THE POETICAL CALENDAR. VOL. XI. FOR NOVEMBER.
THE POETICAL CALENDAR.
CONTAINING A COLLECTION Of scarce and valuable PIECES OF POETRY: With Variety of ORIGINALS AND TRANSLATIONS, BY THE MOST EMINENT HANDS.
Written and Selected By FRANCIS FAWKES, M.A. And WILLIAM WOTY.
IN TWELVE VOLUMES.
LONDON: Printed by DRYDEN LEACH; For J. COOTE, at the King's Arms, in Pater-noster-Row. MDCCLXIII.
THE POETICAL CALENDAR.
NOVEMBER. AN ODE.
DIstant to southern climes the sloping sun
Hastens to bend his rays beyond the line,
Where Sagittary puts his armour on,
Slung is the quiver, where his arrows shine;
His azure bow reflects the solar beam,
While his bright darts across th' horizon gleam.
Now first, the woodcock, near the gelid stream,
Seeks his known haunt, amid th' embrowned copse,
Where cruel fowlers take their deadly aim,
Inglorious triumph! see, the victim drops!—
Forbear your savage sport—oh! spare, ye swains,
The new adventurers on Britannia's plains!
Now sharper bites the hyperborean blast,
While eager morning chills us at the dawn,
With drizzling sleet the sky is overcast,
And the white frost bespangles o'er the lawn,
The well-napp'd drugget cloaths the rural folk,
And homely cots display a thicker smoke.
Come, Myra, since the woods have lost their shade,
Since undelighting are the hills and plains,
Quit we the villas, while their glories fade,
To seek the town, where gayer pleasure reigns;
But if the villas still delight my fair,
Welcome the howling grove, and brumal air.
She, like Content, can bless the barren heath,
Her presence bids the shaggy mount be smooth,
For where she treads fresh herbage springs beneath,
And Myrtles blow in spite of Winter's tooth;
The rugged North, acknowledging her charms,
Suspends his anger, and his blast disarms.
NOVEMBER. A PASTORAL ELEGY.
WHat means, honest shepherd, this cloud on thy brow?
Say, where is thy mirth and thy melody now?
Thy pipe thrown aside, and thy looks full of thought!
As silent and sad as a bird newly caught.
Has any misfortune befallen thy flocks?
Any lambs been betray'd by the craft of the fox?
Or murrain, more fatal, just seiz'd on thy herd?
Or has thy dear Phillis let slip a cross word?
The season indeed may to musing incline,
Now that grey-bearded Winter makes Autumn resign;
The hills all around us their russet put on,
And the skies seem in mourning for loss of the sun:
The winds make the tree, where you sit, shake its head;
Yet tho' with dry leaves mother Earth's lap is spread,
Her bosom to cheer us is verdant with wheat,
And the woods can supply us both pastime and meat.
O, no, says the shepherd, I mourn none of these,
Content with such changes as heaven shall please!
Tho' now we have got the wrong side of the year,
'Twill turn up again, and fresh beauties appear:
But the loss that I grieve for, no time can restore—
Our master, who lov'd us so well, is no more;
That oak, which we hop'd would long shelter us all,
Is fallen; then well may we shake at its fall.
Where find we a Pastor so kind and so good,
So careful to feed us with wholesomest food?
To watch for our safety, and drive far away
The sly prowling fox, always lurking for prey?
O, may his remembrance for ever remain,
To shame those hard shepherds who, mindful of gain,
Only look at their sheep with an eye to their fleece,
And watch them no more than the fox watch'd the geese!
Whom now shall I chuse for the judge of my song?
Or must my poor pipe on the willow be hung?
No more to commend that good-nature and sense,
Which always could please, but ne'er once give offence.
What honour directed, he firmly pursued,
Yet would not his judgment on others obtrude:
Still ready to help with his service and vote;
But ne'er to thrust oar in another man's boat.
No more, honest shepherd, these sorrows resound;
The virtues thou praisest, so hard to be found,
Are yet not all fled—for the swain who succeeds
To his fields and his herds, is true heir to his deeds:
His pattern he'll follow, his gentleness use,
Take care of the shepherds, and cherish the muse;
Then cease for the dead thy impertinent care;
Rejoice—he revives in his brother and heir.
ON THE BANISHMENT OF CICERO.
BY THE LATE DUKE OF WHARTON.
WRITTEN IN MDCCXII.
AS o'er the Ocean's swelling tide
Tully an exile rode,
The Roman bulwark, and the pride,
In act, in thought a god;
The sacred Genius of majestic Rome
Descends, and thus laments her Patriot's doom:
Farewell! who every art reviv'd,
Thus conquer'd by thy foe,
Of honours and of friends depriv'd,
An exile must thou go!
Yet go content; thy look, thy mind sedate,
Thy soul superior to the shocks of Fate.
Thy wisdom was thine only crime,
Thy virtue thine offence,
With patriot zeal, in urgent time,
Thy country's best defence;
No fordid bribe could taint thy spotless soul,
No fears, nor threatening numbers could controul.
What tho' some chief Patricians stood
Firm to thy injur'd cause,
What tho' thyself display'd the flood
Of eloquence and laws,
No rhetoric, no reason could repel
The united tides of Clodius and of Hell.
Thy mighty ruin to effect
What plots had been devis'd!
Rome's charter, like a vessel wreckt,
Nor laws, nor rituals priz'd,
How many caitiff wretches were allur'd,
And witnesses by hopes and threats secur'd!
And yet they pleaded Freedom's light
Beneath a thin disguise,
Pleaded a specious show of right
From treachery and lies,
Assum'd of Freedom the judicial awe,
And coin'd severe oppression into law.
Let Clodius now in conquest reign,
Exert his tyrant power,
And every nerve of justice strain,
The pageant of an hour!
Let cringing fools adore their gilded god,
And ransack shrines and temples at his nod.
Pierc'd by a Milo's ruthless hand,
To earth he shall descend,
The bane and monster of the land,
Inglorious at his end:
Priz'd be the man who dares his power defy,
Who dares or truly speak, or bravely die.
ON THE LATE BISHOP ATTERBURY'S PREACHING.
WRITTEN IN MDCCXIII. BY THE SAME.
WHen our great Lord at Emmaus appear'd,
Expounding what the prophets had averr'd,
And when he vanish'd from his hearer's eyes,
To meet the Father in his native skies,
How was each heart with sudden heat inspir'd,
With rapture seiz'd, and grace seraphic fir'd:
Scarce fainter transports all my powers controul,
Glow in my breast, and triumph in my soul;
So strongly Rochester attracts the sense,
And binds with every chain of eloquence:
How can my ecstasies in verse be shown,
This asks the tongue of angels—or his own;
Let Nature's rival Art her tints apply,
The silent poetry of painting try;
To the stretch'd canvas graceful vigour give,
And teach the animated form to live,
To thought add figure, to ideas frame,
And to bright sentiment a robe of flame,
So may succeeding times the merit raise,
And as upon the breathing piece they gaze,
At once the prelate and the painter praise.
Here, artist, here, the powerful preacher show,
And let electrified attention glow,
Catch the bright flames which from his lips distill,
And strike out all the teacher with thy quill;
Oh! couldst thou, echo-like, his words repeat,
Soft as the dews of heaven, as honey sweet,
Severest truths, so forcibly exprest,
And manly sense in easy language drest,
Couldst thou, like his, a voice melodious join,
As soft, as clear, as powerful, and divine,
Couldst thou,—but oh nor words nor colours can,
By sounds, or painting, typify the man.
So Athens once on her fam'd preacher hung,
Transported by the music of his tongue;
So stood St. Paul, so skilful Raphael drew,
And as in him a living Paul we view,
Another Raphael we should find in you.
NOTHING.
BY THE REV. MR. BELSHAM.
INSCRIBED TO MR. J. BOWLES.
NO Muses I implore their aid to bring,
He needs no Muse, who Nothing has to sing;
Your favour, Bowles, and your attention lend;
Pardon the Poet, and protect the friend.
Nothing accept—tho' small the gift may seem,
The wise have Nothing highly in esteem.
A theme untouch'd before inspires my lays,
From which no poet ever won the bays—
Those Greek and Roman bards, of old admir'd,
Who, with poetic fury nobly fir'd,
On every subject dar'd their genius try,
And drank the Heliconian fountain dry,
Left Nothing to be sung in times to comes;
Nothing escap'd the wits of Greece and Rome.
When the fierce Goths did war with learning wage,
And ravag'd Italy with barbarous rage,
When all things good and great one ruin shar'd,
Nothing by Goths was honour'd—Nothing spar'd.
Nothing in war is sacred; and we see
Nothing in peace secure—with France's guaranty.
Who Nothing holds, conscious no danger's near,
May travel every road without a fear.
No long litigious suits his ease molest,
Nor cares of wealth distract his anxious breast;
No noise nor hurries of the town he knows,
But silent lives in undisturb'd repose—
Nor swell'd with hopes, nor tost with anxious fears,
Like a calm stream serenely roll his years—
And, when untroubled all his days are past,
Who Nothing has to leave, securely breathes his last.
Nothing to prize, philosophers profess
To be the only way to happiness—
And he that Nothing knew was the most wise,
Or the great oracle of Phoebus lies.
By knowing Nothing (learnt with perfect ease)
Each prating fool becomes a Socrates—
All other arts now flourish, now decay;
This learning spreads and prospers every day—
The learn'd in books we know can hardly live,
But to know Nothing is the way to thrive—
To this our youth apply with early zeal,
To shine at court, and serve the common-weal.
Who Nothing know—grow noble, rich, and great
In senates, councils, army, church and state.
Immortal Newton, tho' his towering mind
Travers'd the worlds of knowledge unconfin'd,
Saw where the secret springs of science rise,
And stretch'd his head, like Atlas, to the skies,
Trac'd all the stars, and search'd the source of light,
And still to unknown regions wing'd his flight;
Yet, pardon me, great Shade, the truth I tell,
Nothing thy grasping genius could excell.
See! where the learned alchymists explore
Nature's hid force, and try the shining ore,
Enwrapp'd in clouds of sulphurous smoke they tire
The stubborn brass, and ply the torturing fire,
And, big with expectation night and day,
Melt all their time, and all their lands away:
Of all this charge and toil compute the gains—
Nothing excites their hopes—Nothing rewards their pains.—
Nothing is fairer than the morning light,
When the fresh beams first strike the ravish'd sight;
Nothing is milder than th' approach of Spring,
That makes all nature smile, the whole creation sing!
Far as the earth, and air, and seas extend,
Nothing's without beginning, without end—
Beyond the universe it finds a place,
And Nothing fills the mighty void of space.
On Nothing turn the lucid orbs above,
Where all the stars in mystic order move:
On Nothing hangs this vast terraqueous ball;
The world from Nothing sprang—from Nothing came forth all!
ODE TO AMANDA, ON HER THREATENING TO LEAVE THE COUNTRY IN AUTUMN.
BY T.M. ESQ.
STay, lovely maid, our fate delay;
Yet, yet a while suspend our doom:
Thine eyes supply the shortening day,
And save us from the hastening gloom:
While thou art here, we still shall see
The fields, the groves, the meadows wear
Their gayest dress, to honour thee;
Then quit them till the rising year.
As yet, the tepid Zephyrs sport,
And wanton in the leafy grove;
As yet, the nymphs and swains resort
To dales and woods to talk of love:
The little birds, in every glade,
With tuneful vows their mates accost,
Secure of summer and of shade,
Nor dread the piercing wintry frost.
Ah pretty fools! ye little know
How soon your happiness must end!
Cruel Amanda! wilt thou go,
And rob them of their only friend?
Wilt thou the sun and summer fly?
They only stay to wait on thee;
And horrid Winter watches nigh,
Impatient till thou set him free:
Then will these verdant lawns and groves
With cheerless frosts be cover'd o'er,
The nymphs and swains forget their loves,
And birds and poets sing no more.
Stella, who never sues in vain,
And poor Melissus beg thy stay;
O, hear the suppliant nymph and swain,
And cheat grim Winter of his prey!
THE RATTLE. A SONG.
WRITTEN AT ERTHIG-HALL IN DENBIGHSHIRE, BY MISS CHARLOTTE BRERETON, MDCCXXXII. AND ADDRESSED TO DANIEL IVEY, ESQ.
I'll sing you a ballad—O, that it were merry,
Tho' not of the abbot of Canterbury!
Nor yet of those heroes presume I to sing,
Who at Windsor once frighten'd the ghost of a king.
Derry down, &c.
Nor sing I the fiddle which oft at Longleate
Hath charm'd all its hearers with music so sweet;
Nor that merry Bard will I mention at all,
Who to the same tune took a trip to Down-hall.
Derry down, &c.
My ballad is not, full soon you will know it,
Of abbot, or hero, or fiddle, or poet,
But it is of a sprightly most whimsical Rattle,
Who exceeds all us women in chat and in prattle.
Derry down, &c.
This Rattle of Rattles, if he is inclin'd,
Can suit well his converse to every one's mind,
He never is foolish, not wise out of season,
To the gay he chats nonsense, to the grave he talks reason.
Derry down, &c.
The worst thing I ever observ'd in this Rattle,
Is that to the Priesthood he's apt to give battle;
I'm quite out of tune when he these makes a farce on,
For who knows but I may in time wed a Parson.
Derry down, &c.
We women are apt to digress, as I find,
When dear self, or a Parson comes into one's mind,
May the Reverends in safety, and sanctity rest all,
And may I continue at Erthig a Vestal.
Derry down, &c.
But as I was saying, this Rattle hath said,
If he e'er weds again, he will have an old maid;
How happy is he, for old spinsters are plenty,
Tho' I'm not of that list, for I never saw twenty.
Derry down, &c.
With me his acquaintance may sing and rejoice,
That he makes so judicious, so decent a choice;
'Tis so natural too, for we frequently see,
That Ivey will cling to an old wither'd tree.
Derry down, &c.
Of all sorts of wit, he's most fond of a ballad,
So asses eat thistles—instead of a sallad;
Tho' he thinks that my innocent pen cannot hurt,
He may thank me for making my ballad so short.
Derry down, &c.
Tho' short as it is, he will think it too long,
Should it chance for awhile to silence his tongue;
To be silent he hates, as the De'el holy water,
For all his delight is in chat and in laughter.
Derry down, &c.
A ballad he ask'd, and a ballad here is;
But if he should chance to take something amiss,
He must ev'n thank himself for insisting upon it,
So here ends my ballad, or for rhyme's sake, my sonnet.
Derry down, &c.
THE TWO SNEERERS.
BY W.H.
' YOur servant, sir,' says surly Quin;
' Sir, I am your's,' replies Macklin;
' You are the very Jew you play—
' Your phiz performs the task well;'
' And you are Brute himself, they say,
' And most accomplish'd Maskwell:'
Says Rich, who heard the sneering elves,
And knew their horrid hearts—
" Acting too much your very selves,
" Ye over-do your parts."
ORIENTAL ECLOGUES.
BY MR. WILLIAM COLLINS.
ECLOGUE I. SELIM; OR, THE SHEPHERD'S MORAL.
SCENE, A VALLEY NEAR BAGDAT. TIME, THE MORNING.
YE Persian maids, attend your poet's lays,
And hear how shepherds pass their golden days.
Not all are blest, whom fortune's hand sustains
With wealth in courts, nor all that haunt the plains:
Well may your hearts believe the truths I tell;
'Tis virtue makes the bliss, where'er we dwell.
Thus Selim sung, by sacred Truth inspir'd;
Nor praise, but such as Truth bestow'd, desir'd:
Wise in himself, his meaning songs convey'd
Informing morals to the shepherd maid;
Or taught the swains that surest bliss to find,
What groves nor streams bestow, a virtuous mind.
When sweet and blushing, like a virgin bride,
The radiant morn resum'd her orient pride,
When wanton gales along the valleys play,
Breathe on each flower, and bear their sweets away;
By Tigris' wandering waves he sat, and sung
This useful lesson for the fair and young.
Ye Persian dames, he said, to you belong,
Well may they please, the morals of my song:
No fairer maids, I trust, than you are found,
Grac'd with soft arts, the peopled world around!
The morn that lights you, to your loves supplies
Each gentler ray delicious to your eyes:
For you those flowers her fragrant hands bestow,
And yours the love that kings delight to know.
Yet think not these, all beauteous as they are,
The best kind blessings heaven can grant the fair!
Who trust alone in beauty's feeble ray,
Boast but the worth
The gulph of that name, famous for the pearl-fishery.
Balsora's pearls display;
Drawn from the deep we own their surface bright,
But, dark within, they drink no lustrous light:
Such are the maids, and such the charms they boast,
By sense unaided, or to virtue lost.
Self-flattering sex! your hearts believe in vain
That love shall blind, when once he fires the swain;
Or hope a lover by your faults to win,
As spots on errain beautify the skin:
Who seeks secure to rule, be first her care
Each softer virtue that adorns the fair;
Each tender passion man delights to find
The lov'd perfections of a female mind!
Blest were the days, when Wisdom held her reign,
And shepherds sought her on the silent plain;
With Truth she wedded in the secret grove,
Immortal Truth, and daughters bless'd their love.
O haste, fair maids! ye Virtues come away,
Sweet Peace and Plenty lead you on your way!
The balmy shrub, for you shall love our shore,
By Ind excell'd or Araby no more.
Lost to our fields, for so the fates ordain,
The dear deserters shall return again.
Come thou, whose thoughts as limpid springs are clear,
To lead the train, sweet Modesty appear:
Here make thy court amidst our rural scene,
And shepherd-girls shall own thee for their queen.
With thee be Chastity, of all afraid,
Distrusting all, a wise suspicious maid;
But man the most—not more the mountain doe
Holds the swift falcon for her deadly foe.
Cold is her breast, like flowers that drink the dew;
A silken veil conceals her from the view.
No wild desires amidst thy train be known,
But Faith, whose heart is fix'd on one alone:
Desponding Meekness, with her down-cast eyes,
And friendly Pity, full of tender sighs;
And Love the last: by these your hearts approve,
These are the virtues that must lead to love.
Thus sung the swain; and antient legends say,
The maids of Bagdat verified the lay:
Dear to the plains, the Virtues came along,
The shepherds lov'd, and Selim bless'd his song.
ECLOGUE II. HASSAN; OR, THE CAMEL-DRIVER.
SCENE, THE DESERT. TIME, MID-DAY.
IN silent horror o'er the boundless waste
The driver Hassan with his camels past:
One cruise of water on his back he bore,
And his light scrip contain'd a scanty store;
A fan of painted feathers in his hand,
To guard his shaded face from scorching sand.
The sultry sun had gain'd the middle sky,
And not a tree, and not an herb was nigh;
The beasts, with pain, their dusty way pursue,
Shrill roar'd the winds, and dreary was the view!
With desperate sorrow wild, th' affrighted man
Thrice sigh'd, thrice struck his breast, and thus began:
" Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day,
" When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!"
Ah! little thought I of the blasting wind,
The thirst or pinching hunger that I find!
Bethink thee, Hassan, where shall Thirst asswage,
When fails this cruise, his unrelenting rage?
Soon shall this scrip its precious load resign;
Then what but tears and hunger shall be thine?
Ye mute companions of my toils, that bear
In all my griefs a more than equal share!
Here, where no springs in murmurs break away,
Or moss-crown'd fountains mitigate the day,
In vain ye hope the green delights to know,
Which plains more blest, or verdant vales bestow:
Here rocks alone, and tasteless sands are found,
And faint and sickly winds for ever howl around.
" Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day,
" When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!"
Curst be the gold and silver which persuade
Weak men to follow far-fatiguing trade!
The lilly-peace outshines the silver store,
And life is dearer than the golden ore:
Yet money tempts us o'er the desert brown,
To every distant mart and wealthy town.
Full oft we tempt the land, and oft the sea;
And are we only yet repay'd by thee?
Ah! why was ruin so attractive made,
Or why fond man so easily betray'd?
Why heed we not, while mad we haste along,
The gentle voice of peace, or pleasure's song?
Or wherefore think the flowery mountain's side,
The fountain's murmurs, and the valley's pride,
Why think we these less pleasing to behold,
Than dreary deserts, if they lead to gold?
" Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day,
" When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!"
O cease, my fears!—all frantic as I go,
When thought creates unnumber'd scenes of woe,
What if the lion in his rage I meet!—
Oft in the dust I view his printed feet:
And fearful! oft, when day's declining light
Yields her pale empire to the mourner night,
By hunger rous'd, he scours the groaning plain,
Gaunt wolves and sullen tygers in his train:
Before them death with shrieks directs their way,
Fills the wild yell, and leads them to their prey.
" Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day,
" When first from Shiraz' walls I bent my way!"
At that dead hour the silent asp shall creep,
If ought of rest I find, upon my sleep:
Or some swoln serpent twist his scales around,
And wake to anguish with a burning wound.
Thrice happy they, the wise contented poor,
From lust of wealth, and dread of death secure!
They tempt no deserts, and no griefs they find;
Peace rules the day, where reason rules the mind.
" Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day,
" When first from Shiraz' walls I bent my way!"
O hapless youth! for she thy love hath won,
The tender Zara, will be most undone!
Big swell'd my heart, and own'd the powerful maid,
When fast she dropt her tears, as thus she said:
" Farewell the youth whom sighs could not detain,
" Whom Zara's breaking heart implor'd in vain!
" Yet as thou go'st, may every blast arise,
" Weak and unfelt as these rejected sighs!
" Safe o'er the wild, no perils may'st thou see,
" No griefs endure, nor weep, false youth, like me."
O let me safely to the fair return,
Say with a kiss, she must not, shall not mourn;
O! let me teach my heart to lose its fears,
Recall'd by Wisdom's voice, and Zara's tears.
He said, and call'd on heaven to bless the day,
When back to Schiraz' walls he bent his way.
ECLOGUE III. ABRA; OR, THE GEORGIAN SULTANA.
SCENE, A FOREST. TIME, THE EVENING.
IN Georgia's land, where Tefflis' towers are seen,
In distant view along the level green,
While evening dews enrich the glittering glade,
And the tall forests cast a longer shade,
What time 'tis sweet o'er fields of rice to stray,
Or scent the breathing maize at setting day;
Amidst the maids of Zagen's peaceful grove,
Emyra sung the pleasing cares of love.
Of Abra first began the tender strain,
Who led her youth with flocks upon the plain:
At morn she came those willing flocks to lead,
Where lillies rear them in the watery mead;
From early dawn the live-long hours she told,
'Till late at silent eve she penn'd the fold.
Deep in the grove, beneath the secret shade,
A various wreath of odorous flowers she made:
That these flowers are found in very great abundance in some of the provinces of Persia; see the modern history of the ingenious Mr. Salmon.
Gay-motley'd pinks and sweet jonquils she chose,
The violet blue that on the moss-bank grows;
All-sweet to sense, the flaunting rose was there:
The finish'd chaplet well-adorn'd her hair.
Great Abbas chanc'd that fated morn to stray,
By love conducted from the chace away;
Among the vocal vales he heard her song,
And sought the vales and echoing groves among:
At length he found, and wooed the rural maid;
She knew the monarch, and with fear obey'd.
" Be every youth like royal Abbas mov'd,
" And every Georgian maid like Abra lov'd!"
The royal lover bore her from the plain;
Yet still her crook and bleating flock remain:
Oft as she went, she backward turn'd her view,
And bad that crook and bleating flock adieu.
Fair happy maid! to other scenes remove,
To richer scenes of golden power and love!
Go leave the simple pipe, and shepherd's strain;
With love delight thee, and with Abbas reign.
" Be every youth like royal Abbas mov'd,
" And every Georgian maid like Abra lov'd!"
Yet midst the blaze of courts she fix'd her love
On the cool fountain, or the shady grove;
Still with the shepherd's innocence her mind
To the sweet vale, and flowery mead inclin'd;
And oft as spring renew'd the plains with flowers,
Breath'd his soft gales, and led the fragrant hours,
With sure return she sought the sylvan scene,
The breezy mountains, and the forests green.
Her maids around her mov'd, a duteous band!
Each bore a crook all-rural in her hand:
Some simple lay, of flocks and herds they sung;
With joy the mountain, and the forest rung.
" Be every youth like royal Abbas mov'd,
" And every Georgian maid like Abra lov'd!"
And oft the royal lover left the care
And thorns of state, attendant on the fair;
Oft to the shades and low-roof'd cots retir'd,
Or sought the vale where first his heart was fir'd:
A russet mantle, like a swain, he wore,
And thought of crowns and busy courts no more.
" Be every youth like royal Abbas mov'd,
" And every Georgian maid like Abra lov'd!"
Blest was the life, that royal Abbas led:
Sweet was his love. and innocent his bed.
What if in wealth the noble maid excel;
The simple shepherd girl can love as well.
Let those who rule on Persia's jewell'd throne,
Be fam'd for love, and gentlest love alone;
Or wreathe, like Abbas, full of fair renown,
The lover's myrtle, with the warrior's crown.
O happy days! the maids around her say;
O haste, profuse of blessings, haste away!
" Be every youth, like royal Abbas, mov'd;
" And every Georgian maid, like Abra, lov'd!"
ECLOGUE IV. AGIB AND SECANDER; OR, THE FUGITIVES.
SCENE, A MOUNTAIN IN CIRCASSIA. TIME, MIDNIGHT.
IN fair Circassia, where, to love inclin'd,
Each swain was blest, for every maid was kind;
At that still hour, when awful midnight reigns,
And none, but wretches, haunt the twilight plains;
What time the moon had hung her lamp on high,
And past in radiance thro' the cloudless sky;
Sad o'er the dews, two brother shepherds fled,
Where wildering fear and desperate sorrow led:
Fast as they prest their flight, behind them lay
Wide ravag'd plains, and vallies stole away.
Along the mountain's bending sides they ran,
'Till faint and weak Secander thus began:
O stay thee, Agib, for my feet deny,
No longer friendly to my life, to fly.
Friend of my heart, O turn thee and survey,
Trace our sad flight thro' all its length of way!
And first review that long-extended plain,
And yon wide groves, already past with pain!
Yon ragged cliff, whose dangerous path we tried!
And last this lofty mountain's weary side!
Weak as thou art, yet hapless must thou know
The toils of flight, or some severer woe!
Still as I haste, the Tartar shouts behind,
And shrieks and sorrows load the saddening wind:
In rage of heart, with ruin in his hand,
He blasts our harvests, and deforms our land.
Yon citron grove, whence first in fear we came,
Droops its fair honours to the conquering flame:
Far fly the swains, like us, in deep despair,
And leave to ruffian bands their fleecy care.
Unhappy land, whose blessings tempt the sword,
In vain, unheard, thou call'st thy Persian lord!
In vain thou court'st him, helpless, to thine aid,
To shield the shepherd, and protect the maid!
Far off, in thoughtless indolence resign'd,
Soft dreams of love and pleasure soothe his mind:
'Midst fair sultanas lost in idle joy,
No wars alarm him, and no fears annoy.
Yet these green hills, in summer's sultry heat,
Have lent the monarch oft a cool retreat.
Sweet to the sight is Zabran's flowery plain,
And once by maids and shepherds lov'd in vain!
No more the virgins shall delight to rove
By Sargis' banks, or Irwan's shady grove;
On Tarkie's mountain catch the cooling gale,
Or breathe the sweets of Aly's flowery vale:
Fair scenes! but, ah! no more with peace possest,
With ease alluring, and with plenty blest.
No more the shepherds whitening tents appear,
Nor the kind products of a bounteous year;
No more the date, with snowy blossoms crown'd!
But ruin spreads her baleful fires around.
In vain Circassia boasts her spicy groves,
For ever fam'd for pure and happy loves:
In vain she boasts her fairest of the fair,
Their eye's blue languish, and their golden hair!
Those eyes in tears their fruitless grief must send;
Those hairs the Tartar's cruel hand shall rend.
Ye Georgian swains that piteous learn from far
Circassia's ruin, and the waste of war;
Some weightier arms than crooks and staffs prepare,
To shield your harvests, and defend your fair:
The Turk and Tartar like designs pursue,
Fix'd to destroy, and stedfast to undo.
Wild as his land, in native deserts bred,
By lust incited, or by malice led,
The villain Arab, as he prowls for prey,
Oft marks with blood and wasting flames the way;
Yet none so cruel as the Tartar foe,
To death inur'd, and nurst in scenes of woe.
He said; when loud along the vale was heard
A shriller shriek, and nearer fires appear'd:
Th' affrighted shepherds thro' the dews of night,
Wide o'er the moon-light hills renew'd their flight.
TWELVE ODES.
BY THE SAME.
ODE TO PITY.
O Thou, the friend of man assign'd,
With balmy hands his wounds to bind,
And charm his frantic woe:
When first Distress, with dagger keen,
Broke forth to waste his destin'd scene,
His wild unsated foe!
By Pella's
Euripides.
Bard, a magic name,
By all the griefs his thought could frame,
Receive my humble rite:
Long, Pity, let the nations view
Thy sky-worn robes of tenderest blue,
And eyes of dewy light!
But wherefore need I wander wide
To old Ilissus' distant fide,
Deserted stream, and mute?
Wild Arun
A river in Sussex.
too has heard thy strains,
And Echo, 'midst my native plains,
Been sooth'd by Pity's lute.
There first the wren thy myrtles shed
On gentlest Otway's infant head,
To him thy cell was shown;
And while he sung the female heart,
With youth's soft notes unspoil'd by art,
Thy turtles mix'd their own.
Come, Pity, come, by fancy's aid,
Even now my thoughts, relenting maid,
Thy temple's pride design:
Its southern site, its truth compleat
Shall raise a wild enthusiast heat,
In all who view the shrine.
There Picture's toils shall well relate,
How chance, or hard involving fate,
O'er mortal bliss prevail:
The buskin'd Muse shall near her stand,
And sighing prompt her tender hand,
With each disastrous tale.
There let me oft, retir'd by day,
In dreams of passion melt away,
Allow'd with thee to dwell:
There waste the mournful lamp of night,
Till, Virgin, thou again delight
To hear a British shell!
ODE TO FEAR.
THou, to whom the world unknown
With all its shadowy shapes is shown;
Who seest appall'd th' unreal scene,
While Fancy lifts the veil between:
Ah Fear! ah frantic Fear!
I see, I see thee near.
I know thy hurried step, thy haggard eye!
Like thee I start, like thee disorder'd fly,
For lo what monsters in thy train appear!
Danger, whose limbs of giant mold
What mortal eye can fix'd behold?
Who stalks his round, an hideous form,
Howling amidst the midnight storm,
Or throws him on the ridgy steep
Of some loose hanging rock to sleep:
And with him thousand phantoms join'd,
Who prompt to deeds accurs'd the mind:
And those, the fiends, who near allied,
O'er Nature's wounds, and wrecks preside;
While Vengeance, in the lurid air,
Lifts her red arm, expos'd and bare:
On whom that ravening Brood of fate,
Who lap the blood of Sorrow, wait;
Who, Fear, this ghastly train can see,
And look not madly wild, like thee?
EPODE.
In earliest Greece to thee, with partial choice,
The grief-full Muse addrest her infant tongue;
The maids and matrons, on her awful voice,
Silent and pale in wild amazement hung.
Yet he, the Bard
Aeschylus.
who first invok'd thy name,
Disdain'd in Marathon its power to feel:
For not alone he nurs'd the poet's flame,
But reach'd from Virtue's hand the patriot's steel.
But who is he whom later garlands grace,
Who left a-while o'er Hybla's dews to rove,
With trembling eyes thy dreary steps to trace,
Where thou and Furies shar'd the baleful grove?
Wrapt in thy cloudy veil th' incestuous Queen
Jocasta.
Sigh'd the sad call her son and husband hear'd,
When once alone it broke the silent scene,
And he the wretch of Thebes no more appear'd.
O Fear, I know thee by my throbbing heart,
Thy withering power inspir'd each mournful line,
Tho' gentle Pity claim her mingled part,
Yet all the thunders of the scene are thine!
ANTISTROPHE.
Thou who such weary lengths hast past,
Where wilt thou rest, mad Nymph, at last?
Say, wilt thou shroud in haunted cell,
Where gloomy Rape and Murder dwell?
Or in some hollow'd seat,
'Gainst which the big waves beat,
Hear drowning seamens cries in tempests brought!
Dark power, with shuddering meek submitted thought,
Be mine, to read the visions old,
Which thy awakening bards have told:
And, lest thou meet my blasted view,
Hold each strange tale devoutly true;
Ne'er be I found, by thee o'er-aw'd,
In that thrice-hallow'd eve abroad,
When ghosts, as cottage-maids believe,
Their pebbled beds permitted leave,
And Goblins haunt from fire, or fen,
Or mine, or flood, the walks of men!
O thou whose spirit most possest
The sacred seat of Skakespear's breast!
By all that from thy prophet broke,
In thy divine emotions spoke:
Hither again thy fury deal,
Teach me but once like him to feel:
His cypress wreath my meed decree,
And I, O Fear, will dwell with thee!
ODE TO SIMPLICITY.
O Thou by Nature taught,
To breathe her genuine thought,
In numbers warmly pure, and sweetly strong:
Who first on mountains wild,
In Fancy, loveliest child,
Thy babe, or Pleasure's, nurs'd the powers of song!
Thou, who with hermit heart
Disdain'st the wealth of art,
And gauds, and pageant weeds, and trailing pall:
But com'st a decent maid,
In Attic robe array'd,
O chaste, unboastful nymph, to thee I call!
By all the honey'd store
On Hybla's thy my shore,
By all her blooms, and mingled murmurs dear,
By her, whose love-lorn woe,
In evening musings slow,
Sooth'd sweetly sad Electra's poet's ear:
By old Cephisus deep,
Who spread his wavy sweep
In warbled wanderings round thy green retreat,
On whose enamel'd side,
When holy Freedom died,
No equal haunt allur'd thy future feet.
O sister meek of truth,
To my admiring youth,
Thy sober aid and native charms infuse!
The flowers that sweetest breathe,
Tho' beauty cull'd the wreath,
Still ask thy hand to range their order'd hues.
While Rome could none esteem,
But virtue's patriot theme,
You lov'd her hills, and led her laureate band:
But staid to sing alone
To one distinguish'd throne,
And turn'd thy face, and fled her alter'd land.
No more, in hall or bower,
The passions own thy power,
Love, only love her forceless numbers mean:
For thou hast left her shrine,
Nor olive more, nor vine,
Shall gain thy feet to bless the servile scene.
Tho' taste, tho' genius bless
To some divine excess,
Faint's the cold work till thou inspire the whole;
What each, what all supply,
May court, may charm our eye,
Thou, only thou can'st raise the meeting soul!
Of these let others ask,
To aid some mighty task,
I only seek to find thy temperate vale:
Where oft my reed might sound
To maids and shepherds round,
And all thy sons, O Nature, learn my tale.
ODE ON THE POETICAL CHARACTER.
AS once, if not with light regard,
I read aright that gifted Bard,
(Him whose school above the rest
His loveliest Elfin queen has blest)
One, only one, unrival'd fair
Florimel, See Spenser Leg. 4th.
,
Might hope the magic girdle wear,
At solemn turney hung on high,
The wish of each love-darting eye;
Lo! to each other nymph in turn applied,
As if, in air unseen, some hovering hand,
Some chaste and angel-friend to virgin-fame,
With whisper'd spell had burst the starting band,
It left unblest her loath'd dishonour'd side;
Happier hopeless fair, if never
Her baffled hand with vain endeavour
Had touch'd that fatal zone to her denied!
Young Fancy thus, to me divinest name,
To whom, prepar'd and bath'd in heaven.
The cest of amplest power is given:
To few the god-like gift assigns,
To gird their blest prophetic loins,
And gaze her visions wild, and feel unmix'd her flame
The band, as fairy legends say,
Was wove on that creating day,
When he, who call'd with thought to birth
Yon tented sky, this laughing earth,
And drest with springs, and forests tall,
And pour'd the main engirting all,
Long by the lov'd Enthusiast wooed,
Himself in some diviner mood,
Retiring, sate with her alone,
And plac'd her on his saphire throne,
The whiles, the vaulted shrine around,
Seraphic wires were heard to sound,
Now sublimest triumph swelling,
Now on love and mercy dwelling;
And she, from out the veiling cloud,
Breath'd her magic notes aloud:
And thou, thou rich-hair'd youth of morn,
And all thy subject life was born!
The dangerous passions kept aloof,
Far from the sainted growing woof:
But near it sate ecstatic Wonder,
Listening the deep applauding thunder:
And Truth, in sunny vest array'd,
By whose the Tarsol's eyes were made;
All the shadowy tribes of Mind,
In braided dance their murmurs join'd,
And all the bright uncounted Powers,
Who feed on heaven's ambrosial flowers.
Where is the Bard, whose soul can now
Its high presuming hopes avow?
Where he who thinks, with rapture blind,
This hallow'd work for him design'd?
High on some cliff, to heaven up-pil'd,
Of rude access, of prospect wild,
Where, tangled round the jealous steep,
Strange shades o'erbrow the vallies deep,
And holy Genii guard the rock,
Its glooms embrown, its springs unlock,
While on its rich ambitious head,
An Eden, like his own, lies spread.
I view that oak, the fancied glades among,
By which as Milton lay, his evening ear,
From many a cloud that drop'd ethereal dew,
Nigh spher'd in heaven its native strains could hear:
On which that antient trump he reach'd was hung;
Thither oft his glory greeting,
From Waller's myrtle shades retreating,
With many a vow from Hope's aspiring tongue,
My trembling feet his guiding steps pursue;
In vain—Such bliss to one alone,
Of all the sons of soul was known,
And Heaven, and Fancy, kindred powers,
Have now o'erturn'd th' inspiring bowers,
Or curtain'd close such scene from every future view.
ODE, WRITTEN IN THE BEGINNING OF THE YEAR MDCCXLVI.
HOW sleep the brave, who sink to rest,
By all their country's wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallow'd mold,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod,
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
By Fairy hands their knell is rung,
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay,
And Freedom shall a-while repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there!
ODE TO MERCY.
STROPHE.
O Thou, who sit'st a smiling bride
By Valour's arm'd and awful side,
Gentlest of sky-born forms, and best ador'd:
Who oft with songs, divine to hear,
Win'st from his fatal grasp the spear,
And hid'st in wreaths of flowers his bloodless sword!
Thou who, amidst the deathful field,
By godlike chiefs alone beheld,
Oft with thy bosom bare art found,
Pleading for him the youth who sinks to ground:
See, Mercy, see, with pure and loaded hands,
Before thy shrine my oountry's genius stands,
And decks thy altar still, tho' pierc'd with many a wound!
ANTISTROPHE.
When he whom even our joys provoke,
The Fiend of Nature join'd his yoke,
And rush'd in wrath to make our isle his prey;
Thy form, from out thy sweet abode,
O'ertook him on his blasted road,
And stop'd his wheels, and look'd his rage away.
I see recoil his sable steeds,
That bore him swift to savage deeds,
Thy tender melting eyes they own;
O Maid, for all thy love to Britain shown,
Where Justice bars her iron tower,
To thee we build a roseate bower,
Thou, thou shalt rule our queen, and share our monarch's throne!
ODE TO LIBERTY.
STROPHE.
WHO shall awake the Spartan sife,
And call in solemn sounds to life,
The youths, whose locks divinely spreading,
Like vernal hyacinths in sullen hue,
At once the breath of fear and virtue shedding,
Applauding Freedom lov'd of old to view?
What new Alcaeus
Alluding to a beautiful fragment of Alcaeus,
, fancy-blest,
Shall sing the sword, in myrtles drest,
At Wisdom's shrine a-while its flame concealing,
(What place so fit to seal a deed renown'd?)
Till she her brightest lightnings round revealing,
It leap'd in glory forth, and dealt her prompted wound!
O Goddess, in that feeling hour,
When most its sounds would court thy ears,
Let not my shell's misguided power,
E'er draw thy sad, thy mindful tears.
No, Freedom, no, I will not tell,
How Rome, before thy weeping face,
With heaviest sound, a giant-statue, fell,
Push'd by a wild and artless race,
From off its wide ambitious base,
When time his northern sons of spoil awoke,
And all the blended work of strength and grace,
With many a rude repeated stroke,
And many a barbarous yell, to thousand fragments broke.
EPODE.
2.
Yet even, where'er the least appear'd,
Th' admiring world thy hand rever'd;
Still, 'midst the scatter'd states around,
Some remnants of her strength were found;
They saw, by what escap'd the storm,
How wonderous rose her perfect form;
How in the great, the labour'd whole,
Each mighty master pour'd his soul!
For sunny Florence, seat of art,
Beneath her vines preserv'd a part,
Till they
The family of the Medici.
, whom science lov'd to name,
(O who could fear it?) quench'd her flame.
And lo, an humbler relic laid
In jealous Pisa's olive shade!
See small Marino
The little republic of San Marino.
joins the theme,
Tho' least, not last in thy esteem:
Strike, louder strike th' ennobling strings
To those
The Venetians.
, whose merchant sons were kings;
To him
The Doge of Venice.
, who, deck'd with pearly pride,
In Adria weds his green-hair'd bride;
Hail port of glory, wealth, and pleasure,
Ne'er let me change this Lydian measure:
Nor e'er her former pride relate,
To sad Liguria's
Genoa.
bleeding state.
Ah no! more pleas'd thy haunts I seek,
On wild Helvetia's
Switzerland.
mountains bleak:
(Where, when the favour'd of thy choice,
The daring archer heard thy voice;
Forth from his eyrie rous'd in dread,
The ravening Eagle northward fled.)
Or dwell in willow'd meads more near,
With those
The Dutch, amongst whom there are very severe penalties for those who are convicted of killing this bird. They are kept tame in almost all their towns, and particularly at the Hague, of the arms of which they make a part. The common people of Holland are said to entertain a superstitious sentiment, that if the whole species of them should become extinct, they should lose their liberties.
to whom thy Stork is dear:
Those whom the rod of Alva bruis'd,
Whose crown a British queen
Queen Elizabeth.
refus'd!
The magic works, thou feel'st the strains,
One holier name alone remains;
The perfect spell shall then avail,
Hail Nymph, ador'd by Britain, hail!
ANTISTROPHE.
Beyond the measure vast of thought,
The works, the wizzard Time has wrought!
The Gaul, 'tis held of antique story,
Saw Britain link'd to his now adverse strand
This tradition is mentioned by several of our old historians. Some naturalists too have endeavoured to support the probability of the fact, by arguments drawn from the correspondent disposition of the two opposite coasts. I don't remember that any poetical use has been hitherto made of it.
,
No sea between, nor cliff sublime and hoary,
He pass'd with unwet feet thro' all our land.
To the blown Baltic then, they say,
The wild waves found another way,
Where Orcas howls, his wolfish mountains rounding;
Till all the banded west at once 'gan rise,
A wide wild storm even Nature's self confounding,
Withering her giant sons with strange uncouth surprise.
This pillar'd earth so firm and wide,
By winds and inward labours torn,
In thunders dread was push'd aside,
And down the shouldering billows born.
And see, like gems, her laughing train,
The little isles on every side,
Mona
There is a tradition in the isle of Man, that a mermaid becoming enamoured of a young man of extraordinary beauty, took an opportunity of meeting him one day as he walked on the shore, and opened her passion to him, but was received with a coldness, occasioned by his horror and surprize at her appearance. This however was so misconstrued by the sea-lady, that in revenge for his treatment of her, she punish'd the whole island, by covering it with a mist, so that all who attempted to carry on any commerce with it, either never arrived at it, but wandered up and down the sea, or were on a sudden wrecked upon its cliffs.
, once hid from those who search the main,
Where thousand Elfin shapes abide,
And Wight who checks the westering tide,
For thee consenting heaven has each bestow'd,
A fair attendant on her sovereign pride:
To thee this blest divorce she ow'd,
For thou hast made her vales thy lov'd, thy last abode!
SECOND EPODE.
Then too, 'tis said, an hoary pile,
'Midst the green navel of our isle,
Thy shrine in some religious wood,
O soul-enforcing Goddess stood!
There oft the painted native's feet
Were wont thy form celestial meet:
Tho' now with hopeless toil we trace
Time's backward rolls, to find its place;
Whether the fiery-tressed Dane,
Or Roman's self o'erturn'd the fane,
Or in what heaven-left age it fell,
'Twere hard for modern song to tell.
Yet still, if truth those beams infuse,
Which guide at once, and charm the Muse,
Beyond yon braided clouds that lie,
Paving the light-embroider'd sky:
Amidst the bright pavilion'd plains,
The beauteous Model still remains.
There happier than in islands blest,
Or bowers by Spring or Hebe drest,
The chiefs who fill our Albion's story,
In warlike weeds, retir'd in glory,
Hear their consorted Druids sing
Their triumphs to th' immortal string.
How may the poet now unfold,
What never tongue or numbers told?
How learn delighted, and amaz'd,
What hands unknown that fabric rais'd?
Even now, before his favour'd eyes,
In Gothic pride it seems to rise!
Yet Grecia's graceful orders join,
Majestic thro' the mix'd design;
The secret builder knew to chuse,
Each sphere-found gem of richest hues:
Whate'er heaven's purer mold contains,
When nearer suns emblaze its veins;
There on the walls the Patriot's sight
May ever hang with fresh delight,
And, grav'd with some prophetic rage,
Read Albion's fame thro' every age.
Ye forms divine, ye laureate band,
That near her inmost altar stand!
Now sooth her, to her blissful train
Blithe Concord's social form to gain:
Concord, whose myrtle wand can steep
Even Anger's blood-shot eyes in sleep:
Before whose breathing bosom's balm,
Rage drops his steel, and storms grow calm;
Her let our sires and matrons hoar
Welcome to Britain's ravag'd shore,
Our youths, enamour'd of the fair,
Play with the tangles of her hair,
Till, in one loud applauding sound,
The nations shout to her around,
O how supremely art thou blest,
Thou, Lady, thou shalt rule the west!
ODE, TO A LADY, ON THE DEATH OF COLONEL CHARLES ROSS IN THE ACTION AT FONTENOY. WRITTEN MAY MDCCXLV.
WHile, lost to all his former mirth,
Britannia's genius bends to earth,
And mourns the fatal day:
While stain'd with blood he strives to tear
Unseemly from his sea-green hair
The wreaths of cheerful May:
The thoughts which musing pity pays,
And fond remembrance loves to raise,
Your faithful hours attend:
Still Fancy, to herself unkind,
Awakes to grief the soften'd mind,
And points the bleeding friend.
By rapid Scheld's descending wave
His country's vows shall bless the grave,
Where'er the youth is laid:
That sacred spot the village hind
With every sweetest turf shall bind,
And Peace protect the shade.
Blest youth, regardful of thy doom
In Dodsley's collection of poems vol. 1. stanza 4. runs thus:—
O'er him, whose doom thy virtues grieve,
Aerial forms shall sit at eve,
And bend the pensive head!
And, fallen to save his injur'd land,
Imperial Honour's awful hand
Shall point his lonely bed!
,
Aerial hands shall build thy tomb,
With shadowy trophies crown'd:
While Honour bath'd in tears shall rove
To sigh thy name thro' every grove,
And call his heroes round.
The warlike dead of every age,
Who fill the fair recording page,
Shall leave their sainted rest:
And, half-reclining on his spear,
Each wondering chief by turns appear,
To hail the blooming guest.
Old Edward's sons, unknown to yield,
Shall croud from Cressy's laurell'd field,
And gaze with fix'd delight:
Again for Britain's wrongs they feel,
Again they snatch the gleamy steel,
And wish th' avenging fight.
But lo where, sunk in deep despair
The 7th and 8th stanzas are omitted in Dodsley.
,
Her garments torn, her bosom bare,
Impatient Freedom lies!
Her matted tresses madly spread,
To every sod, which wraps the dead,
She turns her joyless eyes.
Ne'er shall she leave that lowly ground,
Till notes of triumph bursting round
Proclaim her reign restor'd:
Till William seek the sad retreat,
And, bleeding at her sacred feet,
Present the sated sword.
If, weak to soothe so soft an heart,
These pictur'd glories nought impart,
To dry thy constant tear:
If yet, in Sorrow's distant eye,
Expos'd and pale thou seest him lie,
Wild war insulting near:
Where'er from time thou court'st relief,
The Muse shall still, with social grief,
Her gentlest promise keep:
Even humble Harting's cottag'd vale
Shall learn the sad repeated tale,
And bid her shepherds weep.
ODE TO EVENING.
IF aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song
Stanza 1. in Dodsley is printed thus:—
If ought of oaten stop, or pastoral song,
May hope, chaste Eve, to sooth thy modest ear,
Like thy own solemn springs,
Thy, &c,
,
May hope, O pensive Eve, to soothe thine ear,
Like thy own brawling springs,
Thy springs, and dying gales,
O Nymph reserv'd, while now the bright-hair'd sun
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,
With brede ethereal wove,
O'erhang his wavy bed:
Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed bat,
With short shrill shrieks flits by on leathern wing,
Or where the beetle winds
His small but sullen horn,
As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim born in heedless hum:
Now teach me, Maid compos'd,
To breathe some soften'd strain,
Whose numbers stealing thro' thy darkning vale,
May not unseemly with its stillness suit,
As musing slow, I hail
Thy genial lov'd return!
For when thy folding star arising shows
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp
The fragrant Hours, and Elves
Who slept in buds the day,
And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge,
And sheds the freshening dew, and lovelier still,
The pensive Pleasures sweet
Prepare thy shadowy car.
Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene
Stanzas 8 and 9 in Dodsley stand thus:—
Then lead, calm Vot'ress, where some sheety lake
Cheers the lone heath, or some time-hallow'd pile,
Or upland fallows grey
Reflect its last cool gleam.
But when chill blustering winds, or driving rain,
Forbid my willing feet, &c.
,
Or find some ruin 'midst its dreary dells,
Whose walls more awful nod
By thy religious gleams.
Or if chill blustring winds, or driving rain,
Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut,
That from the mountain's side,
Views wilds, and swelling floods,
And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires,
And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all
Thy dewy fingers draw
The gradual dusky veil.
While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont,
And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve!
While Summer loves to sport
Beneath thy lingering light:
While sallow Autumn sills thy lap with leaves,
Or Winter, yelling thro' the troublous air,
Affrights thy shrinking train,
And rudely rends thy robes:
So long regardful of thy quiet rule
Last stanza thus:—
So long, sure found beneath the sylvan shed,
Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, rose-lip'd Health,
Thy gentlest influence own,
And hymn thy favourite name.
,
Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace,
Thy gentlest influence own,
And love thy favourite name!
ODE TO PEACE.
O Thou, who bad'st thy turtles bear
Swift from his grasp thy golden hair,
And sought'st thy native skies:
When War, by vultures drawn from far,
To Britain bent his iron car,
And bad his storms arise!
Tir'd of his rude tyrannic sway,
Our youth shall fix some festive day,
His sullen shrines to burn:
But thou, who hear'st the turning spheres,
What sounds may charm thy partial ears,
And gain thy blest return!
O Peace, thy injur'd robes up-bind,
O rise, and leave not one behind
Of all thy beamy train:
The British lion, Goddess sweet,
Lies stretch'd on earth to kiss thy feet,
And own thy holier reign.
Let others court thy transient smile,
But come to grace thy western isle,
By warlike Honour led!
And, while around her ports rejoice,
While all her sons adore thy choice,
With him for ever wed!
THE MANNERS. AN ODE.
FArewell, for clearer ken design'd,
The dim-discover'd tracts of mind:
Truths which, from action's paths retir'd,
My silent search in vain requir'd!
No more my sail that deep explores,
No more I search those magic shores,
What regions part the world of soul,
Or whence thy streams, Opinion, roll:
If e'er I round such Fairy field,
Some power impart the spear and shield,
At which the wizzard Passions fly,
By which the giant Follies die!
Farewell the porch, whose roof is seen,
Arch'd with th' enlivening olive's green:
Where Science, prank'd in tissued vest,
By Reason, Pride, and Fancy drest,
Comes like a bride, so trim array'd,
To wed with Doubt in Plato's shade!
Youth of the quick uncheated sight,
Thy walks, Observance, more invite!
O thou, who lov'st that ampler range,
Where life's wide prospects round thee change,
And, with her mingling sons allied,
Throw'st the prattling page aside:
To me in converse sweet impart,
To read in man the native heart,
To learn, where Science sure is found,
From Nature as she lives around:
And gazing oft her mirror true,
By turns each shifting image view!
Till meddling Art's officious lore,
Reverse the lessons taught before,
Alluring from a safer rule,
To dream in her enchanted school;
Thou heaven, whate'er of great we boast,
Hast blest this social science most.
Retiring hence to thoughtful cell,
As Fancy breathes her potent spell,
Not vain she finds the charmful task,
In pageant quaint, in motley mask,
Behold, before her musing eyes,
The countless Manners round her rise;
While ever varying as they pass,
To some Contempt applies her glass:
With these the white-rob'd Maids combine,
And those the laughing Satyrs join!
But who is he whom now she views,
In robe of wild contending hues?
Thou by the passions nurs'd; I greet
The comic sock that binds thy feet!
O Humour, thou whose name is known,
To Britain's favour'd isle alone:
Me too amidst thy band admit,
There where the young-eyed healthful Wit,
Whose jewels in his crisped hair
Are plac'd each other's beams to share,
Whom no delights from thee divide)
In laughter loos'd attends thy side!
By old Miletus
Alluding to the Milesian tales, some of the earliest romances.
who so long
Has ceas'd his love-inwoven song:
By all you taught the Tuscan maids,
In chang'd Italia's modern shades:
By him
Cervantes.
, whose Knight's distinguish'd name
Resin'd a nation's lust of fame;
Whose tales even now, with echoes sweet,
Castilia's Moorish hills repeat:
Or him
Monsieur Le Sage, author of the incomparable adventures of Gil Blas de Santillane, who died in Paris in the year 1745.
, whom Seine's blue nymphs deplore,
In watchet weeds on Gallia's shore,
Who drew the sad Sicilian maid,
By virtues in her sire betray'd:
O Nature boon, from whom proceed
Each forceful thought, each prompted deed;
If but from thee I hope to feel,
On all my heart imprint thy seal!
Let some retreating Cynic find
Those oft-turn'd scrolls I leave behind,
The Sports and I this hour agree,
To rove thy scene-full world with thee!
THE PASSIONS.
AN ODE FOR MUSIC.
WHen Music, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Throng'd around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possest beyond the Muse's painting;
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturb'd, delighted, rais'd, resin'd.
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fir'd,
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspir'd,
From the supporting myrtles round
They snatch'd her instruments of sound,
And as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each, for madness rul'd the hour,
Would prove his own expressive power.
First Fear his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewilder'd laid,
And back recoil'd he knew not why,
Even at the sound himself had made.
Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire,
In lightnings own'd his secret stings,
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,
And swept with hurried hand the strings.
With woeful measures wan Despair
Low sullen sounds his grief beguil'd,
A solemn, strange, and mingled air,
'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.
But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure?
Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure,
And bad the lovely scenes at distance hail!
Still would her touch the strain prolong,
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,
She call'd on Echo still thro' all the song;
And where her sweetest theme she chose,
A soft responsive voice was heard at every close,
And Hope enchanted smil'd, and wav'd her golden hair.
And longer had she sung,—but, with a frown,
Revenge impatient rose,
He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down,
And, with a withering look,
The war-denouncing trumpet took,
And blew a blast so loud and dread,
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe.
And ever and anon he beat
The doubling drum with furious heat;
And tho' sometimes, each dreary pause between,
Dejected Pity at his side,
Her soul-subduing voice applied,
Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien,
While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his head.
Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd,
Sad proof of thy distressful state,
Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd,
And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on Hate.
With eyes up-rais'd, as one inspir'd,
Pale Melancholy sat retir'd,
And from her wild sequester'd seat,
In notes by distance made more sweet,
Pour'd thro' the mellow Horn her pensive soul:
And dashing soft from rocks around,
Bubbling runnels join'd the sound;
Thro' glades and glooms the mingled measure stole,
Or o'er some haunted stream with fond delay,
Round an holy calm diffusing,
Love of peace, and lonely musing,
In hollow murmurs died away.
But O, how alter'd was its sprightlier tone!
When Chearfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,
Her bow across her shoulder flung,
Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew,
Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung,
The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known!
The oak-crown'd Sisters, and their chaste-eyed queen,
Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen,
Peeping from forth their alleys green;
Brown Exercise rejoic'd to hear,
And Sport leapt up, and seiz'd his beechen spear.
Last came Joy's ecstatic trial,
He with viny crown advancing,
First to the lively pipe his hand addrest,
But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol,
Whose sweet entrancing voice he lov'd the best.
They would have thought, who heard the strain,
They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids,
Amidst the festal sounding shades,
To some unwearied minstrel dancing,
While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings,
Love fram'd with Mirth, a gay fantastic round,
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound,
And he, amidst his frolic play,
As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.
O Music, sphere-descended maid,
Friend of pleasure, wisdom's aid,
Why, Goddess, why to us denied?
Lay'st thou thy antient lyre aside?
As in that lov'd Athenian bower,
You learn'd an all-commanding power,
Thy mimic soul, O nymph endear'd,
Can well recall what then it heard.
Where is thy native simple heart,
Devote to virtue, fancy, art?
Arise, as in that elder time,
Warm, energic, chaste, sublime!
Thy wonders, in that god-like age,
Fill thy recording Sister's page—
'Tis said, and I believe the tale,
Thy humblest Reed could more prevail,
Had more of strength, diviner rage,
Than all which charms this laggard age,
Even all at once together found
Caecilia's mingled world of sound—
O bid our vain endeavours cease,
Revive the just designs of Greece,
Return in all thy simple state!
Confirm the tales her sons relate!
AN EPISTLE ADDRESSED TO SIR THOMAS HANMER, ON HIS EDITION OF SHAKESPEAR'S WORKS.
BY THE SAME.
SIR,
WHile born to bring the Muse's happier days,
A patriot's hand protects a poet's lays:
While nurs'd by you she sees her myrtles bloom,
Green and unwither'd o'er his honour'd tomb:
Excuse her doubts, if yet she fears to tell
What secret transports in her bosom swell:
With conscious awe she hears the critic's fame,
And blushing hides her wreath at Shakespear's name.
ard was the lot those injur'd strains endur'd,
nown'd by science, and by years obscur'd:
air Fancy wept; and echoing sighs confess'd
fixt despair in every tuneful breast.
ot with more grief th' afflicted swains appear,
When wintry winds deform the plenteous year;
When lingering frosts the ruin'd seats invade
Where Peace resorted, and the Graces play'd.
Each rising art by just gradation moves,
oil builds on toil, and age on age improves:
The Muse alone unequal dealt her rage,
And grac'd with noblest pomp her earliest stage.
Preserv'd thro' time, the speaking scenes impart
Each changeful wish of Phaedra's tortur'd heart:
Or paint the curse, that mark'd the
The Oedipus of Sophocles.
Theban's reign,
A bed incestuous, and a father slain.
With kind concern our pitying eyes o'erflow,
Trace the sad tale, and own another's woe.
To Rome remov'd, with wit secure to please,
The comic sisters kept their native ease.
With jealous fear declining Greece beheld
Her own Menander's art almost excell'd!
But every Muse essay'd to raise in vain
Some labour'd rival of her tragic strain;
Ilyssus' laurels, tho' transferr'd with toil,
Droop'd their fair leaves, nor knew th' unfriendly foil.
As arts expir'd, resistless Dulness rose;
Goths, priests, or Vandals,—all were Learning's foes.
Till
Julius II. the immediate predecessor of Leo X.
Julius first recall'd each exil'd maid,
And Cosmo own'd them in th' Etrurian shade:
Then deeply skill'd in love's engaging theme,
The soft Provincial pass'd to Arno's stream:
With graceful ease the wanton lyre he strung,
Sweet flow'd the lays—but love was all he sung.
The gay description could not fail to move;
For, led by nature, all are friends to love.
But heaven, still various in its works, decreed
The perfect boast of time should last succeed.
The beauteous union must appear at length,
Of Tuscan fancy, and Athenian strength:
One greater Muse Eliza's reign adorn,
And even a Shakespear to her fame be born!
Yet ah! so bright her morning's opening ray,
In vain our Britain hop'd an equal day!
No second growth the western isle could bear,
At once exhausted with too rich a year.
Too nicely Johnson knew the critic's part;
Nature in him was almost lost in art.
Of softer mold the gentle Fletcher came,
The next in order, as the next in name.
With pleas'd attention 'midst his scenes we find
Each glowing thought, that warms the female mind;
Each melting sigh, and every tender tear,
The lover's wishes, and the virgin's fear.
His
Their characters are thus distinguished by Mr. Dryden.
every strain the Smiles and Graces own;
But stronger Shakespear felt for man alone:
Drawn by his pen, our ruder passions stand
Th' unrivall'd picture of his early hand.
About the time of Shakespear, the poet Hardy was it great repute in France. He wrote, according to Fontenelle, six hundred plays. The French poets after him applied themselves in general to the correct improvement of the stage, which was almost totally disregarded by those of our own country, Johnson excepted.
With gradual steps, and slow, exacter France
Saw Art's fair empire o'er her shores advance:
By length of toil a bright perfection knew,
Correctly bold, and just in all she drew.
Till late Corneille, with
The favourite author of the elder Corneille.
Lucan's spirit fir'd,
Breath'd the free strain, as Rome and He inspir'd:
And classic judgment gain'd to sweet Racine
The temperate-strength of Maro's chaster line.
But wilder far the British laurel spread,
And wreaths less artful crown our poet's head.
Yet He alone to every scene could give
Th' historian's truth, and bid the manners live.
Wak'd at his call I view, with glad surprize,
Majestic forms of mighty monarchs rise.
There Henry's trumpets spread their loud alarms,
And laurel'd Conquest waits her hero's arms.
Here gentler Edward claims a pitying sigh,
Scarce born to honours, and so soon to die!
Yet shall thy throne, unhappy infant, bring
No beam of comfort to the guilty king:
The
Tempus erit Turno, magno cùm optaverit emptum
Intactum pallanta, &c.
time shall come, when Glo'ster's heart shall bleed
In life's last hours, with horror of the deed:
When dreary visions shall at last present
Thy vengeful image in the midnight tent:
Thy hand unseen the secret death shall bear,
Blunt the weak sword, and break th' oppressive spear.
Where'er we turn, by fancy charm'd, we find
Some sweet illusion of the cheated mind.
Oft, wild of wing, she calls the soul to rove
With humbler nature, in the rural grove;
Where swains contented own the quiet scene,
And twilight fairies tread the circled green:
Dress'd by her hand, the woods and valleys smile,
And Spring diffusive decks th' inchanted isle.
O more than all in powerful genius blest,
Come, take thine empire o'er the willing breast!
Whate'er the wounds this youthful heart shall feel,
Thy songs support me, and thy morals heal!
There every thought the poet's warmth may raise,
There native music dwells in all the lays.
O might some verse with happiest skill persuade
Expressive Picture to adopt thine aid!
What wondrous draughts might rise from every page!
What other Raphaels charm a distant age!
Methinks even now I view some free design,
Where breathing Nature lives in every line:
Chaste and subdued the modest lights decay,
Steal into shades, and mildly melt away.
—And see, where
See the tragedy of Julius Caesar.
Anthony, in tears approv'd,
Guards the pale relics of the chief he lov'd:
O'er the cold corse the warrior seems to bend,
Deep sunk in grief, and mourns his murder'd friend!
Still as they press, he calls on all around,
Lifts the torn robe, and points the bleeding wound.
But
Coriolanus. See Mr. Spence's dialogue on the Odyssey.
who is he, whose brows exalted bear
A wrath impatient, and a fiercer air?
Awake to all that injur'd worth can feel,
On his own Rome he turns th' avenging steel.
Yet shall not war's insatiate fury fall,
(So heaven ordains it) on the destin'd wall.
See the fond mother, 'midst the plaintive train,
Hung on his knees, and prostrate on the plain!
Touch'd to the soul, in vain he strives to hide
The son's affection, in the Roman's pride:
O'er all the man conflicting passions rise,
Rage grasps the sword, while Pity melts the eyes.
Thus, generous Critic, as thy Bard inspires,
The sister Arts shall nurse their drooping fires;
Each from his scenes her stores alternate bring,
Blend the fair tints, or wake the vocal string:
Those Sibyl-leaves, the sport of every wind,
(For poets ever were a careless kind)
By thee dispos'd, no farther toil demand,
But, just to Nature, own thy forming hand.
So spread o'er Greece, th' harmonious whole unknown,
Even Homer's numbers charm'd by parts alone.
Their own Ulysses scarce had wander'd more,
By winds and water cast on every shore:
When rais'd by fate, some former Hanmer join'd
Each beauteous image of the boundless mind;
And bade, like thee, his Athens ever claim
A fond alliance with the Poet's name.
A SONG FROM SHAKESPEAR'S CYMBELYNE.
SUNG BY GUIDERUS AND ARVIRAGUS OVER FIDELE, SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD.
BY THE SAME.
TO fair Fidele's grassy tomb
Soft maids, and village hinds shall bring
Each opening sweet, of earliest bloom,
And rifle all the breathing Spring.
No wailing ghost shall dare appear
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove,
But shepherd lads assemble here,
And melting virgins own their love.
No wither'd witch shall here be seen,
No goblins lead their nightly crew;
The female fays shall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew!
The red-breast oft at evening hours
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss, and gather'd flowers,
To deck the ground where thou art laid.
When howling winds, and beating rain,
In tempests shake the sylvan cell;
Or 'midst the chace on every plain,
The tender thought on thee shall dwell.
Each lonely scene shall thee restore,
For thee the tear be duly shed;
Belov'd, till life can charm no more;
And mourn'd, till Pity's self be dead.
A FATHER'S ADVICE TO HIS SON.
DEep in a grove by cypress shaded,
Where mid-day sun had seldom shone,
Or noise the solemn scene invaded,
Save some afflicted Muse's moan,
A swain, tow'rds full-ag'd manhood wending,
Sate sorrowing at the close of day,
At whose fond side a boy attending,
Lisp'd half his father's cares away.
The father's eyes no object wrested,
But on the smiling prattler hung,
Till, what his throbbing heart suggested,
These accents trembled from his tongue.
" My youth's first hope, my manhood's treasure,
My prattling innocent, attend,
Nor fear rebuke, or sour displeasure,
A father's loveliest name is Friend.
Some truths, from long experience flowing,
Worth more than royal grants, receive,
For truths are wealth of heaven's bestowing,
Which kings have seldom power to give.
Since, from an antient race descended,
You boast an unattainted blood,
By yours be their fair fame attended,
And claim by birth-right—To be good.
In love for every fellow-creature,
Superior rise above the crowd,
What most ennobles human nature
Was ne'er the portion of the proud.
Be thine the generous heart that borrows
From others joys a friendly glow,
And for each hapless neighbour's sorrows
Throbs with a sympathetic woe.
This is the temper most endearing;
Tho' wide proud pomp her banner spreads,
An heavenlier power good-nature bearing,
Each heart in willing thraldom leads.
Taste not from Fame's uncertain fountain
The peace-destroying streams that flow,
Nor from Ambition's dangerous mountain
Look down upon the world below.
The princely pine on hills exalted,
Whose lofty branches cleave the sky,
By winds, long brav'd, at last assaulted,
Is headlong whirl'd in dust to lie;
While the mild rose more safely growing,
Low in its unaspiring vale,
Amidst retirement's shelter blowing,
Exchanges sweets with every gale.
Wish not for Beauty's darling features
Moulded by Nature's fondling power,
For fairest forms, 'mong human creatures,
Shine but the pageants of an hour.
I saw the pride of all the meadow,
At noon, a gay Narcissus blow
Upon a river's bank, whose shadow
Bloom'd in the silver waves below;
By noon-tide's heat its youth was wasted,
The waters, as they pass'd, complain'd,
At eve its glories all were blasted,
And not one former tint remain'd.
Nor let vain Wit's deceitful glory
Lead you from Wisdom's path astray,
What genius lives renown'd in story,
To happiness who found the way?
In yonder mead behold that vapour,
Whose vivid beams illusive play,
Far off it seems a friendly taper,
To guide the traveller on his way;
But should some hapless wretch pursuing,
Tread where the treacherous meteors glow,
He'd find, too late, his rashness rueing,
That fatal quicksands lurk below.
In life such bubbles nought admiring,
Gilt with false light, and fill'd with air,
Do you, from pageant crowds retiring,
To Peace in Virtue's cot repair.
There seek the never wasted treasure,
Which mutual love and friendship give,
Domestic comfort, spotless pleasure,
And bless'd and blessing you will live.
If heaven with children crowns your dwelling,
As mine its bounty does with you,
In fondness fatherly excelling,
Th' example you have felt pursue."
He paus'd—for tenderly caressing
The darling of his wounded heart,
Looks had means only of expressing
Thoughts language never could impart.
Now night her mournful mantle spreading,
Had rob'd with black th' horizon round,
And dank dews, from her tresses shedding,
With genial moisture bath'd the ground;
When back to city follies flying,
'Midst custom's slaves he liv'd resign'd,
His face, array'd in smiles, denying
The true complexion of his mind;
For seriously around surveying
Each character, in youth and age,
Of fools betray'd, and knaves betraying,
That play'd upon this human stage,
(Peaceful himself and undesigning)
He loath'd the scenes of guile and strife,
And felt each secret wish inclining
To leave this fretful farce of life.
Yet to whate'er above was fated,
Obediently he bow'd his soul,
For, what all bounteous heaven created,
He thought heaven only should controul.
THE LASS OF ISLE WORTH MILL.
BY THE REV. MR. WOODESON.
DAN Pope first in vogue
Brought the blithe Molly Mogg,
And flourish'd her praise with his quill;
But strange! that as yet
No Twickenham wit
Ever thought of a neighbouring mill.
That the sea's foamy juice
Did Venus produce,
Let poets insist on it still,
I stoutly aver,
That a fairer than her,
Took her rise from the froth of the mill.
But say, O ye Nine,
How a Nymph so divine
Could the lap of a Miller's wife fill?
Say, did not some God
Stray out of his road,
And set up his staff in the mill?
Jove, roguish and loose,
In the shape of a goose,
Did Leda so lovingly bill,
That Helen she hatch'd,
Who never was match'd,
But by the fair Lass of the Mill.
In another disguise
Alem
na he plies,
Like Amphitryon he frolics his fill;
Then why might not Jove,
As a cloak for his love,
Take upon him the Man of the Mill.
No to tell every grace
Of this fresh-water lass,
I must own far surpasses my skill,
Even Pope could not do't,
And from head to foot
Describe the fair Lass of the Mill.
Once Homer inflam'd,
An hundred tongues claim'd
Some arduous task to fulfill,
Let me tell thee, old Bard,
This task were too hard,
Tho' thou hadst all the clacks of the Mill.
Ye youth all beware!
She's bewitchingly fair,
Her eyes most assuredly kill;
And a bosom more sleek
Than the downy swan's neck
Has the beautiful Lass of the Mill
Under petticoat red
Tho' her feet be well hid,
Yet peep they alternately will,
Which plainly must shew
More charms in perdue
Has the beautiful Lass of the Mill.
But fie! Muse forbear
'Tis better by far
No more of those charms to reveal,
So doing you might
New rivals excite,
And carry more sacks to the Mill.
With influence benign,
Ah! would she incline
With my stars but to favour my will,
So it might be with her
'Twould be raptures I swear,
And music to live in a Mill.
Then fair-one be kind,
Nor with water or wind
Inconstant turn round like the wheel,
Lest, when I am dead,
It might justly be said,
That thy heart was the stone of the Mill.
A SONG.
UNjustly, Cloe, you suggest,
That I, inconstant, have possest,
Or lov'd a fairer she:
Would you at once with ease be cur'd
Of all the ills you've long endur'd,
Consult your glass and see.
And if you think that I can find
A nymph more fair, or one more kind,
You've reason for your fears:
But if, impartial you will prove
To your own beauty, and my love,
How needless are your tears.
If in my way I should by chance
Give or receive an amorous glance,
I like but while I view:
How slight's the glance, how faint the kiss,
To that much more substantial bliss
Which I receive from you?
With wanton flight the curious bee
Thro' beds of violets ranges free,
And where each floweret blows,
Extracts the juice of all he meets,
But, for his quintessence of sweets,
He settles on the rose.
So I, my passion to employ,
In each variety of joy,
From nymph to nymph may roam,
Perhaps see fifty in a day,
Those are but visits which I pay,
But Cloe is my home.
ELEGY.
A SHEPHERDESS LAMENTS HER DROWNED LOVER.
YE maids of the village attend
To the sorrowful tale I now speak,
Oh, refuse not your comfort to lend,
For my heart is just ready to break!
Ye knew my dear Celadon well,
He was sprightly, and handsome, and young,
On his lips what persuasion did dwell!
How melodiously soft was his song!
He was all my fond heart e'er desir'd,
He was all that was generous and brave,
What pity the charms I admir'd
From death had not power to save!
But just as the day did approach,
To give the dear youth to my arms,
From the waters they brought me his corse,
How faded were all his gay charms!
As the lily, when drooping with rain,
Dejectedly hangs down its head,
So languish'd his beautiful cheek,
And all its vermilion was fled.
His voice, that as music was sweet,
No more I enraptur'd shall hear,
No more the fond swain shall repeat
A tale of soft love in my ear.
Convey the dear youth to his grave,
Lest his beautiful form I adore,
Yet one silent kiss let me have,
For, alas! I shall see him no more.
Ye maidens attend on his bier,
And strew all the pathway with flowers,
And oh! ye kind deities hear!
May their loves be more happy than ours!
As for me, I will henceforth beware
How in love I engage my fond heart,
For tho' love is a joy, how severe
Is the pang from a lover to part!
ZELIS AT TRIPOLI, TO
Ibrahim is the late Tripoli ambassador, and Zelis his wife.
IBRAHIM IN LONDON.
AN EPISTLE.
She has heard of his infidelity to her, which occasions a fit of illness, in which she writes this.
OH, thou delight and sovereign of my soul,
Haste to revisit thy lov'd native shore,
Quick as the lightning flies from pole to pole,
Fly thou to me, ere yet I am no more!
Those charms which thou wert wont so much to prize,
Those charms, alas! are now for ever fled,
Faded and gone the lustre of my eyes,
And all the roses on my cheeks are dead.
As the pale lily, drench'd with morning dews,
Hangs down dejectedly its drooping head,
So my wan cheek to the beholder shews,
Ne'er to resume its once delicious red.
Black boding thoughts first robb'd me of my peace,
And long in secret on my mind have prey'd,
In vain is medicine tried to give me ease,
In vain, alas! is the physician's aid.
For babbling Fame has whisper'd in my ear,
Since you your Zelis could no longer see,
That to your bosom she no more is dear,
And Ibrahim is false to love and me;
That you're a rover, like the birds of air,
Or, like the bee, that sips each honied flower,
You flutter round each gay fantastic fair,
And fondly court her to the myrtle bower.
Does the first object of my early love,
To whom I gave my spotless virgin charms,
Ungrateful to his faithful Zelis prove,
And waste his substance in a Dancer's arms?
Hark! Honour warns thee from each vicious deed,
Oh rouse each virtue sleeping in thy breast!
Thy Zelis' bosom then no more shall bleed,
No more shall be with jealous cares opprest.
What wouldst thou think, if traitor to thy bed
Thy Zelis should, while thou art absent, prove,
By every amorous youth astray be led,
And to whoever courts her yield her love?
But she, tho' sharp thorns rankle in her breast,
Still to her mate, like Philomel, is true,
Like that sweet bird at night can take no rest,
But sings a plaintive song of love and you.
No need have I of slaves to guard my door,
Of Negro hags most hideous to the sight,
Virtue can shield, whoe'er she dwells with, more
Than eunuchs watching round her bed each night.
Oh think, thou dear destroyer of my ease,
Oh think how cruel those deep wounds must prove,
How it must rob me of all joy and peace,
To know that Ibrahim's faithless to his love?
Haste to my arms, before my eyes I close,
To calm the torments I for thee endure,
Haste, for 'tis thou alone canst bring repose,
The hand that gave the wound alone can cure.
Oh then restore my peace before I die;
Let me thy graceful, manly person view;
Oh let me hear thee say, that "tho' thy eye
Was free, thy heart to me was always true."
So will I clasp thee in my longing arms,
So will I bless thee with my latest breath,
So will I pleas'd resign my faded charms
To the relentless clay-cold hands of death.
And sure these faded charms again shall bloom,
And, like to man's, my soul to heaven shall fly,
My body rise more glorious from the tomb,
And live with Allah to eternity.
Else why has heaven bestow'd a generous mind,
Adorn'd with virtue, constancy, and love?
If here on earth no due reward they find,
They surely must be recompens'd above.
Perhaps there walking in immortal groves,
Like some celestial Houri I shall shine,
Perhaps again we shall renew our loves,
And my dear Ibrahim be for ever mine.
No jealous fears shall then my peace destroy,
No thoughts of parting shall disturb my rest,
But love alone my every thought employ,
For ever blessing, and for ever blest.
THE LADIES LAMENTATION FOR THE DEPARTURE OF IBRAHIM.
ALL silent awhile be each breeze,
Stop, Thames, as thou rollest along,
Attend, and convey to the seas
The heart-piercing notes of our song.
Alas, must the youth so soon go!
Oh, Ibrahim, must thou depart?
Oh stay, and some pity bestow,
And break not with sorrow each heart.
So smiling and gay was his face,
His neck so majestic and strong,
The maidens all crouded to gaze
Wherever he passed along.
His voice, that as music was sweet,
No more we enraptur'd shall hear,
No more the dear youth shall repeat
A tale of soft love in each ear.
No longer with us shall he walk,
No more shall he press the soft hand,
Nor in praise of our charms e'er shall talk,
Such praise as no maid could withstand.
No more at dear whist, or quadrille,
Shall we chase the dull evening away,
No more shall each interval fill
With chit-chat, and innocent play.
Ye zephyrs, oh bear all our sighs,
To blow him a prosperous gale,
If (deaf to our tears and our cries)
The youth is resolv'd to set fail.
But if he with anguish does go,
Oblig'd by parental command,
Adverse may the gale always blow,
And bear him again to our land.
If (spite of the prayers of the fair)
Winds bear him to Tripoli's shore,
Our hearts shall his presence declare,
When the eye shall behold him no more.
HOPE. A PASTORAL BALLAD.
MY pipe sounds a cheerfuller note,
My crook is new garnish'd with flowers,
This day to sweet thoughts I devote,
Where blossom the eglantine bowers.
My sheep unattended may stray
Where clover impurples the plain,
My dog unregarded may play,
Till morning rise on him again.
'Tis fit that they too should partake
Of the joy that enlivens my soul,
At night I'll repair to the wake,
And merrily quaff the full bowl.
Just now, as I walk'd thro' the grove,
I met my dear Delia there,
And told her a tale of my love,
Which she seem'd with soft pleasure to hear.
A blush, like the blush of the dawn,
Stole over her beautiful cheek,
Smiles, sweeter than infants new-born,
Told, more than I wish'd her to speak.
I stole from her hand a sweet kiss,
Nor tried she to draw it away,
No description comes up to the bliss
That reigns in my bosom to-day.
Methinks every Zephyr that blows
Soft music conveys to my ear,
Methinks every floweret that grows
More blooming and fresh does appear.
The birds tune their musical throats,
And sing most delightfully sweet,
In soft and more delicate notes
Sweet Echo my sighs does repeat.
See prayer for indifference, Poet. Cal. vol. 6. p. 76.
ODE TO SENSIBILITY.
THanks to thee, Nymph, whose powerful hand
From dulness set me free,
Thy praises I'll for ever sing,
Sweet Sensibility.
Thy touch, so gentle and benign,
Revives the torpid heart,
Thou pleasure canst from pain refine,
To joys new joy impart.
By thee the gaudy rainbow shows
More beauteous to the eye,
By thee more sweetly smells the rose,
And boasts a brighter dye.
By thee I taste the luscious sweets
Of Cloe's nectar'd kiss,
By thee I laugh, or cheerful sing,
And seize each transient bliss.
When Cloe tunes her liquid voice,
Or tries soft music's art,
By thee the sounds melodious pierce,
Like lightning, to the heart.
By thee the poet's charming lays
Our various passions move,
Now fire the soul with rage, or melt
To pity, or to love.
By thee the scientific page
The scholar's eye delights,
By thee he shares the feast of wit,
Or wit himself indites.
With thee we taste the joys of wine,
Of friendship, and of love,
When thou art gone we lonely pine,
Or melancholic rove.
EPIGRAM UPON MRS. COLLIER'S DEDICATING THE DEATH OF ABEL TO THE QUEEN.
WHen Cain and Abel their first offerings made,
Abel's alone th' Almighty pleas'd survey'd;
Sallen and vex'd, unpitying Cain withdrew,
And soon in private virtuous Abel slew.
But Britain's queen, when Collier homage paid,
And at the throne her book of Abel laid,
Fearing lest envy might attend regard,
Receiv'd the offering, but denied reward!
She fear'd lest Abel might again be slain,
And every Critic prove another Cain.
EPITAPH WRITTEN IN A FIT OF THE VAPOURS.
THat man is a vapour the Scriptures declare,
Which assertion you'll find to be verified here,
He suck'd in the vapours when first he drew breath,
And ne'er breath'd them out till the day of his death,
As in life so in death very low he now lies,
Yet he firmly believes that his spirit will rise.
AN EPISTLE FROM MARY THE COOK, TO RICHARD THE FARMER.
Love, who can thy power controul?
RIchard! of all mankind the most complete,
Plump as a partridge, and as sugar sweet,
Thy breath is fragrant as the new-mown hay,
Thy roguish eyes have stole my heart away,
Thy dunghills mounts of sweet perfumes appear,
Thy hogs grunt music to my love-sick ear;
Where'er you tread a fragrant odour flies,
Sweet as the vapour from the sweetest pies.
On Sunday last it was you threw me down,
My apron tore, and all bedaub'd my gown,
Then would I fain have told you, you was rude,
And slapt your face—ah! faith I wish I could;
What could I do? your hugging stopp'd my breath,
Nor could I move, tho' I'd been hugg'd to death:
Since that dear time my heart has known no rest,
But has been broiling in my flaming breast;
Since that sweet time I neither sleep nor eat,
I spoil my puddings, and I burn my meat.
What mischief love creates in human hearts!
My master swears he cannot touch my tarts.
Whate'er I dress, since then, I'm sure to spoil,
Nor can I roast or bake, or stew or boil.
By day, by night, whate'er I think or do,
My thoughts are always gadding after you.
Amelia and the gentlefolk above
Say they are poz, that Moll is deep in love:
In vain I vow, pertest, and swear in vain
They see my vows are much against the grain:
They see the love that I would fain conceal,
They see my face as white as any veal.
Then to my arms, and to my wishes fly,
I'll fill thy pockets with a Christmas pye,
Of finest flour a pudding I will make,
Store it with plumbs, and bake it for thy sake;
For oft I've heard (oh bless that charming voice!)
A bak'd plumb-pudding was my Dickey's choice.
Come then, oh come! and charm my longing eyes,
Come, save my soups, my puddings, and my pyes;
One smile from thee my senses will restore,
And I shall cook as I have cook'd before.
MARY DERBY.
RICHARD THE FARMER'S ANSWER.
Love reigns a very tyrant in my breast.
DEAR MARY,
THis morn, when at the inn I'd sold my hay,
Give me, says I, the paper of to-day;
But sure it struck me with a strange surprize,
When Mary's letter met her Richard's eyes;
For, tho' thy lines to me are always dear,
I wonder'd how the devil they came there.
Much I admire th' expressions of thy love,
Thy praise bestows a joy all joys above,
Even that which yields such exquisite delight,
When the ripe harvest meets my ravish'd sight.
Yet, dearest Mary, it is I should say,
" Your breath is sweeter than the new-mown hay,
" Your roguish eyes have stole my heart away."
Since from my fields your likenesses you take,
Mine from your kitchen give me leave to make.
Your eyes so soft, so delicately round,
Are like two plumbs I've in a pudding found,
The jet black plumbs their heighten'd lustre owe
To the surrounding pudding's cheeks of snow.
Should I behold the table richly stor'd,
And a bak'd pudding crown the tottering board,
Believe me, Richard not a bit would taste,
If Molly at the table was not plac'd:
A pudding bak'd I ever did approve,
But what's a pudding to a man in love?
Love is a flame—indeed 'tis very hot;
How my blood boils, like water in a pot?
My inward pain my pale complexion speaks,
Which once was browner than a bak'd ox cheek's;
Cupud has pierc'd me with his sharpest dart,
'Tis just as if your spit went thro' my heart.
Alas! how tedious seems the livelong day,
That keeps me from my Molly far away.
I'd fly to thee, my love—but Dobbin's lame,
Oh fate, thou lov'st at me thy darts to aim!
My father calls—one word, and then adieu—
To his dear Mary Richard's ever true;
Oh, how I long to see those lovely eyes!
'Tis all I ask—for others keep your pies.
ON SOME DULL ILL-NATURED VERSES.
" TRue wit is like the precious stone
" Dug from the Indian mine,
" Which boasts two various powers in one,
" To cut as well as shine."
But thine appears some paltry stone,
When judg'd of by these signs,
Whoever tries, convinc'd, must own,
It neither cuts nor shines.
See Poetical Calendar for October, p. 121.
SALT WATER CELEBRATED.
OH may the worthy wight be blest,
In happiest state of man's salvation,
Who first found out for the distrest
Th' ingenious art of navigation.
By this how oft the needy swain,
Who scarce on land can get a living,
Cheerful and happy ploughs the main,
While wise and family are thriving.
The merchant spreads the swelling sail,
And goes o'er pathless oceans strolling;
Then quick returns with prosperous gale,
And sees his riches round him rolling.
Even Britain owes its envied state
To this most fortunate invention;
Then may the caitiff meet with hate,
Who of it makes irreverent mention.
When he with rank disease shall pine,
And stand in need of purge or vomit,
May he be forc'd to swill the brine,
No benefit receiving from it.
Of what he speaks of fallen Eve,
With much attention we've been thinking,
The brine was meant, I do believe,
To keep a certain place from stinking:
So naturalists say, that salt
Is given to keep the ocean sweet,
Else we should e'er be finding fault
Our fish were never fit to eat.
You, who your best friends thus disgrace,
Deserve to have a hearty banging,
And should be thankful in this case,
Salt water often saves from hanging.
If that should ever be your lot,
No briny tide we then will borrow,
But careless see you go to pot,
Without a single mark of sorrow.
But rather do we wish to see
(Oh how our fancies it does tickle!)
The boatswain flog you heartily,
Then wash you well in briny pickle.
A FEW THOUGHTS ON LOTTERIES.
A Lottery, like a magic spell,
All ranks of men bewitches,
Whose beating bosoms vainly swell
With hopes of sudden riches.
With hopes to gain ten thousand pound,
How many post to ruin,
And for an empty, airy sound,
Contrive their own undoing!
Those on whom wealth her stores has shed,
May freely bear their crosses;
But they who earn their daily bread,
Oft sink beneath their losses.
'Tis strange, so many fools we find
By tickets thus deluded,
And, by a trifling turn of mind,
From life's best bliss excluded.
For life's best blessing, calm content,
Attends no more his slumbers,
Who dreams of profit cent. per cent.
And sets his heart on numbers.
Thro' all life's various stages, care
Our peace will oft disquiet,
Life a free-gift it comes, we ne'er
Need be in haste to buy it.
He who intent on shadowy schemes,
By them is deeply bubbled,
Deserves to wake from golden dreams
With disappointment doubled.
Unmov'd by Fortune's fickle wheel,
The wise man chance despises,
And prudence courts with fervent zeal—
She gives the highest prizes.
YORK AND KENT, OR THE CONTEST ABOUT THE BIRTH-PLACE OF GENERAL WOLFE.
ARound the world when Homer's genius shone,
And Ilium stoop'd to Homer's chiefs alone,
When peaceful Ithaca Ulysses sought,
Spreading that wisdom which the poet taught,
Contending cities then, inspir'd by Fame,
To Homer's birth advanc'd their eager claim.
With equal pride each county now, behold!
Among her sons has gallant Wolfe enroll'd.
Were there a Bard, like Homer, to rehearse
His glorious deeds (they ask no meaner verse)
His own Achilles rivall'd he might tell,
While in Quebec a second Ilium fell.
ADVICE TO A LADY, WHO TALKED OF TURNING NUN.
WHat pious whims, my fair, are these?
Why to a nunnery would you go?
Hear me, nor let the truth displease,
You know not what you mean to do.
You mean, those beauties all to hide
That Nature in her bounty gave,
To make you of her works the pride,
And fix the world your willing slave.
You mean, in cloister'd gloom, to shade
Those eyes, that now the sun outshine,
But diamonds, sure, were never made
To shroud their lustre in the mine.
You mean, by abstinence, to lose
Those blushes in your cheeks that rise;
But take this lesson from the rose,
Once from the garden torn, it dies.
You mean, with penance harsh, to prove,
At the chill hour of midnight prayer,
Those graceful limbs, that, as you move,
Betray too plain the Goddess there.
Perfection center'd thus in one,
The gift, as Nature meant, receive,
You, like the Phoenix, shine alone,
But, like her too, a Phoenix leave.
PETRARCH AND LAURA.
AN EPIGRAMMATIC TALE.
DAN Petrarch of old, it has often been said,
By some Cardinal urg'd, his fair Laura to wed,
With an offer of fortune (and well-tim'd it was,
For poets have seldom much rent from Parnass')
Cried, my lord you'll excuse me, but I have a reason
Why even this offer becomes out of season;
I've a new book of sonnets just ripe for the press,
Upon the same plan as the last, you may guess;
I have there, all along, made my Laura a goddess,
And Venus, to please me, has lent her the boddice;
While Hebe, Minerva, and twenty to boot,
With gifts all celestial have trick'd me her out.
Now marriage, my lord, the whole charm would destroy,
And hurl her divinity quite from the sky,
To my cost I should find her no more than a woman,
And my sonnets, alas! would gain credit with no man.
SONNET.
AH! why did heaven such angel-charms bestow,
To make me gaze, and sicken with desire?
Why every virtue lavish on thee so,
To fan a strong, but ineffectual fire?
To me, alas! inexorable fate
Denies that tribute I aspir'd to pay,
Yet may I live untortur'd by thy hate,
Since, how I lov'd, thou hast forbad me say!
If e'er, the captive of those angel-charms,
A future swain his passion shall declare,
Some happier omen guide him to thy arms,
Crown'd be that passion by some kinder star!
But may that future swain in merit equal thee,
And in his constancy alone resemble me!
THE CAUSE OF INCONSTANCY.
HOW have I heard the fair lament
Mans falsehood, and their wretched fate?
How few are with their spouse content,
Or constant to their sighing mate?
How seldom souls below are join'd,
For one another form'd above?
How seldom pairs of hearts we find,
By heaven ordain'd for mutual love?
Thus man's inconstant soul we blame,
For want of knowledge, or of thought,
When all the while, 'tis in the frame
Of both their bodies lies the fault.
When Jove had made this little ball,
For four-legg'd beasts, and creeping things,
At length he form'd, to govern all,
A two-legg'd creature without wings.
Millions of these he made at once,
To save himself all further trouble,
And men and women, for the nonce,
By pairs, like tallies, he made double.
Then from Olympus dreadful top,
Well shaken in a bag together,
He toss'd them down, and let them drop
Just as it pleas'd the wind or weather.
Some fell in Asia, some in Greece,
In England some, and some in Spain,
But seldom two of the same piece,
In the same climate met again.
Hence men, who grown to riper years,
Remembring this their former making,
Hunt up and down to find their peers,
And women too in the same taking.
Some prove too short, and some too tall,
This is too big, and that too little,
A fault they're sure to find in all,
Few ever tally to a tittle.
By chance a pair may meet and love,
And spend their lives in bliss together,
But when they tumbled from above,
It must be mighty temperate weather.
From hence the murmuring fair may see,
Mens hearts are not to blame a bit,
Our souls would never disagree,
If once our bodies did but fit.
A PASTORAL HYMN, TAKEN FROM THE TWENTY-THIRD PSALM,
SEcure o'er the meadow, the valley, and grove,
My steps in a sweet rural innocence rove;
All ease in my bosom, nor mine is the care,
Or to tread the right path, or my food to prepare;
E'er my wishes I speak, every want is supplied,
And how can I err—when the Lord is my guide!
By the hand of indulgence each day am I bless'd,
And am lull'd every night on the pillow of rest:
When hungry, my shepherd his votary leads
To the banquet of nature, that smiles on the meads;
And commands, when I'm thirsty, my fever to cease
With pure living streams from the fountain of peace.
Thus calmly I wander the journey of life,
Unknowing of sorrows, unruffled by strife;
My shepherd still soothing, with tender controul,
Each rebel of passion, that heaves in my soul;
Still pointing indulgent the path to my sight—
And how happy am I—when I know 'tis the right!
Should I tread the lone valley, the comfortless ground,
Where Death spreads a midnight of darkness around,
No danger of fear—while I roam o'er the plain;
Oh! Death all thy horrors, and frowns are in vain!
Still, still thro' the desert my shepherd attends,
Of parents the fondest, the dearest of friends.
Ah! vainly, ye wicked, ye point at my heart,
For the hand of the Lord turns aside every dart;
Ah! vainly, believe me, your rage ye employ
To sully the sweets of an innocent joy;
The oil of delight shall still stream on my head,
And my cup the rich fountains of transport shall shed.
Yes—faithful attendants,—unmov'd from my side
Thy truth shall protect me, thy mercy shall guide;
Yes—Life's little round with such friends will I stray,
Nor heed any danger that frowns in my way;
Then—wing my bold flight to my Saviour's abode,
And prostrate my soul at the throne of my God.
A DIVINE PASTORAL.
BY DR. BYRON.
THE Lord is my shepherd, my guardian, and guide;
Whatsoever I want he will kindly provide;
Ever since I was born, it is he that hath crown'd
The life that he gave me with blessings all round:
While yet on the breast a poor infant I hung,
E'er time had unloosen'd the strings of my tongue,
He gave me the help which I could not then ask;
Now therefore to thank him shall be my tongue's task.
Thro' my tenderest years, with as tender a care,
My soul, like a lamb, in his bosom he bare;
To the brook he would lead me, whene'er I had need,
And point out the pasture where best I might feed:
No harm could approach me; for he was my shield
From the fowls of the air, and the beasts of the field;
The wolf, to devour me, would oftentimes prowl,
But the Lord was my shepherd, and guarded my soul.
How oft, in my youth, have I wander'd astray?
And still he hath brought me back to the right way!
When, lost in dark error, no path I could meet,
His word, like a lantern, hath guided my feet:
What wondrous escapes to his kindness I owe!
When, rash and unthinking, I sought my own woe:
My soul had, long since, been gone down the deep,
If the Lord had not watched, when I was asleep.
Whensoe'er, at a distance, he sees me afraid,
He skips o'er the mountain, and comes to my aid;
Then leads me back gently, and bids me abide
In the midst of his flock, and feed close by his side:
How safe in his keeping, how happy and free,
Could I always remain where he bids me to be;
Yea, blest are the people, and happy thrice told,
That obey the Lord's voice, and abide in his fold.
The fold it is full, and the pasture is green;
All is friendship and love, and no enmity seen:
There the Lord dwells, among us, upon his own hill;
With the flocks all around him awaiting his will:
Himself, in the midst, with a provident eye,
Regarding our wants, and procuring supply;
An abundance springs up of each nourishing bud,
And we gather his gifts, and are filled with good.
At his voice, or example, we move, or we stay,
For the Lord is himself both our leader and way:
The hills smoke with incense where'er he hath trod,
And a sacred perfume shows the footsteps of God:
While, blest with his presence, the valleys beneath
A sweet smelling savour incessantly breathe:
The delight is renew'd of each sensible thing,
And beheld in their bloom all the beauties of spring.
Or, if a quite different scene he prepare,
And we march thro' the wilderness barren and bare;
By his wonderful works, we see plainly enough,
That the earth is the Lord's, and the fulness thereof:
If we hunger, or thirst, and are ready to faint,
A relief in due season prevents our complaint:
The rain, at his word, brings us food from the sky,
And rocks become rivers when we are adry.
From the fruitfullest hill to the barrenest rock,
The Lord hath made all for the sake of his flock;
And the flock, in return, the Lord always confess
In plenty their joy, and their hope in distress:
He beholds in our welfare his glory display'd,
And we find ourselves blest in obedience repay'd:
With a cheerful regard, we attend to his ways,
Our attention is prayer, and our cheerfulness praise.
The Lord is my shepherd; what then shall I fear?
What danger can frighten me while he is near?
Not when the time calls me to walk thro' the vale
Of the shadow of death, shall my heart ever fail;
Tho' afraid, of myself, to pursue the dark way,
Thy rod, and thy staff, be my comfort and stay;
For I know, by thy guidance, when once it is past,
To a fountain of life it will bring me at last.
The lord is become my salvation and song,
His blessing shall follow me all my life long!
Whatsoever condition he places me in,
I am sure 'tis the best it could ever have been:
For the Lord he is good, and his mercies are sure;
He only afflicts us in order to cure:
The Lord will I praise while I have any breath;
Be content all my life, and resign'd at my death.
ON FRIENDSHIP.
—Nomen inane, vale.
FRiendship, adieu! thou dear, deceitful good,
So much profess'd, so little understood:
How often, to thy sacred injur'd name,
A thousand vain pretenders lay their claim?
Like flies, attend the summer of our day,
And in the sun-beams of our fortunes play;
But when life's winter-evening shades come on,
Soon we behold the treacherous insects gone,
And find ourselves at once deserted and undone.
PROLOGUE TO THE DISTRESSED MOTHER, ACTED IN THE COUNTRY TO RAISE MONEY, IN ORDER TO DISCHARGE A DEBTOR FROM PRISON.
BY P.W.
WIde o'er the world Misfortune bears her sway,
Nor holds a feeble empire of a day:
Bound by no limits, or of place or time,
In every age she reigns, and every clime.
Kings at her will must quit their antient throne,
To roam in exile, or in chains to groan;
The widow'd princess, and her captive boy,
In foreign lands lament their native Troy.
Think not she claims alone the regal feat,
And none can be unhappy but the great;
With fatal bow, still bent and aim'd at all,
She sees promiscuous victims round her fall;
Plants in each heart the rankling shaft of woe,
Bids from each eye the gush of sorrow flow:
Yet fair Compassion, heaven-instructed maid,
For ever waits to lend her soothing aid;
With lenient hand propitious balm bestows,
Calms the vex'd mind, and breathes divine repose.
Such in your breasts now glow the generous fires,
Which pity kindles, or desert inspires:
Warm with like zeal your efforts now agree,
Not without law, to set the prisoner free.
Long time, immur'd within yon dreary room,
His days were sadden'd with perpetual gloom;
Estrang'd to him, howe'er the seasons ran,
The face of nature, as the face of man:
By you restor'd, forgot his former pain,
He mingles in the cheerful world again.
Poor as he is, your bounty to repay,
His prayers may thank you in the noblest way.
To you, the circle of the kind and good,
Sincere he vows unceasing gratitude;
His failings and his griefs alike unknown,
Love, freedom, health, and peace be all your own;
Eternal blessings on your steps attend,
Who prove, this night, the poor man's, prisoner's friend.
AN EVENING HYMN.
BY SIR THOMAS BROWN, AUTHOR OF RELIGIO MEDICI.
THE night is come, like to the day,
Depart not thou, great God, away;
Let not my sins, black as the night,
Eclipse the lustre of thy light:
Keep still in my horizon, for to me
The sun makes not the day, but thee.
Thou, whose nature cannot sleep,
On my temples centry keep;
Guard me 'gainst those watchful foes,
Whose eyes are open while mine close.
Let no dreams my head infest,
But such as Jacob's temples blest.
While I do rest, my soul advance,
And make my sleep an holy trance;
That I may, my rest being wrought,
Awake into some holy thought;
And with as active vigour run
My course, as doth the nimble sun.
Sleep is a death; O make me try,
By sleeping, what it is to die:
And as gently lay my head
On my grave, as now my hed.
Howe'er I rest, great God, let me
Awake again at last with thee:
And thus assur'd, behold I lie
Securely, or to wake or die.
These are my drowsy days; in vain
I now do wake, to sleep again;
O come that hour, when I shall never
Sleep again, but wake for ever.
A THOUGHT AT WAKING.
THat morning too will dawn, when I shall rise
Fresh from the dust, and soaring seek the skies;
Then why should I lament that night draws on;
And, tir'd, refuse to lay my burthen down?
Tho' others more, yet I enough have seen,
And guess what is to be, by what hath been.
And since my youthful days, now almost past,
Have pleas'd so little, welcome thou my last.
'Tis the least care, of all that fills this head,
What men design when I have stole to bed.
Closing my eyes, the world I now enclose,
And Fancy, waking, murthers my repose;
But in the grave, the house of rich and poor,
Fast I shall sleep, and dream of life no more.
CONTENTS.
NOvember, An ode, Page 1
November. A pastoral elegy, 3
On the banishment of Cicero, 5
On bishop Atterbury's preaching, 7
Nothing, 9
Ode to Amanda, 12
The rattle. A song, 14
The two sneerers, 16
Oriental eclogues, by Mr. William Collins.
I. Selim, or the shepherd's moral, 17
II. Hassan, or the camel-driver, 20
III. Abra, or the Georgian sultana, 24
IV. Agib and Secander, or the fugitives, 27
Odes, by the same,
I To pity, 31
II. To fear, 33
III. To simplicity, 36
IV. On the poetical character, 39
V. Written in 1746. 42
VI. To mercy, 43
VII. To liberty, 45
VIII. On the death of colonel Ross, 52
IX. To evening, 55
X. To peace, 58
XI. The manners, 59
XII. The passions, 62
Epistle to Sir Tho. Hanmer, 67
Song from Shakespear's Cymbeline, 74
A father's advice to his son. 76
The lass of Isleworth mill, 80
A song, 83
A shepherdess's lamentation, 85
Zelis to Ibrahim, 87
The Ladies lamentation, Page 91
Hope. A pastoral ballad, 93
Ode to sensibility, 95
Epigram, 97
Epitaph, Ibid,
An epistle, 98
The answer, 100
On some dull ill-natured verses, 102
Salt water celebrated, 103
A few thoughts on lotteries, 105
York and Kent, 107
Advice to a lady, Ibid.
Petrarch and Laura, 109
Sonnet, 110
The cause of inconstancy, 111
A pastoral hymn, 113
A divine pastoral, 115
On friendship, 118
Prologue, 119
An evening hymn, 121
A thought at waking, 122
END OF VOL. XI.