The poetical calendar: Containing a collection of scarce and valuable pieces of poetry: ... by the most eminent hands. Intended as a supplement to Mr. Dodsley's collection. Written and selected by Francis Fawkes, M. A. and William Woty. In twelve volumes. [pt.7]
THE POETICAL CALENDAR.
THE ſun comes on a-pace, and thro' the Signs
Travels unwearied; as he hotter grows,
Above, the herbage, and beneath, the mines
Own his warm influence, while his axle glows,
The flaming Lion meets him on the way,
Proud to receive the flaming god of day.
In fulleſt bloom the damaſk roſe is ſeen,
Carnations boaſt their variegated die,
The fields of corn diſplay a vivid green,
And cherries with the crimſon orient vie,
The hop in bloſſom climbs the lofty pole,
Nor dreads the lightning, tho' the thunders roll.
The wealth of Flora like the rainbow ſhows,
Blending her various hues of light and ſhade,
How many tints would emulate the roſe,
Or imitate the lilly's bright parade!
With all the richeſt tinctures of the ſky.
Beneath the ſwelling udder teems the pail,
The ſhining ſcythe appears in every lawn,
With cooling beverage the ſwains regale
Their ſun-burnt nymphs, all-ſportive as the fawn,
Nor yet the orchard ſhows its fruit of gold,
While the wool's ſhorn from off the fleecy fold.
The vegetable world is all alive,
Green grows the gooſberry on its buſh of thorn,
The infant bees now ſwarm around the hive,
And the ſweet bean perfumes the lap of morn,
Millions of embryos take the wing to fly,
The young inherit, as the old ones die.
'Tis ſummer all—convey me to the bower,
The bower of myrtle form'd by Myra's ſkill,
There let me waſte away the noon-tide hour,
Fann'd by the breezes from yon cooling rill;
By Myra's ſide reclin'd, the burning ray
Shall be as grateful as the cool of day.
HAil! goddeſs of the ſilver ſtar,
Whoſe twinkling orb gives ſignal of the day;
Oh! queen of light, whoſe virgin ray
The ſun ſalutes in his celeſtial car;
Whoſe active heat melts every cloud
That would thy dawn of glory ſhroud,
And ſtain the luſtre of thy laughing eye,
While beneath thy azure ſky
Dimple-cheek'd Health with roſy feature glows,
Thro' lowing paſtures on ſhe goes,
Wearing the milkmaid's ruddy grace,
Eaſe in her tripping ſtep, and pleaſure in her face.
Fore-runner of the day's bright reign,
And giver of unſpeakable delight!
How nature triumphs at thy ſight,
And looks thankſgiving thro' her large domain!
At thy approach, the conſcious trees
Bend humbly to thy tepid breeze,
And every flower a freſher brightneſs wears:
Labour to the field repairs,
Where buxom Ceres waits him with a ſmile;
Whiſtling he croſſes every ſtile,
With which he means to charm, and win his favourite fair.
Oh! ſovereign of the ſpicy gale,
Of odours pure, and ſalutary dews,
Oft as thy ſtar its beam renews,
Thy violet breath entranc'd let me inhale:
Give me to range thy wholeſome hills,
Thy vallies bright with cryſtal rills,
And verdant lawns where many a wild-flower grows,
There, while Zephyr ſoftly blows,
Let me indulge the heaven-devoted thought,
And render praiſes, as I ought,
To him, whoſe power and love divine
Call'd thee from total void, and bad thy beauty ſhine.
3. ON VIEWING AN EXTENSIVE PROSPECT FROM THE TOP OF ASTON HILLS IN BUCKING-HAMSHIRE, COMPOS'D ON HORSEBACK.[Page 5]
HOW wonderous are thy works, O God moſt high,
Maker of all above, and all beneath the ſky:
In this fair ſcene, where-e'er I turn my view,
Beauties on beauties riſe for ever new:
Yon lofty hill, crown'd with thoſe ſtately trees,
That ſinking valley that receives the breeze,
Yon velvet downs where ſheep unnumber'd feed,
Thoſe fields which wave with corn, that greenſward mead,
Proclaim aloud the wiſe Creator's hand,
For chance could ne'er produce a work ſo grand:
All theſe in concert hymn their Maker's praiſe,
While with delight and wonder mortals gaze.
— — —BEHOLD,
The green fields yellowing into corny gold!
While o'er their ranks an old man half appears,
How hale he looks, tho' hoar'd with ſeventy years!
His proſpect mounts, ſlow-pac'd he ſtrives to climb,
And ſeems ſome antient monument of time;
Propt o'er his ſtaff the reverend father ſtands,
And views heaven's bleſſings with uplifted hands;
Gleeful in heart computes the year's increaſe,
And portions out, in thought, his homely race,
His homely race before, his hopes improve,
And labour in obedience for his love;
Sweepy they cut, then bind the ſheafy grain,
And bend beneath the burthen of the plain:
His cheerful eyes with ſilent praiſes crown
Their toils, and ſmile at vigour once his own;
'Till the mid-ſun, to ſecond nature's call,
Noon-marks the diſtant ſteeple's ivied wall,
Thence warn'd, he waves his arms, with giddy haſte,
The circling ſummons to a cool repaſt.
THou child of nature, genius ſtrong,
Thou maſter of the poet's ſong,
Before whoſe light, Art's dim and feeble ray
Gleams like the taper in the blaze of day:
Thou lov'ſt to ſteal along the ſecret ſhade,
Where Fancy, bright aerial maid!
Awaits thee with her thouſand charms,
And revels in thy wanton arms.
She to thy bed, in days of yore,
The ſweetly warbling Shakeſpeare bore;
Whom every muſe endow'd with every ſkill,
And dipt him in that ſacred rill,
Whoſe ſilver ſtreams flow muſical along,
Where Phoebus' hallow'd mount reſounds with raptur'd ſong.
Forſake not thou the vocal choir,
Their breaſts reviſit with thy genial fire,
Elſe vain the ſtudied ſounds of mimic art,
Tickle the ear, but come not nigh the heart.
Vain every phraſe in curious order ſet,
On each ſide leaning on the [ſtop-gap] epithet.
Vain the quick rhime ſtill tinkling in the cloſe,
While pure deſcription ſhines in meaſur'd proſe.
Upon the dull mechanic train;
Whoſe nerveleſs ſtrains flag on in languid tone,
Lifeleſs and lumpiſh as the bagpipe's drowzy drone.
No longer now thy altars blaze,
No poet offers up his lays;
Inſpir'd with energy divine,
To worſhip at thy ſacred ſhrine.
Since taſte* with abſolute domain,
Extending wide her leaden reign,
Kills with her melancholy ſhade,
The blooming ſcyons of fair fancy's tree;
Which erſt full wantonly have ſtray'd
In many a wreath of richeſt poeſie.
For when the oak denies her ſtay,
The creeping ivy winds her humble way;
No more ſhe twiſts her branches round,
But drags her feeble ſtem along the barren ground.
Where then ſhall exil'd genius go?
Since only thoſe the laurel claim,
And boaſt them of the poet's name,
Whoſe ſober rhimes in even tenour flow,
Coldly correct, and regularly dull.
Why ſleep the ſons of genius now?
Why, Wartons, reſts the lyre unſtrung?
*And thou, bleſt bard! around whoſe ſacred brow,
Great Pindar's delegated wreath is hung:
Ariſe, and ſnatch the majeſty of ſong
From dullneſs' ſervile tribe, and art's unhallow'd throng.
‘Aſpice murorum moles, praeruptaque ſaxa!’
IN the full proſpect yonder hill commands
O'er foreſts, fields, and vernal-coated plains;
The veſtige of an antient abbey ſtands,
Cloſe by a ruin'd caſtle's rude remains.
Half buried, there, lie many a broken buſt,
And obeliſk, and urn, o'erthrown by Time;
And many a cherub, here, deſcends in duſt
From the rent roof, and portico ſublime.
The rivulets, oft frighted at the ſound
Of fragments tumbling from the towers on high,
Plunge to their ſource in ſecret caves profound,
Leaving their banks and pebbly bottoms dry.
Where reverend ſhrines in Gothic grandeur ſtood,
The nettle, or the noxious night-ſhade, ſpreads;
And aſhlings, wafted from the neighbouring wood,
Thro' the worn turrets wave their trembling heads.
There Contemplation, to the crowd unknown,
Her attitude compos'd, and aſpect ſweet!
Sits muſing on a monumental ſtone,
And points to the Memento at her feet.
Soon as ſage evening check'd day's ſunny pride,
I left the mantling ſhade, in moral mood;
And, ſeated by the maid's ſequeſter'd ſide,
Thus ſigh'd, the mouldering ruins as I view'd.
Inexorably calm, with ſilent pace,
Here Time has paſs'd—What ruin marks his way!
This pile, now crumbling o'er its hallow'd baſe,
Turn'd not his ſtep, nor could his courſe delay.
Religion rais'd her ſupplicating eyes
In vain; and Melody, her ſong ſublime:
In vain, Philoſophy, with maxims wiſe,
Would touch the cold unfeeling heart of Time.
Yet the hoar tyrant, tho' not mov'd to ſpare,
Relented when he ſtruck its finiſh'd pride;
And, partly the rude ravage to repair,
The tottering towers with twiſted ivy tied.
How ſolemn is the cell o'ergrown with moſs,
That terminates the view yon cloiſter'd way!
In the cruſh'd wall a time-corroded croſs,
Religion like, ſtands mouldering in decay!
Where the mild ſun, thro' ſaint-encypher'd glaſs,
Illum'd with mellow light that brown-brow'd iſle,
Many rapt hours might Meditation paſs,
Slow moving 'twixt the pillars of the pile!
And Piety, with myſtic-meaning beads,
Bowing to ſaints on every ſide in urn'd,
Trod oft the ſolitary path, that leads
Where now the ſacred altar lies o'erturn'd!
Thro' the grey grove, between thoſe withering trees,
'Mongſt a rude group of monuments, appears
A marble-imag'd matron on her knees,
Half waſted, like a Niobe in tears:
Low levell'd in the duſt her darling's laid!
Death pitied not the pride of youthful bloom;
Nor could maternal piety diſſuade,
Or ſoften the fell tyrant of the tomb.
The relicks of a mitred ſaint may reſt,
Where; mouldering in the nich, his ſtatue ſtands;
Now nameleſs, as the crowd that kiſs'd his veſt,
And crav'd the benediction of his hands.
Near the brown arch, redoubling yonder gloom,
The bones of an illuſtrious chieftain lie;
As trac'd upon the time-unletter'd tomb,
The trophies of a broken fame imply.
Ah! what avails, that o'er the vaſſal plain,
His rights and rich demeſnes extended wide!
That honour, and her knights, compos'd his train,
And chivalry ſtood marſhall'd by his ſide!
Tho' to the clouds his caſtle ſeem'd to climb,
And frown'd defiance on the deſperate foe;
Tho' deem'd invincible, the conqueror, Time,
Levell'd the fabric, as the founder, low.
Where the light lyre gave many a ſoftening ſound,
Ravens and rooks, the birds of diſcord, dwell;
And where ſociety ſat ſweetly crown'd,
Eternal ſolitude has fix'd her cell.
The lizard, and the lazy lurking bat,
Inhabit now, perhaps, the painted room,
Where the ſage matron and her maidens ſat,
Sweet-ſinging at the ſilver-wo king loom.
The traveller's bewilder'd on a waſte;
And the rude winds inceſſant ſeem to roar,
Where, in his groves with arching arbours grac'd,
Young lovers often ſigh'd in days of yore.
His aqueducts, that led the limpid tide
To pure canals, a cryſtal cool ſupply!
In the deep duſt their barren beauties hide:
Time's thirſt, unquenchable, has drain'd them day!
Tho' his rich hours in revelry were ſpent
With Comus, and the laughter-loving crew;
And the ſweet brow of beauty, ſtill unbent,
Brighten'd his fleecy moments as they flew:
Fleet are the fleecy moments! fly they muſt;
Not to be ſtay'd by maſque, or midnight roar!
Nor ſhall a pulſe, amongſt that mouldering duſt,
Beat wanton at the ſmiles of beauty more!
Can the deep ſtateſman, ſkill'd in great deſign,
Protract, but for a day, precarious breath?
Or the tun'd follower of the ſacred Nine,
Sooth, with his melody, inſatiate Death?
No—tho' the palace bar her golden gate,
Or monarchs plant ten thouſand guards around;
Unerring, and unſeen, the ſhaft of fate
Strikes the devoted victim to the ground!
What then avails ambition's wide ſtretch'd wing,
The ſchoolman's page, or pride of beauty's bloom!
The crape-clad hermit, and the rich-rob'd king,
Levell'd, lie mix'd promiſcuous in the tomb.
The Macedonian monarch, wiſe and good,
Bade, when the morning's roſy reign began,
Courtiers ſhould call, as round his couch they ſtood,
" Philip! remember, thou'rt no more than man.
" Tho' glory ſpread thy name from pole to pole;
" Tho' thou art merciful, and brave, and juſt;
" Philip, reflect, thou'rt poſting to the goal,
" Where mortals mix in undiſtinguiſh'd duſt!"
So Saladin, for arts and arms renown'd,
(Egypt and Syria's wide domains ſubdued)
Returning with imperial triumphs crown'd,
Sigh'd, when the periſhable pomp he view'd:
And as he rode, high in his regal car,
In all the purple pride of conqueſt dreſt;
Conſpicuous, o'er the trophies gain'd in war,
Plac'd, pendent on a ſpear, his burial veſt:
While thus the herald cried—"This ſon of power,
" This Saladin, to whom the nations bow'd;
" May, in the ſpace of one revolving hour,
" Boaſt of no other ſpoil, but yonder ſhroud!"
Search where Ambition rag'd, with rigour ſteel'd;
Where ſlaughter, like the rapid lightning, ran;
And ſay, while memory weeps the blood-ſtain'd field,
Where lies the chief, and where the common man?
Vain are the pyramids, and mottoed ſtones,
And monumental trophies rais'd on high!
For Time confounds them with the crumbling bones,
That mix'd in haſty graves unnotic'd lie.
Reſts not, beneath the turf, the peaſant's head,
Soft as the lord's, beneath the labour'd tomb?
Or ſleeps one colder, in his cloſe clay bed;
Than t'other, in the wide vault's dreary womb?
Hither let Luxury lead her looſe-rob'd train;
Here flutter Pride, on purple-painted wings:
And, from the moral proſpect, learn—how vain
The wiſh, that ſighs for ſublunary things!
SHall lordly man, the theme of every lay,
Uſurp the muſe's tributary bay?
In kingly ſtate on Pindus' ſummit ſit,
Tyrant of verſe, and arbiter of wit?
By Salic law the female right deny,
And view their genius with regardleſs eye?
Juſtice forbid! and every muſe inſpire
To ſing the glories of a ſiſter-choir!
Riſe, riſe, bold ſwain; and to the liſtening grove
Reſound the praiſes of the ſex you love;
Tell how, adorn'd with every charm, they ſhine,
In mind and perſon equally divine,
'Till man, no more to female merit blind,
Admire the perſon, but adore the mind.
To theſe weak ſtrains, O thou! the ſex's friend
And conſtant patron, *Richardſon! attend!
Haſt watch'd the dawning genius of the fair,
With wonted ſmiles wilt hear thy friend diſplay
The various graces of the female lay;
Studious from folly's yoke their minds to free,
And aid the generous cauſe eſpous'd by thee.
Long o'er the world did Prejudice maintain,
By ſounds like theſe, her undiſputed reign:
" Woman! ſhe cried, to thee, indulgent heaven
" Has all the charms of outward beauty given:
" Be thine the boaſt, unrival'd, to enſlave
" The great, the wiſe, the witty, and the brave;
" Deck'd with the Paphian roſe's damaſk glow,
" And the vale-lilly's vegetable ſnow,
" Be thine, to move majeſtic in the dance,
" To roll the eye, and aim the tender glance,
" Or touch the ſtrings, and breathe the melting ſong,
" Content to emulate that airy throng,
" Who to the ſun their painted plumes diſplay,
" And gaily glitter on the hawthorn ſpray,
" Or wildly warble in the beechen grove,
" Careleſs of aught but muſic, joy, and love."
Heavens! could ſuch artful, ſlaviſh ſounds beguile
The freeborn ſons of Britain's poliſh'd iſle?
Could they, like fam'd Ulyſſes' daſtard crew,
Attentive liſten, and enamour'd view,
Nor drive the Syren to that dreary plain,
In loathſome pomp, where eaſtern tyrants reign;
Clos'd in a proud ſeraglio's gloomy walls,
And taught, that levell'd with the brutal kind,
Nor ſenſe, nor ſouls to women are aſſign'd.
Our Britiſh nymphs with happier omens rove,
At freedom's call, thro' wiſdom's ſacred grove,
And, as with laviſh hand each ſiſter grace
Shapes the fair form, and regulates the face,
Each ſiſter muſe, in bliſsful union join'd,
Adorns, improves, and beautifies the mind.
Even now fond fancy in our poliſh'd land
Aſſembled ſhows a blooming, ſtudious band:
With various arts our reverence they engage,
Some turn the tuneful, ſome the moral page,
Theſe, led by Contemplation, ſoar on high,
And range the heavens with philoſophic eye;
While thoſe, ſurrounded by a vocal choir,
The canvas tinge, or touch the warbling lyre.
Here, like the ſtars' mix'd radiance, they unite
To dazzle and perplex our wandering ſight:
The muſe each charmer ſingly ſhall ſurvey,
And tune to each her tributary lay.
So when, in blended tints, with ſweet ſurprize
Aſſembled beauties ſtrike our raviſh'd eyes,
Such as in Lely's melting colours ſhine,
Or ſpring, great Kneller! from a hand like thine,
On all with pleaſing awe at once we gaze,
And, loſt in wonder, know not which to praiſe,
Diſcloſing graces unperceiv'd before.
Firſt let the muſe with generous ardor try
To chaſe the miſt from dark opinion's eye:
Nor mean we here to blame that father's care,
Who guards from learned wives his booby heir,
Since oft that heir with prudence has been known,
To dread a genius that tranſcends his own:
The wiſe themſelves ſhould with diſcretion chuſe,
Since letter'd nymphs their knowledge may abuſe,
And huſbands oft experience to their coſt
The prudent houſewife in the ſcholar loſt:
But thoſe incur deſerv'd contempt, who prize
Their own high talents, and their ſex deſpiſe,
With haughty mien each ſocial bliſs defeat,
And fully all their learning with conceit:
Of ſuch the parent juſtly warns his ſon,
And ſuch the muſe herſelf will bid him ſhun.
But lives there one, whoſe unaſſuming mind,
Tho' grac'd by nature, and by art refin'd,
Pleas'd with domeſtic excellence, can ſpare
Some hours from ſtudious eaſe to ſocial care,
And with her pen that time alone employs
Which others waſte in viſits, cards, and noiſe;
From affectation free, tho' deeply read,
" With witwell natur'd, and with books well bred?"
With ſuch (and ſuch there are) each happy day
Muſt fly improving, and improv'd away;
And wiſdom's voice approve the choſen fair.
Nor need we now from our own Britain rove,
In ſearch of genius, to the Leſbian grove,
Tho' Sappho there her tuneful lyre has ſtrung,
And amorous griefs in ſweeteſt accents ſung,
Since here, in Charles's days, amidſt a train
Of ſhameleſs bards, licentious and profane,
The chaſte *Orinda roſe; with purer light,
Like modeſt Cynthia, beaming thro' the night:
Fair friendſhip's luſtre, undiſguis'd by art,
Glows in her lines, and animates her heart;
Friendſhip, that jewel, which, tho' all confeſs
Its peerleſs value, yet how few poſſeſs!
For her the never-dying myrtle weaves
A verdant chaplet of her odorous leaves;
If Cowley's or Roſcommon's ſong can give
Immortal fame, her praiſe ſhall ever live.
Who can unmov'd hear †Winchelſea reveal
Thy horrors, ſpleen! which all, who paint, muſt feel?
Since Pope himſelf applauds what ſhe has writ.
But ſay, what matron now walks muſing forth
From the bleak mountains of her native North?
While round her brows two ſiſters of the Nine
Poetic wreaths with philoſophic twine!
Hail, *Cockburne, hail! even now from Reaſon's bowers
Thy Locke delighted culls the choiceſt flowers
To deck his great, ſucceſsful champion's head,
And Clarke expects thee in the laurel ſhade.
Tho' long to dark, oblivious want a prey,
Thy aged worth paſs'd unperceiv'd away,
Yet Scotland now ſhall ever boaſt thy fame,
While England mourns thy undiſtinguiſh'd name,
And views with wonder, in a female mind,
Philoſopher, divine, and poet join'd!
The modeſt muſe a veil with pity throws
O'er vice's friends, and virtue's female foes;
Abaſh'd ſhe views the bold unbluſhing mien
Of modern †Manley, Centlivre, and Behn;
Her modeſt ſex, and her illuſtrious race.
Tho' harmony thro' all their numbers flow'd,
And genuine wit its every grace beſtow'd,
Nor genuine wit, nor harmony, excuſe
The dangerous ſallies of a wanton muſe:
Nor can ſuch tuneful, but immoral, lays
Expect the tribute of impartial praiſe:
As ſoon might *Philips, Pilkington and V—
Deſerv'd applauſe for ſpotleſs virtue gain.
But hark! what †nymph, in Frome's embroider'd vale,
With ſtrains ſeraphic ſwells the vernal gale?
With what ſweet ſounds the bordering foreſt rings?
For ſportive Echo catches, as ſhe ſings,
Each falling accent, ſtudious to prolong
The warbled notes of Rowe's ecſtatic ſong.
Old Avon pleas'd his reedy forehead rears,
And poliſh'd Orrery delighted hears.
See with what tranſport ſhe reſigns her breath,
Snatch'd by a ſudden, but a wiſh'd-for death!
Amidſt her kindred ſpirits of the ſky,
Where faith and love thoſe endleſs joys beſtow,
That warm'd her lays, and fill'd her hopes below.
Nor can her noble *friend eſcape unſeen,
Or from the muſe her modeſt virtues ſcreen;
Here, ſweetly blended, to our wondering eyes,
The peereſs, poeteſs, and Chriſtian riſe:
And tho' the Nine her tuneful ſtrains inſpire,
We leſs her genius, than her heart, admire,
Pleas'd, 'midſt the great, one truly good to ſee,
And proud to tell that Somerſet is ſhe.
By generous views one †peereſs more demands
A grateful tribute from all female hands;
One, who to ſhield them from the worſt of foes,
In their juſt cauſe dar'd Pope himſelf oppoſe.
Their own dark forms deceit and envy wear,
By Irwin touch'd with 12truth's celeſtial ſpear.
Your empty ſneers, and ſhock the ſex no more.
Thus bold Camilla, when the Trojan chief
Attack'd her country, flew to its relief;
Beneath her lance the braveſt warriors bled,
And fear diſmay'd the hoſt, which great Aeneas led.
But ah! why heaves my breaſt this penſive ſigh?
Why ſtarts this tear unbidden from my eye?
What breaſt from ſighs, what eye from tears refrains,
When, ſweetly-mournful, hapleſs *Wright complains?
And who but grieves to ſee her generous mind,
For nobler views and worthier gueſts deſign'd,
Admit the hateful form of black deſpair,
Wan with the gloom of ſuperſtitious care?
In pity-moving lays, with earneſt cries,
She call'd on heaven to cloſe her weary eyes,
And, long on earth by heart-felt woes oppreſt,
Was borne by friendly death to welcome reſt.
In nervous ſtrains, †lo! Madan's poliſh'd taſte
Has poetry's ſucceſſive progreſs trac'd,
To Italy, and Britain's happier plain.
Praiſe well-beſtow'd adorns her glowing lines,
And manly ſtrength with female ſoftneſs joins.
So female charms and manly virtues grace,
By her example form'd, her blooming race,
And, fram'd alike to pleaſe our ears and eyes,
There new Cornelias and new Gracchi riſe.
O that you now, with genius at command,
Would ſnatch the pencil from my artleſs hand,
And give your ſex's portraits, bold and true,
In colours worthy of themſelves and you!
Now in ecſtatic viſions let me rove,
By Cynthia's beams, thro' Brackley's glimmering grove;
Where ſtill each night, by ſtartled ſhepherds ſeen,
Young *Leapor's form flies ſhadowy o'er the green.
Thoſe envied honours nature lov'd to pay
The briar-bound turf, where erſt her Shakeſpear lay,
Now on her darling Mira ſhe beſtows;
There o'er the hallow'd ground ſhe fondly ſtrows
The choiceſt fragrance of the breathing ſpring,
And bids each year her favourite linnet ſing.
Let cloiſter'd pedants, in an endleſs round,
Tread the dull mazes of ſcholaſtic ground;
Brackley unenvying views the glittering train
Of learning's uſeleſs trappings idly vain;
For, ſpite of all that vaunted learning's aid,
Their fame is rivall'd by her rural maid.
So, while in our Britannia's beechen ſprays
Sweet Philomela trills her mellow lays,
We to the natives of the ſultry line
Their boaſted race of parrots pleas'd reſign:
For tho' on citron boughs they proudly glow
With all the colours of the watery bow,
Yet thro' the grove harſh diſcord they prolong,
Tho' rich in gaudy plumage, poor in ſong.
Now bear me, Clio, to that Kentiſh ſtrand,
Whoſe rude o'erhanging cliffs and barren ſand
May challenge all the myrtle-blooming bowers
Of fam'd Italia, when, at evening hours,
Thy own *Eliza muſes on the ſhore,
Serene, tho' billows beat, and tempeſts roar.
Hail, Carter, hail! your favourite name inſpires
My raptur'd breaſt with ſympathetic fires;
His mazy current thro' th' Athenian mead;
With you I pierce thro' academic ſhades,
And join in Attic bowers th' Aonian maids;
Beneath the ſpreading plane with Plato rove,
And hear his morals echo thro' the grove.
Joy ſparkles in the ſage's looks, to find
His genius glowing in a female mind;
Newton admiring ſees your ſearching eye
Dart thro' his myſtic page, and range the ſky;
By you his colours to your ſex are ſhown,
And Algarotti's name to Britain known.
While, undiſturb'd by pride, you calmly tread
Thro' life's perplexing paths, by wiſdom led;
And, taught by her, your grateful muſe repays
Her heavenly teacher in nocturnal lays.
So when Prometheus from th' Almighty Sire,
As ſings the fable, ſtole celeſtial fire,
Swift thro' the clay the vital current ran,
In look, in form, in ſpeech reſembling man;
But in each eye a living luſtre glow'd,
That ſpoke the heavenly ſource from whence it flow'd.
" What magic powers in *Celia's numbers dwell,
" Which thus th' unpractis'd breaſt with ardor ſwell
" Which yet no bard was able to inſpire!
" With tears her ſuffering virgin we attend,
" And ſympathize with father, lover, friend!
" What ſacred rapture in our boſom glows,
" When at the ſhrine ſhe offers up her vows!
" Mild majeſty and virtue's awful power
" Adorn her fall, and grace her lateſt hour."
Tranſport me now to thoſe embroider'd meads,
Where the ſlow Ouze his lazy current leads!
There, while the ſtream ſoft-dimpling ſteals along,
And from the groves the green-hair'd Dryads throng,
Clio herſelf, or *Ferrar tunes a lay,
Sweet as the darkling Philomel of May.
Haſte, haſte, ye Nine, and hear a ſiſter ſing
The charms of Cynthia, and the joys of ſpring:
See! night's pale goddeſs with a grateful beam
Paints her lov'd image in the ſhadowy ſtream,
While, round his votary, ſpring profuſely ſhowers
" A ſnow of bloſſoms, and a wild of flowers."
O happy nymph, tho' winter o'er thy head,
Blind to that form, the ſnow of age ſhall ſhed;
Tho' life's ſhort ſpring and beauty's bloſſoms fade,
Still ſhall thy reaſon flouriſh undecay'd;
Shall ſpare the charms of virtue and of truth,
And on thy mind new charms, new bloom beſtow,
Wiſdom's beſt friend, and only beauty's foe.
Nor ſhall thy much-lov'd *Pennington remain
Unſung, unhonour'd in my votive ſtrain.
See where the ſoft enchantreſs, wandering o'er
The fairy ground that Philips trod before,
Exalts her chymic wand, and ſwift behold
The baſeſt metals ripen into gold.
Beneath her magic touch, with wondering eye,
We view vile copper with pure ſterling vie;
Nor ſhall the farthing, ſung by her, forbear
To claim the praiſes of the ſmiling fair;
Till chuck and marble ſhall no more employ
The thoughtleſs leiſure of the truant boy.
Returning now to Thames's flowery ſide,
See how his waves in ſtill attention glide!
And, hark! what ſongſtreſs ſhakes her warbling throat?
Is it the nightingale, or †Delia's note?
On their ſoft wings the vocal accents bear;
Thro' Sunbury's low vale the ſtrains rebound,
Even neighbouring Chertſey hears the cheerful ſound,
And wondering ſees her Cowley's laurell'd ſhade
Tranſported liſten to the tuneful maid.
O may thoſe nymphs, whoſe pleaſing power ſhe ſings,
Still o'er their ſuppliant wave their foſtering wings!
O long may Health and ſoft-eyed Peace impart
Bloom to her cheek, and rapture to her heart!
Beneath her roof the red-breaſt ſhall prolong,
Unchill'd by froſts, his tributary ſong;
For her the lark ſhall wake the dappled morn,
And linnet twitter from the bloſſom'd thorn.
Sing on, ſweet maid! thy Spenſer ſmiles to ſee
Kind fancy ſhed her choiceſt gifts on thee,
And bids his Edwards, on the laurel ſpray
That ſhades his tomb, inſcribe thy rural lay.
With lovely mien *Eugenia now appears,
The muſe's pupil from her tendereſt years;
The ſiſter arts on all her labours ſmile,
And, while the Nine their votary inſpire,
" One dips the pencil, and one ſtrings the lyre."
O may her life's clear current ſmoothly glide,
Unruffled by misfortune's boiſterous tide!
So while the charmer leads her blameleſs days
With that content which ſhe ſo well diſplays,
Her own Honoria we in her ſhall view,
And think her allegoric viſion true.
Thus wandering wild among the golden grain
That fruitful floats on Banſted's airy plain,
Careleſs I ſung, while ſummer's weſtern gale
Breath'd health and fragrance thro' the duſky vale.
When from a neighbouring hawthorn, in whoſe ſhade
Conceal'd ſhe lay, up-roſe th' Aonian maid:
Pleas'd had ſhe liſten'd; and, with ſmiles, ſhe cried,
" Ceaſe, friendly ſwain! be this thy praiſe and pride,
" That thou, of all the numerous tuneful throng,
" Firſt in our cauſe haſt fram'd thy generous ſong.
" And ye, our ſiſter choir! proceed to tread
" The flowery paths of fame, by ſcience led!
" Employ by turns the needle and the pen,
" And in their favourite ſtudies rival men!
" May all our ſex your glorious track purſue,
" And keep your bright example ſtill in view!
" Theſe laſting beauties will in youth engage,
" And ſmooth the wrinkles of declining age,
" When all Corinna's roſes fade away.
" For even when love's ſhort triumph ſhall be o'er,
" When youth ſhall pleaſe, and beauty charm no "more,
" When man ſhall ceaſe to flatter; when the eye
" Shall ceaſe to ſparkle, and the heart to ſigh,
" In that dread hour, when parent duſt ſhall claim
" The lifeleſs tribute of each kindred frame,
" Even then ſhall wiſdom for her choſen fair
" The fragrant wreaths of virtuous fame prepare;
" Thoſe wreaths which flouriſh in a happier clime,
" Beyond the reach of envy and of time;
" While here, th' immortalizing muſe ſhall ſave
" Your darling names from dark Oblivion's grave;
" Thoſe names the praiſe and wonder ſhall engage
" Of every poliſh'd, wiſe, and virtuous age;
" To lateſt times our annals ſhall adorn,
" And ſave from folly thouſands yet unborn."
THE curfew tolls the hour of cloſing gates,
With jarring ſound the porter turns the key,
Then in his dreary manſion ſlumbering waits,
And ſlowly, ſternly quits it—tho' for me.
Now ſhine the ſpires beneath the paly moon,
And thro' the cloiſter peace and ſilence reign,
Save where ſome fidler ſcrapes a drowſy tune,
Or copious bowls inſpire a jovial ſtrain:
Save that in yonder cobweb-mantled room,
Where lies a ſtudent in profound repoſe
Oppreſs'd with ale, wide-echoes thro' the gloom
The droning muſic of his vocal noſe.
Within thoſe walls, where, thro' the glimmering ſhade,
Appear the pamphlets in a mouldering heap,
Each in his narrow bed till morning laid,
The peaceful fellows of the college ſleep.
The tinkling bell, proclaiming early prayers,
The noiſy ſervants, rattling o'er their head,
The calls of buſineſs and domeſtic cares
Ne'er rouſe theſe ſleepers from their downy bed.
No chattering females croud their ſocial fire,
No dread have they of diſcord and of ſtrife;
Unknown the names of huſband and of fire,
Unfelt the plagues of matrimonial life.
Oft have they baſk'd along the ſunny walls,
Oft have the benches bow'd beneath their weight:
How jocund are their looks when dinner calls!
How ſmoke the cutlets on their crouded plate!
O let not Temperance too-diſdainful hear
How long their feaſts, how long their dinners laſt!
Nor let the fair, with a contemptuous ſneer,
On theſe unmarried men reflections caſt!
The ſplendid fortune and the beauteous face
(Themſelves confeſs it and their ſires bemoan)
Too ſoon are caught by ſcarlet and by lace:
Theſe ſons of ſcience ſhine in black alone.
Forgive, ye fair, th' involuntary fault,
If theſe no feats of gaiety diſplay,
Where, thro' proud Ranelagh's wide-echoing vault,
Melodious Fraſi trills her quavering lay.
Say, is the ſword well ſuited to the band,
Does 'broider'd coat agree with ſable gown,
Can Mechlin-laces ſhade a churchman's hand,
Or learning's votaries ape the beaux of town?
Perhaps in theſe time-tottering walls reſide
Some who were once the darlings of the fair;
Some who of old could taſtes and faſhions guide,
Controul the manager, and awe the player.
But ſcience now has fill'd their vacant mind
With Rome's rich ſpoils and truth's exalted views;
Fir'd them with tranſports of a nobler kind,
And bade them ſlight all females—but the muſe.
Full many a lark, high-towering to the sky,
Unheard, unheeded, greets th' approach of light;
Full many a ſtar, unſeen by mortal eye,
With twinkling luſtre glimmers thro' the night.
Some future Herring, who, with dauntleſs breaſt,
Rebellion's torrent ſhall, like him, oppoſe;
Some mute, unconſcious Hardwicke here may reſt,
Some Pelham, dreadful to his country's foes.
From prince and people to command applauſe,
'Midſt ermin'd peers to guide the high debate,
To ſhield Britannia's and Religion's laws,
And ſteer with ſteady courſe the helm of ſtate,
Fate yet forbids; nor circumſcribes alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confines;
Forbids in Freedom's veil t' inſult the throne,
Beneath her maſk to hide the worſt deſigns,
To fill the madding crowd's perverted mind
With "penſions, taxes, marriages, and Jews;"
Or ſhut the gates of heaven on loſt mankind,
And wreſt their darling hopes, their future views.
Far from the giddy town's tumultuous ſtrife,
Their wiſhes yet have never learn'd to ſtray;
Content and happy in a ſingle life,
They keep the noiſeleſs tenor of their way.
Even now their books from cobwebs to protect,
Inclos'd by doors of glaſs, in Doric ſtyle,
On poliſh'd pillars rais'd, with bronzes deckt,
They claim the paſſing tribute of a ſmile.
Oft are the authors' names, tho' richly bound,
Miſ-ſpelt by blundering binders' want of care;
And many a catalogue is ſtrow'd around,
To tell th' admiring gueſt what books are there.
For who, to thoughtleſs ignorance a prey,
Neglects to hold ſhort dalliance with a book?
Who there but wiſhes to prolong his ſtay,
And on thoſe caſes caſts a lingering look?
Reports attract the lawyer's parting eyes,
Novels lord Fopling and ſir Plume require;
For ſongs and plays the voice of beauty cries,
And ſenſe and nature Grandiſon deſire.
For thee who, mindful of thy lov'd compeers,
Doſt in theſe lines their artleſs tale relate,
If 'chance, with prying ſearch, in future years,
Some antiquarian ſhall enquire thy fate,
Haply ſome friend may ſhake his hoary head,
And ſay, 'Each morn, unchill'd by froſts, he ran,
' With hoſe ungarter'd, o'er yon turfy bed,
' To reach the chapel ere the pſalms began.
' There in the arms of that lethargic chair,
' Which rears its moth-devoured back ſo high,
' At noon he quaff'd three glaſſes to the fair,
' And por'd upon the news with curious eye.
' Now by the fire, engag'd in ſerious talk,
' Or mirthful converſe, would he loitering ſtand;
' Then in the garden choſe a ſunny walk,
' Or launch'd the poliſh'd bowl with ſteady hand.
' One morn we miſs'd him at the hour of prayer,
' Beſide the fire, and on his favourite green;
' Another came, nor yet within the chair,
' Nor yet at bowls, nor chapel was he ſeen.
' The next we heard that in a neighbouring ſhire
' That day to church he led a bluſhing bride;
' A nymph, whoſe ſnowy veſt and maiden fear
' Improv'd her beauty, while the knot was tied.
' Now, by his patron's bounteous care remov'd,
' He roves, enraptur'd, thro' the fields of Kent;
' Yet, ever mindful of the place he lov'd,
' Read here the letter which he lately ſent.'
" IN rural innocence ſecure I dwell,
" Alike to fortune and to fame unknown;
" Approving conſcience cheers my humble cell,
" And ſocial quiet marks me for her own.
" Next to the bleſſings of religious truth,
" Two gifts my endleſs gratitude engage;
" A wife, the joy and tranſport of my youth,
" A ſon, the pride and comfort of my age.
" Seek not to draw me from this kind retreat,
" In loftier ſpheres unfit, untaught to move;
" Content with calm, domeſtic life, where meet
" The ſmiles of friendſhip and the ſweets of love."
9. ODE PRESENTED TO HIS GRACE THOMAS HOLLES, DUKE OF NEWCASTLE, CHANCELLOR OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE, ON HIS ARRIVAL THERE, JUNE XIV, MDCCLIII.[Page 40]
FRom the moſs-grown coral cave
Circled by the ſilver wave,
Where, to thy adoring eyes,
Oft thy laurel'd ſons ariſe,
Father Camus, haſte and hear!
Haſte, hither haſte, and to thy favourite mead
The blitheſome band of ſiſter Naiads lead!
For ſee! from rural joys and public cares,
From Eſher's peaceful grove,
And Claremont's proud alcove,
From Freedom's council and Britannia's king,
Once more to thy Caſtalian ſpring
The guardian of the muſe repairs:
O'er yon embroider'd plain,
With patriots in his train,
Propt on thy ſculptur'd urn behold him ſtray!
When Athens call'd, could Rome detain,
Or Tuſculum delay?
That to thy fragrant bower,
To Granta and the Nine,
Such ſons, ſuch patriots gave, and made a Holles thine.
*In ſome ſequeſter'd ſhade,
Attended by the tuneful maid,
Pleas'd let me catch the plauſive ſong
Of all the ſiſter arts that round him throng,
When, with a golden emblematic prize,
He decks each bluſhing youth,
Who conquer'd in the liſts of fame,
By ſcience favour'd, and approv'd by truth:
Since ſtrength of genius far outvies
The body's brutal force,
Since one excurſion of the mind exceeds
The ſwifteſt ſallies of victorious ſteeds,
Leſs glorious were the boughs,
Which, at the boaſted Grecian games,
Adorn'd a Theron's or a Hiero's brows,
Tho' Pindar's lofty lays immortalize their names.
What various bleſſings flow?
To thy unwearied zeal the muſes owe,
That, check'd with juſt controul
By ſalutary laws,
Youth's rapid ſtreams ſerenely roll,
For Diſcipline reſumes her wide command
And dauntleſs rules with unrelaxing hand.
Even now, aſpiring to the ſky,
A long-wiſh'd ſtructure ſtrikes my ſight
With wonder and delight,
Piercing the vale of dark futurity!
For ſoon ſhall Camus' glaſſy ſtream
Reflect a riſing dome,
Worthy Athens, worthy Rome,
Worthy Phoebus' bliſsful ſeat,
Worthy Pelham's lov'd retreat,
The muſe's glory, and the poet's theme.
O Granta, with majeſtic mien
Advance, and hail the ſacred ſcene!
Let muſic leave her airy tower,
And breathe the ſofteſt ſtrains;
Let Fragrance quit her myrtle bower,
And range the flowery plains:
She ſhall her choiceſt incenſe ſhed
Round Holles' honour'd head,
And warble to the groves their ſovereign's name.
Shall we our tributary lays deny,
When he, ſtill mindful of the Nine,
(Who long have left their native ſky,
Charm'd with the glories of the Brunſwick line)
Pours forth his treaſures, to complete
The grandeur of their favourite ſeat;
And bids their domes with Parian luſtre ſhine?
His bright example ſhall their ſons inſpire,
The great, the wealthy fire,
And raiſe to loftieſt heights their towering fame.
O Camus, thro' thy laurel ſhade,
Tho' kings and ſtateſmen oft have ſtray'd;
Tho' in theſe groves, with patriot hand,
Sage Burleigh bore the olive wand,
And on thy borders, crown'd with bay,
Eliza heard the muſe's lay;
Once more exalt thy ready brows, for ſee!
Tho' charg'd with Europe's fate,
The noble and the great,
The ſtateſman, and the prince, remember thee.
FOR quiet, on Newmarket's plain,
The ſhivering curate prays in vain,
When wintery ſhowers are falling,
And ſtumbling ſteed, and whiſtling wind
Quite baniſh from his anxious mind
The duties of his calling.
With thoughts engroſs'd by routs and plays,
The gallant ſoph for quiet prays,
Confuted and confuting;
And quiet is alike deſir'd
Even by the king's profeſſor, tir'd
With wrangling and diſputing.
In crouded ſenate, on the chair
Of our vice-chancellor ſits Care,
Undaunted by the Mace;
Care climbs the yatch, when adverſe gales
Detain or tear our patron's ſails,
And ruffles even his Grace.
How bleſt is he whoſe annual toil
With well-rang'd trees improves a ſoil
For ages yet unborn!
Such as at humble *Barley, plan'd
By mitred Herring's youthful hand,
The cultur'd glebe adorn.
From place to place we ſtill purſue
Content, and hope in each to view
The viſionary gueſt;
Vainly we fly intruding care,
Not all, like you, the joys can ſhare
Of Wimple and of Wreſt.
Then let us ſnatch, while in our power,
The preſent tranſitory hour,
And leave to heaven the morrow;
Youth has its griefs; a friend may die,
Or nymph deceive; for none can fly
The giant hand of ſorrow.
His country's hope, and parent's pride,
In bloom of life young Blandford died:
Were dimm'd with age and helpleſs tears;
And heaven to me may grant the years,
Which it to you denies.
Your riſing virtues ſoon will claim
A portion of your brothers' fame,
And catch congenial fire;
They ſhine in embaſſy and war,
They grace the ſenate and the bar,
And emulate their ſire.
Inveſted with the ſacred gown,
You ſoon, to rival their renown,
The glorious taſk ſhall join;
And while they guard Britannia's laws,
You, ſteady to Religion's cauſe,
Shall guard the laws divine.
WHile other bards in venturous ſong proclaim
Culloden's triumph, and extol the name
Of Cumberland, ſay, unambitious muſe,
Canſt thou long heſitate what theme to chuſe,
When Garrick, form'd by nature and by art
To pleaſe at once and to improve the heart,
Crown'd by the tragic muſe with early bays,
Claims thine attention, and demands thy praiſe?
Great Shakeſpear, Otway, all the laureate throng,
Who ſhine immortal in dramatic ſong,
Have long deſpair'd on Britain's ſtage to find
Their ſtrength of thought with ſtrength of action
But now they view, with wonder and delight, join'd;
One born to act what they were born to write.
When Hamlet's looks declare his wild affright,
When his ſire's ghoſt uſurps the dead of night,
Or when unhappy Lear, o'erpowr'd with rage
And paſſion heated by perverſe old age,
Too late with tears his haſtineſs bemoans,
Each heart with pity or with terror owns
His praiſe too great by words to be expreſt,
And ſilence ſpeaks our approbation beſt.
Proceed, thou glory of the Britiſh ſtage,
T' extort the tears of an admiring age!
Purſue the noble taſk; in nature read,
Still mend the heart, and ſtill inſtruct the head;
Talk to the paſſions, reaſon to the mind,
Reform, improve, and humanize mankind.
Let Shakeſpear ſtill with ſtrength of fancy fire,
Or Rowe's ſoft ſtrains with tender thoughts inſpire;
Let Dryden with harmonious numbers move,
Or Otway ſooth to pity or to love.
Still melt with ſorrow, or with pleaſure charm,
Let terror ſtartle, or let fear alarm,
Diſſolve with pity, or with rage inflame,
And equally, in all, our praiſes claim:
Britain her Booth, and Rome her Roſcius loſt,
No longer then ſhall mourn, no longer boaſt,
But Rome and Britain ſhall with wonder view
Roſcius and Booth reviv'd again in you.
WIth wonted candor once again peruſe
The haſty ſallies of a diſtant muſe,
Who thus from York in artleſs metre ſends
Health and good wiſhes to her abſent friends.
Tho' ſpacious moors diverſify the ſcene,
And mountains riſe, and rivers roll between,
Tho' here far off in northern climes remov'd
From thoſe ſhe valued, and from thoſe ſhe lov'd,
Yet ſtill the ſame affection ſhe retains
In diſtant regions, and on northern plains:
Hearts that are once in friendſhip's union tied
The fates may part, but never can divide;
For fancy, uncontroul'd by diſtance, leads
Th' enraptur'd mind to long-forgotten meads,
(Which in her lively colours pleas'd we view,
And almoſt think th' ideal landſcape true)
O'er hills and ſtreams extends her boundleſs power,
And joins the Trent and Humber to the Stour.
But now, my friend, to fair Auguſta's walls
Lo! Pleaſure points the way, and Garrick calls;
In ſolemn ſilence hovers o'er the ſcene,
And owns that none deſerves the laurel more,
Tho' Booth obtain'd it, and tho' Roſcius wore.
Here let us oft with fix'd attention wait,
And weep at Lear's diſtreſs, or Hamlet's fate:
And oft my various travels ſhall beguile
The winter evening, and extort a ſmile
From my enquiring friend, who pleas'd ſhall hear
What various beauties in the North appear,
What grandeur reigns in Caſtle-Howard's dome,
The taſte of Athens, and the pride of Rome,
(Where Lely's melting colours claim our praiſe,
And Cromwell's frown thy touch, Vandyke, diſplays:)
In Studley's groves how art with nature joins,
And that improves the plan which this deſigns;
How buildings, grottos, and caſcades ſurprize,
And 'midſt embowering trees rude Gothic temples riſe.
Fain would my muſe, tho' in unequal verſe,
The rugged charms of Scarborough rehearſe,
Fain would ſhe thoſe romantic ſcenes impart,
Where nature triumphs undiſguis'd by art;
She tries with trembling wing, but tries in vain,
Such arduous heights of fancy to attain,
And, tir'd, deſiſts from ſubjects that require
A Lambert's pencil, or a Dryden's lyre.
A Song, O Philo, from the rural ſhade,
Due to thy friendſhip, and ſo long unpaid,
O would the muſe in lays like thine inſpire,
And in my boſom wake the lingering fire,
I pray, but pray in vain, with ſcornful eyes
She ſtill the tributary ſong denies.
O how ſhall I invoke a wanton maid,
Who loves to wander thro' the rural ſhade,
But ſcorns the ſenſeleſs jargon of the ſchools,
Foe to proud ſcience, and her frigid rules!
I whom that goddeſs in her chain has bound
To tread her tedious and unvaried round;
I whoſe dull genius is untaught to roam
Beyond the narrow limits of her home.
Thee, thee, my friend, whom happier fate conveys
To regions worthy of immortal lays,
Thee every muſe with rapture ſhall inſpire,
And kindle in thy breaſt the latent fire.
Where thouſand venerable domes ariſe,
Where Verrio's breathing canvas meets thine eyes,
Where pleas'd thou view'ſt how Scarborough's rugged brow
Frowns horrid o'er the darken'd floods below;
And views hill, dale, and foreſt as ſhe flies,
While the poor linnet, by ſome tyrant hind
To the cloſe priſon of the cage confin'd,
Forgets the ſprightly wildneſs of her ſong,
The grove, the valley, and th' aerial throng.
The time ſhall come when to the ſhades retir'd,
With nature charm'd, and by the muſe inſpir'd,
Happy ſome little rural flock to tend,
Happy to boaſt that Philo is my friend,
I'll try once more my long-forgotten ſtrain,
And in retirement court the tuneful train;
There o'er each labour ſhall the muſes ſmile,
And bleſs my evening walk and morning toil;
Each ſeaſon to my friend the ſong I'll give,
And he well-pleas'd each offering ſhall receive;
And while with ſmiles he reads the artleſs line,
His judgment ſhall correct, his taſte refine.
Come then, my friend, together let us tread
Once more where ſcience lifts th' aſpiring head;
Dull goddeſs, from whoſe ſeat and barren plain
Fly all the nymphs, and all the ſylvan train:
Yet, pleas'd even here, we'll own ſweet friendſhip's power,
Smiling in converſe o'er the ſocial hour;
Here patient o'er the dreary deſert toil,
Cheer'd with the proſpect of a happier ſoil!
TO-night, ye Britons, let the deathleſs name
Of Roman Terence your attention claim!
To you undaunted he ſubmits his cauſe,
And dares the teſt of your ſevereſt laws;
Convinc'd that ſcholars will with pleaſure hear,
For Attic ſcenes muſt charm an Attic ear.
Thoſe Attic ſcenes which once, in learning's bloom,
With Iös ſhook the theatres of Rome;
There Caeſar oft forgot the toils of fight,
And modeſt Maro liſten'd with delight;
Even veſtals heard, unblam'd, the ſpotleſs lay,
And prieſts and cenſors went improv'd away.
O would the poliſh'd bards of Britain quit
The dangerous track of looſe licentious wit,
Soon might our theatres, in virtue's cauſe,
Be deem'd a glorious ſupplement to laws;
No fans ſhould ſkreen the bluſhing beauty's face,
And prelates might an Engliſh drama grace;
Such moral ſcenes ſhould envy's rage diſarm,
New Catos then ſhould fire, new Bevilles charm.
Well may this ſacred ſpot your reverence claim,
Where firſt their authors caught the heaven-born flame!
Methinks even now their laurell'd ſhades deſcend,
And, hovering round us, our attempts befriend:
Each boſom muſt th' inſpiring influence feel,
Warm'd by the names of Addiſon and Steele.
While each fond breaſt this pleaſing theme enjoys,
O think they once were unexperienc'd boys;
Think too that we may frame ſome deathleſs lay,
If cheer'd by you in this our firſt eſſay:
When action flattens let the ſenſe prevail,
And language charm you where the ſpeakers fail!
IF, 'mid their round of pleaſure, to convey
An uſeful leſſon to the young and gay;
To ſwell their eyes with pearly drops, and ſhare,
With cards and dreſs, the converſe of the fair:
If, with the boaſted bards of claſſic age,
Th' attention of the learned to engage,
And in the boſom of the rake to raiſe
A tender, ſocial feeling—merit praiſe;
The gay, the fair, the learn'd, even rakes, agree
To give that praiſe to nature, truth, and thee.
Tranſported now to Harlowe-Place, we view
Thy matchleſs maid her godlike taſks purſue;
Viſit the ſick or needy, and beſtow
Drugs to relieve, or words to ſoften woe;
Or, with the pious Lewen, hear her ſoar
Heights unattain'd by female minds before.
Then to her ivy-bower ſhe pleas'd retires,
And with light touch the trembling keys inſpires;
While wakeful Philomel no more complains,
But, raptur'd, liſtens to her ſweeter ſtrains.
Now (direful contraſt!) in each gloomy ſhade
Behold a pitying ſwain, or weeping maid!
Proclaims that loſs which language fails to tell.
In awful ſilence ſoon a ſight appears,
That points their ſorrows, and renews their tears:
For, lo! far-blackening all the verdant meads,
With ſlow parade, the funeral pomp proceeds:
Methinks even now I hear th' encumber'd ground,
And pavement, echo with a rumbling ſound;
And ſee the ſervants tearful eyes declare
With ſpeaking look, the herſe, the herſe, is here!
But, O thou ſiſter of Clariſſa's heart,
Can I the anguiſh of thy ſoul impart,
When, from your chariot flown with breathleſs haſte,
Her clay-cold form, yet beauteous, you embrac'd;
And cried with heaving ſobs, and broken ſtrains,
Are theſe—are theſe—my much-lov'd friend's remains?
Then view each Harlowe-face; remorſe, deſpair,
And ſelf-condemning grief, are pictur'd there.
Now firſt the brother feels, with guilty ſighs,
Fraternal paſſions in his boſom riſe:
By ſhame and ſorrow equally oppreſt,
The ſiſter wrings her hands, and beats her breaſt.
With ſtreaming eyes, too late, the mother blames
Her tame ſubmiſſion to the tyrant James:
Even he, the gloomy father, o'er the herſe
Laments his raſhneſs, and recalls his curſe.
Expects his child to tremble and obey;
Who hopes his power by rigour to maintain,
And meanly worſhips at the ſhrine of gain;
Shall mourn his error, and, repenting, own,
That bliſs can ne'er depend on wealth alone.
Riches may charm, and pageantry invite:
But what are theſe, unleſs the minds unite?
Drive then inſatiate avarice from your breaſt,
Nor think a Solmes can make Clariſſa bleſt.
And you, ye fair, the wiſh of every heart,
Tho' grac'd by nature, and adorn'd by art,
Tho' ſprightly youth its vernal bloom beſtow,
And on your cheeks the bluſh of beauty glow,
Here ſee how ſoon thoſe roſes of a day,
Nipt by a froſt, fade, wither, and decay!
Nor youth nor beauty could Clariſſa ſave,
Snatch'd to an early, not untimely grave.
But ſtill her own unſhaken innocence,
Spotleſs and pure, unconſcious of offence,
In the dread hour of death her boſom warm'd
With more than manly courage, and diſarm'd
The grieſly king: in vain the tyrant tried
His awful terrors—for ſhe ſmil'd, and died.
You too, ye libertines, who idly jeſt
With virtue wrong'd, and innocence diſtreſt;
Who vainly boaſt of what ſhould be your ſhame,
And triumph in the wreck of female fame;
The hand of vengeance hovering o'er your head!
If not, in Belton's agonies you view
What dying horrors are reſerv'd for you.
In vain even Lovelace, healthy, young, and gay,
By nature form'd to pleaſe, and to betray,
Tried from himſelf, by change of place, to run;
For that intruder, Thought, he could not ſhun.
Taſteleſs were all the pleaſures that he view'd
In foreign courts; for Conſcience ſtill purſu'd:
The loſt Clariſſa each ſucceeding night,
In ſtarry garment, ſwims before his ſight;
Nor eaſe by day her ſhrill complaints afford,
But far more deeply wound than Morden's ſword.
O! if a ſage had thus on Attic plains
Improv'd at once and charm'd the liſtening ſwains;
Had he, with matchleſs energy of thought,
Great truths like theſe in antient Athens taught;
On fam'd Ilyſſus' banks in Parian ſtone
His breathing buſt conſpicuous would have ſhone;
Even Plato, in Lyceum's awful ſhade,
Th' inſtructive page with tranſport had ſurvey'd;
And own'd its author to have well ſupplied
The place his laws to Homer's ſelf denied.
'TIS done! unclouded ſets the radiant year,
To heroes, bards, and ſtateſmen ever dear:
A year, Sylvanus, which each future age
Shall wondering view in thy hiſtoric page;
Unmatch'd, tho' Agincourt was drench'd with gore,
And Spain's proud fleet fled vanquiſh'd from our ſhore;
And tho' (more late) in Anne's diſtinguiſh'd reign,
The Maeſe and Scheld ran purple to the main.
To regions parch'd by Phoebus' ſultry ray,
When Keppel ſteer'd, Victoria led the way;
Made haughty France all Afric's wealth reſign,
And cull'd freſh bays beneath the burning * line.
Hence, ſwift as thought, to India's diſtant coaſt,
The goddeſs flew, and freed her favourite † hoſt;
His "Sodom, threaten'd with vindictive * fires."
Then, croſs th' Atlantic flood, thro' weſtern groves,
By lapſe of murmuring ſtreams, Victoria † roves;
In citron-ſhades ambroſial odours breathes,
And decks Britannia's chiefs with plantane wreathes,
Now pleas'd ſhe marks, on Minden's harraſs'd plain,
A firm, unſhaken, Macedonian ‡ train;
Sees, heaps on heaps, the hoſtile ſquadrons lie,
And bids that day in fame with Creſſy vie.
In Neptune's wide domain, ſhe next, with gales
Propitious, ſwells her lov'd Boſcawen's ſails;
Once more directs his thunder, and beſtows
A wreathe familiar to a Briton's brows;
While echoing ſhouts from Lagos' rocks rebound,
And Vincent's cape returns the welcome § ſound.
To realms far diſtant, realms which winter ſways,
The nymph now ſummons, and the muſe obeys:
There cliffs, and woods, and climate, all are foes;
In vain that climate, woods, and cliffs oppoſe.
Tho' art and nature, ſtrength and ſkill unite,
Reſolv'd, yet cool, to glory's utmoſt height▪
Reſign'd, and, like Guſtavus, ſmil'd in death*.
Reſt, happy ſhade, while round thy early tomb
Kings, ſenates mourn, and deathleſs laurels bloom:
The loves, the graces, there ſhall vigils keep,
And there with Mars ſhall beauteous Venus weep.
And O! tho' ſtoried marble muſt decay,
And trophies, buſts, and ſtatues melt away,
Yet ſhall thy deeds, like Caeſar's, ſtill ſurvive,
And, by thyſelf recorded, ever live†.
Hence, like the brave returning pair, once more
We fly, impatient, to the Gallic ſhore;
Where Hawke, with vengeance arm'd, ſerenely braves
At once the foe, the night, the winds, and waves:
By rocks and ſhoals, the ſeaſon and the coaſt,
Uncheck'd, he quells the proud invaders boaſt;
In dark eclipſe involves their ſpurious ſun,
And does "whate'er" by mortals "can be done."
On chiefs and ſages paſt, no more we dwell:
Blake, Raleigh, Cecil, Walſingham, farewell!
From Urban's annals diſtant times ſhall own,
Ne'er beam'd ſuch luſtre round Britannia's throne;
Ne'er did her ſons ſuch arduous heights attain,
In field, in council, as in George's reign.‡
GReat, as from Porus' conqueſt, Philip's ſon,
Glorious as Cortez from new Indies won,
'Midſt trumpets loud acclaim, and cannons roar,
Wellcome, illuſtrious Clive, to Britain's ſhore.
From eaſtern dawning, ſwift as Phoebus' rays,
We now behold thy full meridian blaze.
Proud of that chief, at whoſe impetuous courſe
Old Ganges trembled to his diſtant ſource;
Who, like fam'd Warwick, maſter of the crown,
On loftieſt Nabobs look'd ſuperior down,
And made the fierce Mogul, with conſcious fear,
Startle, and deem a ſecond Nadir near.
To thee her ſafety twice Bengalia owes,
Alike from Indian, and Batavian foes;
Hence in no dungeon now her ſons remain,
Nor of a new Amboyna's fate complain!
And ſee! with wreaths by glorious toils acquir'd,
Kind heaven rewards the genius it inſpir'd;
Beſtows thee all thy fondeſt wiſh could claim,
Unenvied fortune, and unſpotted fame;
Thy aged fire's embrace, thy ſovereign's praiſe,
And from a ſtranger-muſe unpurchas'd lays.
HApleſs Ramillia! in an early grave
Sunk and entomb'd beneath the boiſterous wave.
No ſtar ſhone round thee with propitious ray,
Even from thy riſing to thy ſetting day.
At fam'd Mahon, with unavailing aid,
Byng's bloodleſs colours were by thee diſplay'd,
And the proud Gaul, with joy unknown before,
At diſtance heard thy harmleſs cannons roar:
But at thy leader's fate, all wild with woe,
As if to waft him to the ſhades below,
We ſaw thee fearleſs brave the ſtormy main,
Nor ſtrongeſt moorings could thy rage reſtrain*.
Not even Hawke's valour could reverſe thy doom,
But ſilent ſlept the thunder in thy womb,
What time the foe, from Rochfort's tottering towers,
Diſmay'd, yet ſafe, beheld the Britiſh powers.
And ſtill in Breſt their fleets ſecurely lay:
At length from thee his flag the hero bore;
Then, ſwift returning to the hoſtile ſhore,
With proſperous gales he ſaw his canvas ſwell,
And did—what Britain's annals beſt can tell.
With one ſad ſigh for thee our boſoms heave,
And with the bay we now the cypreſs weave.
And O! while valour, virtue we revere,
Or unſucceſsful merit claims a tear,
To thy loſt heroes we that tear ſhall give,
And gallant Taylor's name with Balchen's live.
WE came to *Harburg late at night,
And laughing heard an antient rite
By which the burghers, every year,
In full aſſembly chuſe their mayor.
The bearded ſires, in order ſit,
Around a maple table fit,
And on the board, in grim array,
Their buſhy beards, ſagacious, lay:
Then in the midſt, exact, they place
The filthieſt of the inſect race;
And he, whoſe ſavoury length of beard
The gods ordain to be preferr'd,
Excites their envy and applauſe,
And guards that year their ſacred laws.
SOuvent un pen de veritè
Se mele dans la plus groſſiere menſonge.
Cette nuit dans l'erreur d'un ſonge
Au rang des rois j'etois montè;
Je vous aimois alors, et j'oſois vous le dire.
Les dieux a mon reveil ne m'ont pas tout otè;
Je n'ai perdu que mon empire.
OU remarque, pour l'ordinaire,
Q'un ſonge eſt analogue a noſtre charactere.
Un heros peut rever qu'il paſſè la Rhin,
Un marchand qu'il a fait fortune,
Un chien qu'il aboye a la lune:
Mais quand Voltaire en Pruſſe, pour fair le faquin,
S'imagine etre roi,
Ma foi ce'ſt abuſer d'un ſonge.
SOme truth we may deſcry,
Even in the greateſt lye.
To-night I dreamt I ſat
Enthron'd in regal ſtate:
To love you then I dar'd,
Nay, more, that love declar'd;
And when I woke, one half I ſtill retain'd;
My kingdom vaniſh'd, but my love remain'd.
Nox erat, et coelo fulgebat Luna ſereno.HOR.
WIthin a lonely gallery's awful gloom,
Where pictur'd anceſtors adorn the room,
And one dim taper diſtant gleam'd,
Veil'd by a duſky cloud, the Queen of Night
Diffus'd a pleaſing melancholy light,
And faintly thro' the windows beam'd:
Within, deep ſilence reign'd, no mortal ſtirr'd,
Without, the raven croak'd, ill-omen'd bird,
And loudly bluſtering Boreas blew;
When thrice the gallery's length I walk'd along,
And meditated much on right and wrong,
The paſt, the preſent ruſhing to my view.
Thus on the couch I at my eaſe reclin'd,
Revolving o'er and o'er within my mind
All I had ſuffer'd or enjoy'd;
Pleaſure remember'd, preſent ſorrow brings,
And from paſt ſorrow ſatisfaction ſprings!
Then my whole life my thoughts employ'd:
I view'd my failings, and my virtues too,
And doubtleſs gave myſelf all merit due,
Yet for impartial judgment ſtrove;
From crime I clear'd my conſcience, not from blame,
And dar'd my own an honeſt heart to name,
Diſpos'd to friendſhip and to love.
With tender, wiſe, indulgent parents bleſt,
With many friends, and one beyond the reſt,
The faithful ſiſter of my heart;
Beneath the rich, but far above the poor,
'Tis vain, 'tis wrong, perhaps, to wiſh for more,
Save for the bliſs I might impart.
Why then with melancholy thus oppreſt,
As if the deepeſt ſorrow wrung my breaſt?
Of heaven I ought not to complain;
How many far more wretched do I ſee,
Who think me happy, and who envy me!
But who can know another's pain?
My tears proceed not from imagin'd woe,
There is a tender cauſe that makes them flow,
A cauſe I from the world conceal;
Yet here, in peaceful ſolitude retir'd,
I ſing as by the plaintive muſe inſpir'd,
And all my ſecret grief reveal.
But, from behind the cloud, ſee Cynthia ſhine,
Come forth in all her majeſty divine,
And dart direct on me her rays;
Her aſpect, ever cheerful and ſerene,
Enlivens this too ſolitary ſcene,
And ſeems to chide my plaintive lays.
Juſtly, chaſte goddeſs, doſt thou chide my ſong,
I've ſung in melancholy ſtrains too long,
Too long have left thy peaceful grove;
Vouchſafe, protectreſs of the virgin train,
To take a wandering innocent again,
And ſave her from th' aſſaults of love.
HOW mean the pride, how falſe the ſhame
That rules the human heart,
Which bids conceal the virtuous flame
Beneath the veil of art!
Nor can that art the truth diſguiſe,
The flimſy veil too thin,
That ſhows the heart to curious eyes,
As gauze the poliſh'd ſkin.
No more in vain then, Emma, ſeek
Your ſorrow to conceal,
The downcaſt eye, and livid cheek,
In ſilence will reveal.
Your generous heart, above deceit,
For ſpotleſs faith renown'd,
Is now commenc'd an aukward cheat,
Since love an entrance found.
Thro' pathleſs groves alone you ſtray,
By Cynthia's twinkling beam,
And ſteal from ſocial friends away,
To haunt Sabrina's ſtream.
And while, with ſympathizing ſighs,
I aſk your cauſe of woe,
I ſee your labouring boſom riſe,
And grateful tears o'erflow.
I ſee the crimſon bluſh declare,
The ſtruggles of your mind,
Yet ſtill, preſerv'd with fatal care,
The ſecret reſts behind.
Paſſion ſuppreſt the ſtronger grows;
Let friendſhip's voice prevail,
Within my faithful breaſt repoſe
Your melancholy tale.
Friendſhip ſhall ſooth your ſoul to peace,
And utterance give relief,
And powerful reaſon, by degrees,
Will mitigate your grief.
Or yet, your timid heart to ſpare,
Which dreads to ſpeak the truth,
Let me the man you love declare,
And thus deſcribe the youth:
Adorn'd with every grace refin'd,
With every virtue bleſs'd,
Eſteem'd, belov'd by all mankind,
By all degrees careſs'd.
His matchleſs worth, which fix'd your love,
Will juſtify your flame,
And tho' you unſucceſsful prove,
You ſully not your fame.
Then let not melancholy's gloom
Your erring ſteps decoy,
To ſcenes where joy can never bloom,
Nor peace, nor youthful joy.
From reaſon's path to ſad deſpair
Her magic wand will lead,
And frenzy's various ſhapes appear,
Where-e'er you chance to tread.
How hard the lot of kindred ſouls,
When adverſe fate divides,
For wiſdom Henry's heart controuls,
And every action guides!
Elſe had his tongue ere now reveal'd
What oft his eyes confeſs;
His captive paſſion mourns conceal'd,
Nor ever hopes ſucceſs.
Let prudence then, with duty join'd,
Break haughty paſſion's chains,
Or reſignation teach your mind
To bear what fate ordains.
FAtigued with illneſs, ſick with pain,
By various griefs oppreſs'd;
Calm Reſignation can ſuſtain,
And ſooth the ſoul to reſt.
Hail Reſignation! nymph divine!
Behold my aching heart,
O! grant thine influence benign,
Thy ſaving grace impart!
On thee attendant Hope appears,
To whom the power is given
To diſſipate our gloomy fears,
And point the way to heaven.
Your ſmiles, like Phoebus' orient rays,
Chaſe ſuperſtition's night,
And all the viſionary blaze
Of enthuſiaſtic light.
Religion's daughters I adore,
And humbly proſtrate bow;
And ſure I feel celeſtial power
Thro' all my ſpirits glow.
Henceforth nor illneſs, pain, nor grief
Shall reach my guarded mind;
Religion grants a ſure relief,
I hope—and am reſign'd.
SAY, in this laughing ſeaſon, freſh and fair,
When Nature's lap unfolds her blooming hoard,
Say, ſhould no branch ſhoot forth, no buds appear,
Nor lofty trees their friendly ſhade afford,
Should cedars, oaks, and pines deſpoil'd be ſeen
Of all the leafy crowns that grace their heads,
Nor herb, nor flower revive, nor paſture green,
Then would not Silvio ſay, all nature fades?
To different ages different taſtes belong;
With hoary years ill ſuits impaſſion'd love;
Yet he who feels no ſoft deſires when young,
A foe to nature and to heaven muſt prove.
Silvio, look round, and what thou ſee'ſt allow,
That what or heaven, or earth, or ſea can give
For uſe or pleaſure, all to love we owe;
Earth, heaven, and ſea, his genial power receive.
By Love inſpir'd, the birds their amorous tales
Breathe thro' the air, and waft from ſpray to ſpray;
Love thro' the woods o'er ſavage beaſts prevails,
And him th' unnumber'd ſhoals of fiſh obey.
YOU rejoice without hope, and you hope without reaſon,
And you fear where no danger is nigh,
You give credit to phantoms, no faith to the truth,
And each moment produces a lye.
Meditation an hundred vain fancies preſents,
And grim Death without dying is known;
A thouſand dreams waking no ſun-ſhine diſpells,
Yet the martyr no torment will own.
You contemplate another, yourſelf you forget,
Indulging too freely a wandering mind,
Too oft, by deſires purſuing, deſires create,
And then terror on terror you find.
Such contention of paſſions you conſtantly feel,
Yet the deified tyrant approve;
So enchanting the mixture of pleaſure and pain
In this powerful frenzy call'd Love.
If your heart did not wanton thro' pleaſure's gay paths,
Quite unknown would this deity be;
Idle Fancy adorns him with arrows and bow,
And you worſhip at Error's decree.
26.3. SONNET OF FAUSTINA MARATTI ZAPPI.
ALone and penſive, thro' deſerted meads,
Slowly with meaſur'd ſtep I wandering go,
My eyes intent to ſhun each path that leads
Where printed ſands the human footſteps ſhow.
No other refuge left, but in deſpair
To ſhun the world's diſcernment I retire,
Since now in Pleaſure's train no part I bear,
My outward mien betrays my inward fire.
Methinks, henceforth the mountains, groves, and plains,
And rivers know my melancholy mind,
But only theſe, to all beſide untold;
And yet, what ſavage track unſought remains,
However rude, but Love my haunts will find,
And he and I alternate converſe hold?
IF 'tis not Love, what paſſion rules my heart?
And if it is, O heaven! then what is Love?
If good, why flows ſuch poiſon from the dart?
If bad, the torment why do I approve?
If with my choice I love, then why complain?
If not with choice, how fruitleſs to lament?
O living death! O moſt delightful pain!
Thy power ſubdues, tho' I deny conſent.
Thus, like ſome fragile bark, by adverſe winds
Expos'd to ſea, when no ſkill'd pilot ſteers,
Contending paſſions ſway my labouring ſoul;
It ſeeks for knowledge, fatal error finds,
Nor knows itſelf, or what it hopes or fears,
Freezes in Libya, ſcorches near the pole.
26.3. SONNET OF FAUSTINA MARATTI ZAPPI.
TO A LADY WITH WHOM SHE SUPPOSES HER HUSBAND TO HAVE BEEN FORMERLY IN LOVE.
O Nymph, whoſe powerful charms his heart could gain,
Whom I deſire with duteous love to pleaſe,
Thy praiſe he ſtill reſounds in every ſtrain,
Thy hair, thy lips, thy wit, and graceful eaſe.
Tell me, if e'er, by thy kind voice addreſs'd,
Silent was he, or could unmov'd appear?
Were looks perturb'd, and proud, to thee expreſs'd?
Such looks as force from me the frequent tear?
Alas! I've heard in former times his eyes,
Kindled by thine, his ardent flame reveal'd;
And then—But thy averted face I ſee,
And conſcious bluſhes on thy cheeks ariſe:
O ſpeak!—Ah! no, thy lips, by ſilence ſeal'd,
Muſt ne'er confeſs his heart attach'd to thee.
27. ANNINGAIT AND AJUTT:
A GREENLAND TALE.
TAKEN FROM THE FOURTH VOLUME OF THE RAMBLER. INSCRIBED TO SAMUEL JOHNSON, M.A.
O Johnſon! fam'd for elegance and ſenſe,
Whoſe works inſtruction and delight diſpenſe;
Where nice correction charms our wondering eyes,
And in whoſe lines embelliſh'd beauties riſe;
Say! will you deign this humble verſe to hear,
Sprung from your thoughts, and nurtur'd by your care:
A female bard, unknown to wit or fame,
To you inſcribes what from your genius came.
LOve, powerful Love, each being can controul,
Brighten the mind, and animate the ſoul:
Love can, with truth, the mighty magic boaſt,
Of ſacred warmth amidſt eternal froſt;
Witneſs fair Ajutt, pride of icy plains,
Where darkneſs half the year triumphant reigns,
And faithful, generous Anningait, the youth,
By Love taught ſoftneſs, by that ſoftneſs truth:
Both flouriſh'd ſweet on Greenland's rigid coaſt,
Pure as their ſnow, and conſtant as their froſt;
No poliſh'd arts of ſpecious vice they knew,
The youth was noble, and the maid was true;
From earlieſt dawn their charms no rival ſaw,
By nature bleſt beyond her uſual law;
No Greenland ſwain like Anningait could dare,
To fix th' harpoon, or rouſe the whale to war;
From his firm hand the unerring javelin flew,
His bark ſure loaded by the ſeal he ſlew;
Bleſt in his friends, illuſtrious was his race,
Grac'd by his birth, his birth his actions grace.
'Twas at a ſolemn feaſt in Greenland held,
Where beauteous Ajutt every nymph excell'd,
That Anningait firſt ſaw the blooming fair,
With modeſt ſenſe, and unaffected air;
Their ſouls, congenial, caught the riſing flame;
On her alone he fix'd his firm regard,
The choiceſt whale was to her board preferr'd;
A ſpotleſs ermine (emblem of her mind)
To deck her ſhoulders he from his reſign'd;
With theſe a gift of greater prize beſtow'd,
A heart all her's, a heart ſupremely good:
To ſing her charms his artleſs voice was fir'd,
Hence flow'd the lay which love and ſhe inſpir'd.
' Ajutt, more beauteous than the willow's ſhade,
' Fragrant as mountain-thyme, inchanting maid,
' Whoſe taper fingers white and poliſh'd are,
' As morſe's teeth, and nimble as the hare;
' Thy ſmiles as grateful as diſſolving ſnow,
' When welcome ſunſhine bids our lakes to flow;
' Far as e'er thought can trace I'd thee purſue,
' And be thy guardian and thy lover too;
' No power ſhall Ajutt from her love divide,
' Nor midland cliffs, nor eaſtern caverns hide;
' Not the malignant genius of the rock,
' Our foe avow'd, rapacious Amarock,
' Should from my faithful arm my Ajutt tear,
' That arm unwearied ſhould protect my fair;
' Even Haffgufa, the fear of every maid,
' I'd dauntleſs meet, nor once his proweſs dread;
' Be kind then, Ajutt, and my paſſion try,
' Who lives but in thy ſmile, without thy ſmile muſt die;
' Who blaſts our union, or dare envy me,
' Be in his icy bed for ever laid,
' Without his bow, nor wept by faithful maid;
' And in the laud of ſouls, when he arrives,
' And new to life in that dread clime revives,
' May then his ſcull the burning drops receive
' From ſtarry lamps, nor other gift relieve;
' For ſure, by fate, fair Ajutt muſt be mine,
' Pure is my paſſion, and my flame divine.'
Th' attentive fiſhers, Greenland's choiceſt ſwains,
Enraptur'd, liſten and approve his ſtrains;
The nymphs on Ajutt caſt an envious eye,
And wiſh their fate with ſuch a ſwain to try;
While ſhe, tho' pleas'd, conceals the ſoft regard,
And beauty's power exerts to be the more rever'd.
But now, long abſent Sol, the god of day,
Began his beams on ſparkling froſt to play;
The ſnow diſſolves, long ſtagnant waters riſe,
A new creation ſeems to greet their eyes;
The Greenland youths the happy omen hail,
Prepare for combat with the mighty whale;
With active ardor all renew their toil,
And count in thought the treaſures of their oil;
Foremoſt in all ſee Anningait appear,
For lovely Ajutt deigns the toil to ſhare;
Her preſence animates the hero's mind,
He ruſh'd on danger fleeter than the wind;
And drew him, panting, on his well-fix'd hook;
In utmoſt depths the diving ſeal purſued,
And pierc'd th' emerging whale, with ſinewy ſtrength endued;
And when, with loaded bark, to land they ſteer,
With active ſkill he caught the dappled deer;
Their gloſſy ſkins he dreſt to deck his bride,
But hope and anxious fear his breaſt divide;
For ſtill fair Ajutt further proof demands,
Ere-nuptial rites ſhould join their plighted hands;
To diſtant ſhores commands the youth to rove,
To find if abſence could abate his love;
Bad him in ſearch of wandering whales to roam,
To crown their board when winter call'd him home;
He muſt comply—implicit he obeys,
Her will his law—what more a lover ſways?—
Yet, ere he went, her tent with flowers he ſtrews,
Refreſh'd with ſweeteſt of the Iceland dews;
Balmy as Ajutt's breath, the new-born flowers
Might boaſt of fragrance with Arcadian bowers;
Theſe as he ſtrew'd, to Ajutt thus he ſaid,
' Attend—and mark—inexorable maid:
' See in theſe bloſſoms beauty's ſhort-liv'd power,
' Beauty as fading as the morning flower;
' This hour preſents them lovely to thy view,
' Impearl'd with fragrance, deck'd in orient dew;
' Another comes, no more they cheer thine eye,
' And ere a third revolves, they droop and die;
' A tranſient dream which ere enjoy'd is loſt:
' Why wilt thou then enforce thy harſh command,
' And drive me wretched to the diſtant ſtrand?
' Why wilt thou not my plighted vow receive,
' And be my partner on the boiſterous wave?
' Then could I fearleſs every danger try,
' What danger can I dread when Ajutt's by?
' O! virgin, beauteous as the ſunny beam,
' Which glittering dances on the limpid ſtream,
' Once more reflect—recall the ſad decree,
' Be juſt to Ajutt, and be kind to me;
' Think, ere I go, what froſts, what fogs may riſe,
' And, join'd, preclude thy preſence from my eyes;
' Thou know'ſt, my fair, our clime, condemn'd to froſt,
' Of days and nights alternate cannot boaſt,
' Like thoſe gay climes by lying ſtrangers told,
' Where houſes ſcreen them from inclement cold;
' Ere my return dread winter's bird may ſing,
' And night o'ertake me with an eagle's wing;
' What then in thoſe lone months can cheer my ſoul?
' Not ſeal, delicious, nor the flowing bowl;
' The flaming lamps without thy eyes would fade,
' Nor healing oil could cure the wound they made.'
In vain the youth his utmoſt art eſſay'd,
Perſuaſion mov'd not, nor ſoft pity ſway'd,
Perverſly fix'd, he found the cruel maid:
Seven ermine ſkins, that rival'd Greenland's ſnow,
With five fair ſwans, he as a tribute gave,
And ſeals freſh bleeding from the briny wave,
With marble lamps, and oil of curious taſte,
To deck her board, and crown the rich repaſt:
With joy refin'd, this gift the nymph receiv'd,
As proof of love, from him in whom ſhe liv'd;
Then trembling wiſh'd the parting pang was o'er,
While pitying ſighs her love-lorn baſom tore.
The ready boat the tardy youth upbraids,
And frequent ſummons from the rowing maids—
' I come, he cries—my Ajutt lov'd adieu—
' Forget me not, my fair,—be juſt—be true.'
The words, by grief, half frozen on his tongue,
He ſigh'd—ſhe wept—and on his boſom hung;
Then vow'd unchanging love, and fervent pray'd
The powers to guard him for his faithful maid;
And that no mermaid, ſyren of the deep,
Might ſnatch her love, or give her cauſe to weep;
With ſorrow, tender as the conſtant dove,
Who mourns the tedious abſence of her love,
Did Anningait his lovely Ajutt leave,
And from her wiſh his only joy receive:
With her's, his own he joins, and prays each power,
To guard his maid, and haſle their nuptial hour;
Then onward moves—now looks a laſt adieu,
While tender eloquence his cheeks bedew;
And ſwim to Ajutt o'er the daſhing wave;
Like ſome fair image Ajutt lifeleſs ſtands,
Surveys his boat, and marks the printed ſands;
Till waves and rocks her proſpect intercept,
Her hut then ſought, and there in private wept;
But, rous'd by hope of Anningait's return,
Each female art ſhe tries in various turn;
One hour the greeneſt moſs ſhe culls with care,
And dries the graſs for Anningait to wear;
Of ſofteſt ſkins a fiſhing coat ſhe wrought,
Of curious form, like him of whom ſhe thought;
A boat of tougheſt ſkins together ſew'd,
And as ſhe work'd each tender vow renew'd;
Then in ſoft numbers each good genius prays,
To guide her ſwain thro' Terror's pathleſs ways;
And that his nervous arms might ſtronger prove,
Than the fierce bear, nor aught annoy her love;
That his ſwift darts unerring he might guide,
That his tough boat might bravely ſtem the tide;
That the crack'd ice might ne'er his feet betray,
Nor his harpoon might ever fail the prey.
Thus in lone ſadneſs Ajutt ſtill remains,
Nor joins the maidens on the jocund plains;
Her locks unbraided o'er her ſhoulders flow,
In beauteous negligence, and pomp of woe;
Their rural ſports ſhe now no more adorns,
Nor thinks of joy till Anningait returns;
Vainly attemps to reach the deſtin'd coaſt,
Baniſh'd from Ajutt all his joys are loſt,
Sighing he ſtands, and views the ruffled main,
And thus to life compares the varied ſcene.
' O! frail, uncertain ſtate, where ſhall we find
' A truer emblem of the human mind,
' Than in the floating ice, by billows toſt,
' It towers on high, there ſparkles and is loſt;
' The ſun-beams, bright, diſſolve the glittering toy,
' And rocks, below, their hidden power employ;
' Each cauſe concurs this certain truth to prove,
' No joys are permanent but thoſe above:
' What art thou, Pleaſure! fleeting as a dream!
' Which ſudden blazes like a northern gleam,
' That plays a moment on our dazled eyes,
' Then palls, and fades, and in an inſtant dies:
' What art thou Love! the whirlpool of our reſt!
' The fatal eddy of the human breaſt;
' The ſoft ſenſation, that unſeen obtains
' Such ſovereign ſway, ſoon abſolute it reigns:
' Had not my eyes thy charms, O Ajutt! trac'd,
' The ſweet expreſſions that thy perſon grac'd;
' The winning ſoftneſs, and th' attracting mien,
' Which conſcious ſpoke the Graces dwelt within,
' Then had I ſtill with downy eaſe been bleſt,
' Slept like the careleſs morſe in vacant reſt,
' Had felt no grief, a ſtranger ſtill to care:
' But, if my lovely fair will true remain,
' How light each toil, and overpaid each pain;
' That ſweet reflection ſhall my peace reſtore,
' She's juſt as fair, and we ſhall part no more:
' That thought, my Ajutt, ſhall my nerves new-brace,
' I'll hunt the raindeer to the utmoſt chace;
' A few weeks paſt, then loaded I'll return,
' And Love's pure flame for us ſhall grateful burn;
' Roefiſh and porpoiſe ſhall thy kindred feaſt,
' And thou ſhalt ſmile on every friendly gueſt;
' The fox and hare ſhall Ajutt's couch enfold,
' And ſeals tough ſkins ſhall ſcreen thee from the cold;
' The marble lamps with ſweeteſt oil I'll fill,
' To light thy tent, and fragrant fumes diſtill;
' Haſte then, O time! add ſwiftneſs to thy flight,
' For, without Ajutt, horrid were the night.'
Thus was the youth alternate captive led,
By ſmiling Hope, Diſmay, and anxious Dread;
Till rous'd by ſpouting whales his ardour glows,
He with new courage to the combat goes;
Ajutt, a ſweet recluſe from all ſhe lov'd,
Retirement wooed, by ſocial joys unmov'd;
True to her love as is th' attracted ſteel,
In thought feels every woe that he might feel.
Once as ſhe ſtray'd, by gentle labour led,
Drying ſoft ſkins to deck her lover's bed;
Return'd from hunting on the diſtant plains;
The maid he raptur'd views, with ſo [...]t ſurprize,
And falls a victim to her conquering eyes;
Fair without gaudy pomp, or ſtudied art,
Her native beauty ſtruck the hero's heart;
By Love o'er-awed, whoſe power he now firſt knew,
Speechleſs he gaz'd, and wiſt not what to do;
But ready Hope her healing ſuccour ſends,
And bids him gain the fair-one by her friends;
For much he fear'd his ſuit to Ajutt vain,
Yet bleſs'd the abſence of her favour'd ſwain;
Revolves with joy his birth and mighty ſtore,
For great his wealth, no Greenland ſwain had more;
With theſe reſolves her parents faith to try,
And hopes their power might win her to comply;
Yet firſt preſumes his paſſion to diſcloſe,
And o'er her neck a dappled deer-ſkin throws;
This with diſdain the faithful maid returns,
And then for Anningait a-freſh ſhe mourns:
Her father's diſtant hutt he inſtant ſought,
His worth explain'd, and every tender thought,
Which ſoon their ſordid minds to his opinion wrought.
Home when the maid returns, with artful tale,
They praiſe young Nornſuck, hero of the vale;
His power, his wealth, they ſet in dazzling light,
His vaſt poſſeſſions for th' approaching night;
In graceful ringlets flow'd his jetty hair,
His perſon pleaſing, and quick piercing eye,
That might for brightneſs with the eagle's vie;
His ardent paſſion crown'd the irkſome tale,
But vain each art that dar'd her truth aſſail;
With ſilent ſcorn th' amazing change ſhe hears,
That they forget her vow and daily tears;
At laſt, long urg'd, ſhe painful ſilence broke,
And thus her ſentiments in anguiſh ſpoke:
' Sooner ſhall whales their liquid world forſake,
' And ſeek for paſtime in the half froze lake;
' Sooner ſhall endleſs night o'er Greenland reign,
' And cheering ſun-ſhine never gild the plain,
' Than I in thought or word my love forego,
' Fix'd as my native froſt, unblemiſh'd as my ſnow.'
Then ſwift as bounding hart away ſhe fled,
And travers'd hill or dale as fancy led;
Firmly reſolv'd the hutt to ſee no more,
Till Anningait arriv'd on Greenland's ſhore;
A willing exile from her father's board,
Her wants ſupplied from Nature's varied hoard;
She oft high cliffs aſcends, and eager eyes
The diſtant main in curling billows riſe;
Each time new hope her anxious boſom cheers,
Nay more than hope, for now the boat appears;
Wild with the joy no longer now ſhe mourns,
But darts with rapid eaſe o'er hill and dale,
Now ſcours the plain, or ſkims along the vale;
Till faint with joy ſhe gains the pebbled ſhore,
And hails the bark, and hears the daſhing oar;
Then with loud rapture calls her deſtin'd mate,
Her life, her lord, her much-lov'd Anningait;
But the glad ſounds no Anningait repays,
Trembling ſhe wonders at th' unkind delays;
Eager the cruel reaſon ſhe demands,
When drop the oars from each one's nerveleſs hands;
Aghaſt they gaze, as Anningait ſhe calls,
Nor know what fate the hapleſs ſwain befalls;
The youth impatient long before was gone,
In a ſwift boat unloaded and alone;
Their tedious voyage Love could not approve,
That ſo long kept him from expecting Love;
But how, or where he was, they knew no more,
Than ſhe, juſt lifeleſs, on the crouded ſhore;
With horror ſtruck, immoveable ſhe ſtands,
And wets, with copious tears, the thirſty ſands;
The virgin train in ſocial woe attend,
And all bewail the anguiſh of their friend;
Her kindred round now mourn, then ſooth her woes,
And from each friendly tongue perſuaſion-flows;
But ſhe was deaf as rocks, and heedleſs as the wind;
With gentle force, at laſt, they brought her there,
And ſeek each lenitive to ſooth her care;
Then her ſoft couch with ſleekeſt ſkins they ſpread,
And lead her gently to her long-left bed;
Then pray'd the downy god to ſeal her eyes,
And that ſweet Peace again might with her riſe;
She thankful heard, but knew their wiſh was vain,
From Anningait, thus torn, all life was pain;
Yet lulls her grief with ſad reflection's power,
That forth unheeded in the ſilent hour,
When the ſoft deity their pillows ſtrew'd,
And in ſweet ſlumber every ſenſe ſubdued,
She might with ſafety gain the late-left ſhore,
And for her love each terror would explore:
With double pain th' unwilling moments fly,
Till all was huſh'd, and clos'd was every eye;
Then inſtant quits her once lov'd place of reſt,
Where Peace long dwelt, tho' now no more a gueſt;
Softly ſhe ſtole her ſleeping friends to view,
And look'd, and ſigh'd, a tender, laſt adieu;
Now filial tenderneſs her boſom tore,
That thoſe dear objects ſhe might ſee no more:
But what, O! Nature, are thy feebler ties?
When Love inſpires, thy ſweet ſenſation flies;—
Seize the firſt boat, then boldly plough the main;
Nor more her native Greenland ever trod—
Nor yet the youth—Some think an angry god,
The potent genius of the floods and rock,
Fierce Haffgufa, or dreaded Amarock,
Detain'd them priſoners in their coral caves,
Whoſe pearly pavements ſhine thro' lucid waves;
Others, with kinder hope, this truth declare,
That chang'd to ſtars they grace the hemiſphere.
REclin'd I lay, where thro' my garden glides
The ſmooth canal, and laves its verdant ſides,
While, vex'd with ſecret melancholy pain,
Thus to the glittering mirror I complain:
" Why, envied ſtream, when you ſo clearly ſhine,
" Smiles not my boſom as ſerene as thine?
" O whiſper, gliding to my anxious breaſt,
" Why ſighs it thus, and wiſhes to be bleſt?"
Still penſive I complain'd; th' unanſwering ſtream
Still tinkled on, and lull'd me to a dream:
There I beheld a beauteous nymph ariſe,
Smiling her looks, and languiſhing her eyes;
Startled I know my Partheniſſa's air,
And fly enraptur'd to the promis'd fair.
So in the new-created Eden plac'd,
With all th' Almighty's laviſh bounty grac'd,
God ſaw the ſolitary Adam grieve,
And want the ſweet ſociety of Eve,
A gentle ſlumber on his eyelids laid,
And Eve's bleſt image in a dream convey'd.
HEnce, every gloomy care away!
Hence, every ſecret fear!
With joy I ſee th' approaching day
Which gives me all that's dear.
What tho' no jewels grace my bride,
(She owes no charms to them)
Yet virtue in her boſom dwells—
There glows the brighteſt gem.
There white-rob'd Innocence appears,
Fair Peace in ſmiles array'd,
And ſweet Content, in humble guiſe,
Adorn the lovely maid.
Oh! born to bleſs me with thy love,
My dear, my joy, my life—
Soon will thoſe tender names unite
In that dear name of wife.
Thee meek-eyed gentleneſs adorns,
With modeſt virtue join'd,
Thy decent form, and humble mien,
Beſpeak a ſpotleſs mind;
On theſe I build my hopes of peace,
On theſe bright charms of thine;
How ſhall I bleſs that happy hour
That makes thee ever mine?
STill ſhall the praiſe of every fair
Compoſe my idle verſe—
And thou, my wife, remain unſung,
Nor I thy praiſe rehearſe?
Yet wherefore ſhould I write in rhime?
Proſe can my mind impart:—
They have my trifles, and my ſongs,
But only thou my heart.
Amuſement others may afford,
To thee for joy I come—
My idler viſits others are,
But thou my deareſt home.
Others poetic praiſe may claim;
Sincerely flows the line
Which ſpeaks my love, which gladly ſings
That thou, my wife, art mine.
With anxious hope I watch thy health,
And wiſh thy lengthen'd life—
Lengthen'd for me:—Ah! ſelfiſh man,
To ſay he loves his wife.
For both our ſakes, for more than both,
The heart-felt wiſh I frame—
Four are the ties that bind our hearts,
And every tie's the ſame.
HEnce! unrelenting cares,
That haunt the proud, and rend the miſer's breaſt,
And far expel delightſome reſt,
And bring diſquiet, ſleepleſs nights, and ſtarting fears;
Hence! and that mind controul,
Where ſickly Pining takes her hated ſeat,
With Grief and Dread; companions meet:
There, far from me, exert thine iron ſway,
And every tedious night and day
Reign o'er the heart, and occupy the ſoul.
But come, thou goddeſs, fond and free,
Auſpicious Love, and dwell with me,
Thou whom, with thy wreathed ſhell,
Old Ocean bore (as poets tell)
While round thee, beauteous, blooming maid,
Deftly the friſking dolphins play'd.
Come, and bring thy wanton boy,
Cauſe of fondneſs, ſource of joy,
That erſt transfix'd Apollo's heart,
When, with full force and winged ſpeed,
O'er tufted lawn, and flowery mead,
Now ſlow, with long toil, up ſome ſteep,
Now down precipitately deep,
Thro' many a grove, and many a glade,
The god purſued the flying maid.
Bring beſides thy joyous train,
Soft ſupporters of thy reign,
Wanton ſmiles, endearments charming,
Mirth and coyneſs unalarming,
Whiſpers, kiſſes, ſighs and fears,
Lovely looks, and trickling tears,
Joy of feſtive, ſprightly mien,
And Innocence of look ſerene;
Thy ſmiling train can never cloy,
If led by Innocence and Joy.
Permit me, goddeſs, fond and free,
To join with them, and join with thee;
Ever preſent, ever by,
Thus let me live, thus let me die.
Riſe we when the meek-eyed morn
Doth the ſpangled meads adorn;
When every bird, from every ſpray,
Tunes various his love-labour'd lay.
Lo! from yon cloud the flaming ſun
'Gins his ſtated courſe to run,
Dew-drops ſparkling, twinkling, beaming,
Refreſhed Nature ſmiles anew,
And brings her brighteſt charms to view.
On Delia thinking will I ſtray,
Heedleſs, where I chuſe the way,
Over diſtant hills and dales,
Bleating mountains, lowing vales;
By ſilent river, rolling flood,
Fringed meadow, waving wood,
Where Flora does her ſweets diſpenſe,
And different proſpects pleaſe the ſenſe.
While ſturdy oxen, grazing nigh,
With loud lowings fill the ſky;
And the ſwallow ſkims the ground,
And the lambkin bleateth round,
And many a cuckow's echoing note
Wavering to the ear doth float.
Such pleaſing ſounds and ſights inſpire
Glowing love and ſoft deſire.
Sweet hour of pleaſure! then, to chuſe,
Breathe the ſoft ſtrain, and court the muſe,
Faireſt Delia be my theme,
By ſome whiſpering, ſilver ſtream,
That thro' the painted meads doth ſtray,
And ſwiftly trickling winds away.
And when the ſun, exalted high,
Fierce-glowing, meaſures half the ſky;
Along ſome cloſe-embowred grove—
Oh! the ſoft joys that fill the breaſt!
(Joys, the ſweeteſt and the beſt)
When, by all-powerful Love excited,
Each delighting, each delighted,
We ſit within ſome thick-wove bower
Full fragrant made by many a flower!
With thrilling pleaſure I the while
Eye the kind glance, or dimpling ſmile;
Or oft, in ſweet ſuſpenſion hung,
Catch the muſic of her tongue,
Elſe in ſweet notes briſkly moving,
Airy, fluttering, wild, and roving,
Thrice and four times, and again
Both chant to love the pleaſing ſtrain.
Or if the garden's flowery pride
Call our vagrant ſteps aſide,
Here unnumber'd charms invite,
Roſes red, and lillies white;
Here, 'mid blooming fragrance ſtraying,
Sweetly ſmiling, fondly playing,
Oft my willing hands prepare
Odorous garlands for my fair,
And mix, around the charmer's head,
The lilly's white, the roſe's red:
While Love inſpires each warbler's throat,
Smooths the ſtrain, or ſwells the note,
All is Joy, for all is Love.
But when the cooling evening breeze
Moves gently the reluctant trees,
Then will we oft-times ſtray unſeen
By winding walks of willows green,
And there the charms of muſic prove,
For muſic is the food of Love:
Inſpiring oft the warbling flute,
Now with complaining ſtrains that ſuit
The vexed thoughts and barbed care
Of fixed, ſullen, deep deſpair;
Now more luxuriant ſtrains employ,
Quickening Love, and brightening Joy;
Such as might the ſoul beguile,
And make diſturbed ſorrow ſmile;
Now the muſic varying floats,
Then ſtops: anon more ſtill the notes,
Smooth and languid, ſoft and low,
Tender, trilling, ſweet and ſlow,
Keep on the long-continued ſound,
And charm attention all around.
Strait my breaſt hath caught new pleaſures,
Throbs my pulſe in fluttering meaſures,
Grief defeated and retiring,
Joys my raptur'd heart inſpiring,
While my whole ſoul, devoid of care,
Hangs all-enamour'd on the fair,
And plays and ſmiles, and ſmiles and plays.
When night's brown ſhades invite to reſt,
And nature ſinks by ſleep oppreſt,
Then too, oh let me fond repair
To flowery meadows with my fair,
Let mimic fancy paint her charms,
And bring my angel to my arms,
Let us together ſecret ſtray,
And all the night re-act the day.
Auſpicious Goddeſs, fond and free,
Beſtow theſe pleaſures all on me,
(For ſure theſe pleaſures thou can'ſt give)
And, Love, with thee I'll chuſe to live.
COme, thou laughter-loving power,
Goddeſs of the feſtive hour,
Blue-eyed Mirth, and bring along
Gameſome Sport, and jocund Song.
Wit with native Humour warm,
Converſation's lively charm,
And yet more, to ope the ſoul,
Bring, O bring the jovial bowl;
Let us lift the gladſome ſhout,
Let us wake the midnight rout,
Briſkly let us all advance
In the ſprightly-woven dance;
Every deed on every ſide
Let the ſoul of rapture guide:
Care begone! and Grief adieu!
What have ye with Joy to do?
And thou too, that lov'ſt to dwell
Muſing in the penſive cell,
Heavenly queen of piercing eye,
Farewell, ſweet Philoſophy!
What if thou, with hermit-look,
From retirement's fartheſt nook,
Struggling o'er the waves of woe,
By the wind of black Deſpair
Daſh'd away from care to care,
Whilſt thou, calm on ſafety's ſhore,
Doſt but hear the tempeſt roar.
What if thou the flowery pride
Of the meadow's velvet ſide,
To the proudly-arching bower,
And the glittering court of power,
Can'ſt prefer; we envy not,
Holy ſeer, thy ſimple lot.
Siſters twin are Youth and Pleaſure,
Meant t' enjoy the ſweets of leiſure,
Made for every blithſome ſport,
Purpoſe mild, and gay reſort.
Age was form'd for meditation,
Not the toys of recreation,
With the ſmiles of wiſdom fraught,
And the glow of ſolemn thought;
Such is Age, Philoſophy,
Such the mind that ſuits with thee.
But now joys of different kind
Wing the wiſh, and fire the mind;
Tumbling rills that warbling flow,
Yellow meads with gold that glow,
Wandering walks, and rural eaſe,
Such alone have power to pleaſe:
Where the rays of beauty's mien,
Kindling every fond deſire,
Set the ſoul of Love on fire:
Or the loudly-echoing horn,
As it cheers the ſlumbering morn,
Waking nature, haply may
Lure us to the chace away.
Farewell then, thou willow'd ſtream,
Glittering bright with wiſdom's beam,
Silver Cam! whoſe bowers among
Inſpiration leads her throng,
Clio breathes celeſtial fire,
Muſic hangs her dulcet lyre,
Yet farewell!—To brighter joys
Pleaſure lifts our wandering eyes,
With her own reſiſtleſs ſmile
She ſhall ſmooth each care awhile;
Yes, ſhe, fair queen, ſhall all the mind poſſeſs,
With gladneſs fire it, and with rapture bleſs.
C. T. HARTIS.
FRom orchards of ample extent
Pomona's compell'd to depart;
And thus, as in anguiſh ſhe went,
The goddeſs unburthen'd her heart.
To flouriſh where liberty reigns
Was all my fond wiſhes requir'd;
And here I agreed with the ſwains
To live, till their freedom expir'd.
Of late ye have number'd my trees,
And threaten'd to limit my ſtore:
I fear—from ſuch maxims as theſe,
I fear—that your freedom's no more.
My flight will be fatal to May;
For how can her gardens be fine?
The bloſſoms are doom'd to decay,
(The bloſſoms, I mean, that were mine.)
Rich autumn remembers me well:
My fruitage was fair to behold!
My pears! how I ripen'd their ſwell!
My pippins!—were pippins of gold!
Let Ceres drudge on with her ploughs!
She droops as ſhe furrows the ſoil;
A nectar I ſhake from my boughs,
A nectar that ſoftens my toil.
When Bacchus began to repine,
With patience I bore his abuſe;
He ſaid, that I plunder'd the vine,
He ſaid, that I pilfer'd his juice.
I know the proud drunkard denies,
That trees of my culture ſhould grow:
But let not the traitor adviſe;
He comes from the climes of your foe.
Alas! in your ſilence I read
The ſentence I'm doom'd to deplore:
'Tis plain, the great Pan has decreed,
My orchards ſhall flouriſh no more.
The goddeſs flew off in deſpair,
As all her ſweet honours declin'd:
And Plenty and Pleaſure declare,
They'll loiter no longer behind.
WHY are our thoughts on lords alone intent?
Riſe honeſt muſe! and ſing The Man of Kent.
Pleas'd Medway echoes thro' her winding bounds,
While diſtant Tweed her hoarſe applauſe reſounds.
Who form'd the band, that late near Minden's towers
Stood firſt in triumph o'er proud Gallia's powers?
The Man of Kent, methinks each ſoldier ſays,
And grateful laviſhes on him the praiſe.
No uſeleſs rule did e'er his plan degrade,
No idle motion taught for mean parade;
He practis'd ſtill each leſſon that he gave,
Wiſe was each leſſon, pertinent and brave.
When Rochfort, menac'd by impending fate,
To Britiſh arms half op'd her trembling gate,
Who boldly then explor'd the hoſtile ſtrand,
And at the council nobly urg'd to land?
The ſame firm purpoſe who at home avow'd,
The Man of Kent, let all proclaim aloud.
Behold, where Louiſbourg declines her head,
The Man of Kent the way to conqueſt led,
Firſt on the beach he leapt with ardent haſte,
And up the rocky ſteep reſiſtleſs paſs'd;
And bow'd ſubmiſſive to Britannia's law.
Is there aught elſe the hero's toil to crown,
To tempt ambition, or enſure renown?
There is, there is, th' enraptur'd nation cries,
And to Quebec directs her zealous eyes;
This laſt, beſt gift the Man of Kent beſtow'd,
And ſeal'd, alas! our title with his blood.
Illuſtrious chief! thee Britiſh youths ſhall mourn,
And pay due homage to thy martial urn;
Each matron's breaſt in ſympathy ſhall heave,
Yet ſighing wiſh for ſuch a ſon to grieve;
Each Britiſh maid ſhall weep thy hapleſs fair,
Her love ſhall pity, envy and revere;
Infants unborn ſhall learn to liſp thy name,
And thence ſhall emulate thy deathleſs fame.
Thrice happy man! enabled to purſue
What all ſo wiſh'd, but wanted power to do.
Say, o'er his head what circling years had roll'd?
For this, a century was ſcarce too old.
Merit and years in pace full rare agree,
All this did he atchieve—at thirty-three.
35. VERSES. BY THE FAMOUS EARL OF ESSEX.*[Page 113]
HAppy were he could finiſh forth his fate
In ſome unhaunted deſert moſte obſcure!
From all ſocieties, from love and hate
Of worldly folkes, then might he ſleepe ſecure,
Then wake againe, and give God praiſe,
Content with hippes and hawes, and bramble berrie,
In contemplation ſpending all his dayes,
And change of holy thoughts to make him merrie;
Whence when he dyes his tombe may be a buſh,
Where harmeles Robin dwells with gentle Thruſh.
IT was a tyme when ſillie bees could ſpeake,
And in that tyme was I a ſillie bee,
Whoe ſuckt on tyme, untill my harte did breake,
Yet never found that tyme would favor mee;
Of all the ſwarme I onely could not thrive,
Yet brought I waxe and honney to the hive.
When thus I buz'd: when tyme no ſap would give,
Why then is bleſſed tyme to me ſoe drye?
Sith in this tyme the lazie droane doth live,
The waſpe, the worme, the gnat, and butterflie;
Mated with greeffe, I kneeled on my knees,
And thus complain'd I to the king of bees:
My leege, God grant thy tyme may never end,
And yet voweſafe to heare my plainte of tyme,
Which every fruitles flie hath found a friend,
And I caſt downe wheare attomies doe clime,
The king replyed but thus;—"peace, peaving bee,
" Thou'rt borne to ſerve the tyme, the tyme not thee."
The tyme not thee? this word clipt ſhorte my winges,
And made me worme-like creepe that once did flye;
Awfull reguard diſputeth not with kings,
Receveth a repulſe, not aſkinge why:
Then for a tyme I for a tyme withdrewe
To feede on henbane, hemlockes, nettells, rue;
But from theſe leaves noe dram of ſweete I drayne,
Their head-ſtronge furie did my witts bewitch;
And thence diſperſt blacke blood in everie vaine,
For honney gall, for wax I gathered pitch;
My combe a hole, my hive a cave muſt bee,
Soe chang'd that bees ſcarſe tooke me for a bee.
I woorke on meedes, the moone was in the waine,
Whilſt all the ſwarme in ſunſhine taſte the roſe,
On blacke roote ferne I ſit and ſucke my bane,
Whilſt on the eglantine the reſt repoſe.
Havinge too much they ſtill repine for more,
And cloy'd with fatnes ſurfet in the ſtore.
Swollen fatt with feaſts full merriely they paſs,
In ſwarminge cluſters falling on a tree,
Where findinge me to nyble on the graſſe,
Some ſcorne, ſome muſe, and ſome doe pitty mee,
And ſome envie, and whiſper to the king,
Some muſt be ſtill, and ſome muſt have noe ſtinge.
Are bees waxt waſpes, or ſpiders to infect?
Do honney-ſweete combes make the ſpirrit gall?
Is this the juce of flowers to ſtirr ſuſpect?
Is't not enough, to tread on them that fall?
What ſtinge hath patience but a ſighing greeffe,
That ſtinges naught but itſelf, without releefe?
True patience is the provender of fooles,
Sad patience that awaiteth at the doore,
Patience that learnes thus to conclude in ſchooles,
Patient I am, therefore I muſt be poore:
Great king of bees, that righteſt everie wronge,
Liſten to patience in his dyinge ſonge.
I cannot feede on fennell like ſome flies,
Nor fly to everie flower to gather gaine;
Mine appetite waytes on my prince's eies,
Contented with contempt, and eas'd with paine;
And yet expectinge one more happy hower,
When he ſhall ſay,—this bee ſhall ſucke a flower.
Of all the greeffes that moſte my patience mate,
There's one that fretteth in the higheſt degree
To ſee ſome caterbillers, bred of late,
Cropping the fruites that ſhould ſuſtaine the bee;
Yet ſmiled I, for that the wiſeſt knowes,
The mothes doe fret the cloth, cancker the roſe:
Once did I ſee, by flyinge in the feild,
Fowle beaſts to browze upon the lillies faire;
Vertue and bewtie could not ſuccor yeelde;
Alls provender for aſſes, but the aire:
The partiall world of this takes litell heede,
To give them flowers, that ſhould on thiſtles feede.
'Tis onely I muſt draine the noxious flowers,
Havinge noe ſavor bitter ſupp they have,
And ſeeke on rotten tombes the dead mens bowers,
And byte on pathos, growinge by the grave;
If this I cannot have, as hapleſs bee,
Witchinge tobacco, I will flye to thee.
What tho' thou dyeſt my longes in deepeſt blacke,
A mourning habit ſuits a ſable harte;
What tho' thy fumes found memmorie doe cracke,
Forgetfulnes is fitteſt for my ſmarte:
O vertuous fume, let it be carv'd in oake,
That wordes, hopes, witts, and all the world is ſmoake.
Five yeares twiſe told, with promiſes perfum'd,
My hope-ſtuft head was caſt into a ſlumber,
Sweete dreames of gold! on gold I then preſum'd;
Amongeſt the bees I thought me of the number;
Wakinge I found hive-hopes had made me vaine,
'Twas not tobacco ſtupefied my braine.
WElcome, ſweete Death, the kindeſt friend I have,
This fleſhly priſon of my ſowle unlocke,
With all the ſpeede thou canſt, provide my grave,
Gett an axe ready, and prepare the blocke;
Unto the queene I have a debt to paye,
This Febrewarye's five and twentieth day.
Come, Patience, come, and take me by the hande,
And trew Repentance, teach myne eyes to weepe;
Humyllity, in neede of thee I ſtande,
My ſowle deſires thy company to keepe;
Baſe worldly thoughts, vaniſh out of my mynde,
Leave not a ſpotte of you, nor yours behinde.
Unto thy glory, Lorde, I do confeſſe,
Vain worldly pleaſures have my youth miſled;
I have inclyn'd to luſte and wantonneſſe;
My ſynnes are more then haires upon my hed;
Without, within, and round on every ſide,
Folly, uncleanes, vanity and pride.
Forgett, forgive, lett not thy wrath incenſe,
Sweete Saviour Chriſt, my mediatour be;
O pitty, Lord, O pardon myne offence,
From throne of grace lett mercy looke on mee;
View not the evills in juſtice I have done,
Lay all my faultes on thy ſynne-ſalvinge ſon.
And, Lorde, lett my corruptions never riſe
As wittneſſes of horrour, wrath and feare,
Tho' ſynne hath ſuited me in hell's diſguiſe,
Graunt me the weddinge-garment ſaints do weare;
Sweete Jeſus, make thy bloud the only meane
To waſhe my ſtayned ſowle unſpotted, cleane.
Poure on my harte the ſweeteſt ſtreames of grace,
And feed my hungry hopes with heavenly love;
From my complaynts turn not away thy face,
Reach me thy hande to lifte my thoughts above,
That I before thy preſence may appeere,
Altho' this filthy lumpe of fleſh ſtay here.
Before I had a beeinge, life or breath,
By thy great goodneſs I obtain'd creation;
When I was captive in the jayle of death,
Thy mercy did redeeme me to ſalvation;
Thou wounded waſt, to heale the woundes ſyn gave me,
And thou didſt dye, only of love to ſave me.
COmmon births, like common things,
Paſs unheeded, or unknown;
Time but ſpreads, or waves his wings,
The phantom ſwells, the phantom's gone!
Born for millions monarchs riſe,
Heirs of infamy or fame:
When the virtuous, brave, or wiſe,
Demand our praiſe, with loud acclaim,
We twine the feſtive wreath, the ſhrines adorn,
'Tis not our king's alone, 'tis Britain's natal morn.
Bright examples, plac'd on high,
Shine with more diſtinguiſh'd blaze;
Thither nations turn their eye,
And grow virtuous as they gaze.
Thoughtleſs eaſe and ſportive leiſure
Dwell in life's contracted ſphere,
Public is the monarch's pleaſure,
Public is the monarch's care:
If Titus ſmiles the obſervant world is gay,
If Titus frowns or ſighs, we ſigh and loſe a day!
Around their couch, around their board
A thouſand ears attentive wait,
A thouſand buſy tongues record
The ſmalleſt whiſpers of the great.
Happy thoſe whom Truth ſincere
And conſcious Virtue join to guide!
Can they have a foe to fear?
Can they have a thought to hide?
Nobly they ſoar above th' admiring throng,
Superior to the power, the will of acting wrong.
Such may Britain find her kings!—
Such the Muſe of rapid wings
Wafts to ſome ſublimer ſphere:
Gods and heroes mingle there.
Fame's eternal accents breath,
Black Cocytus howls beneath:
Ev'n Malice learns to bluſh, and hide her ſtings:
—O ſuch may Britain ever find her kings!
WHen a nymph at her toilet has ſpent the whole day,
To ſhine in brocade at a ball or the play,
Her rival the butterfly, vain to exceſs,
May be juſtly more proud, if there's merit in dreſs.
The purple and gold, in his plumage diſplay'd,
Than velvet's more ſoft, and more gay than brocade.
But, with all this advantage of dreſs, you may ſee
That the butterfly ſtill is leſs lov'd than the bee:
For the bee, tho' he ſhines with no purple and gold,
We provide a good lodging to fence from the cold;
For his honey we love him, altho' he will ſting,
And deſpiſe the gay inſects that flutter and ſing:
And hence the coquet this plain leſſon may find,
" That the uſeful alone are the lov'd of mankind."
Let the fooliſh and vain at the toilet ſtill vie
In a fruitleſs endeavour to rival a fly,
Which if they could do, like the fly, for a day,
By fools they'd be play'd with, and then thrown away.
Let me like the bee every moment improve,
And merit a love which no time ſhall remove.
38. THE COMPARISON BETWEEN JOHN CHURCHILL, DUKE OF MARLBOROUGH, AND CHARLES CHURCHILL, ANTI-CALEDONIAN.[Page 123]
IN Anna's wars immortal Churchill roſe,
And, great in arms, ſubdued Britannia's foes;
A greater Churchill now commands our praiſe,
And the Palm yields her empire to the Bays:
Tho' John fought nobly at his army's head,
And ſlew his thouſands with the balls of lead;
Yet muſt the Hero to the Bard ſubmit,
Who hurls, unmatch'd, the thunderbolts of wit.
[Page]END OF VOL. VII.
- JUly. An ode, Page 1
- Hymn to the morning, 3
- On viewing an extenſive proſpect, 5
- A harveſt ſcene, 6
- Ode to genius, 7
- Elegy on a pile of ruins, 10
- The Feminead, 17
- An evening contemplation in coll. 34
- Ode to the duke of Newcaſtle, 40
- Ode to the hon. James York, 44
- On mr. Garrick, 47
- Epiſtle from York, 49
- Anſwered, 51
- Prologue ſpoken at the Charterhouſe, 53
- To the author of Clariſſa, 55
- On the campaign of 1759. 59
- To colonel Clive, 62
- On the loſs of the Ramillies, 63
- Method of chuſing a mayor, 65
- Voltaire to the princeſs Amelia, &c. 67
- A moonlight ode, 68
- Evadne to Emma, 71
- Hymn to reſignation, 74
- Imitation of Paſtor Fido, 76
- Imitation of Metaſtaſio, 77
- Sonnets from the Italian, 78
- Anningait and Ajutt, 81
- Thought in a garden, 96
- Verſes written before marriage, 97
- Verſes written eight years after, 98
- L'Amoroſo, 100
- Ode wrote before college-vacation, 106
- Pomona. A paſtoral, 109
- The man of Kent, 111
- Verſes by the earl of Eſſex, 113 to 119
- Ode for his majeſty's birth-day, 120
- Song, 122
- The compariſon, 123
Mrs. Catherine Philips: ſhe was diſtinguiſhed by moſt of the wits of king Charles's reign, and died young. Her pieces on friendſhip are particularly admired.
Anne, counteſs of Winchelſea, a lady of great wit and genius, wrote (among others) a poem, much admired, on the ſpleen, and is praiſed by mr. Pope, &c. under the poetical name of Ardelia.
Mrs. Catherine Cockburne was the wife of a clergyman, lived obſcurely, and died a few years ago in an advanced age in Northumberland; her works on dramatic, philoſophical, and ſacred ſubjects have been lately collected by the learned Dr. Birch, and are generally admired.
The firſt of theſe wrote the ſcandalous memoirs called Atalantis, and the other two are notorious for the indecency of their plays.
The character of mrs. Rowe and her writings is too well known to be dwelt on here. It may be ſufficient to ſay, that without any previous illneſs ſhe met at laſt with that ſudden death for which ſhe had always wiſhed.
Frances, counteſs of Hertford, and afterwards dutcheſs dowager of Somerſet, mrs. Rowe's illuſtrious friend, lamented her death in ſome verſes prefixed to her poems, and was author of the letters in her collection ſigned Cleora.
Anne, viſcounteſs Irwin, and aunt to the preſent earl of Carliſle: this lady, in a poetical epiſtle to mr. Pope, has reſcued her ſex's cauſe from the aſperſions caſt on them by that ſatyriſt in his eſſay on the characters of women.
Mrs. Wright, ſiſter to the famous Weſleys, has publiſhed ſome pieces, which, tho' of a melancholy caſt, are written in the genuine ſpirit of poetry. See Poet. Cal. for June, p. 79, &c.
Mrs. Madan is author of a poem called the Progreſs of Poetry. (See Poet. Cal. for March, p. 17.) wherein the characters of the beſt Grecian, Roman and Engliſh poets are juſtly and elegantly drawn.
Mrs. Leapor, daughter to a Northamptonſhire gardener, has lately convinced the world of the force of unaſſiſted nature, by imitating and equalling ſome of our moſt approved poets, by the ſtrength of her parts, and the vivacity of her genius.
Mrs. Eliza Carter of Deal, well known to the learned world for her late traſlation of Epictetus, has tranſlated, from the Italian, Algarotti's dialogues on light and colours; and lately publiſhed a ſmall collection of elegant poems.
We could not here, with juſtice, with-hold our tribute of praiſe from mrs. Brooke, author of the tragedy of Virginia.
Mrs. Pennington has happily imitated mr. Philips's Splendid Shilling, in a burleſque poem called the Copper Farthing.
This lady has written odes to Peace, Health, and the Robin Red-breaſt, which are here alluded to; and ſhe has been celebrated in a ſonnet by mr. Edwards, author of the Canons of Criticiſm.
This lady has ſucceſsfully applied herſelf to the ſiſter arts of drawing and poetry, and has written an ingenious allegory, wherein two pilgrims, Fidelio and Honoria, after a fruitleſs ſearch for the palace of Happineſs, are at laſt conducted to the houſe of Content.
This and the two following ſtanzas allude to thoſe three ſignal proofs, which his Grace has given of his regard for the learning, morality, and ſplendor of his univerſity. 1. By eſtabliſhing annual prices. 2. By forming new regulations; and 3. By ſetting on foot a ſubſcription for a new library, towards which his majeſty, with his uſual munificence, contributed 2000 l.
Dr. Herring, late lord archbiſhop of Canterbury, was ſome time rector of Barley, a village near Barkway in Hertfordſhire.
The Ramillies broke from her moorings in Portſmouth Harbour, juſt before admiral Byng's execution.
Robert Devereux, earl of Eſſex, once the favourite of queen Elizabeth, for ſome time the minion of fortune, and always the darling of the people, was beheaded in the Tower on Aſh-wedneſday the 25th of February, in the year 1601. in the 34th year of his age. Sir Chriſtopher Blount and Sir [...] Danvers ſuffered about the ſame time.