IL LATTE. AN ELEGY.
LONDON: Printed for J. DODSLEY in Pall-Mall. MDCCLXVII.
IL LATTE. An ELEGY.
Incipe, parve puer, risu cognoscere matrem.
YE fair, for whom the hands of Hymen weave
The nuptial wreath to deck your virgin brow,
While pleasing pains the conscious bosom heave,
And on the kindling cheek the blushes glow:
Whose spotless soul contains the better dow'r,
Whose life unstain'd full many virtues vouch,
For whom now Venus frames the fragrant bow'r,
And scatters roses o'er th' expecting couch:
To you I sing.—Ah! ere the raptur'd youth
With trembling hand removes the jealous veil,
Where, long regardless of the vows of truth,
Unsocial coyness stamp'd th' ungrateful seal,
Allow the poet round your flowing hair,
Cull'd from an humble vale, a wreath to twine,
To Beauty's altar with the Loves repair,
And wake the lute beside that living shrine:
That sacred shrine! where female virtue glows,
Where ev'n the Graces all their treasures bring,
And where the lily, temper'd with the rose,
Harmonious contrast! breathes an Eden spring:
That shrine! where Nature with presaging aim,
What time her friendly aid Lucina brings,
The snowy nectar pours, delightful stream!
Where flutt'ring Cupids dip their purple wings:
For you who bear at mother's sacred name,
Whose cradled offspring, in lamenting strain,
With artless eloquence asserts his claim,
The boon of nature, but asserts in vain:
Say why, illustrious daughters of the great,
Lives not the nursling at your tender breast?
By you protected in his frail estate?
By you attended, and by you caress'd?
To foreign hands, alas! can you resign
The parent's task, the mother's pleasing care?
To foreign hands the smiling babe consign?
While Nature starts, and Hymen sheds a tear.
When 'mid the polish'd circle ye rejoice,
Or roving join fantastic Pleasure's train,
Unheard perchance the nursling lifts his voice,
His tears unnotic'd, and unsooth'd his pain.
Ah! what avails the coral crown'd with gold?
In heedless infancy the title vain?
The colours gay the purfled scarfs unfold?
The splendid nurs'ry, and th' attendant train?
Far better hadst thou first beheld the light,
Beneath the rafter of some roof obscure;
There in a mother's eye to read delight,
And in her cradling arm repose secure.—
Nor wonder, shou'd Hygeia, blissful Queen!
Her wonted salutary gifts recall,
While haggard Pain applies his dagger keen,
And o'er the cradle Death unfolds his pall.
The flow'ret ravish'd from its native air,
And bid to flourish in a foreign vale,
Does it not oft elude the planter's care,
And breathe its dying odors on the gale?
For you, ye plighted fair, when Hymen crowns
With tender offspring your unshaken love,
Behold them not with rigor's chilling frowns,
Nor from your sight unfeelingly remove.
Unsway'd by fashion's dull unseemly jest,
Still to the bosom let your infant cling,
There banquet oft, an ever-welcome guest,
Unblam'd inebriate at that healthful spring.
With fond solicitude each pain assuage,
Explain the look, awake the ready smile;
Unfeign'd attachment so shall you engage,
To crown with gratitude maternal toil:
So shall your daughters in affliction's day,
When o'er your form the gloom of age shall spread,
With lenient converse chase the hours away,
And smooth with duty's hand the widow'd bed:
Approach, compassionate, the voice of grief,
And whisper patience to the closing ear;
From comfort's chalice minister relief,
And in the potion drop a filial tear.
So shall your sons, when beauty is no more,
When fades the languid lustre in your eye,
When Flatt'ry shuns her dulcet notes to pour,
The want of beauty, and of praise, supply:
Ev'n from the wreath that decks the warrior's brow
Some chosen leaves your peaceful walks shall strew:
And ev'n the flow'rs on classic ground that blow,
Shall all unfold their choicest sweets for you.
When to th' embattled host the trumpet blows,
While at the call fair Albion's gallant train
Dare to the field their triple-number'd foes,
And chase them speeding o'er the martial plain:
The mother kindles at the glorious thought,
And to her son's renown adjoins her name;
For, at the nurt'ring breast, the
hero
caught
The love of virtue, and the love of fame.
Or in the senate when Britannia's cause
With gen'rous themes inspires the glowing mind,
While list'ning freedom grateful looks applause,
Pale slav'ry drops her chain, and sculks behind:
With conscious joy the tender parent fraught,
Still to her son's renown adjoins her name;
For, at the nurt'ring breast, the
patriot
caught
The love of virtue, and the love of fame.
FINIS.