The enthusiast: or, the lover of nature. A poem

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THE LOVER OF NATURE, &c.

YE green-rob'd Dryads, oft' at dusky Eve

By wondering Shepherds seen, to Forests brown,

To unfrequented Meads, and pathless Wilds,

Lead me from Gardens deckt with Art's vain Pomps.

Can gilt Alcoves, can Marble-mimic Gods,

Parterres embroider'd, Obelisks, and Urns

Of high Relief; can the long, spreading Lake,

Or Vista lessening to the Sight; can Stow

With all her Attic Fanes, such Raptures raise,

As the Thrush-haunted Copse, where lightly leaps

The fearful Fawn the rustling Leaves along,

And the brisk Squirrel sports from Bough to Bough,

While from an hollow Oak the busy Bees

Hum drowsy Lullabies? The Bards of old,

Fair Nature's Friends, sought such Retreats, to charm

Sweet Echo with their Songs; oft' too they met,

In Summer Evenings, near sequester'd Bow'rs,

Or Mountain-Nymph, or Muse, and eager learnt

The moral Strains she taught to mend Mankind.

As to a secret Grot Aegeria stole

With Patriot Numa, and in silent Night

Whisper'd him sacred Laws, he list'ning sat

Rapt with her virtuous Voice, old Tyber leant

Attentive on his Urn, and husht his Waves.

Rich in her weeping Country's Spoils Versailles

May boast a thousand Fountains, that can cast

The tortur'd Waters to the distant Heav'ns;

Yet let me choose some Pine-topt Precipice

Abrupt and shaggy, whence a foamy Stream,

Like Anio, tumbling roars; or some bleak Heath,

Where straggling stand the mournful Juniper,

Or Yew-tree scath'd; while in clear Prospect round,

From the Grove's Bosom Spires emerge, and Smoak

In bluish Wreaths ascends, ripe Harvests wave,

Herds low, and Straw-rooft Cotts appear, and Streams

Beneath the Sun-beams twinkle—The shrill Lark,

That wakes the Wood-man to his early Task,

Or love-sick Philomel, whose luscious Lays

Sooth lone Night-wanderers, the moaning Dove

Pitied by listening Milkmaid, far excell

The deep-mouth'd Viol, the Soul-lulling Lute,

And Battle-breathing Trumpet. Artful Sounds!

That please not like the Choristers of Air,

When first they hail th' Approach of laughing May.

Creative Titian, can thy vivid Strokes,

Or thine, O graceful Raphael, dare to vie

With the rich Tints that paint the breathing Mead?

The thousand-colour'd Tulip, Violet's Bell

Snow-clad and meek, the Vermil-tinctur'd Rose,

And golden Crocus?—Yet with these the Maid,

Phillis or Phoebe, at a Feast or Wake,

Her jetty Locks enamels; fairer she,

In Innocence and home-spun Vestments drest,

Than if coerulean Sapphires at her Ears

Shone pendant, or a precious Diamond-Cross

Heav'd gently on her panting Bosom white.

Yon' Shepherd idly stretcht on the rude Rock,

Listening to dashing Waves, and Sea-Mews Clang

High-hovering o'er his Head, who views beneath

The Dolphin dancing o'er the level Brine,

Feels more true Bliss than the proud Ammiral,

Amid his Vessels bright with burnish'd Gold

And silken Streamers, tho' his lordly Nod

Ten thousand War-worn Mariners revere.

And great Aeneas [*] gaz'd with more Delight

On the rough Mountain shagg'd with horrid Shades,

(Where Cloud-compelling Jove, as Fancy dream'd,

Descending shook his direful Aegis black)

Than if he enter'd the high Capitol

On golden Columns rear'd, a conquer'd World

Contributing to deck its stately Head:

More pleas'd he slept in poor Evander's Cott

On shaggy Skins, lull'd by sweet Nightingales,

Than if a Nero, in an Age refin'd,

Beneath a gorgeous Canopy had plac'd

His royal Guest, and bade his Minstrels sound

Soft slumb'rous Lydian Airs to sooth his Rest.

[*] Happy the first of Men, ere yet confin'd

To smoaky Cities; who in sheltering Groves,

Warm Caves, and deep-sunk Vallies liv'd and lov'd,

By Cares unwounded; what the Sun and Showers,

And genial Earth untillag'd could produce,

They gather'd grateful, or the Acorn brown,

Or blushing Berry; by the liquid Lapse

Of murm'ring Waters call'd to slake their Thirst,

Or with fair Nymphs their Sun-brown Limbs to bathe;

With Nymphs who fondly clasp'd their fav'rite Youths,

Unaw'd [†] by Shame, beneath the Beechen Shade,

Nor Wiles, nor artificial Coyness knew.

Then Doors and Walls were not; the melting Maid

Nor Frowns of Parents fear'd, nor Husband's Threats;

Nor had curs'd Gold their tender Hearts allur'd;

Then Beauty was not venal. Injur'd Love,

O whither, God of Raptures, art thou fled?

While Avarice waves his golden Wand around,

Abhorr'd Magician, and his costly Cup

Prepares with baneful Drugs, t'enchant the Souls

Of each low-thoughted Fair to wed for Gain.

What tho' unknown to those primaeval Sires,

The well-arch'd Dome, peopled with breathing Forms

By fair Italia's skilful Hand, unknown

The shapely Column, and the crumbling Busts

Of awful Ancestors in long Descent?

Yet why should Man mistaken deem it nobler

To dwell in [†] Palaces, and high-rooft Halls,

Than in God's Forests, Architect supreme!

Say, is the Persian Carpet, than the Field's

Or Meadow's Mantle gay, more richly wov'n;

Or softer to the Votaries of Ease,

Than bladed Grass, perfum'd with dew-dropt Flow'rs?

O Taste corrupt! that Luxury and Pomp

In specious Names of polish'd Manners veil'd,

Should proudly banish Nature's simple Charms.

Tho' the fierce North oft smote with Iron Whip

Their shiv'ring Limbs, tho' oft the bristly Boar

Or hungry Lion 'woke them with their Howls,

And scar'd them from their Moss-grown Caves to rove,

Houseless and cold in dark, tempestuous Nights;

Yet [*] were not Myriads in embattled Fields

Swept off at once, nor had the raving Seas

O'erwhelm'd the foundering Bark, and helpless Crew;

In vain the glassy Ocean smil'd to tempt

The jolly Sailor, unsuspecting Harm,

For Commerce was unknown. Then Want and Pine

Sunk to the Grave their fainting Limbs; but Us

Excess and endless Riot doom to die.

They cropt the poisonous Herb unweetingly,

But wiser we spontaneously provide

Rare powerful Roots, to quench Life's chearful Lamp.

What are the Lays of artful Addison,

Coldly correct, to Shakespear's Warblings wild?

Whom on the winding Avon's willow'd Banks

Fair Fancy found, and bore the smiling Babe

To a close Cavern: (still the Shepherds shew

The sacred Place, whence with religious Awe

They hear, returning from the Field at Eve,

Strange Whisperings of sweet Music thro' the Air)

Here, as with Honey gather'd from the Rock,

She fed the little Prattler, and with Songs

Oft' sooth'd his wondering Ears, with deep Delight

On her soft Lap he sat, and caught the Sounds.

Oft' near some crowded City would I walk,

Listening the far-off Noises, rattling Carrs,

Loud Shouts of Joy, sad Shrieks of Sorrow, Knells

Full slowly tolling, Instruments of Trade,

Striking mine Ears with one deep-swelling Hum.

Or wandering near the Sea, attend the Sounds

Of hollow Winds, and ever-beating Waves.

Ev'n when wild Tempests swallow up the Plains,

And Boreas' Blasts, big Hail, and Rains combine

To shake the Groves and Mountains, would I sit,

Pensively musing on th' outragious Crimes

That wake Heav'n's Vengeance: at such solemn Hours,

Daemons and Goblins thro' the dark Air shriek,

While Hecat with her black-brow'd Sisters nine,

Rides o'er the Earth, and scatters Woes and Deaths.

Then too, they say, in drear Aegyptian Wilds

The Lion and the Tiger prowl for Prey

With Roarings loud! the list'ning Traveller

Starts Fear-struck, while the hollow-echoing Vaults

Of Pyramids encrease the deathful Sounds.

But let me never fail in cloudless Nights,

When silent Cynthia in her silver Car

Thro' the blue Concave slides, when shine the Hills,

Twinkle the Streams, and Woods look tipt with Gold,

To seek some level Mead, and there invoke

Old Midnight's Sister Contemplation sage,

(Queen of the rugged Brow, and stern-fixt Eye)

To lift my Soul above this little Earth,

This Folly-fetter'd World; to purge my Ears,

That I may hear the rolling Planets Song,

And tuneful-turning Spheres: If this debarr'd,

The little Fayes that dance in neighbouring Dales,

Sipping the Night-dew, while they laugh and love,

Shall charm me with aërial Notes.—As thus

I wander musing, lo, what awful Forms

Yonder appear! sharp-ey'd Philosophy

Clad in dun Robes, an Eagle on his Wrist,

First meets my Eye; next, Virgin Solitude

Serene, who blushes at each Gazer's Sight;

Then Wisdom's hoary Head, with Crutch in Hand,

Trembling, and bent with Age; last Virtue's self

Smiling, in White array'd, who with her leads

Fair Innocence, that prattles by her Side,

A naked Boy!—Harrass'd with Fear I stop,

I gaze, when Virtue thus—'Whoe'er thou art,

' Mortal, by whom I deign to be beheld,

' In these my Midnight-Walks; depart, and say

' That henceforth I and my immortal Train

' Forsake Britannia's Isle; who fondly stoops

' To Vice, her favourite Paramour.'—She spoke,

And as she turn'd, her round and rosy Neck,

Her flowing Train, and long, ambrosial Hair,

Breathing rich Odours, I enamour'd view.

O who will bear me then to Western Climes,

(Since Virtue leaves our wretched Land) to Shades

Yet unpolluted with Iberian Swords;

With simple Indian Swains, that I may hunt

The Boar and Tiger thro' Savannah's wild?

There fed on Dates and Herbs, would I despise

The far-fetch'd Cates of Luxury, and Hoards

Of narrow-hearted Avarice; nor heed

The distant Din of the tumultuous World.

So when rude Whirlwinds rouze the roaring Main,

Beneath fair Thetis sits, in coral Caves,

Serenely gay, nor sinking Sailors Cries

Disturb her sportive Nymphs, who round her form

The light fantastic Dance, or for her Hair

Weave rosy Crowns, or with according Lutes

Grace the soft Warbles of her honied Voice.

FINIS.

Notes

*
Aeneid VIII.
↵

*
The Author has ventur'd to take some Hints in the following Lines, from Lucretius's Description of the uncivilized State of Man; which is one of the finest Pieces of Poetry extant.

Glandiferas inter curabant corpora quercus—

Quod sol atque imbres dederant, quod terra creârat

Sponte suâ, satis id placebat pectora donum—

Glandiferas inter curabant corpora quercus—

Et nemora, atque cavos montes syloasque colebant,

Et frutices inter condebant squalida membra,

Verbera ventorum vitare, imbresque coacti.

Lib. V. 940, &c.

↵

†

Tum, quibus aspirabat amor, praebebat apertè

Mitis in umbrosâ gaudia valle Venus.

Nullus erat custos, nulla exclusura volentes

Janua—

TIBULLUS.

↵

†

Campestres melius Scythae,

Quorum plaustra vagas rite trahunt domos,

Vivunt, & rigidi Getae:

Immetata quibus jugera liberas

Fruges, & Cererem ferunt.

HOR. Lib. III. Od. 24.

↵

*
Lucretius, after beautifully describing the Evils that attended the barbarous State of Man, proceeds to speak of their Advantages, in the following Lines, which are attempted to be translated.

At non multa virûm sub signis millia ducta,

Una dies dabat exitio, nec turbida ponti

Aequora laedebant naves ad saxa virosque.

Nec poterat quenquam placidi pellacia ponti

Subdola pellicere in fraudem ridentibus undis:

Improba navigii ratio tum caeca jacebat.

Tum penuria deinde cibi, mortalia letho

Membra dabat; contra tunc rerum copia mersat;

Illi imprudentes ipsis sibi soepe venenum

Vergebant: nunc dant aliis solertius ipsi.

Lib. V. 997.

↵

THE ENTHUSIAST: OR, THE Lover of Nature.

A POEM.

(Price One Shilling.)

THE ENTHUSIAST: OR, THE LOVER OF NATURE.

A POEM.

Rure vero barbaroque laetatur.

MARTIAL.

—Ut! mihi devio

Rupes, & vacuum Nemus

Mirari libet!—

HORACE.

TULLY.

LONDON: Printed for R. DODSLEY at Tully's Head in Pall-mall; and sold by M. COOPER in Pater-noster-Row.

M.D.CC.XLIV.

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The enthusiast: or, the lover of nature. A poem

Warton, Joseph, 1722-1800.

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http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/3923

ID [isbn10]

1106009223

ID [isbn13]

9781106009227

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K035739.000

ID [BIBNO]

CW3315850338

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1042600500

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— The enthusiast: or, the lover of nature. A poem, Warton, Joseph, 1722-1800.. 16p. ; 2⁰. London :: printed for R. Dodsley; and sold by M. Cooper,. 1744.. [Anonymous. By Joseph Warton.] [With a half-title.] [Reproduction of original from the British Library.] [Foxon, W243] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT32780.] [Electronic data. Farmington Hills, Mich. : Thomson Gale, 2003. Page image (PNG). Digitized image of the microfilm version produced in Woodbridge, CT by Research Publications, 1982-2002 (later known as Primary Source Microfilm, an imprint of the Gale Group).]

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