all my woes are o'er,
When this rebellious heart ſhall beat no more;
If ever chance two wandring lovers brings
To Paraclete's white walls, and ſilver ſprings,
O'er the pale marble ſhall they join their heads,
And drink the falling tears each other ſheds,
[25] Then ſadly ſay, with mutual pity mov'd,
Oh may we never love as theſe have lov'd!
From the full quire when loud Hoſanna's riſe,
And ſwell the pomp of dreadful ſacrifice,
Amid that ſcene, if ſome relenting eye
Glance on the ſtone where our cold reliques lie,
Devotion's ſelf ſhall ſteal a thought from heav'n,
One human tear ſhall drop, and be forgiv'n.
And ſure if fate ſome future Bard ſhall join
In ſad ſimilitude of griefs to mine,
Condemn'd whole years in abſence to deplore,
And image charms he muſt behold no more;
Such if there be, who loves ſo long, ſo well,
Let him our ſad, our tender ſtory tell;
The well-ſung woes ſhall ſooth my penſive ghoſt;
He beſt can paint 'em, who ſhall feel 'em moſt.
VERSES TO THE MEMORY OF AN UNFORTUNATE LADY.
[]VERSES TO THE MEMORY OF AN UNFORTUNATE LADY.
[]WHAT beck'ning ghoſt, along the moon-light ſhade
Invites my ſteps, and points to yon⯑der glade?
'Tis ſhe!—but why that bleeding boſom gor'd,
Why dimly gleams the viſionary ſword?
[30] Oh ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell,
Is it, in heav'n, a crime to love too well?
To bear too tender, or too firm a heart,
To act a Lover's or a Roman's part?
Is there no bright reverſion in the sky,
For thoſe who greatly think, or bravely die?
Why bade ye elſe, ye Pow'rs! her ſoul aſpire
Above the vulgar flight of low deſire?
Ambition firſt ſprung from your bleſt abodes;
The glorious fault of Angels and of Gods:
Thence to their Images on earth it flows,
And in the breaſts of Kings and Heroes glows
Moſt ſouls, 'tis true, but peep out once an age,
Dull ſullen pris'ners in the body's cage:
Dim lights of life that burn a length of years,
Uſeleſs, unſeen, as lamps in ſepulchres;
Like Eaſtern Kings a lazy ſtate they keep,
And cloſe confin'd in their own palace ſleep.
[31]From theſe perhaps (e'er nature bade her die)
Fate ſnatch'd her early to the pitying sky.
As into air the purer ſpirits flow,
And ſep'rate from their kindred dregs below;
So flew the ſoul to its congenial place,
Nor left one virtue to redeem her Race.
But thou, falſe guardian of a charge too good,
Thou, mean deſerter of thy brother's blood!
See on theſe ruby lips the trembling breath,
Theſe cheeks, now fading at the blaſt of death:
Cold is that breaſt which warm'd the world before,
And thoſe love-darting Eyes muſt roll no more.
Thus, if eternal juſtice rules the ball,
Thus ſhall your wives, and thus your children fall:
On all the line a ſudden vengeance waits,
And frequent herſes ſhall beſiege your gates.
There paſſengers ſhall ſtand, and pointing ſay,
(While the long fun'rals blacken all the way)
[32] Lo theſe were they, whoſe ſouls the Furies ſteel'd,
And curs'd with hearts unknowing how to yield.
Thus unlamented paſs the proud away,
The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day!
So periſh all, whoſe breaſt ne'er learn'd to glow
For others good, or melt at others woe.
What can atone (oh ever-injur'd ſhade!)
Thy fate unpity'd, and thy rites unpaid?
No friend's complaint, no kind domneſtic tear
Pleas'd thy pale ghoſt, or grac'd thy mournful bier;
By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos'd,
By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd,
By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd,
By ſtrangers honour'd, and by ſtrangers mourn'd!
What tho' no friends in ſable weeds appear,
Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year,
And bear about the mockery of woe
To midnight dances, and the publick ſhow?
[33] What tho' no weeping Loves thy aſhes grace,
Nor poliſh'd marble emulate thy face?
What tho' no ſacred earth allow the room,
Nor hallow'd dirge be utter'd o'er thy tomb?
Yet ſhall thy grave with riſing flow'rs be dreſt,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breaſt:
There ſhall the morn her earlieſt tears beſtow,
There the firſt roſes of the year ſhall blow;
While Angels with their ſilver wings o'erſhade
The ground, now ſacred by thy reliques made.
So peaceful reſts, without a ſtone, a name,
What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame.
How lov'd, how honour'd once, avails thee not,
To whom related, or by whom begot;
A heap of duſt alone remains of thee;
'Tis all thou art, and all the proud ſhall be!
Poets themſelves muſt fall, like thoſe they ſung;
Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue.
[34] Ev'n he, whoſe ſoul now melts in mournful lays,
Shall ſhortly want the gen'rous tear he pays;
Then from his cloſing eyes thy form ſhall part,
And the laſt pang ſhall tear thee from his heart,
Life's idle buſineſs at one gaſp be o'er,
The Muſe forgot, and thou belov'd no more!
FLORELIO. A PASTORAL.
Lamenting the Death of the late Marquis of BLANDFORD.
[]By Mr. FENTON.
ASK not the cauſe why all the tuneful ſwains,
Who us'd to fill the vales with ten⯑der Strains,
In deep deſpair neglect the warb'ling reed,
And all their bleating flocks refuſe to feed.
[36] Ask not why greens and flow'rs ſo late appear
To cloath the glebe, and deck the ſpringing year;
Why ſounds the lawn with loud laments and cries,
And ſwoln with tears to floods the Riv'lets riſe:
The fair Florelio now has left the plain,
And is the grief, who was the grace, of ev'ry Bri⯑tiſh ſwain.
For thee, lov'd youth! on ev'ry vale and lawn,
The nymphs, and all thy fellow-ſhepherds moan.
The little birds now ceaſe to ſing and love,
Silent they ſit, and droop on ev'ry grove;
No mounting lark now warbles on the wing,
Nor Linnets chirp to chear the ſullen ſpring:
Only the melancholy Turtles coo,
And Philomel by night repeats her woe.
O, charmer of the ſhades! the tale prolong,
Nor let the morning interrupt thy ſong:
Or ſoftly tune thy tender notes to mine,
Forgetting Tereus, make my ſorrows thine.
[37] Now the dear youth has left the lonely plain,
And is the grief, who was the grace, of ev'ry Bri⯑tiſh ſwain.
Say, all ye ſhades, where late he us'd to reſt,
If e'er your beds with lovelier ſwain were preſt;
Say, all ye ſilver ſtreams, if e'er ye bore
The image of ſo fair a face before.
But now, ye ſtreams, aſſiſt me whilſt I mourn,
For never muſt the lovely ſwain return;
And, as theſe flowing tears increaſe your tide,
O, murmur for the ſhepherd as ye glide!
Be ſure, ye rocks, while I my grief diſcloſe,
Let your ſad echo's lengthen out my woes:
Ye breezes, bear the plaintive accents on,
And whiſp'ring tell the woods Florelio's gone.
For ever gone, and left the lonely plain,
And is the grief, who was the grace, of ev'ry Bri⯑tiſh ſwain.
[38]Ripe ſtraw-berries for thee, and peaches grew,
Sweet to the taſte, and tempting red to view.
For thee the roſe put ſweeter purple on,
Preventing, by her haſte, the ſummer-ſun.
But now the flow'rs all pale and blighted lie,
And in cold ſweats of ſickly mildew die:
Nor can the bees ſuck from the ſhrivel'd blooms
Aetherial ſweets, to ſtore their golden combs.
Ort' on thy lips they would their labours leave,
And ſweeter odours from thy mouth receive:
Sweet as the breath of Flora, when ſhe lies
In jeſmin ſhades, and for young Zephyr ſighs:
But now thoſe lips are cold, relentleſs death
Hath chill'd their Charms, and ſtop'd thy balmy breath.
Thoſe eyes, where Cupid tipp'd his darts with fire,
And kindled in the coldeſt nymphs deſire,
Robb'd of their beams, in everlaſting night
Are clos'd, and give us woe as once delight:
[39] And thou, dear youth, haſt left the lonely plain,
And art the grief, who wert the grace, of ev'ry Britiſh ſwain.
As in his bow'r the dying ſhepherd lay,
The ſhepherd yet ſo young, and once ſo gay!
The nymphs that ſwim the ſtream, and range the wood
And haunt the flow'ry meads, around him ſtood:
There tears down each fair cheek unbounded fell,
And as he gaſp'd, they gave a ſad farewel.
Softly (they cry'd) as ſleeping flow'rs [...]
By night, be thy dear eyes by [...]
A gentle fall may thy young beauties have,
And golden ſlumbers wait thee in thy grave:
Yearly thy hearſe with garlands we'll adorn,
And teach young nightingales for thee to mourn;
Bees love the blooms, the flocks the bladed grain,
Nor leſs wert thou belov'd by ev'ry ſwain.
Come, ſhepherds, come, perform the fun'ral due,
For he was ever good and kind to you:
[40] On ev'ry ſmootheſt beech, in ev'ry grove,
In weeping characters record your love.
And as in mem'ry of Adoms ſlain,
When for the youth the Syrian maids complain,
His river, to record the guilty day,
With freſhly bleeding purple ſtains the ſea:
So thou, dear Cam, contribute to our woe,
And bid thy ſtream in plaintive murmurs flow:
Thy head with thy own willow boughs adorn,
And with thy tears ſupply the frugal urn.
The ſwains their ſheep, the nymphs ſhall leave the lawn,
And yearly on their banks renew their moan:
His mother, while they there lament, ſhall be
The queen of love, the lov'd Adonis he:
On her, like Venus, all the Graces wait,
And he too like Adonis in his fate!
For freſh in fragrant youth he left the plain,
And is the grief, who was the grace, of ev'ry Bri⯑tiſh ſwain.
[41]No more the nymphs, that o'er the brooks preſide,
Dreſs their gay beauties by the cryſtal tide;
Nor fly the wintry winds, nor ſcorching ſun,
Now he, for whom they ſtrove to charm, is gone.
Oft' they beneath their reedy coverts ſigh'd,
And look'd, and long'd, and for Florelio dy'd.
Of him they ſang, and with ſoft ditties ſtrove
To ſooth the pleaſing agonies of love.
But now they roam, diſtracted with deſpair,
And cypreſs, twin'd with mournful willows, wear.
Thus, hand in hand, around his grave they go,
And ſaffion buds, and fading lillies ſtrow,
With ſprigs of myrtle mix'd, and ſcatt'ring cry,
So ſweet and ſoft the ſhepherd was! ſo ſoon decreed to die!
There freſh, in dear remembrance of their woes,
His name the young Anemonies diſcloſe:
Nor ſtrange they ſhould a double grief avow,
Then Venus wept, and Paſtorella now.
[42] Breathe ſoft, ye winds! long let them paint the plain,
Unhurt, untouch'd by ev'ry paſſing ſwain.
And when, ye nymphs, to make the garlands gay,
With which ye crown the miſtreſs of the May.
Ye ſhall theſe flow'rs to bind her temples take,
O pluck them gently for Florelio's ſake!
And when thro' Woodſtock's green retreats ye ſtray,
Or Altrop's flow'ry vales invite to play;
O'er which young Paſtorella's beauties bring
Elyzium early, and improve the ſpring:
When ev'ning gales attentive ſilence keep,
And heav'n its balmy dew begins to weep,
By the ſoft fall of ev'ry warbling ſtream,
Sigh your ſaid airs, and bleſs the ſhepherd's name:
There to the tender lute attune your woe,
While hyacinths, and myrtles round you grow.
So may Sylvanus ever 'tend your bow'rs!
And Zephyr bruſh the mildew from the flow'rs!
Bid all the ſwans from Cam and Iſis haſte,
In the melodious quire to breath their laſt.
[43] O Colin, Colin, cou'd I there complain
Like thee, when young Philiſides was ſlain!
Thou ſweet frequenter of the muſe's ſtream!
Why have I not thy voice, or thou my theme?
Tho' weak my voice, tho' lowly be my lays,
They ſhall be ſacred to the ſhepherd's praiſe:
To him my voice, to him my lays belong,
And bright Myrtilla now muſt live unſung.
Ev'n ſhe whoſe artleſs beauty bleſs'd me more,
Than ever ſwain was bleſs'd by nymph before;
While ev'ry tender ſigh to ſeal our bliſs,
Brought a kind vow, and ev'ry vow a kiſs:
Fair, chaſte, and kind, yet now no more can move,
So much my grief is ſtronger than my love:
Now the dear youth has left the lonely plain,
And is the grief, who was the grace, of ev'ry Bri⯑tiſh ſwain.
As when ſome cruel hind has born away
The turtle's neſt, and made the yuung his prey.
[44] Sad in her native grove ſhe ſits alone,
There hangs her wings, and murmurs out her moan.
So the bright ſhepherdeſs who bore the boy,
Beneath a baleful yew does weeping lie;
Nor can the fair the weighty woe ſuſtain,
But bends, like roſes cruſh'd with falling rain:
Nor from the ſilent earth her eyes removes,
That weeping, languiſh like a dying dove's.
Not ſuch her look (ſevere reverſe of fate!)
When little loves in ev'ry dimple ſate;
And all the ſmiles delighted to reſort
On the calm heav'n of her ſoft cheeks to ſport:
Soft as the clouds mild April-ev'nings wear,
Which drop freſh flourets on the youthful year.
The fountain's fall can't lull her wakeful woes,
Nor poppy-garlands give the nymph repoſe:
Thro' prickly brakes, and unfrequented groves,
O'er hills and dales, and craggy cliffs ſhe roves.
And when ſhe ſpies, beneath ſome ſilent ſhade,
The daiſies preſs'd, where late his limbs were laid,
[45] To the cold print there cloſe ſhe joins her face,
And all with guſhing tears bedews the graſs.
There with loud plaints ſhe wounds the pitying skies,
And oh! return, my lovely youth, ſhe cries;
Return, Florelio, with thy wonted charms
Fill the ſoft circles of my longing arms.—
Ceaſe, fair affliction, ceaſe! the lovely boy
In death's cold arms muſt pale and breathleſs lie.
The fates can never change their firſt decree,
Or ſure they would have chang'd this one for thee.
Pan for his Syrinx makes eternal moan,
Ceres her daughter loſt, and thou thy ſon.
The ſon for ever now has left the plain,
And is the grief, who was the grace, of ev'ry Bri⯑tiſh ſwain.
Adieu, ye moſſy caves, and ſhady groves,
Once happy ſcenes of our ſucceſsful loves:
Ye hungry herds, and bleating flocks adieu,
Flints be your beds, and browze the bitter yew.
[46] Two lambs alone ſhall be my charge to feed,
For yearly on his grave two lambs ſhall bleed.
This pledge of laſting love, dear ſhade, receive,
'Tis all, alas, a ſhepherd's love can give!
But grief from its own pow'r will ſet me free,
Will ſend me ſoon a willing ghoſt to thee:
Cropt in the flow'ry ſpring of youth, I'll go
With haſty joy to wait thy ſhade below:
In ever-fragrant meads, and jeſmin-bow'rs
We'll dwell, and all Elyzium ſhall be ours.
Where citron groves aetherial odours breath,
And ſtreams of flowing cryſtal purl beneath:
Where all are ever-young, and heav'nly fair,
As here above thy ſiſter-graces are.
UPON THE DEATH OF HER HUSBAND.
[]By Mrs. ELIZABETH SINGER.
IN what ſoft language ſhall my thoughts get free,
My dear Alexis! when I talk of thee?
Ye muſes, graces, all ye gentle train
Of weeping loves aſſiſt the penſive ſtrain.
[48] But why ſhould I implore your moving art?
'Tis but to ſpeak the dictates of my heart:
And all that knew the charming youth will join
Their friendly ſighs, and pious tears to mine.
For all that knew his merit muſt confeſs
In grief for him there can be no exceſs;
His ſoul was form'd to act each glorious part
Of life, unſtain'd with vanity or art;
No thought within his gen'rous mind had birth,
But what he might have own'd to heaven and earth:
Practis'd by him each virtue grew more bright,
And ſhone with more than its own native light.
Whatever noble warmth could recommend
The juſt, the active, and the conſtant friend,
Was all his own; but oh! a dearer name,
And ſofter tyes, my endleſs ſorrow claim.
Loſt in deſpair, diſtracted and forlorn,
The lover I, and tender husband mourn.
Whate'er to ſuch ſuperior worth was due,
Whate'er exceſs the fondeſt paſſion knew,
[49] I felt, for thee, dear youth; my joys, my care,
My prayers themſelves were thine, and only where
Thou waſt concern'd, my virtue was ſincere.
Whene'er I begg'd for bleſſings on thy head,
Nothing was cold or formal that I ſaid.
My warmeſt vows to heaven were made for thee,
And love ſtill mingled with my piety.
Oh! thou waſt all my glory, all my pride;
Thro' life's uncertain paths my conſtant guide.
Regardleſs of the world, to gain thy praiſe
Was all that cou'd my juſt ambition raiſe.
Why has my heart this fond engagement known
Or why has heav'n diſſolv'd the tye ſo ſoon?
Why was the charming youth ſo form'd to move?
Or why was all my ſoul ſo turn'd for love?
But virtue here a vain defence had made,
Where ſo much worth and eloquence cou'd plead.
For he could talk—'twas extaſy to hear,
'Twas joy, 'twas harmony to ev'ry ear:
[50] Eternal muſick dwelt upon his tongue,
Soſt and tranſporting as the muſes ſong.
Liſt'ning to him, my cares were charm'd to reſt,
And love and ſilent rapture fill'd my breaſt;
Unheeded, the gay moments took their flight,
And time was only meaſur'd by delight.
I hear the lov'd, the melting accent ſtill,
And ſtill the warm, the tender tranſport feel:
Again I ſee the ſprightly paſſions riſe,
And life and pleaſure kindle in his eyes.
My fancy paints him now with every grace,
But ah! the dear reſemblance mocks my fond embrace.
The flatt'ring viſion takes its haſty flight,
And ſcenes of horror ſwim before my ſight.
Grief and deſpair in all their terrors riſe;
A dying lover pale and gaſping lies.
Each diſmal circumſtance appears in view,
The fatal object is for ever new;
His anguiſh with the quickeſt ſenſe I feel,
And hear this ſad, this moving language ſtill.
[51]My deareſt wife! my laſt, my fondeſt care!
Sure heav'n for thee will hear a dying prayer:
Be thou the charge of ſacred providence,
When I am gone, be that thy kind defence;
Ten thouſand ſmiling bleſſings crown thy head,
When I am cold and number'd with the dead:
Think on thy vows; be to my mem'ry juſt,
My future fame and honour are thy truſt.
From all engagements here I now am free,
But that which keeps my ling'ring ſoul with thee.
How much I love, thy bleeding heart can tell
Which does, like mine, the pangs of parting feel.
But haſte to meet me on the happy plains,
Where mighty love in endleſs triumph reigns.
He ceas'd, then gently yielded up his breath,
And fell a blooming ſacrifice to death.
But oh! what words, what numbers can expreſs,
What thought conceive, the height of my diſtreſs.
[52] Why did they tear me from thy breathleſs clay?
I ſhould have ſtay'd and wept my life away.
Yet, gentle ſhade! whether thou now doſt rove,
Thro' ſome bleſt vale, or ever verdant grove,
One moment liſten to my grief, and take
The ſofteſt vows that ever love can make.
For thee, all thoughts of pleaſure I forego,
For thee, my tears ſhall never ceaſe to flow;
For thee at once I from the world retire,
To feed in ſilent ſhades a hopeleſs fire.
My boſom all thy image ſhall retain,
The full impreſſion there ſhall ſtill remain:
As thou haſt taught my tender heart to prove
The nobleſt height, and elegance of love;
That ſacred paſſion I to thee confine,
My ſpotleſs faith ſhall be for ever thine.
RICHY and SANDY, A PASTORAL On the DEATH of Mr. Joſeph Addiſon.
[]By ALLAN RAMSAY.
RICHY.
WHAT gars thee look ſae dowf? dear San⯑dy ſay;
Chear up dull fallow, take thy reed and play,
My Apron Deary,—or ſome wanton tune,
Be merry lad, and keep thy heart aboon.
SANDY.
[56]Na, na! it winna do! leave me to mane,
This aught days twice o'er tell'd I'll whiſtle nane.
RICHY.
Wow man, that's unco'ſad,—is that ye'r Jo
Has ta'en the ſtrunt?—Or has ſome bogle-bo
Glowrin frae 'mang auld waws gi'en ye a fleg?
Or has ſome dawted wedder broke his leg?
SANDY.
Naithing like that, ſic troubles eith were born!
What's bogles,—wedders,—or what's Mauſy's ſcorn?
Our loſs is meikle mair, and paſt remeed,
Edie that play'd and ſang ſae ſweet is dead.
RICHY.
Dead ſayſt thou, oh! had up my heart o Pan!
Ye Gods! what laids ye lay on feckleſs Man!
Alake therefore, I canna wyt y'er wae,
I'll bear ye company for year and day.
[58] A better lad ne'er lean'd out o'er a kent,
Or hound a coly o'er the moſſy bent.
Blyth at the bought how aft ha we three been,
Hartſome on hills, and gay upon the green!
SANDY.
That's true indeed; but now thae days are gane,
And with him a' that's pleaſant on the plain.
A ſummer day I never thought it lang
To hear him make a roundel or a ſang.
How ſweet he ſung where vines and myrtles grow,
And wimpling waters which in Latium flow.
Titry, the Mantuan herd, wha lang ſinſyne
Beſt ſung on aeten reed the lover's pine,
Had he been to the fore now in our days,
Wi Edie he had frankly dealt his bays:
As lang's the warld ſhall Amaryllis ken,
His Roſamond ſhall eccho thro' the glen;
While on burn banks the yellow gowan grows,
Or wand'ring lambs rin bleeting after ews,
[60] His fame ſhall laſt. Laſt ſhall his ſang of weirs,
While Britiſh bairns brag of their bauld forbears.
We'll mickle miſs his blyth and witty jeſt
At ſpaining time, or at our Lambmaſs feaſt.
O Richy! but 'tis hard that death ay reaves
Away the beſt fouck, and the ill anes leaves.
Hing down ye'r heads ye hills, greet out ye'r ſprings,
Upon ye'r edge na mair the ſhepherd ſings.
RICHY.
Than he had ay a good advice to gi'e,
And kend my thoughts amaiſt as well as me;
Had I been thowleſs, vext, or oughtlins ſow'r,
He wad have made me blyth in haff an hour.
Had Roſie ta'en the dorts,—or had the tod
Worry'd my lamb,—or were my feet ill ſhod,
Kindly he'd laugh when ſae he ſaw me dwine,
And taulk of happineſs like a divine.
Of ilka thing he had an unco' skill,
He kend be moon-light how tydes ebb and fill.
[62] He kend, what kend he no? E'en to a hair
He'd tell o'er-night gin nieſt day wad be fair.
Blind John, ye mind, wha ſang in kittle phraſe,
How the ill ſp'rit did the firſt miſchief raiſe;
Mony a time beneath the auld birk-tree
What's bonny in that ſang he loot me ſee.
The Laſſes aft flang down their rakes and pales,
And held their tongues, o ſtrange! to hear his tales.
SANDY.
Sound be his ſleep, and ſaft his wak'ning be,
He's in a better caſe than thee or me;
He was o'er good for us, the Gods hae ta'en
Their ain but back,—he was a borrow'd-len.
Let us be good, gin virtue be our drift,
Then may we yet forgether 'boon the lift.
But ſee the ſheep are wyſing to the cleugh;
Thomas has loos'd his ouſen frae the pleugh;
Maggy be this has beuk the ſupper ſcones,
And nuckle ky ſtand rowting on the lones;
Come Richy let us truſe and hame o'er bend,
And make the beſt of what we canna mend.
FINIS.
AN EXPLANATION OF RICHY and SANDY.
[]By Mr. BURCHET.
RICHY.
WHAT makes thee look ſo ſad? dear Sandie ſay;
Rouſe up dull fellow, take thy reed and play
A merry jigg, or try ſome other art,
To raiſe thy ſpirits, and cheer up thy heart.
SANDY.
[57]No, no, it will not do; leave me to moan;
Till twice eight days are paſt I'll whiſtle none.
RICHY.
That's ſtrange indeed! has Jenny made thee ſad?
Or, tell me, hath ſome horrid ſpectre, lad,
(Glaring from ruins old, in ſilent night)
Surpriz'd, and put thee in a panic fright?
Or ails that wether ought, thy favourite?
SANDY.
Such troubles might with much more eaſe be born:
What's goblins, wethers, or what's woman's ſcorn?
Our loſs is greater far; for Addy's dead;
Addy, who ſang ſo ſweetly on the mead.
RICHY.
Dead is he, ſay'ſt thou? guard my heart, oh Pan!
What burthens, Gods, ye lay on feeble man!
Alack I cannot blame thee for thy grief;
Nor hope I, more than thou, to find relief.
[59] A better lad ne'er lean'd on ſhepherd's crook,
Nor after game halloo'd his dog to look.
How glad where ews give milk have we three been;
Merry on hills, and gay upon the green!
SANDY.
That's true, indeed; but now, alas! in vain
We ſeek for pleaſure on the rural plain:
I never thought a ſummer's-day too long
To hear his couplets, or his tuneful ſong.
How ſweet he ſang where vines and myrtles grow,
And winding ſtreams which in old Latium flows!
Titry, the Mantuan herd, who long ago
Sang beſt on oaten reed the lover's woe,
Did he, fam'd bard, but live in theſe our days,
He would with Addy freely ſhare his bays.
As long as ſhepherd's Amaryllis hear,
So long his Roſamond ſhall pleaſe the ear.
While ſpangled daiſie near the riv'let grows,
And tender lambs ſeek after bleating ews,
[61] His fame ſhall laſt. Laſt ſhall his ſong of wars,
While Britiſh youngſters boaſt of anceſtors.
Much ſhall we miſs his merry witty jeſts
At weaning-times, and at our Lambmaſs feaſts.
Oh Richy! Richy! death hath been unkind
To take the good, and leave the ill behind.
Bow down your heads, ye hills, weep dry ye ſprings,
For on your banks no more the ſhepherd ſings.
RICHY.
Then he had always good advice to give,
And could my thoughts, like as my ſelf, conceive.
When I've been drooping, vex'd, or in the ſpleen,
In one half hour with him I've merry been.
Had Jenny froward been, or Raynard bold,
Worry'd my lamb, or were my ſhoes grown old,
Kindly he'd ſmile, when he obſerv'd me grieve,
And by his talk divine my breaſt relieve.
Addy did all things to perfection know;
Saw by the moon how tides would ebb or flow.
[63] He knew, what knew he not? E'en to a hair
He'd tell o'er-night if next day would be fair.
The fam'd blind bard ſang in myſterious phraſe
How envious Satan did firſt miſchief raiſe;
But oft beneath the well-ſpread birchen-tree
The beauties of that ſong he made me ſee.
The laſſes oft' flung down their rakes and pails,
And held their tongues, oh ſtrange! to hear his tales.
SANDY.
Sound be his ſleep, and ſoft his waking be;
More happy is he far than thee or me:
Too good he was for us; the Gods but lent
Him here below, when hither he was ſent.
Let us be good, if virtue be our aim,
Then we may meet above the skies again.
But ſee how tow'rds the glade the fatlings go;
Thomas hath ta'en the oxen from the plough;
Joan has prepar'd the ſupper 'gainſt we come,
And late calf'd cows ſtand lowing near their home;
Then let's have done, and to our reſt repair,
And what we cannot help, with patience bear.
FINIS.
To Mr. Allan Ramſey, on his Richy and Sandy.
[]By Mr. BURCHET.
WELL fare thee, Allan, who, in mother tongue,
So ſweetly hath of breathleſs Addy ſung.
His endleſs fame thy nat'ral genius fir'd,
And thou haſt written as if he inſpir'd.
Richy and Sandy, who do him ſurvive,
Long as thy rural Stanzas laſt ſhall live.
The grateful ſwains thou'ſt made, in tuneful verſe,
Mourn ſadly o'er their late—loſt patron's herſe,
Nor would the Mantuan bard, if living, blame
Thy pious zeal, or think thou'ſt hurt his fame,
Since Addiſon's inimitable lays
Give him an equal title to the bays.
When he of armies ſang, in lofty ſtrains,
It ſeem'd as if he in the hoſtile plains
Had preſent been. His pen hath to the life
Trac'd ev'ry action in the ſanguine ſtrife.
In council now ſedate the chief appears,
Then loudly thunders in Bavarian ears;
And ſtill purſuing the deſtructive theme,
He puſhes them into the rapid ſtream.
Thus beaten out of Blenheim's neighb'ring fields,
The Gallic gen'ral to the victor yields,
Who, as Britannia's Virgil hath obſerv'd,
From threaten'd fate all Europe then preſerv'd.
Nor doſt thou, Ramſey, ſightleſs Milton wrong
By ought contain'd in thy melodious ſong;
For none but Addy could his thoughts ſublime
So well unriddle, or his myſtick rhyme.
And when he deign'd to let his fancy rove
Where ſun-burnt ſhepherds to the nymphs make love,
No one e'er told in ſofter notes the tales
Of rural pleaſures in the ſpangled vales.
So much, oh Allan! I thy lines revere,
Such veneration to his mem'ry bear,
That I no longer could my thanks refrain
For what thou'ſt ſung of the lamented ſwain.