A collection of poems in four volumes. By several hands: [pt.2]

Table of contents

- [halftitle]

- [titlepage]

- ORIENTAL ECLOGUES.

- ECLOGUE I. SELIM; OR, THE SHEPHERD'S MORAL.

- ECLOGUE II. HASSAN; OR, THE CAMEL-DRIVER.

- ECLOGUE III. ABRA; OR, THE GEORGIAN SULTANA.

- ECLOGUE IV. AGIB AND SECANDER; OR, THE FUGITIVES.

- ODE ON THE DEATH OF MR. JAMES THOMSON.

- ODE TO PITY.

- ODE TO SIMPLICITY.

- ODE TO PEACE,

- ODE TO MERCY.

- ODE TO LIBERTY.

- ODE TO FEAR.

- ODE ON THE POETICAL CHARACTER.

- THE MANNERS. AN ODE.

- THE PASSIONS. AN ODE.

- WRITTEN ON A PAPER, WHICH CONTAINED A PIECE OF BRIDE CAKE: GIVEN TO THE AUTHOR BY A LADY.

- LONDON: OR, THE PROGRESS OF COMMERCE.

- MODERN VIRTUE. A SATIRE.

- A MONODY TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. MARGARET WOFFINGTON.

- SPRING. A PASTORAL BALLAD.

- SUMMER.

- AUTUMN.

- WINTER.

- THE CURE OF SAUL. A SACRED ODE.

- AN INSCRIPTION WRITTEN AT A FAVOURITE RETIREMENT IN MAY MDCCLVIII.

- AN ELEGY WRITTEN AMONG THE RUINS OF AN ABBEY.

- IL LATTE: AN ELEGY.

- THE TRANSFORMATION OF LYCON AND EUPHORMIUS.

- A TALE.

- EPISTLE TO SAPPHO.

- VERSES WRITTEN IN LONDON ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING.

- WOODSTOCK. AN ELEGY. WRITTEN IN THE YEAR MDCCLIX.

- ODE ON THE REBELLION IN THE YEAR MDCCXLV.

- HEAVEN. A VISION.

- ODE ON SLEEP.

- ODE ON PLEASURE.

- ODE ON DESPAIR.

- ODE TO THE MUSE.

- THE WISH: AN ELEGY. TO URANIA.

- AN HYMN TO FORTITUDE.

- ODE AGAINST ILL-NATURE.

- ODE ON ST. CECILIA's DAY.

- THE SEASONS. IN IMITATION OF SPENSER.

- SPRING,

- SUMMER.

- AUTUMN.

- WINTER.

- ODE TO LIBERTY.

- ODE TO HEALTH. WRITTEN ON A RECOVERY FROM THE SMALL-POX.

- ODE TO SUPERSTITION.

- ODE TO A GENTLEMAN UPON HIS TRAVELS THROUGH ITALY.

- ODE AGAINST DESPAIR.

- ODE TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

- ODE TO A LADY WHO HATES THE COUNTRY.

- ODE TO SOLITUDE.

- HOLKHAM. A POEM.

- THE POOR MAN's PRAYER. WRITTEN 1766. ADDRESSED TO THE EARL OF CHATHAM.

- FIVE PASTORAL ECLOGUES.

- ECLOGUE I.

- ECLOGUE II.

- ECLOGUE III.

- ECLOGUE IV.

- ECLOGUE V.

- ON THE PEACE OF AIX LA CHAPELLE, MDCCXLVIII.

- LAURA: OR, THE COMPLAINT. AN ELEGY.

- RINALDO AND ARMIDA. TO A LADY SINGING.

- SACRED ODE.

- INSCRIPTION UPON A HERMITAGE.

- CANZONETTA.

- THE LOVER AND THE FRIEND.

- THE ENTHUSIAST: AN ODE.

- INDEX TO THE SECOND VOLUME.

END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.

A COLLECTION of POEMS.

THE SECOND EDITION.

VOL. II.

A COLLECTION OF POEMS IN FOUR VOLUMES.

BY SEVERAL HANDS.

LONDON: Printed for G. PEARCH, No. 12, CHEAPSIDE, MDCCLXX.

ORIENTAL ECLOGUES.

Isaac Taylor del. et sculp.

BY MR. WILLIAM COLLINS.

ECLOGUE I.
SELIM; OR, THE SHEPHERD'S MORAL.

SCENE, A VALLEY NEAR BAGDAT. TIME, THE MORNING.

YE Persian maids, attend your Poet's lays,

And hear how shepherds pass their golden days,

Not all are blest, whom Fortune's hand sustains

With wealth in courts, nor all that haunt the plains;

Well may your hearts believe the truths I tell;

'Tis virtue makes the bliss where'er we dwell.

Thus Selim sung, by sacred Truth inspir'd;

Nor praise, but such as Truth bestow'd, desir'd:

Wise in himself, his meaning songs convey'd

Informing morals to the shepherd maid;

Or taught the swains that surest bliss to find,

What groves nor streams bestow, a virtuous mind.

When sweet and blushing, like a virgin bride,

The radiant morn resum'd her orient pride,

When wanton gales along the vallies play,

Breathe on each flower, and bear their sweets away:

By Tygris' wandering waves he sat, and sung

This useful lesson for the fair and young.

Ye Persian dames, he said, to you belong,

Well may they please, the morals of my song:

No fairer maids, I trust, than you are found,

Grac'd with soft arts, the peopled world around!

The morn that lights you, to your loves supplies

Each gentler ray delicious to your eyes:

For you those flowers her fragrant hands bestow,

And yours the love that kings delight to know.

Yet think not these, all beauteous as they are,

The best kind blessings heaven can grant the fair!

Who trust alone in Beauty's feeble ray,

Boast but the worth [a] Balsora's pearls display;

Drawn from the deep we own their surface bright,

But, dark within, they drink no lustrous light:

Such are the maids, and such the charms they boast,

By sense unaided, or to virtue lost.

Self-flattering sex! your hearts believe in vain

That Love shall blind, when once he fires the swain;

Or hope a lover by your faults to win,

As spots on ermin beautify the skin;

Who seeks secure to rule, be first her care

Each softer virtue that adorns the fair;

Each tender passion man delights to find

The lov'd perfection of a female mind!

Blest were the days, when Wisdom held her reign,

And shepherds sought her on the silent plain;

With Truth she wedded in the secret grove,

Immortal Truth, and daughters bless'd their love.

O haste, fair maids! ye Virtues come away,

Sweet Peace and Plenty lead you on your way!

The balmy shrub for you shall love our shore,

By Ind excell'd or Araby no more.

Lost to our fields, for so the Fates ordain,

The dear deserters shall return again.

Come thou, whose thoughts as limpid springs are clear,

To lead the train, sweet Modesty, appear:

Here make thy court amidst our rural scene,

And shepherd-girls shall own thee for their queen.

With thee be Chastity, of all afraid,

Distrusting all, a wise suspicious maid;

But man the most—not more the mountain doe

Holds the swift salcon for her deadly foe.

Cold is her breast, like flowers that drink the dew;

A silken veil conceals her from the view.

No wild desires amidst thy train be known,

But Faith, whose heart is fix'd on one alone:

Desponding Meekness, with her down-cast eyes,

And friendly Pity, full of tender sighs;

And Love the last: by these your hearts approve,

These are the virtues that must lead to love.

Thus sung the swain; and ancient legends say,

The maids of Bagdat verified the lay:

Dear to the plains, the Virtues came along,

The shepherds lov'd, and Selim bless'd his song.

ECLOGUE II.
HASSAN; OR, THE CAMEL-DRIVER.

SCENE, THE DESERT. TIME, MID-DAY.

IN silent horror o'er the boundless waste

The driver Hassan with his camels past:

One cruise of water on his back he bore,

And his light scrip contain'd a scanty store;

A fan of painted feathers in his hand,

To guard his shaded face from scorching sand.

The sultry sun had gain'd the middle sky,

And not a tree, and not an herb was nigh;

The beasts, with pain, their dusty way pursue,

Shrill roar'd the winds, and dreary was the view!

With desperate sorrow wild, th' affrighted man

Thrice sigh'd, thrice struck his breast, and thus began:

" Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day,

" When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way."

Ah! little thought I of the blasting wind,

The thirst or pinching hunger that I find!

Bethink thee, Hassan, where shall thirst asswage,

When fails this cruise, his unrelenting rage?

Soon shall this scrip its precious load resign;

Then what but tears and hunger shall be thine?

Ye mute companions of my toils, that bear

In all my griefs a more than equal share!

Here, where no springs in murmurs break away,

Or moss-crown'd fountains mitigate the day,

In vain ye hope the green delights to know,

Which plains more blest, or verdant vales bestow:

Here rocks alone, and tasteless sands are sound,

And faint and sickly winds for ever howl around.

" Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day,

" When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way."

Curst be the gold and silver which persuade

Weak men to follow far-fatiguing trade!

The lilly peace outshines the silver store,

And life is dearer than the golden ore:

Yet money tempts us o'er the desert brown,

To every distant mart and wealthy town.

Full oft we tempt the land, and oft the sea;

And are we only yet repay'd by thee?

Ah! why this ruin so attractive made,

Or why fond man so easily betray'd?

Why heed we not, while mad we haste along,

The gentle voice of Peace, or Pleasure's song?

Or wherefore think the flowery mountain's side,

The fountain's murmurs, and the valley's pride,

Why think we these less pleasing to behold

Than dreary deserts, if they lead to gold?

" Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day,

" When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!"

O cease, my fears!—all frantic as I go,

When thought creates unnumber'd scenes of woe.

What if the lion in his rage I meet!—

Oft in the dust I view his printed feet:

And fearful! oft, when Day's declining light

Yields her pale empire to the mourner Night,

By hunger rous'd, he scours the groaning plain,

Gaunt wolves and sullen tygers in his train;

Before them Death with shrieks directs their way,

Fills the wild yell, and leads them to their prey.

" Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day,

" When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!"

At that dead hour the silent asp shall creep,

If aught of rest I find, upon my sleep:

Or some swoln serpent twist his scales around,

And wake to anguish with a burning wound.

Thrice happy they, the wise contented poor,

From lust of wealth, and dread of death secure!

They tempt no deserts, and no griefs they find;

Peace rules the day, where reason rules the mind.

" Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day,

" When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!"

O hapless youth! for she thy love hath won,

The tender Zara will be most undone;

Big swell'd my heart, and own'd the powerful maid,

When fast she dropt her tears, as thus she said:

" Farewell the youth whom sighs could not detain,

" Whom Zara's breaking heart implor'd in vain!

" Yet as thou go'st, may every blast arise,

" Weak and unfelt as these rejected sighs!

" Safe o'er the wild, no perils may'st thou see,

" No griefs endure, nor weep, false youth, like me."

O let me safely to the fair return,

Say with a kiss, she must not, shall not, mourn;

O! let me teach my heart to lose its fears,

Recall'd by Wisdom's voice, and Zara's tears.

He said, and call'd on heaven to bless the day,

When back to Schiraz' walls he bent his way.

ECLOGUE III.
ABRA; OR, THE GEORGIAN SULTANA.

SCENE, A FOREST. TIME, THE EVENING.

IN Georgia's land, where Tefflis' towers are seen,

In distant view along the level green,

While evening dews enrich the glittering glade,

And the tall forests cast a longer shade,

What time 'tis sweet o'er fields of rice to stray,

Or scent the breathing maize at setting day;

Amidst the maids of Zagen's peaceful grove,

Emyra sung the pleasing cares of love.

Of Abra first began the tender strain,

Who led her youth with flocks upon the plain:

At morn she came, those willing flocks to lead

Where lillies rear them in the watery mead:

From early dawn the live-long hours she told,

'Till late at silent eve she penn'd the fold.

Deep in the grove, beneath the secret shade,

A various wreathe of odorous flowers she made:

[b] Gay motley'd pinks and sweet jonquils she chose,

The violet blue that on the moss-bank grows;

All-sweet to sense, the flaunting rose was there:

The finish'd chaplet well adorn'd her hair.

Great Abbas chanc'd that fated morn to stray,

By love conducted from the chace away:

Among the vocal vales he heard her song,

And sought the vales and echoing groves among:

At length he found, and wooed the rural maid;

She knew the monarch, and with fear obey'd.

" Be every youth like royal Abbas mov'd,

" And every Georgian maid like Abra lov'd."

The royal lover bore her from the plain;

Yet still her crook and bleating flock remain:

Oft as she went, she backward turn'd her view,

And bad that crook and bleating flock adieu.

Fair happy maid! to other scenes remove,

To richer scenes of golden power and love!

Go leave the simple pipe, and shepherd's strain;

With love delight thee, and with Abbas reign.

" Be every youth like royal Abbas mov'd,

" And every Georgian maid like Abra lov'd."

Yet midst the blaze of courts she fix'd her love

On the cool fountain, or the shady grove;

Still with the shepherd's innocence her mind

To the sweet vale, and flowery mead inclin'd;

And oft as Spring renew'd the plains with flowers,

Breath'd his soft gales, and led the fragrant Hours,

With sure return she sought the sylvan scene,

The breezy mountains, and the forests green.

Her maids around her mov'd, a duteous band!

Each bore a crook all-rural in her hand:

Some simple lay, of flocks and herds, they sung;

With joy the mountain and the forest rung.

" Be every youth like royal Abbas mov'd,

" And every Georgian maid like Abra lov'd!"

And oft the royal lover left the care

And thorns of state, attendant on the fair;

Oft to the shades and low roof'd cots retir'd,

Or sought the vale where first his heart was fir'd:

A russet mantle, like a swain, he wore,

And thought of crowns and busy courts no more.

" Be every youth like royal Abbas mov'd,

" And every Georgian maid like Abra lov'd!"

Blest was the life that royal Abbas led:

Sweet was his love, and innocent his bed.

What if in wealth the noble maid excel;

The simple shepherd girl can love as well.

Let those who rule on Persia's jewell'd throne,

Be fam'd for love, and gentlest love alone;

Or wreathe, like Abbas, full of fair renown,

The lover's myrtle with the warrior's crown.

O happy days! the maids around her say;

O haste, profuse of blessings, haste away!

" Be every youth like royal Abbas mov'd,

" And every Georgian maid like Abra lov'd!"

ECLOGUE IV.
AGIB AND SECANDER; OR, THE FUGITIVES.

SCENE, A MOUNTAIN IN CIRCASSIA. TIME, MIDNIGHT.

IN fair Circassia, where, to love inclin'd,

Each swain was blest, for every maid was kind;

At that still hour, when awful midnight reigns,

And none, but wretches, haunt the twilight plains;

What time the moon had hung her lamp on high,

And past in radiance thro' the cloudless sky;

Sad o'er the dews, two brother shepherds sled,

Where wildering fear and desperate sorrow led:

Fast as they prest their flight, behind them lay

Wide ravag'd plains, and vallies stole away.

Along the mountain's bending sides they ran,

'Till faint and weak, Secander thus began:

SECANDER.

O stay thee, Agib, for my feet deny,

No longer friendly to my life, to fly.

Friend of my heart, O turn thee and survey,

Trace our sad flight thro' all its length of way!

And first review that long-extended plain,

And yon wide groves, already past with pain!

Yon ragged cliff, whose dangerous path we tried!

And last this lofty mountain's weary side!

AGIB.

Weak as thou art, yet hapless must thou know

The toils of flight, or some severer woe!

Still as I haste, the Tartar shouts behind,

And shrieks and sorrows load the saddening wind:

In rage of heart, with ruin in his hand,

He blasts our harvests, and deforms our land.

Yon citron grove, whence first in fear we came,

Drops its fair honours to the conquering flame:

Far fly the swains, like us, in deep despair,

And leave to russian bands their fleecy care.

SECANDER.

Unhappy land, whose blessings tempt the sword,

In vain, unheard, thou call'st thy Persian lord!

In vain thou court'st him, helpless, to thine aid,

To shield the shepherd, and protect the maid!

Far off, in thoughtless indolence resign'd,

Soft dreams of love and pleasure soothe his mind:

'Midst fair sultanas lost in idle joy,

No wars alarm him, and no fears annoy.

AGIB.

Yet these green hills, in summer's sultry heat,

Have lent the monarch oft a cool retreat.

Sweet to the sight is Zabra's flowery plain,

And once by maids and shepherds lov'd in vain!

No more the virgins shall delight to rove

By Sargis' banks, or Irwan's shady grove;

On Tarkie's mountain catch the cooling gale,

Or breathe the sweets of Aly's flowery vale:

Fair scenes! but, ah! no more with peace possest.

With ease alluring, and with plenty blest.

No more the shepherds whitening tents appear,

Nor the kind products of a bounteous year;

No more the date, with snowy blossoms crown'd

But Ruin spreads her baleful fires around.

SECANDER.

In vain Circassia boasts her spicy groves,

For ever fam'd for pure and happy loves:

In vain she boasts her fairest of the fair,

Their eyes blue languish, and their golden hair,

Those eyes in tears their fruitless grief must send;

Those hairs the Tartar's cruel hand shall rend.

AGIB.

Ye Georgian swains, that piteous learn from far

Circassia's ruin, and the waste of war;

Some weightier arms than crooks and staffs prepare,

To shield your harvests, and defend your fair:

The Turk and Tartar like designs pursue,

Fix'd to destroy, and stedfast to undo.

Wild as his land, in native deserts bred,

By lust incited, or by malice led,

The villain Arab, as he prowls for prey,

Oft marks with blood and wasting flames the way;

Yet none so cruel as the Tartar foe,

To death inur'd, and nurs'd in scenes of woe.

He said; when loud along the vale was heard

A shriller shriek, and nearer fires appear'd:

Th' affrighted shepherds thro' the dews of night,

Wide o'er the moon-light hills renew'd their flight.

Notes

a
The gulph of that name, famous for the pearl fishery.
↵

b
That these flowers are found in very great abundance in some of the provinces of Persia; see the Modern History of the ingenious Mr. Salmon.
↵

ODE ON THE DEATH OF MR. JAMES THOMSON.

BY THE SAME.

IN yonder [c] grove a Druid lies

Where slowly winds the stealing wave!

The year's best sweets shall duteous rise

To deck its Poet's sylvan grave!

In yon deep bed of whispering reeds

His airy harp [d] shall now be laid,

That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds,

May love thro' life the soothing shade.

Then maids and youths shall linger here,

And while its sounds at distance swell,

Shall sadly seem in Pity's ear

To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell.

Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore

When Thames in summer wreaths is drest,

And oft suspend the dashing oar

To bid his gentle spirit rest!

And oft as Ease and Health retire

To breezy lawn, or forest deep,

The friend shall view yon whitening [e] spire,

And mid the varied landscape weep.

But thou, who own'st that earthy bed,

Ah! what will every dirge avail?

Or tears, which Love and Pity shed,

That mourn beneath the gliding sail!

Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye

Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering near!

With him, sweet Bard, may Fancy die,

And Joy desert the blooming year.

But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide

No sedge-crown'd Sisters now attend,

Now waft me from the green-hill's side

Whose cold turf hides the buried friend!

And see, the fairy valleys fade,

Dun Night has veil'd the solemn view!

—Yet once again, dear parted shade,

Meek Nature's child, again adieu!

The genial meads assign'd to bless

Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom,

Their hinds, and shepherd-girls shall dress

With simple hands thy rural tomb.

Long, long, thy stone and pointed clay

Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes;

O! vales, and wild woods, shall he say,

In yonder grave your Druid lies!

Notes

c
The scene of the following stanzas is supposed to lie on the Thames near Richmond.
↵

d
The harp of Aeolus, of which see a description in the Castle of Indolence.
↵

e
Richmond church.
↵

ODE TO PITY.

BY THE SAME.

O Thou, the friend of man assign'd,

With balmy hands his wounds to bind,

And charm his frantic woe:

When first Distress, with dagger keen,

Broke forth to waste his destin'd scene,

His wild unsated foe!

By Pella's [f] bard, a magic name,

By all the griefs his thought could frame,

Receive my humble rite:

Long, Pity, let the nations view

Thy sky-worn robes of tenderest blue,

And eyes of dewy light!

But wherefore need I wander wide

To old Ilissus' distant side,

Deserted stream, and mute?

Wild Arun [g] too has heard thy strains,

And Echo, 'midst my native plains,

Been sooth'd by Pity's lute.

There first the wren thy myrtles shed

On gentlest Otway's infant head,

To him thy cell was shown;

And while he sung, the female heart,

With youth's soft notes unspoil'd by art,

Thy turtles mix'd their own.

Come, Pity, come, by Fancy's aid,

Even now my thoughts, relenting maid,

Thy temple's pride design:

Its southern site, its truth compleat,

Shall raise a wild enthusiast heat

In all who view the shrine.

There Picture's toils shall well relate;

How chance, or hard involving fate,

O'er mortal bliss prevail:

The buskin'd Muse shall near her stand,

And sighing prompt her tender hand,

With each disastrous tale.

There let me oft, retir'd by day,

In dreams of passion melt away,

Allow'd with thee to dwell:

There waste the mournful lamp of night,

Till, Virgin, thou again delight

To hear a British shell!

Notes

f
Euripides.
↵

g
A river in Sussex.
↵

ODE TO SIMPLICITY.

BY THE SAME.

O Thou by Nature taught,

To breathe her genuine thought,

In numbers warmly pure, and sweetly strong:

Who first on mountains wild,

In Fancy, loveliest child,

Thy babe, or Pleasure's, nurs'd the powers of song!

Thou, who with hermit heart

Disdain'st the wealth of Art,

And gauds, and pageant weeds, and trailing pall:

But com'st a decent maid,

In Attic robe array'd,

O chaste, unboastful nymph, to thee I call!

By all the honey'd store

On Hybla's thymy shore,

By all her blooms and mingled murmurs dear;

By her, whose love-lorn woe,

In evening musings slow,

Sooth'd sweetly sad Electra's poet's ear:

By old Cephisus deep,

Who spread his wavy sweep

In warbled wanderings round the green retreat,

On whose enamel'd side,

When holy Freedom died,

No equal haunt allur'd thy future feet,

O sister meek of Truth,

To my admiring youth,

Thy sober aid and native charms infuse!

The flowers that sweetest breathe,

Tho' Beauty cull'd the wreath,

Still ask thy hand to range their order'd hues.

While Rome could none esteem,

But Virtue's patriot theme,

You lov'd her hills, and led the laureat band:

But staid to sing alone

To one distinguish'd throne,

And turn'd thy face, and fled her alter'd land.

No more, in hall or bower,

The passions own thy power,

Love, only love, her forceless numbers mean:

For thou hast left her shrine,

Nor olive more, nor vine,

Shall gain thy feet to bless the servile scene.

Tho' Taste, tho' Genius bless

To some divine excess,

Faint's the cold work till thou inspire the whole;

What each, what all supply,

May court, may charm your eye,

Thou, only thou, canst raise the meeting soul!

Of these let others ask,

To aid some mighty task,

I only seek to find thy temperate vale:

Where oft my reed might sound

To maids and shepherds round,

And all thy sons, O Nature, learn my tale.

ODE TO PEACE,

BY THE SAME.

O Thou, who bad'st thy turtles bear

Swift from his grasp thy golden hair,

And sought'st thy native skies:

When War, by vultures drawn from far,

To Britain bent his iron car,

And bad his storms arise!

Tir'd of his rude tyrannic sway,

Our youth shall fix some festive day,

His sullen shrines to burn:

But thou, who hear'st the turning spheres,

What sounds may charm thy partial ears,

And gain thy blest return!

O Peace, thy injur'd robes up-bind,

O rise, and leave not one behind

Of all thy beamy train:

The British lion, goddess sweet,

Lies stretch'd on earth to kiss thy feet,

And own thy holier reign.

Let others court thy transient smile,

But come to grace thy western isle,

By warlike Honour led!

And, while around her ports rejoice,

While all her sons adore thy choice,

With him for ever wed!

ODE TO MERCY.

BY THE SAME.

STROPHE.

O Thou, who sit'st a smiling bride

By Valour's arm'd and awsul side,

Gentlest of sky-born forms, and best ador'd:

Who oft with songs, divine to hear,

Win'st from his fatal grasp the spear,

And hid'st in wreaths of flowers his bloodless sword!

Thou who, amidst the deathful field,

By godlike chiefs alone beheld,

Oft with thy bosom bare art found,

Pleading for him the youth who sinks to ground:

See, Mercy, see, with pure and loaded hands,

Before thy shrine my country's Genius stands,

And decks thy altar still, tho' pierc'd with many a wound!

ANTISTROPHE.

When he whom even our joys provoke,

The Fiend of Nature join'd his yoke,

And rush'd in wrath to make our isle his prey;

Thy form, from out thy sweet abode,

O'ertook him on his blasted road,

And stopp'd his wheels and look'd his rage away.

I see recoil his sable steeds,

That bore him swift to savage deeds,

Thy tender melting eyes they own;

O Maid, for all thy love to Britain shown,

Where Justice bars her iron tower,

To thee we build a roseate bower,

Thou, thou shalt rule our queen, and share our monarch's throne!

ODE TO LIBERTY.

BY THE SAME.

STROPHE.

WHO shall awake the Spartan fife,

And call in solemn sounds to life

The youths, whose locks divinely spreading,

Like vernal hyacinths in sullen hue,

At once the breath of fear and virtue shedding,

Applauding Freedom lov'd of old to view?

What new Alcaeus [h] fancy-blest,

Shall sing the sword in myrtles drest,

At Wisdom's shrine awhile its flame concealing,

(What place so fit to seal a deed renown'd?)

Till she her brightest lightnings round revealing,

It leap'd in glory forth, and dealt her prompted wound!

O Goddess, in that feeling hour,

When most its sounds would court thy ears,

Let not my shell's misguided power

E'er draw thy sad, thy mindful tears.

No, Freedom, no, I will not tell,

How Rome, before thy weeping face,

With heaviest sound, a giant-statue, fell,

Push'd by a wild and artless race

From off its wide ambitious base,

When Time his northern sons of spoil awoke,

And all the blended work of strength and grace,

With many a rude repeated stroke,

And many a barbarous yell, to thousand fragments broke.

EPODE.

Yet even, where'er the least appear'd,

Th' admiring world thy hand rever'd;

Still, 'midst the scatter'd states around,

Some remnants of her strength were found;

They saw, by what escap'd the storm,

How wonderous rose her perfect form;

How in the great, the labour'd whole,

Each mighty master pour'd his soul!

For sunny Florence, seat of art,

Beneath her vines preserv'd a part,

Till they [i], whom Science lov'd to name,

(O who could fear it i) quench'd her flame.

And lo, an humbler relic laid

In jealous Pisa's olive shade!

See small Marino [k] joins the theme,

Tho' least, not last in thy esteem:

Strike, louder strike th' ennobling strings

To those [l], whose merchant sons were kings;

To him [m], who, deck'd with pearly pride,

In Adria weds his green-hair'd bride.

Hail port of glory, wealth, and pleasure,

Ne'er let me change this Lydian measure:

Nor e'er her former pride relate,

To sad Liguria's [n] bleeding state.

Ah no! more pleas'd thy haunts I seek,

On wild Helvetia's [o] mountains bleak:

(Where, when the favour'd of thy choice,

The daring archer heard thy voice;

Forth from his eyrie rous'd in dread,

The ravening eagle northward fled.)

Or dwell in willow'd meads more near.

With those [p] to whom thy stork is dear:

Those whom the rod of Alva bruis'd,

Whose crown a British queen [q] refus'd!

The magic works, thou feel'st the strains,

One holier name alone remains;

The perfect spell shall then avail,

Hail nymph, ador'd by Britain, hail!

ANTISTROPHE.

Beyond, the measure vast of thought,

The works, the wizzard Time has wrought!

The Gaul, 'tis held of antique story,

Saw Britain link'd to his now adverse strand [r],

No sea between, nor cliff sublime and hoary,

He pass'd with unwet feet thro' all our land.

To the blown Baltic then, they say,

The wild waves found another way,

Where Orcas howls, his wolfish mountains rounding;

Till all the banded West at once 'gan rise,

A wide wild storm even Nature's self confounding,

Withering her giant sons with strange uncouth surprise.

This pillar'd earth so firm and wide,

By winds and inward labours torn,

In thunders dread was push'd aside,

And down the should'ring billows born.

And see, like gems her laughing train,

The little isles on every side,

Mona [s], once hid from those who search the main,

Where thousand elsin shapes abide,

And Wight who checks the westering tide,

For thee consenting heaven has each bestow'd,

A fair attendant on her sovereign pride:

To thee this blest divorce she ow'd,

For thou hast made her vales thy lov'd, thy last abode!

SECOND EPODE.

Then too, 'tis said, an hoary pile,

'Midst the green navel of our isle,

Thy shrine in some religious wood,

O soul-enforcing goddess, stood!

There oft the painted native's feet

Were wont thy form celestial meet:

Tho' now with hopeless toil we trace

Time's backward rolls, to find its place;

Whether the fiery-tressed Dane,

Or Roman's self o'erturn'd the fane,

Or in what heaven-left age it fell,

'Twere hard for modern song to tell.

Yet still, if Truth those beams infuse,

Which guide at once, and charm the Muse,

Beyond yon braided clouds that lie,

Paving the light-embroider'd sky:

Amidst the Bright pavillion'd plains,

The beauteous model still remains.

There happier than in islands blest,

Or bowers by Spring or Hebe drest,

The chiefs who fill our Albion's story,

In warlike weeds, retir'd in glory,

Hear their consorted Druids sing

Their triumphs to th' immortal string.

How may the poet now unfold,

What never tongue or numbers told?

How learn delighted, and amaz'd,

What hands unknown that fabric rais'd!

Even now, before his favour'd eyes,

In Gothic pride it seems to rise!

Yet Graecia's graceful orders join,

Majestic thro' the mix'd design;

The secret builder knew to chuse,

Each sphere-found gem of richest hues:

Whate'er heaven's purer mould contains,

When nearer suns emblaze its veins;

There on the walls the patriot's sight

May ever hang with fresh delight,

And, grav'd with some prophetic rage,

Read Albion's same thro' every age.

Ye forms divine, ye laureat band,

That near her inmost altar stand!

Now sooth her, to her blisssul train

Blythe Concord's social form to gain:

Concord, whose myrtle wand can steep

Even Anger's blood-shot eyes in sleep:

Before whose breathing bosom's balm,

Rage drops his steel, and storms grow calm;

Her let our sires and matrons hoar

Welcome to Britain's ravag'd shore,

Our youths, enamour'd of the fair,

Play with the tangles of her hair,

Till, in one loud applauding found,

The nations shout to her around,

O how supremely art thou blest,

Thou, Lady, thou shalt rule the west!

Notes

h
Alluding to a beautiful fragment of Alcaeus;
↵

i
The family of the Medici.
↵

k
The little republic of San Marino.
↵

l
The Venetians.
↵

m
The Doge of Venice.
↵

n
Genoa.
↵

o
Switzerland.
↵

p
The Dutch, among whom there are very severe penalties for those who are convicted of killing this bird. They are kept tame in almost all their towns, and particularly at the Hague, of the arms of which they make a part. The common people of Holland are said to entertain a superstitious sentiment, that if the whole species of them shou'd become extinct, they should lose their liberties.
↵

q
Queen Elizabeth.
↵

r
This tradition is mentioned by several of our old historians. Some naturalists too have endeavoured to support the probability of the fact, by arguments drawn from the correspondent disposition of the two opposite coasts. I do not remember that any poetical use has been hitherto made of it.
↵

s
There is a tradition in the isle of Man, that a mermaid becoming enamoured of a young man of extraordinary beauty, took an opportunity of meeting him one day as he walked on the shore, and opened her passion to him, but was received with a coldness, occasioned by his horror and surprise at her appearance. This however was so misconstrued by the sealady, that in revenge for his treatment of her, she punish'd the whole island, by covering it with a mist, so that all who attempted to carry on any commerce with it, either never arrived at it, but wandered up and down the sea, or were on a sudden wrecked upon its cliffs.
↵

ODE TO FEAR.

BY THE SAME.

THOU, to whom the world unknown

With all its shadowy shapes is shown;

Who seest appall'd th' unreal scene,

While Fancy lifts the veil between:

Ah Fear! ah frantic Fear!

I see, I see thee near.

I know thy hurried step, thy haggard eye!

Like thee I start, like thee disorder'd fly.

For lo what monsrers in thy train appear!

Danger, whose limbs of giant mold

What mortal eye can fix'd behold?

Who stalks his round, an hideous form,

Howling amidst the midnight storm.

Or throws him on the ridgy steep

Of some loose hanging rock to sleep.

And with him thousand phantoms join'd,

Who prompt to deeds accurs'd the mind:

And those, the fiends, who near allied,

O'er Nature's wounds, and wrecks preside;

While Vengeance, in the lurid air,

Lifts her red arm, expos'd and bare:

On whom that ravening brood of Fate,

Who lap the blood of Sorrow, wait;

Who, Fear, this ghastly train can see,

And look not madly wild, like thee?

EPODE.

In earliest Greece to thee, with partial choice,

The grief-full Muse addrest her infant tongue;

The maids and matrons, on her awful voice,

Silent and pale in wild amazement hung.

Yet he, the Bard [t] who first invok'd thy name,

Disdain'd in Marathon its power to feel:

For not alone he nurs'd the poet's flame,

But reach'd from Virtue's hand the patriot's steel.

But who is he whom later garlands grace,

Who left a-while o'er Hybla's dews to rove,

With trembling eyes thy dreary steps to trace,

Where thou and furies shar'd the baleful grove?

Wrapt in thy cloudy veil th' incestuous Queen [u]

Sigh'd the sad call her son and husband heard,

When once alone it broke the silent scene,

And he the wretch of Thebes no more appear'd.

O Fear, I know thee by my throbbing heart,

Thy withering power inspir'd each mournful line,

Tho' gentle Pity claim her mingled part,

Yet all the thunders of the scene are thine!

ANTISTROPHE.

Thou who such weary lengths hast past,

Where wilt thou rest, mad Nymph, at last?

Say, wilt thou shroud in haunted cell,

Where gloomy Rape and Murder dwell?

Or in some hallow'd seat,

'Gainst which the big waves beat?

Hear drowning seamens cries in tempests brought!

Dark Power, with shuddering meek submitted thought,

Be mine, to read the visions old,

Which thy awakening bards have told:

And, lest thou meet my blasted view,

Hold each strange tale devoutly true;

Ne'er be I found by thee o'er-aw'd,

In that thrice-hallow'd eve abroad,

When ghosts, as cottage-maids believe,

Their pebbled beds permitted leave,

And goblins haunt from fire, or fen,

Or mine, or flood, the walks of men!

O thou, whose spirit most possest

The sacred seat of Shakespear's breast!

By all that from thy Prophet broke,

In thy divine emotions spoke:

Hither again thy fury deal,

Teach me but once like him to feel:

His cypress wreath my meed decree,

And I, O Fear, will dwell with thee!

Notes

t
Aeschylus.
↵

u
Jocasta.
↵

ODE ON THE POETICAL CHARACTER.

BY THE SAME.

AS once, if not with light regard,

I read aright that gifted Bard,

(Him whose school above the rest

His loveliest Elsin queen has blest)

One, only one, unrivall'd fair [x]

Might hope the magic girdle wear,

At solemn turney hung on high,

The wish of each love-darting eye.

Lo! to each other nymp in turn applied,

As if, in air unseen, some hovering hand,

Some chaste and angel-friend to virgin fame,

With whisper'd spell had burst the starting band,

It left unblest her loath'd dishonour'd side;

Happier, hopeless fair, if never

Her baffled hand with vain endeavour

Had touch'd that fatal zone to her denied!

Young Fancy thus, to me divinest name,

To whom, prepar'd and bath'd in heaven,

The cest of amplest power is given:

To few the god like gift assignt,

To gird their blest prophetic loins,

And gaze her visions wild, and feel unmix'd her flame.

The band, as fairy legends say,

Was wove on that creating day,

When he, who call'd with thought to birth

Yon tented sky, this laughing earth,

And drest with springs, and forests tall,

And pour'd the main engirting all,

Long by the lov'd enthusiast woo'd,

Himself in some diviner mood,

Retiring, sat with her alone,

And plac'd her on his saphire throne,

The whiles, the vaulted shrine around,

Seraphic wires were heard to sound!

Now sublimest triumph swelling,

Now on love and mercy dwelling;

And she, from out the veiling cloud,

Breath'd her magic notes aloud:

And thou, thou rich-hair'd youth of morn,

And all thy subject life was born!

The dangerous passions kept aloof,

Far from the sainted growing woof:

But near it sat ecstatic Wonder,

Listening the deep applauding thunder:

And Truth, in sunny vest array'd,

By whose the Tarsol's eyes were made:

All the shadowy tribes of Mind,

In braided dance their murmurs join'd,

And all the bright uncounted Powers,

Who feed on heaven's ambrosial flowers.

Where is the Bard, whose soul can now

Its high presuming hopes avow?

Where he who thinks, with rapture blind,

This hallow'd work for him design'd?

High on some cliff, to heaven up-pil'd,

Of rude access, of prospect wild,

Where, tangled round the jealous steep,

Strange shades o'erbrow the vallies deep,

And holy Genii guard the rock,

Its glooms embrown, its springs unlock,

While on its rich ambitious head,

An Eden, like his own, lies spread.

I view that oak, the fancy'd glades among,

By which as Milton lay, his evening ear,

From many a cloud that dropp'd ethereal dew,

Nigh spher'd in heaven its native strains could hear:

On which that antient trump he reach'd was hung;

Thither of his glory greeting,

From Waller's myrtle shades retreating,

With many a vow from Hope's aspiring tongue,

My trembling feet his guiding steps pursue;

In vain—Such bliss to one alone,

Of all the sons of soul was known,

And Heaven, and Fancy, kindred powers,

Have now o'erturn'd th' inspiring bowers,

Or curtain'd close such scene from every future view.

Notes

x
Florimel. See Spenser, Leg. 4th.
↵

THE MANNERS. AN ODE.

BY THE SAME.

FArewell, for clearer ken design'd,

The dim-discover'd tracts of mind:

Truths which, from action's paths retir'd,

My silent search in vain requir'd!

No more my sail that deep explores,

No more I search those magic shores,

What regions part the world of soul,

Or whence thy streams, Opinion, roll:

If e'er I round such fairy field,

Some Power impart the spear and shield,

At which the wizzard Passions fly,

By which the giant Follies die!

Farewell the porch, whose roof is seen,

Arch'd with th' enlivening olive's green:

Where Science prank'd in tissu'd vest,

By Reason, Pride, and Fancy drest,

Comes like a bride, so trim array'd,

To wed with Doubt in Plato's shade!

Youth of the quick uncheated sight,

Thy walks, Observance, more invite!

O thou, who lov'st that ampler range,

Where life's wide prospects round thee change,

And, with her mingling sons allied,

Throw'st the prattling page aside:

To me in converse sweet impart,

To read in man the native heart,

To learn, where Science sure is found,

From Nature as she lives around:

And gazing oft her mirror true,

By turns each shifting image view!

Till meddling Art's officious lore

Reverse the lessons taught before,

Alluring from a safer rule,

To dream in her enchanted school;

Thou heaven, whate'er of great we boast,

Hast blest this social science most.

Retiring hence to thoughtful cell,

As Fancy breathes her potent spell,

Not vain she finds the charmful task,

In pageant quaint, in motley mask,

Behold, before her musing eyes,

The countless Manners round her rise;

While ever varying as they pass,

To some Contempt applies her glass:

With these the white-rob'd Maids combine,

And those the laughing Satyrs join!

But who is he whom now she views,

In robe of wild contending hues?

Thou, by the Passions nurs'd; I greet

The comic sock that binds thy feet!

O Humour, thou whose name is known

To Britain's favour'd isle alone;

Me too amidst thy band admit,

There where the young-ey'd healthful Wit,

(Whose jewels in his crisped hair

Are plac'd each other's beams to share,

Whom no delights from thee divide)

In laughter loos'd attends thy side!

By old Miletus [y], who so long

Has ceas'd his love-inwoven song:

By all you taught the Tuscan maids,

In chang'd Italia's modern shades:

By him [z] whose knight's distinguish'd name

Refin'd a nation's lust of fame;

Whose tales even now, with echoes sweet,

Castilia's Moorish h lls repeat:

Or him [a], whom Seine's blue nymphs deplore,

In watchet weeds on Gallia's shore,

Who drew the sad Sicilian maid,

By virtues in her sire betray'd:

O Nature boon, from proceed

Each forceful thought, each prompted deed;

If but from thee I hope to feel,

On all my heart imprint thy seal!

Let some retreating Cynic find

Those oft-turn'd scrolls I leave behind,

The Sports and I this hour agree,

To rove thy scene-full world with thee!

Notes

y
Alluding to the Milesian tales, some of the earliest romances.
↵

z
Cervantes.
↵

a
Monsieur Le Sage, author of the incomparable adventures of Gii Blas de Santillane, who died in Paris in the year 1745.
↵

THE PASSIONS. AN ODE.

BY THE SAME.

WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young,

While yet in early Greece she sung,

The Passions oft, to hear her shell,

Throng'd around her magic cell,

Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,

Possest beyond the Muse's painting;

By turns they felt the glowing mind

Disturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd.

Till once, 'tis said, when all were fir'd,

Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspir'd,

From the supporting myrtles round

They snatch'd her instruments of sound,

And as they oft had heard apart

Sweet lessons of her sorceful art,

Each, for madness rul'd the hour,

Would prove his own expressive power.

First Fear his hand, its skill to try,

Amid the chords bewilder'd laid,

And back recoil'd he knew not why,

Even at the sound himself had made.

Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire,

In lightnings own'd his secret stings,

In one rude clash he struck the lyre,

And swept with hurried hand the strings.

With woeful measures wan Despair

Low sullen sounds his grief beguil'd,

A solemn, strange, and mingled air,

'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.

But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair,

What was thy delighted measure?

Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure,

And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail!

Still would her touch the strain prolong,

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,

She call'd on Echo still thro' all the song;

And where her sweetest theme she chose,

A soft responsive voice was heard at every close,

And Hope enchanted smil'd, and wav'd her golden hair.

And longer had she sung,—but, with a frown,

Revenge impatient rose,

He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down,

And, with a withering look,

The war- denouncing trumpet took,

And blew a blast so loud and dread,

Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe.

And ever and anon he beat

The doubling drum with furious heat:

And tho' sometimes, each dreary pause between,

Dejected Pity at his side,

Her soul-subduing voice applied,

Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien,

While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his head.

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd,

Sad proof of thy distressful state,

Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd,

And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on Hate.

With eyes up-rais'd, as one inspir'd,

Pale Melancholy sat retir'd,

And from her wild sequester'd seat,

In notes by distance made more sweet,

Pour'd thro' the mellow horn her pensive soul:

And dashing soft from rocks around,

Bubbling runnels join'd the sound;

Thro' glades and glooms the mingled measure stole,

Or o'er some haunted streams with fond delay,

Round an holy calm diffusing,

Love of peace, and lonely musing,

In hollow murmurs died away.

But O, how alter'd was its sprightlier tone!

When Chearfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,

Her bow across her shoulder flung,

Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew,

Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung,

The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known!

The oak-crown'd Sisters, and their chaste-eyed Queen,

Satyrs and Sylvan boys were seen,

Peeping from forth their alleys green;

Brown Exercise rejoic'd to hear,

And Sport leapt up, and seiz'd his beechen spear.

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial,

He with viny crown advancing,

First to the lively pipe his hand addrest,

But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol,

Whose sweet entrancing voice he lov'd the best.

They would have thought, who heard the strain,

They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids,

Amidst the festal sounding shades,

To some unwearied minstrel dancing,

While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings,

Love fram'd with Mirth, a gay fantastic round,

Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound,

And he, amidst his frolic play,

As if he would the charming air repay,

Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.

O Music, sphere-descended maid,

Friend of pleasure, wisdom's aid,

Why, Goddess, why to us denied?

Lay'st thou thy antient lyre aside?

As in that lov'd Athenian bower,

You learn'd an all-commanding power,

Thy mimic soul, O nymph endear'd,

Can well recall what then it heard.

Where is thy native simple heart,

Devote to virtue, fancy, art?

Arise, as in that elder time,

Warm, energic, chaste, sublime!

Thy wonders, in that god-like age,

Fill thy recording Sister's page—

'Tis said, and I believe the tale,

Thy humblest reed could more prevail,

Had more of strength, divinder rage,

Than all which charms this laggard age,

Even all at once together found

Caecilia's mingled world of sound—

O bid our vain endeavours cease,

Revive the just designs of Greece,

Return in all thy simple state!

Confirm the tales her sons relate!

WRITTEN ON A PAPER, WHICH CONTAINED A PIECE OF BRIDE CAKE: GIVEN TO THE AUTHOR BY A LADY.

BY THE SAME.

YE curious hands, that hid from vulgar eyes,

By search profane shall find this hallow'd cake,

With Virtue's awe forbear the sacred prize,

Nor dare a theft for Love and Pity's sake!

This precious relick, form'd by magic power

Beneath the shepherd's haunted pillow laid,

Was meant by Love to charm the silent hour,

The secret present of a matchless maid.

The Cyprian queen, at Hymen's fond request,

Each nice ingredient chose with happiest art;

Fears, sighs, and wishes of th' enamour'd breast,

And pains that please are mixt in every part.

With rosy hand the spicy fruit she brought

From Paphian hills, and fair Cythera's isle;

And temper'd sweet with these the melting thought,

The kiss ambrosial and the yielding smile.

Ambiguous looks, that scorn and yet relent,

Denials mild, and firm unalter'd truth,

Reluctant pride, and amorous faint consent,

And meeting ardours, and exulting youth.

Sleep, wayward God! hath sworn while these remain,

With flattering dreams to dry his nightly tear,

And chearful Hope, so oft invok'd in vain,

With fairy songs shall sooth his pensive ear.

If bound by vows to Friendship's gentle side,

And fond of soul, thou hop'st an equal grace,

If youth or maid thy joys and griefs divide,

O much intreated, leave this fatal place.

Sweet Peace, who long hath shunn'd my plaintive day,

Consents at length to bring me short delight,

Thy careless steps may scare her doves away,

And Grief with raven note usurp the night.

LONDON: OR, THE PROGRESS OF COMMERCE.

BY MR. GLOVER.

YE northern blasts, and [b] Eurus, wont to sweep

With rudest pinions o'er the furrow'd waves,

Awhile suspend your violence, and waft

From sandy [c] Weser and the broad-mouth'd Elb

My freighted vessels to the destin'd shore,

Safe o'er th' unruffled main; let every thought,

Which may disquiet, and alarm my breast,

Be absent now; that, dispossess'd of care,

And free from every tumult of the mind,

With each disturbing passion hush'd to peace,

I may pour all my spirit on the theme,

Which opens now before me, and demands

The loftiest strain. The eagle, when he tow'rs

Beyond the clouds, the fleecy robes of heaven,

Disdains all objects but the golden sun,

Full on th' effulgent orb directs his eye,

And sails exulting through the blaze of day;

So, while her wing attempts the boldest flight,

Rejecting each inferior theme of praise,

Thee, ornament of Europe, Albion's pride,

Fair seat of wealth and freedom, thee my Muse

Shall celebrate, O London: thee she hails.

Thou lov'd abode of Commerce, last retreat,

Whence she contemplates with a tranquil mind

Her various wanderings from the fated hour

That she abandon'd her maternal clime;

Neptunian Commerce, whom Phoenice bore,

Illustrious nymph, that nam'd the fertile plains

Along the sounding main extended far,

Which flowery Carmel with its sweet perfumes,

And with its cedars Libanus o'ershades:

Her from the bottom of the watry world,

As once she stood, in radiant beauties grac'd,

To mark the heaving tide, the piercing eye

Of Neptune view'd enamour'd: from the deep

The God ascending rushes to the beach,

And clasps th' affrighted virgin. From that day,

Soon as the paly regent of the night

Nine times her monthly progress had renew'd

Thro' heaven's illumin'd vault, Phoenice, led

By shame, once more the sea-worn margin sought:

There pac'd with painful steps the barren sands,

A solitary mourner, and the surge,

Which gently roll'd beside her, now no more

With placid eyes beholding, thus exclaim'd.

Ye fragrant shrubs and cedars, lofty shade,

Which crown my native hills, ye spreading palms,

That rise majestic on these fruitful meads,

With you, who gave the lost Phoenice birth,

And you, who bear th' endearing name of friends,

Once faithful partners of my chaster hours,

Farewell! To thee, perfidious God, I come,

Bent down with pain and anguish on thy sands,

I come thy suppliant: death is all I crave;

Bid thy devouring waves inwrap my head,

And to the bottom whelm my cares and shame!

She ceas'd, when sudden from th' inclosing deep

A crystal car emerg'd, with glitt'ring shells,

Cull'd from their oozy beds by Tethys' train,

And blushing coral deck'd, whose ruddy glow

Mix'd with the watry lustre of the pearl.

A smiling band of sea-born nymphs attend,

Who from the shore with gentle hands convey

The fear-subdu'd Phoenice, and along

The lucid chariot place. As there with dread

All mute, and struggling with her painful throes

She lay, the winds by Neptune's high command

Were silent round her; not a zephyr dar'd

To wanton o'er the cedar's branching top,

Nor on the plain the stately palm was seen

To wave its graceful verdure; o'er the main

No undulation broke the smooth expanse,

But all was hush'd and motionless around,

All but the lightly-sliding ear, impell'd

Along the level azure by the strength

Of active Tritons, rivalling in speed

The rapid meteor, whose sulphureous train

Glides o'er the brow of darkness, and appears

The livid ruins of a falling star.

Beneath the Lybian skies, a blissful isle,

By [e] Triton's floods encircled, Nysa lay.

Here youthful Nature wanton'd in delights,

And here the guardians of the bounteous horn,

While it was now the infancy of time,

Nor yet th' uncultivated globe had learn'd

To smile, [f] Eucarpé, [g] Dapsiléa dwelt,

With all the nymphs, whose secret care had nurs'd

The eldest Bacchus. From the flow'ry shore

A turf-clad valley opens, and along

Its verdure mild the willing feet allures;

While on its sloping sides ascends the pride

Of hoary groves, high-arching o'er the vale

With day-rejecting gloom. The solemn shade

Half round a spacious lawn at length expands,

[h] Clos'd by a tow'ring cliff, whose forehead glows

With azure, purple, and ten thousand dyes,

From its resplendent fragments beaming round;

Nor less irradiate colours from beneath

On every side an ample grot reflects,

As down the perforated rock the sun

Pours his meridian blaze! rever'd abode

Of Nysa's nymphs, with every plant attir'd,

That wears undying green, refresh'd with rills

From ever-living fountains, and enrich'd

With all Pomona's bloom: unfading flowers

Glow on the mead, and spicy shrubs perfume

With inexhausted sweets the cooling gale,

Which breathes incessant there; while every bird

Of tuneful note his gay or plaintive song

Blends with the warble of meandring streams,

Which o'er their pebbled channels murm'ring lave

The fruit-invested hills, that rise around.

The gentle Nereids to this calm recess

Phoenice bear; nor Dapfiléa bland,

Nor good Eucarpé, studious to obey

Great Neptune's will, their hospitable care

Refuse; nor long Lucina is invok'd.

Soon as the wondrous infant sprung to day,

Earth rock'd around; with all their nodding woods,

And streams reverting to their troubled source,

The mountain shook, while Lybia's neighb'ring god,

Mysterious Ammon, from his hollow cell

With deep-resounding accent thus to heaven,

To earth, and sea, the mighty birth proclaim'd.

A new-born power behold! whom Fate hath call'd

The Gods' imperfect labour to complete

This wide creation. She in lonely sands

Shall bid the tower-encircled city rise,

The barren sea shall people, and the wilds

Of dreary nature shall with plenty cloath;

She shall enlighten man's unletter'd race,

And with endearing intercourse unite

Remotest nations, scorch'd by sultry suns,

Or freezing near the snow-encrusted pole:

Where'er the joyous vine disdains to grow,

The fruitful olive, or the golden ear;

Her hand divine, with interposing aid

To every climate shall the gifts supply

Of Ceres, Bacchus, and [i] the Athenian maid:

The graces, joys, emoluments of life

From her exhaustless bounty all shall flow.

The heavenly prophet ceas'd. Olympus heard.

Streight from their star-bespangled thrones descend

On blooming Nysa a celestial band

The ocean's lord to honour in his child;

When o'er his offspring smiling thus began

The trident-ruler. Commerce be thy name:

To thee I give the empire of the main.

From where the morning breathes its eastern gale,

To th' undiscover'd limits of the West,

From chilling Boreas to extremest South

Thy sire's obsequious billows shall extend

Thy universal reign. Minerva next

With wisdom bless'd her, Mercury with art,

[k] The Lemnian god with industry, and last

Majestic Phoebus, o'er the infant long

In contemplation pausing, thus declar'd

From his enraptur'd lip his matchless boon.

Thee with divine invention I endow,

That secret wonder, Goddess, to disclose,

By which the wise, the virtuous, and the brave,

The heaven-taught Poet and exploring Sage

Shall pass recorded to the verge of time.

Her years of childhood now were number'd o'er,

When to her mother's natal soil repair'd

The new divinity, whose parting step

Her sacred nurses follow'd, ever now

To her alone inseparably join'd;

Then first deserting their Nyseian shore

To spread their hoarded blessings round the world;

Who with them bore the inexhausted horn

Of ever-smiling Plenty. Thus adorn'd,

Attended thus, great Goddess, thou beganst

Thy all enlivening progress o'er the globe,

Then rude and joyless, destin'd to repair

The various ills, which earliest ages ru'd

From one, like thee, distinguish'd bu the gifts

Of heaven, Pandora, whose pernicious hand

From the dire vase releas'd th' imprison'd woes.

Thou, gracious Commerce, from his cheerless caves

In horrid rocks, and solitary woods,

The helpless wand'rer man forlorn and wild

Didst charm to sweet society; didst cast

The deep foundations, where the future pride

Of mightiest cities rose, and o'er the main

Before the wond'ring Nereids didst present

The surge-dividing keel, and stately mast,

Whose canvas wings, distending with the gale▪

The bold Phoenician through Alcides' straits

To northern Albion's tin-embowel'd fields,

And oft beneath the sea-obscuring brow

Of cloud-envelop'd Teneriff convey'd▪

Next in sagacious thought th' ethereal plains

Thou trodst, exploring each propitious star

The danger-braving mariner to guide;

Then all the latent and mysterious powers

Of number didst unravel; last to crown

Thy bounties, Goddess, thy unrival'd toils

For man, still urging thy inventive mind,

Thou gav'st him [l] letters; there imparting all,

Which lifts th' ennobled spirit near to heaven,

Laws, learning, wisdom, nature's works reveal'd

By god-like Sages, all Minerva's arts,

Apollo's music, and th' eternal voice

Of Virtue sounding from the historic roll,

The philosophic page, and poet's song.

Now solitude and silence from the shores

Retreat on pathless mountains to reside,

Barbarity is polish'd, infant arts

Bloom in the desart, and benignant peace

With hospitality begin to sooth

Unsocial rapine, and the thirst of blood;

As from his tumid urn when Nilus spreads

His genial tides abroad, the favour'd soil

That joins his fruitful border, first imbibes

The kindly stream; anon the bounteous God

His waves extends, embracing Egypt round,

Dwells on the teeming champain, and endows

The sleeping grain with vigour to attire

In one bright harvest all the Pharian plains:

Thus, when Pygmalion from Phoenician Tyre

Had banish'd freedom, with disdainful steps

Indignant Commerce, turning from the walls

Herself had rais'd, her welcome sway enlarg'd

Among the nations, spreading round the globe

The fruits of all its climes; [m] Cecropian oil,

The Thracian vintage, and Panchaian gums,

Arabia's spices, and the golden grain,

Which old Osiris to his Aegypt gave,

And Ceres to [n] Sicania. Thou didst raise

Th' Ionian name, O Commerce, thou the domes

Of sumptuous Corinth, and the ample round

Of Syracuse didst people.—All the wealth

Now thou assemblest from Iberia's mines,

And golden-channel'd Tagus, all the spoils

From fair [o] Trinacria wasted, all the powers

Of conquer'd Afric's tributary realms

To fix thy empire on the Lybian verge,

Thy native tract; the nymphs of Nysa hail

Thy glad return, and echoing joy resounds

O'er Triton's sacred waters, but in vain:

The irreversible decrees of heaven

To far more northern regions had ordain'd

Thy lasting seat; in vain th' imperial port

Receives the gather'd riches of the world;

In vain whole climates bow beneath its rule;

Behold the toil of centuries to Rome

I•… glories yields, and mould'ring leaves no trace

Of its deep-rooted greatness; thou with tears

From thy extinguish'd Carthage didst retire,

And these thy perish'd honours long deplore.

What though rich [p] Gades, what though polish'd Rhodes,

With Alexandria, Aegypt's splendid mart,

The learn'd [q] Massylians, and [r] Ligurian towers,

What though the potent Hanseatic league,

And Venice, mistress of the Grecian isles,

With all th' Aegean floods, awhile might sooth

The sad remembrance; what though, led through climes

And seas unknown, with thee th' advent'rous sons

Of [s] Tagus pass'd the stormy cape, which braves

The huge Atlanic; what though Antwerp grew

Beneath thy smiles, and thou propitious there

Didst shower thy blessings with unsparing hands:

Still on thy grief-indented heart impress'd

The great Amilcar's valour, still the deeds

Of Asdrubal and Mago, still the loss

Of thy unequal Annibal remain'd:

Till from the sandy mouths of echoing Rhine,

And sounding margin of the Scheld and Maese,

With sudden roar the angry voice of war

Alarm'd thy languor; wonder turn'd thy eye.

Lo! in bright arms a bold militia stood,

Arrang'd for battle: from afar thou saw'st

The snowy ridge of Apennine, the fields

Of wild Calabria, and Pyrene's hills,

The Guadiana, and the Duro's banks,

And rapid Ebro gath'ring all their powers

To crush this daring populace. The pride

Of fiercest kings with more inflam'd revenge

Ne'er menac'd freedom; nor since dauntless Greece,

And Rome's stern offspring none hath e'er surpass'd

The bold [t] Batavian in his glorious toil

For liberty, or death. At once the thought

Of long-lamented Carthage flies thy breast,

And ardent, Goddess, thou dost speed to save

The generous people. Not the vernal showers,

Distilling copious from the morning clouds,

Descend more kindly on the tender flower,

New-born and opening on the lap of Spring,

Than on this rising state thy cheering smile,

And animating presence; while on Spain,

Prophetic thus, thy indignation broke.

Insatiate race! the shame of polish'd lands!

Disgrace of Europe! for inhuman deeds

And insolence renown'd! what demon led

Thee first to plough the undiscover'd surge,

Which lav'd an hidden world? whose malice taught

Thee first to taint with rapine, and with rage,

With more than savage thirst of blood the arts,

By me for gentlest intercourse ordain'd,

For mutual aids, and hospitable ties

From shore to shore? Or, that pernicious hour,

Was heaven disgusted with its wondrous works,

That to thy fell exterminating hand

Th' immense Peruvian empire it resign'd,

And all, which lordly [u] Montezuma sway'd?

And com'st thou, strengthen'd with the shining stores

Of that gold-teeming hemisphere, to waste

The smiling fields of Europe, and extend

Thy bloody shackles o'er these happy seats

Of liberty? Presumptuous nation, learn,

From this dire period shall thy glories fade,

Thy slaughter'd youth shall fatten Belgium's sands,

And Victory against her Albion's cliffs

Shall see the blood-empurpled ocean dash

Thy weltering hosts, and stain the chalky shore:

Ev'n those, whom now thy impious pride would bind

In servile chains, hereafter shall support

Thy weaken'd throne; when heaven's afflicting hand

Of all thy power despoils thee, when alone

Of all, which e'er hath signaliz'd thy name,

Thy insolence and cruelty remain.

Thus with her clouded visage, wrapt in frowns,

The Goddess threaten'd, and the daring train

Of her untam'd militia, torn with wounds,

Despising fortune, from repeated foils

More fierce, and braving Famine's keenest rage,

At length through deluges of blood she led

To envied greatness; ev'n while clamorous Mars

With loudest clangor bade his trumpet shake

The Belgian champain, she their standard rear'd

On tributary Java, and the shores

Of huge Borneo; thou; Sumatra, heard'st

Her naval thunder, Ceylon's trembling sons

Their fragrant stores of cinnamon resign'd,

And odour-breathing Ternate and Tidore

Their spicy groves. And O whatever coast

The Belgians trace, where'er their power is spread,

To hoary Zembla, or to Indian suns,

Still thither be extended thy renown,

O William, pride of Orange, and ador'd

Thy virtues, which disdaining life, or wealth,

Or empire, whether in thy dawn of youth,

Thy glorious noon of manhood, or the night,

[x] The fatal night of death, no other care

Besides the public own'd. And dear to fame

Be thou, harmonious [y] Douza; every Muse,

Your laurel strow around this hero's urn,

Whom fond Minerva grac'd with all her arts,

Alike in letters and in arms to shine,

A dauntless warrior, and a learned bard.

Him Spain's surrounding host for slaughter mark'd,

With massacre yet reeking from the streets

Of blood-stain'd Harlem: he on Leyden's to w'rs,

With Famine his companion, wan, subdu'd

In outward form, with patient virtue stood

Superior to despair; the heavenly Nine

His suffering soul with great examples cheer'd

Of memorable bards, by Mars adorn'd

With wreaths of fame; [z] Oeagrus tuneful son,

Who with melodious praise to noblest deeds

Charm'd the Iölchian heroes, and himself

Their danger shar'd; [a] Tyrtaeus, who reviv'd

With animating verse the Spartan hopes;

Brave [b] Aeschylus and [c] Sophocles, around

Whose sacred brows the tragic ivy twin'd,

Mix'd with the warrior's laurel; all surpass'd

By Douza's valour: and the generous toil,

His and his country's labours soon receiv'd

Their high reward, when favouring Commerce rais'd

Th' invincible Batavians, till, rever'd

Among the mightiest on the brightest roll

Of fame they shone, by splendid wealth and power

Grac'd and supported; thus a genial soil

Diffusing vigour though the infant oak,

Affords it strength to flourish, till at last

Its lofty head, in verdant honours clad,

It rears amidst the proudest of the grove.

Yet here th' eternal sates thy last retreat

Deny, a mightier nation they prepare

For thy reception, sufferers alike

By th' unremitted insolence of power

From reign to reign, nor less than Belgium known

For bold contention oft on crimson fields,

In free tongu'd senates oft with nervous laws

To circumscribe, or conquering to depose

Their sceptred tyrants: Albion sea-embrac'd,

The joy of freedom, dread of treacherous kings,

The destin'd mistress of the subject main,

And arbitress of Europe, now demands

Thy presence, Goddess. It was now the time,

Ere yet perfidious Cromwel dar'd profane

The sacred senate, and with impious feet

Tread on the powers of magistrates and laws,

While every arm was chill'd with cold amaze,

Nor one in all that dauntless train was found

To pierce the ruffian's heart; and now thy name

Was heard in thunder through th' affrighted shores

Of pale Iberia, of submissive Gaul,

And Tagus, trembling to his utmost source.

O ever faithful, vigilant, and brave,

Thou bold assertor of Britannia's fame,

Unconquerable Blake: propitious heaven

At this great aera, and [d] the sage decree

Of Albion's senate, perfecting at once,

What by [e] Eliza was so well begun,

So deeply founded, to this favour'd shore

The Goddess drew, where grateful she bestow'd

Th' unbounded empire of her father's floods,

And chose thee, London, for her chief abode,

Pleas'd with the silver Thames, its gentle stream,

And smiling banks, its joy-diffusing hills,

Which clad with splendour, and with beauty grac'd,

O'erlook his lucid bosom; pleas'd with thee,

Thou nurse of arts, and thy industrious race;

Pleas'd with their candid manners, with their free

Sagacious converse, to enquiry led,

And zeal for knowledge; hence the opening mind

Resigns its errors, and unseals the eye

Of blind Opinion; Merit hence is heard

Amidst its blushes, dawning arts arise,

The gloomy clouds, which ignorance or fear

Spread o'er the paths of Virtue, are dispell'd,

Servility retires, and every heart

With public cares is warm'd; thy merchants hence,

Illustrious city, thou dost raise to fame:

How many names of glory may'st thou trace

From earliest annals down to [e] Barnard's times!

And, O! if like that eloquence divine,

Which forth for Commerce, for Britannia's rights,

And her insulted majesty he pour'd,

These humble measures flow'd, then too thy walls

Might undisgrac'd resound thy poet's name,

Who now all-fearful to thy praise attunes

His lyre, and pays his grateful song to thee,

Thy votary, O Commerce! Gracious Power,

Continue still to hear my vows, and bless

My honourable industry, which courts

No other smile but thine; for thou alone

Can'st wealth bestow with independance crown'd:

Nor yet exclude contemplative repose,

But to my dwelling grant the solemn calm

Of learned leisure, never to reject

The visitation of the tuneful Maids,

Who seldom deign to leave their sacred haunts,

And grace a mortal mansion; thou divide

With them my labours; pleasure I resign,

And, all devoted to my midnight lamp,

Ev'n now, when Albion o'er the foaming breast

Of groaning Tethys spreads its threat'ning fleets,

I grasp the sounding shell, prepar'd to sing

That hero's valour, who shall best confound

His injur'd country's foes: ev'n now I feel

Celestial fires descending on my breast,

Which prompt thy daring suppliant to explore,

Why, though deriv'd from Neptune, though rever'd

Among the nations, by the Gods endow'd,

Thou never yet from eldest times hast found

One permanent abode; why oft expell'd

Thy favour'd seats, from clime to clime hast borne

Thy wandering steps; why London late hath seen

(Thy lov'd, thy last retreat) desponding Care

O'ercloud thy brow: O listen, while the Muse,

Th' immortal progeny of Jove, unfolds

The fatal cause. What time in Nyfa's cave

Th' Ethereal Train, in honour to thy sire,

Shower'd on thy birth their blended gifts, the Power

Of War was absent; hence, unbless'd by Mars,

Thy sons relinquish'd arms, on other arts

Intent, and still to mercenary hands

The sword entrusting, vainly deem'd, that wealth

Could purchase lasting safety, and protect

Unwarlike Freedom; hence the Alps in vain

Were pass'd, their long impenetrable snows

And dreary torrents; swoln with Roman dead,

Astonish'd [f] Trebia overflow'd its banks

In vain, and deep-dy'd Trasimenus roll'd

Its crimson waters; Cannae's signal day

The rame alone of great Amilcar's son

Enlarg'd, while still undisciplin'd, dismay'd,

Her head commercial Carthage bow'd at last

To military Rome: th' unalter'd will

Of heaven in every climate hath ordain'd,

And every age, that empire shall attend

The sword, and steel shall ever conquer gold.

Then from thy sufferings learn; th' auspicious hour

Now smiles; our wary magistrates have arm'd

Our hands; thou, Goddess, animate our breafts

To cast inglorious indolence aside,

That once again, in bright battalions rang'd,

Our thousands and ten thousands may be seen

Their country's only rampart, and the dread

Of wild Ambition. Mark the Swedish hind;

He, on his native soil should danger lour,

Soon from the entrails of the dusky mine

Would rise to arms; and other fields and chiefs

With Helsingburg [g] and Steinboch soon would share

The admiration of the northern world:

Helvetia's hills behold, th' aërial seat

Of long-supported Liberty, who thence,

Securely resting on her faithful shield,

The warrior's corselet flaming on her breast,

Looks down with scorn on spacious realms, which groan

In servitude around her, and, her sword

With dauntless skill high brandishing, defies

The Austrian eagle, and imperious Gaul:

And O could those ill-fated shades arise

Whose valiant ranks along th' ensanguin'd dust

Of [h] Newbury lay crouded, they could tell,

How their long-matchless cavalry, so oft

O'er hills of slain by ardent Rupert led,

Whose dreaded standard Victory had wav'd,

Till then triumphant, there with noblest blood

From their gor'd squadrons dy'd the restive spear

Of London's firm militia, and resign'd

The well-disputed field; then, Goddess, say,

Shall we be now more timid, when behold,

The blackning storm now gathers round our heads,

And England's angry Genius sounds to arms?

For thee, remember, is the banner spread;

The naval tower to vindicate thy rights

Will sweep the curling foam; the thundring bomb

Will roar, and startle in the deepest grots

Old Nereus' daughters; with combustion stor'd

For thee our dire volcano's of the main,

Impregnated with horror, soon will pour

Their flaming ruin round each hostile fleet:

Thou then, great Goddess, summon all thy powers,

Arm all thy sons, thy vassals, every heart

Inflame: and you, ye fear-disclaiming race,

Ye mariners of Britain, chosen train

Of Liberty and Commerce, now no more

Secrete your generous valour; hear the call

Of injur'd Albion; to her foes present

Those daring bosoms, which alike disdain

The death-disploding cannon, and the rage

Of warring tempests, mingling in their strife

The seas and clouds: though long in silence hush'd

Hath slept the British thunder; though the pride

Of weak Iberia hath forgot the roar;

Soon shall her ancient terrors be recall'd,

When your victorious shouts affright her shores:

None now ignobly will your warmth restrain,

Nor hazard more indignant Valour's curse,

Their country's wrath, and Time's eternal scorn;

Then bid the Furies of Bellona wake,

And silver-mantled Peace with welcome steps

Anon shall visit your triumphant isle.

And that perpetual safety may possess

Our joyous fields, thou, Genius, who presid'st

O'er this illustrious city, teach her sons

To wield the noble instruments of war;

And let the great example soon extend

Through every province, till Britannia sees

Her docile millions fill the martial plain.

Then, whatsoe'er our terrors now suggest

Of desolation and th' invading sword;

Though with his massy trident Neptune heav'd

A new-born isthmus from the British deep,

And to its parent continent rejoin'd

Our chalky shore; though Mahomet could league

His powerful crescent with the hostile Gaul,

And that new Cyrus of the conquer'd East,

Who now in trembling vassalage unites

The Ganges and Euphrates, could advance

With his auxiliar host; our warlike youth

With [i] equal numbers, and with keener zeal

For children, parents, friends, for England fir'd,

Her fertile glebe, her wealthy towns, her laws,

Her liberty, her honour, should sustain

The dreadful onset, and resistless break

Th' immense array; thus ev'n the lightest thought

E'er to invade Britannia's calm repose

Must die the moment, that auspicious Mars

Her sons shall bless with discipline and arms;

That exil'd race, in superstition nurs'd,

The servile pupils of tyrannic Rome,

With distant gaze despairing shall behold

The guarded splendors of Britannia's crown;

Still from their abdicated sway estrang'd,

With all th' attendance on despotic thrones,

Priests, ignorance, and bonds; with watchful step

Gigantic Terror, striding round our coast,

Shall shake his gorgon aegis, and the hearts

Of proudest kings appal; to other shores

Our angry fleets, when insolence and wrongs

To arms awaken our vindictive power,

Shall bear the hideous waste of ruthless war;

But liberty, security, and fame

Shall dwell for ever on our chosen plains.

Notes

b
The east wind.
↵

c
Bremen is situated on the Weser, and Hamburg on the Elb.
↵

e
Triton, a river and lake of antient Lybia.
↵

f
Fruitfulness.
↵

g
Plenty.
↵

h
This whole description of the rock and grotto is taken from Diod. Siculus, lib. 3. pag. 202.
↵

i
Minerva, the tutelary goddess of the Athenians, to whom she gave the olive.
↵

k
Vulcan, the tutelary deity of Lemnos.
↵

l
Here the opinion of Sir Isaac Newton is followed, that letters were first invented amongst the trading parts of the world.
↵

m
Athenian. Athens was call'd Cecropia from Cecrops its first king.
↵

n
Sicily.
↵

o
Another name of Sicily, which was frequently ravag'd by the Carthaginians.
↵

p
Cadiz.
↵

q
Marfeilles, a Grecian colony, the most civilized, as well as the greatest trading city of antient Gaul.
↵

r
Genoa.
↵

s
The Portuguese discover'd the Cape of Good Hope in 1487.
↵

t
The Dutch.
↵

u
Montezuma, emperor of Mexico.
↵

x
He was assassinated at Delf. His dying words were, Lord have mercy upon this people. See Grot. de Bell. Belg.
↵

y
Janus Douza, a famous poet, and the most learned man of his time. He commanded in Leyden when it was so obstinately besieged by the Spaniards in 1570. See Meursii Athen. Bat.
↵

z
Orpheus, one of the Argonauts, who set sail from Iölcos, a town in Thessalia.
↵

a
When the Spartans were greatly distressed in the Messen an war, they applied to the Athenians for a general, who sent them the poet Tyrtaeua.
↵

b
Aeschylus, one of the most ancient tragic poets, who signalized himself in the battles of Marathon and Salamis.
↵

c
Sophocles commanded his countrymen the Athenians, in several expeditions.
↵

d
The act of navigation.
↵

e
Queen Elizabeth was the first of our princes, who gave any considerable encouragement to trade.
↵

e
Sir John Barnard.
↵

f
Trebia, Trasimenus lacus, and Cannae, famous for the victories gained by Annibal over the Romans.
↵

g
Helsingburg, a small town in Schonen, celebrated for the victory, which Count Steinboch gain'd over the Danes with an army, for the most part composed of Swedish peasants, who had never seen an enemy before: it is remarkable, that the deseated troops were as compleat a body of regular forces as any in all Europe.
↵

h
The London train'd-bands, and auxiliary regiments. (of whose inexperience of danger. or any kind of service, beyond the easy practice of their postures in the Artillery-Ground, had till then too cheap an estimation) behaved themselves to wonder; and were, in truth, the preservation of that army that day. For they stood as a bulwark and rampire to defend the rest; and when their wings of horse were scattered and dispersed, kept their ground so steadily, that though Prince Rupert himself led up the choice horse to charge them, and endured the storm of small-shot, he could make no impression on their stand of pikes; but was forced to wheel about.
•…
arend. book 7. pag. 347.

↵

i
If the computation, which allots near two millions of fighting men to this kingdom may be relied on; it is not easy to conceive, how the united force of the whole world could assemble together, and subsist in an enemy's country greater numbers, than they would find opposed to them here.
↵

MODERN VIRTUE. A SATIRE.

" LET venal annals boast a Caesar's reign,

" When Rome's great genius hugg'd th' imperial chain,

" Freedom, gay Goddess, glads our happier isle,

" Peace smooths her brow, as Plenty decks her smile;

" In every son th' inspirer lives confess'd,

" And lights up all the patriot in his breast,

" Breathes the same social warmth from soul to soul,

" Till widening Nature pants but for a whole.

" Shines he in life's meridian beam display'd,

" Or gives his milder virtues to the shade;

" Glares the proud ribbon, nods the martial crest,

" Or flaunt the tatters on his motly vest;

" The godlike Briton fills his every sphere

" Without a frailty, and without a fear.

" If rich: Bright image of the Eternal Mind,

" His opening bosom takes in all mankind;

" Where'er he comes, Health triumphs o'er Disease,

" Hope glads Despair, and Anguish melts to ease.

" Is Knowledge his? He lends his every art,

" To rear the genius, and to mould the heart;

" Fondly pursues with Boyle's auspicious blaze

" Truth thro' her masques, and Nature thro' her maze;

" To heedless Justice gives the well-poiz'd scale,

" And raises Commerce as he guides the sail.

" Is power his orb? He lives but to defend;

" The statesman only dignifies the friend:

" Disarms Oppression, prunes Ambition's wing,

" And stifles Faction ere she darts her sting;

" Enriches every coffer but his own,

" And shields the cottage while he guards the throne;

" Sees at his nod our plunder'd rights restor'd,

" And Europe trembling when he grasps the sword."

Thus sung the Muse when Fancy vigorous ran,

And warm'd the youth, ere Reason form'd the man;

Life thro' Opinion's false perspective seen,

With mimic beauty glow'd in every scene;

Dress'd in an angel's visionary form,

Vice aim'd to please, and Madness learn'd to charm:

Rebellion soften'd into public love,

And each enormous villain seem'd a Jove.

Doubly deceiv'd, what Lelius could I find

To chase the phantoms, or to free the mind?

No Lelius came, no Seraph lent his aid,

No pitying Genius whisper'd in the glade.

It chanc'd that Virtue heard th' untutor'd lays,

Still madly lisping with the voice of praise;

She heard, as thro' the mall the Goddess stray'd,

When the gay world had peopled all the shade,

Mild as the softness of a vernal sky,

Youth flush'd her cheek, while caution arm'd her eye;

Half loose majestic flow'd her azure vest,

A spotless ruby bled upon her breast,

At every step kind Nature felt her power,

Soft blew the zephyr, and soft sprung the flower;

A brighter freshness hung on every green,

And a new Eden stole upon the scene,

Awhile she paus'd, and with a frown survey'd

The mingling swarm of tatters and brocade.

When, as the Goddess wav'd th' ethereal spear,

Pride dropt her smile, and Artifice her tear;

Lust threw aside Religion's borrow'd grace,

A leering Satyr gloated in her face;

The prude, who fainted at the name of vice,

Now hugg'd the bottle, and now grasp'd the dice;

While tortur'd with the town's obscener ail,

A Saint stood melting o'er a luscious tale.

Here, the bribe glitter'd in a Courtier's hand;

There, the grave Patriot bellow'd—for a wand:

Full in his eye th' enchanting object hung,

And dying Freedom gasp'd upon his tongue.

All who to Drury's deadly stews resort,

Rob at the Change, or plunder in the Court,

Stripp'd of their masques in wild disorder rose,

One with a halter, one without a nose;

So oddly mix'd, so excellently ill,

Such motly spectres of Quevedo's hell;

They'd make a Jesuit quit the absolving chair,

A brothel tremble, and a conclave stare.

So when, where Bedlam's air-dress'd visions dwell,

Tom stalks a straw-crown'd monarch in his cell;

Just as he soars tremendous to a God,

And the wing'd thunder only waits his nod;

Shudd'ring, he hears his keeper's surly tone,

He hears, and horror wraps his tott'ring throne;

Crowns drop their lustre, scepters lose their awe,

Robes fly to rags, and empires sink to straw.

" Learn hence, fair Virtue cry'd, mistaken youth,

" What various monsters wear the guise of Truth.

" Deck'd with each grace, immortal Merit shews

" The cheek that reddens, and the soul that glows;

" With heaven's own image beaming in his eye,

" Man smiles a dagger, and he looks a lie."

She spoke, and lo! the long-misguided fire,

With every number, slept along the lyre.

Say then, my friend! whose virtues are my pride,

Whose candour soothes me, while thy precepts guide;

Thou whose quick eye has look'd thro' every age,

View'd every scene, and studied every sage;

Say, shall I praise th' escutcheon's proud record,

When a lost Brutus sinks into a lord?

With fulsome sing-song after shadows run,

And still mistake a meteor for a sun?

Shall I be silent, while from day to day

Bellville in bagnios revels life away;

Flagitious drops the majesty of power

In the mad mischiefs of the midnight hour;

No flatterer left to daub, no friend to aid,

By strumpets plunder'd, and by wits betray'd?

Rous'd at the thought, keen Satire spurns her chain,

Springs with new life, and pants in every vein,

On vice, impatient, wreaks her gathering rage,

And bids the tyrant bleed thro' all the page.

Broods she in purple o'er the venal bar,

Struts in a gown, or blazes in a star?

My pen shall trace her out from slave to slave,

Nor dares Oblivion screen her in the grave.

Come then, ye self-curs'd atheists! who degrade

Truth to a sound, and scripture to a trade;

Ye bearded sycophants! who life supply

With the warm sun-shine of a minion's eye:

Ye French editions of a British fool;

Abroad a cypher, and at home a fool;

Ye—

FRIEND.

Are you mad? or have you lost all grace?

What, write a satire when you want a place!

Hold, hold, for God's sake, ere your friends bestow

A few stout cords; and send you to Monro [k].

Would you avoid the pedant's learned sneer?

Awe the pert fop? or sooth a doctor's ear?

Heedless of all the phantom Sisters play'd,

From cloud-topt Pindus to the Latian shade,

Pursue deep Science thro' her mazy road,

Hunt every page, and crawl from code to code;

Where musty systems solid joy dispense,

And wise smiglecius fills the void of sense;

Or proud some more important truths to learn,

Dream o'er the labour'd glossaries of Hearn:

So you may live, approv'd, perhaps preferr'd,

Your wisdom gravely measur'd by your beard.

But soft—Your aim's to civilize mankind,

To wake each social virtue of the mind;

To strip from Vice the gay disguise of art,

And bare the villain lurking in the heart;

For this your grasp the falchion, spread the shield,

A pigmy Quixot in the 'listed field.

Time was, when satire delicately nice

Cou'd rouze each virtue, and cou'd blast each vice;

Truth learn'd to please from Aesop's fabling tongue,

And Rome grew virtuous when her Ennius sung.

Once lost to goodness, but now lost to shame,

We court dishonour, as we laugh'd at fame;

With the same raptures plunge in every crime,

Tho' fifty Oldhams stab in every rhime.

A native sin each vigorous Frenchman hails,

Politely partial to his own Versailles.

There, toujours gai, he loves a looser rein;

His Miss, la Contesse, and his wine Champagne.

Britain, more generous, every vice provides,

That Europe ripens, and that Asia hides.

Th' enormous harvest to our ports consign'd

Loads every ship, and busies every wind.

Soon a vast group of follies croud the shore,

As soon they cloy.—Fly hence, and fetch-us more,

Quick spread th' impatient sail from pole to pole,

Ye zephyrs, waft her! and ye oceans, roll!

Strike whom you please, and write whate'er you will,

Harpax will cheat, and Phillis hide spadille:

Hircus in brothels impotently toil,

And Verres murder merit with a smile:

Murder, secure of same, for vulgar eyes

Will still adore him, tho' the good despise;

At his rich coat and gorgeous chariot gaze,

And lose at once th' assassin in the blaze.

E'en Young himself, distinguish'd, lov'd, carest,

Mark'd by each eye, and hugg'd to every breast,

Sees he among this vicious race of men

One rascal mended when he grasps the pen?

Still at the levee swarms the venal tribe,

And still Corruption longs for every bribe.

AUTHOR.

What then? If Vice unblushing hears the sage,

Shall Reason struggle in the check of age?

Shall Truth shut up in complaisance her heart,

Young lend a smile, and Satire drop her dart?

No, let the fiend-like heads of Hydra grow,

Rise as he strikes, and double from the blow;

One honest drudge our Hercules has found,

To sear the monster sprouting in the wound.

Come, come, my friend; throw off this rising frown,

Nor curb my passions while you loose your own.

Oft have you bid proud Thraso mend his life,

Who kick'd a sister, and who starv'd a wife;

Nay, insolently dar'd to tell her grace,

That virtue made a Goddess, not the face.

FRIEND.

When brisker spirits thro' the bosom roll,

And life's mad tumuit rushes on the soul;

Each beardless Cato wings with awkward zeal

His little arrow ere he learns to feel;

Fierce as old Appius, apes th' insulting air,

Th' uplifted eye-brow, and the lordly stare.

So I—But now that age with smooth career

Wafts cooler notions on my sixtieth year;

Lost to each hope, each visionary joy,

Pomps that disturb, and vanities that cloy;

Heedless what wit's cashier'd, what sool's carest,

Who lives an hero, or who lives a jest,

I view the world's romantic scene pass by,

And stifle all my anger in a sigh.

While thus my days steal on the wing of time,

Uustain'd by wit, and guiltless of a rhyme,

Unnumber'd ills the dreaded Satirist wait,

Stand fast, Olympus! and support him, Fate!

See! frantic Dulness panting for the war,

Grasps the keen spear, and mounts th' imperial car,

Shrill clarions sound, attending Furies yell,

The length'ning echo howls thro' every cell;

Rous'd by th' inspiring clang, each mighty son,

Congenial offspring of his fire, the Hun,

Slides from his garret formidably gay,

An human vulture darting on his prey.

All they whose science loads th' incumber'd stall,

Who wound the wainscot, and who daub the wall,

Luxurious rogues, that revel once a week

On the rich feast of visto's and ox-cheek;

From the soft lyric to the wretch who squalls

The Mint-born ballad at the end of Paul's,

Around the flag in martial pomp appear,

Curl in the van, and Osborne in the rear.

Th' impatient battle joins, and lo! at once

The same wild phrenzy spreads from dunce to dunce,

Fir'd with one soul, the shirtless legions run,

One hurls a journal, and one darts a pun,

In snip-snap prose vindictive lightnings play,

And loud hoarse thunders rattle thro' the lay.

Quick and more quick, the dire discordant din

Rolls thro' each hall, and roars from inn to inn;

Wakes the loud horrors of the wrangling school,

Where Priscian bawls, and fool re-echoes fool.

But should you all the mighty mad defeat,

Who howl in Bedlam, and who stun the Fleet,

See the pert critic tremble to engage,

Wit blunt her sting, and Envy drop her rage;

Yet can poor Innocence to mercy awe

Those deadlier pests, the harpies of the law?

Another P—n shields each worthless lord,

Arms the dread scourge, and whets th' avenging sword,

Where he, great genius! throws his letter'd eye,

Truth stares a libel, Honesty a lye,

Young embryo treasons in each period shine,

And fancy'd poisons kill thro' every line.

He sure will curb you, tho' my precepts fail,

No stoic bullies when he smells a jail,

Conscious that Wisdom mounts her throne too late,

When doom'd to warble ethics thro' a grate.

AUTHOR.

Speak you of Claudius? Let the minion rave,

Say Pitt's a fool, and Lyttelton's a knave,

Call wit a libel, and yet never see

Swords in a brief, or poisons in a fee.

But from my soul all scandal I detest,

Truth forms my numbers, as she warms my breast,

Learns me to triumph o'er a pimp's disdain,

And bids me laugh when Claudius threats the chain.

What, shall I strive to dignify disgrace?

And hail a patriot less'ning in a place?

Rear the proud trophy on a soldier's grave,

Who liv'd a coward, and who dy'd a slave?

Shall I on Vice's pageantry attend,

Croud to her car, and at her altars bend?

Rather, where Indian suns their rays unfold,

And ripen half Potosi into gold,

Let me beneath a Spaniard's insult pine,

Crouch to the scourge, and drudge from mine to mine.

Yet is there one, my friend! who shines confest

With all that heaven stamps upon the breast,

Who, nobly conscious of paternal fire,

Feeds the bright blaze, and beams upon his sire.

Mine be the task to swell from day to day

Th' applauding paean, and the loud huzza;

To bid our sons with filial fondness warm,

Eye every grace, and copy every charm;

Explore his purpose, catch his God-like rage,

And be the Maltons of another age.

My verse, you say, will certainly offend.

Who? Not the man whom Virtue calls her friend▪

Virtue, like gold, of genuine worth possess'd,

Shines out more radiant when she dares the test.

Swords arm her bosom, racks her vigour raise,

And all hell's fires but give her strength to blaze.

Can truth than hurt her? wound her sacred ear?

Wake the keen pang? or rouze th' impassion'd tear?

'Tis true, the selfish mercenary train,

Whom honours libel, and whom titles stain,

Struck with the face in Satire's mirror shown,

Perhaps may tremble, and perhaps may frown.

Thanks to their rage, my days will happier flow,

And my joys brighten when a knave's my foe.

Yet think not that the Muse, to spleen resign'd,

Aims monster-like to swallow up mankind,

Bids her keen shafts with baleful vengeance fly,

Taint the pure breeze, and poison half the sky,

Or fond to spread destruction thro' the land,

Exults with Nero as she lights the brand;

With honest warmth she wishes to controul

Each deadly weed that blossoms on the soul,

That wildly vigorous mocks at Virtue's toil,

That choaks the scion, and that robs the soil;

But sadly conscious that just heaven has made

Each grace to border on its kindred shade;

That in the gem some sullying vein will run,

And the disk darken while there shines a sun;

The melting image gains upon her heart,

And spite of justice half disarms the dart.

Oh! let me then in Fable's empire rove,

Where talks the forest, and where laughs the grove;

Attend the Goddess thro' her airy scene,

Her pictures borrow, and her morals glean;

From wolves and lions draw th' instructive tale,

And hide the glare of reason in a veil.

Blest be the thought. Here guiltless of offence,

Dispassion'd Truth may sneer you into sense;

On vicious men her whole artillery play,

Sublimely grave or whimsically gay;

Thro' the wide world in moral vision range,

Glide thro' the Court, and steal upon the Change;

Lust's rampant empress keenly-ey'd pursue,

Or opening in her Paphos, or the stew;

Lethargic Justice on the bench assail,

Edge the dull sword, and poise th' unequal scale:

With Rabelais' jest display th' officious knave,

In life's mad vortex whirling to the grave;

Point at Opinion's self-embroider'd vest,

Folly's gay plume, and Pride's enormous crest,

Each frenzy mortify, each vice confound,

And Self-conviction only feel the wound.

Notes

k
Physician to Bethlem hospital.
↵

A MONODY TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. MARGARET WOFFINGTON[*].

BY JOHN HOOLE.

Flebilis indignos elegia solve capillos,

Ah! nimis ex vero nunc tibi nomen erit.

OVID.

THERE fled the fair, that all beholders charm'd,

Whose beauty fir'd us, and whose spirit warm'd!

In that sad sigh th' unwilling breath retir'd;

The grace, the glory of our scene expir'd!

And shall she die, the Muse's rites unpaid,

No grateful lays to deck her parting shade?

While on her bier the sister Graces mourn,

And weeping Tragedy bedews her urn?

While Comedy her chearful vein foregoes,

And learns to melt with unaccustom'd woes?

Accept (O once admir'd) these artless lays;

Accept this mite of tributary praise.

Oh! could I paint thee with a master's hand,

And give thee all thy merits could demand;

These lines should glow with true poetic flame,

Bright as thy eyes, and faultless as thy frame!

We mourn'd thy absence, from our scene retir'd,

Each longing heart again thy charms desir'd.

Yet still, alas! we hop'd again to view

Our wish, our pleasure, every joy in you!

Again thy looks might grace the tragic rage;

Again thy spirit fill the comic stage.

But lo! Disease hangs hovering o'er thy head;

Dire Danger stalks around thy frighted bed!

Those starry eyes have lost each beamy ray,

And ghastly Sickness makes the fair her prey!

Death shuts the scene!—and all our hopes are o'er!

Those beauties now must glad the sight no more!

Say ye, whose features youthful lustre bloom,

Whose lips exhale Arabia's soft perfume,

Must every gift in silent dust be lost,

No more the wish of man, or female boast?

Ah me! with time must every grace be fled!

She once the pride of all our stage, is dead!

Clos'd are those eyes that every bosom fir'd!

Pale are those charms that every heart inspir'd!

Where now the mien with majesty endu'd,

Which oft surpriz'd a ravish'd audience view'd?

What forms too oft the tragic scene disgrace?

What tasteless airs the comic scene deface?

Tho' tuneful Cibber still the Muse sustains,

By nature fram'd to pour the moving strains,

Tho' from her eye each heart-felt passion breaks,

And more than music warbles when she speaks:

When shall we view again, like thine, conjoin'd,

A form angelic, and a piercing mind?

Alike in every mimic scene to steer,

The gay, the grave, the lively, and severe.

Thy judgment saw, thy taste each beauty caught,

No senseless parrot of the poet's thought!

Thy bosom well cou'd heave with fancy'd woe,

And, from thy own, our tears were taught to flow.

Whene'er we view'd the Roman's sullied same,

Thy beauty justify'd the hero's shame.

What heart but then must Anthony approve,

And own the world was nobly lost for love?

What ears could hear in vain thy cause implor'd,

When soothing arts appeas'd thy angry lord?

Each tender breast the rough Ventidius blam'd,

And Egypt gain'd the sigh Octavia claim'd,

Thy eloquence each hush'd attention drew,

While Love usurp'd the tears to Virtue due.

See! Phaedra rise majestic o'er the scene,

What raging pangs distract the hapless Queen!

How does thy sense the poet's thought refine,

Beam thro' each word, and brighten every line!

What nerve, what vigour glows in every part,

While classic lays appear with classic art!

Who now can bid the proud Roxana rise,

With love and anger sparkling in her eyes?

Who now shall bid her breast in fury glow,

With all the semblance of imperial woe?

While the big passion, raging in her veins,

Would hold the master of the world in chains:

But Alexander now forsakes our coast:—

And, ah! Roxana is for ever lost!

Nor less thy power when rigid Virtue fir'd

The chaster bard, and purer thoughts inspir'd:

What kneeling form appears with stedfast eyes,

Her bosom heaving with Devotion's sighs!

Tis she! In thee we own the mournful scene,

The fair resemblance of a martyr [l] queen!

Here Guido's skill might mark thy speaking frame,

And catch from thee the painter's magic flame!

Blest in each art! by nature form'd to please,

With beauty, sense, with elegance and ease!

Whose piercing genius study'd all mankind,

All Shakespear opening to thy vigorous mind.

In every scene of comic humour known;

In sprightly sallies wit was all thy own.

Whether you seem'd the cit's more humble wife;

Or shone in Townly's higher sphere of life;

Alike thy spirit knew each turn of wit;

And gave new force to all the poet writ.

Nor was thy worth to public scenes confin'd,

Thou knew'st the noblest feelings of the mind.

Thy ears were ever open to distress;

Thy ready hand was ever stretch'd to bless.

The breast humane for each unhappy felt;

Thy heart for other's sorrows prone to melt.

In vain did Envy point her scorpion sting;

In vain did Malice shake her blasting wing:

Each generous breast disdain'd th' unpleasing tale,

And cast o'er every fault Oblivion's veil:

Consess'd, thro' every cloud, thy deeds to shine,

And own'd the virtues of Compassion thine!

Saw mild Benevolence her wand disclose,

And touch thy heart at every sufferer's woes:

Saw meek-ey'd Charity thy steps attend,

And guide thy hand the wretched to befriend:

Go, ask the breast that teems with mournful sighs,

Who wip'd the sorrows from Affliction's eyes:

Go, ask the wretch, in want and sickness laid,

Whose goodness brighten'd once Misfortune's shade.

O! snatch me hence to lone sequester'd scenes,

To arching grottoes and embowering greens!

Where scarce a ray can pierce the dusky shade,

Where scarce a footstep marks the dewy glade:

Where pale-hu'd Grief her secret dwelling keeps;

Where the chill blood with lazy horror creeps:

Where awful Silence spreads her noiseless wing;

And Sorrow's harp may tune the dismal string.—

Or rather lead my steps to distant plains,

Where closing earth enfolds her last remains;

What time the moon displays her silver beam,

And groves and floods reflect the milder gleam:

When Contemplation broods with thought profound,

And fairy visions haunt the sylvan ground.

Lo! Fancy now, on airy pinions spread,

With scenes ideal hovers o'er my head.

I see! I see! more pleasing themes arise:

What mystic shadows flit before my eyes!

Imagination paints the sacred grove,

The place devote to poesy and love.

Here grateful poets hail the actors' name,

And pay the rightful tribute to their fame:

Around their tomb in generous sorrow mourn,

And twine the laurels o'er the favour'd urn.

Methinks I view the last sepulchral frame,

That bears inscrib'd her much lamented name,

See! to my view the Drama's sons display'd:

What laurell'd phantoms croud the awful shade!

First of the choir immortal Shakespear stands,

Whose searching eye all Nature's scene commands:

Bright in his look celestial spirit blooms,

And Genius o'er him waves his eagle plumes!

Next tender Southern, skill'd the soul to move;

And gentle Rowe, who tunes the breast to love.

The witty Congreve near with sprightly mien;

And easy Farquhar with his lighter scene.

A numerous train of bards the shrine surround,

In tragic strains and comic lore renown'd.

See! on the tomb yon pensive form appear,

Heave the full sigh, and drop the frequent tear:

The garments loose her throbbing bosom show;

Dispers'd in air her careless tresses flow:

Round her pale brows a myrtle wreath is spread,

A gloomy cypress nods above her head.

See! while her hand a solemn lyre sustains,

Her trembling fingers wake the languid strains:

Soft to the touch the vocal strings reply,

And tune the notes to answer every sigh.

She, (child of Grief!) at human misery weeps;

At every death her dismal vigil keeps.

But chief she mourns, when Fate's relentless doom

Gives Wit and Beauty victims to the tomb,

Her lays their merits and their loss proclaim,

(A mournful task!) and Elegy her name!

Now bending o'er the pile she vents her moan,

And pours these sorrows o'er the senseless stone.

Ah! lost, for ever lost! the breath that warm'd,

The wit that ravish'd, and the mien that charm'd!

Here sleeps beneath, the fairest of the fair,

The Graces' darling, and the Muses' care!

Who once could fix a thousand gazers eyes,

Now cold and lifeless unregarded lies!

Who once the soul in bonds of love detain'd,

Now lies, alas! in stronger bonds restrain'd.

Pale Death has risled all her pleasing store,

And Nature loaths a sorm so lov'd before!

Is there a fair whose features point the dart,

Charm the six'd eye, and fascinate the heart?

Behold what soon disarms the childish sting,

And plucks the wanton plume from Cupid's wing!

Then boast no longer Wit's fallacious store;

The sweets of sprightly Converse boast no more:

Those lips so fram'd to each persuasive art,

No more shall touch the ear, and win the heart!

Let Beauty here her transient blessing weigh,

Let humbled Wit her pitying tribute pay:

Let Female Grace vouchsafe the kindly tear:

Wit, Grace, and Beauty, once were center'd here!

Ye sacred Bards, who tun'd the drama's lays,

Here pay your incense of distinguish'd praise!

She gave your scenes with every grace to shine:

She gave new feeling to the nervous line;

Her beauties well supply'd each tragic lore,

And shew'd those charms your Muse but feign'd before!

Here round her shrine your votive wreaths bestow,

Around her shrine eternal greens shall grow.

The listning groves shall learn her name to sing,

And zephyrs wast it on their downy wing;

Till every shade these doleful sounds return,

And every gale in sullen dirges mourn!

The mourner ends with sighs; her hand she rears,

And with her vesture dries the gushing tears.

Behold each Bard the soft contagion feels;

From every eye the trickling sorrow steals.

See! Nature's son lament her hapless doom,

See! Shakespear bending o'er his favourite's tomb.

Each shadowy form declines his awful head,

And scatters roses on the funeral bed.

In slow procession round the shrine they move,

And chant her praises thro' the tuneful grove.

Farewel the glory of a wondering age,

The second Oldfield of a sinking stage!

Farewel the boast and envy of thy kind,

A female softness, and a manly mind!

Long as the Muses can record thy praise,

Thy fame shall last to far succeeding days:

While wit survives, thy name shall ever bloom,

And wreaths unfading flourish round thy tomb!

While, thus I tune the plaintive notes in vain,

For her, whose worth demands a nobler strain;

Lo! to my thought some warning Genius cries:

Attempt not, swain, beyond thy flight to rise.

Shall thy weak skill attempt to raise our woes,

Or paint a loss that every bosom knows?

'Tis not thy lays can teach us tears to shed;

What eye refrains!—for Woffington is dead!

Notes

*
She died the 28th of March, 1760.
↵

l
Lady Jane Grey, Act V.
↵

SPRING. A PASTORAL BALLAD.

BY MR. THO. BREREWOOD.

WHEN approach'd by the fair dewy fingers of Spring,

Swelling buds open first, and look gay,

When the birds on the boughs by their mates sit and sing,

And are danc'd by the breeze on each spray:

When gently descending, the rain in soft showers,

With its moisture refreshes the ground,

And the drops, as they hang on the plants and the flowers,

Like rich gems beam a lustre around:

When the wood-pigeons sit on the branches and cooe,

And the cuckow proclaims with his voice,

That Nature marks this for the season to wooe,

And for all that can love to rejoice:

In a cottage at night may I spend all my time,

In the fields and the meadows all day,

With a maiden whose charms are as yet in their prime,

Young as April, and blooming as May:

When the lark with shrill notes sings aloft in the morn,

May my fairest and I sweetly wake,

View the far distant hills which the sun beams adorn,

Then arise, and our cottage forsake.

When the sun shines so warm, that my charmer and I

May recline on the turf without fear,

Let us there all vain thoughts and ambition defy,

While we breathe the first sweets of the year.

Be this spot on a hill, and a spring from its side

Bubble out and transparently flow,

Creep gently along in meanders, and glide

Thro' the vale strow'd with daisies below.

While the bee flies from blossom to blossom and sips,

And the violets their sweetness impart,

Let me hang on her neck, and so taste from her lips

The rich cordial that thrills to the heart.

While the dove sits lamenting the loss of its mate,

Which the fowler has caught in his snares,

May we think ourselves blest that it is not our fate,

To endure such an absence as theirs.

May I listen to all her soft, tender, sweet notes

When she sings, and no sounds interfere,

But the warbling of birds, which in stretching their throats

Are at strife to be louder than her.

When the daisies, and cowslips, and primroses blow,

And checquer the meads, and the lawns,

May we see bounding there the swift light-footed doe,

And pursue with our eye the young fawns.

When the lapwings just fledg'd o'er the turf take their run,

And the sirstlings are all at their play,

And the harmless young lambs skip about in the sun,

Let us then be as frolic as they.

When I talk of my love, should I chance to espy,

That she seems to mistrust what I say,

By a tear that is ready to fall from her eye,

With my lips let me wipe it away.

If we sit, or we walk, may I cast round my eyes,

And let no single beauty escape,

But see none to create so much love, and surprize,

As her eyes, and her face, and her shape.

Thus each day let us pass, till the buds turn to leaves;

And the meadows around us are mown,

When the lass on the sweet-smelling haycock receives,

What she afterwards blushes to own.

When evenings grow cool, and the flowers hang their heads

With the dew, then no longer we'll roam,

With my arm round her waist, in a path thro' the meads,

Let us hasten to find our way home.

When the birds are at roost, with their heads in their wings,

Each one by the side of its mate;

When a mist that arises a drowsiness brings

Upon all but the owl and the bat:

When soft rest is requir'd, and the stars lend their light,

And all Nature lies quiet and still;

When no sound breaks the sacred repose of the night,

But, at distance, the clack of a mill:

With peace for our pillow, and free from all noise,

So that voices in whispers are known,

Let us give and receive all the nameless soft joys,

That are mus'd on by lovers alone.

SUMMER.

BY THE SAME.

WHERE the light cannot pierce, in a grove of all trees,

With my fair one as blooming as May,

Undisturb'd by all sound, but the sighs of the breeze,

Let me pass the hot noon of the day.

When the sun less intense to the westward inclines,

For the meadows the groves we'll forsake,

And see the rays dance as inverted he shines,

On the face of some river or lake.

Where my fairest and I, on its verge as we pass,

For 'tis she that must still be my theme,

Our two shadows may view on the watery glass,

While the fish are at play in the stream.

May the herds cease to lowe, and the lambkins to bleat,

When she sings me some amorous strain;

All be silent, and husht, unless Echo repeat

The kind words, and sweet sounds back again.

And when we return to our cottage at night,

Hand in hand as we sauntering stray,

Let the moon's silver beams thro' the leaves give us light,

Just direct us, and chequer our way.

Let the Nightingale warble its notes in our walk,

As thus gently and slowly we move;

And let no single thought be express'd in our talk,

But of friendship improv'd into love.

Thus enchanted each day with these rural delights,

And secure from Ambition's alarms,

Soft love and repose shall divide all our nights,

And each morning shall rise with new charms.

AUTUMN.

BY THE SAME.

THO' the seasons must alter, ah! yet let me find,

What all must confess to be rare,

A female still chearful, and faithful and kind,

The blessings of Autumn to share.

Let one side of our cottage, a flourishing vine

Overspread with its branches, and shade;

Whose clusters appear more transparent and fine,

As its leaves are beginning to sade.

When the fruit makes the branches bend down with its load.

In our orchard surrounded with pales;

In a bed of clean straw let our apples be stow'd,

For a tart that in Winter regales.

When the vapours that rise from the earth in the morn

Seem to hang on its surface like smoak,

'Till dispers'd by the sun that gilds over the corn,

Within doors let us prattle and joke.

But when we see clear all the hues of the leaves,

And at work in the fields are all hands,

Some in reaping the wheat, others binding the sheaves,

Let us carelesly stroll o'er the lands.

How pleasing the sight of the toiling they make,

To collect what kind Nature has sent!

Heaven grant we may not of their labour partake;

But, oh! give us their happy content.

And sometimes on a bank, under shade, by a brook,

Let us silently sit at our ease,

And there gaze on the stream, till the fish on the hook

Struggles hard to procure its release.

And now when the husbandman sings harvest home,

And the corn's all got into the house;

When the long wish'd for time of their meeting is come,

To frolic, and feast, and carouse;

When the leaves from the trees are begun to be shed,

And are leaving the branches all bare,

Either strew'd at the roots, shrivell'd, wither'd, and dead,

Or else blown to and fro in the air;

When the ways are so miry, that bogs they might seem,

And the axle-tree's ready to break,

While the waggoner whistles in stopping his team,

And then claps the poor jades on the neck;

In the morning let's follow the cry of the hounds,

Or the fearful young covey beset;

Which tho' skulking in stubble, and weeds on the grounds,

Are becoming a prey to the net.

Let's enjoy all the pleasure retirement affords,

Still amus'd with these innocent sports,

Nor once envy the pomp of fine ladies and lords,

With their grand entertainments in courts.

In the evening when lovers are leaning on stiles,

Deep engag'd in some amorous chat,

And 'tis very well known by his grin, and her smiles,

What they both have a mind to be at;

To our dwelling, tho' homely, well-pleas'd to repair,

Let our mutual endearments revive,

And let no single action, or look, but declare,

How contented and happy we live.

Should ideas arise that may ruffle the soul,

Let soft music the phantoms remove,

For 'tis harmony only has force to controul,

And unite all the passions in love.

With her eyes but half open, her cap all awry,

When the lass is preparing for bed,

And the sleepy dull clown, who sits nodding just by,

Sometimes rouzes and scratches his head.

In the night when 'tis cloudy, and rainy, and dark,

And the labourers snore as they lie,

Not a noise to disturb us, unless a dog bark

In the farm, or the village hard by.

At the time of sweet rest, and of quiet like this,

Ere our eyes are clos'd up in their lids,

Let us welcome the season, and taste of that bliss,

Which the sun-shine and daylight forbids.

WINTER.

BY THE SAME.

WHEN the trees are all bare, not a leaf to be seen,

And the meadows their beauty have lost;

When Nature's disrob'd of her mantle of green,

And the streams are fast bound with the frost,

While the peasant inactive stands shivering with cold,

As bleak the winds northerly blow;

And the innocent flocks run for warmth to the fold,

With their fleeces besprinkled with snow.

In the yard, when the cattle are fodder'd with straw,

And they send forth their breath like a steam:

And the neat looking dairy-maid sees she must thaw

Flakes of ice that she finds in the cream.

When the sweet country-maiden, as fresh as a rose,

As she carelessly trips often slides,

And the rustics laugh loud, if by falling she shews

All the charms that her modesty hides.

When the lads and the lasses for company join'd,

In a croud round the embers are met;

Talk of fairies, and witches, that ride on the wind,

And of ghosts, till they're all in a sweat.

Heaven grant in this season it may be my lot,

With the nymph whom I love and admire;

While the icicles hang from the eves of my cot,

I may thither in safety retire:

Where in neatness and quiet—and free from surprize,

We may live and no hardships endure;

Nor feel any turbulent passions arise,

But such as each other may cure.

THE CURE OF SAUL. A SACRED ODE.

BY DR. BROWN.

" VENGEANCE, arise from thy infernal bed;

" And pour thy tempest on his guilty head!"

Thus heaven's decree, in thunder's sound,

Shook the dark abyss profound.—

The unchain'd Furies come!

Pale Melancholy stalks from hell:

Th' abortive offspring of her womb,

Despair and Anguish, round her yell.

By sleepless terror Saul possess'd,

Deep feels the fiend within his tortur'd breast.

Midnight spectres round him howl:

Before his eyes

In troops they rise;

And seas of horror overwhelm his soul.

Haste! to Jesse's son repair:

He best can sweep the lyre,

Wake the solemn-sounding air,

And lead the vocal choir:

On every string soft-breathing raptures dwell,

To sooth the throbbings of the troubled breast;

Whose magic voice can bid the tides of passion swell,

Or lull the raging storm to rest.

Sunk on his couch, and loathing day,

The heaven-forsaken monarch lay:

To the sad couch the shepherd now drew near;

And, while th' obedient choir stood round,

Prepar'd to catch the soul-commanding sound,

He dropp'd a generous tear.—

Thy pitying aid, O God, impart!

For lo, thy poison'd arrows drink his heart!

The mighty song from chaos rose.—

Around his throne the formless atoms sleep,

And drowzy Darkness broods upon the deep.—

Confusion, wake!

Bid the realms of Chaos shake!

Rouse him from his dread repose!

Hark! loud Discord breaks her chain:

The hostile atoms clash with deafning roar:

Her hoarse voice thunders thro' the drear domain;

And kindles every element to war.—

" Tumult cease!

" Sink to peace!

" Let there be light!"—th' Almighty said:

And lo, the radiant Sun,

Flaming from his orient bed,

His endless course begun.

See, the twinkling Pleiads rise:

Thy star, Orion, reddens in the skies:

While slow around the northern plain,

Arcturus wheels his nightly wane.

Thy glories, too, refulgent moon, he sung;

Thy mystic mazes, and thy changeful ray:

O fairest of the starry throng!

Thy solemn orb of light

Guides the triumphant carr of Night

O'er silver clouds, and sheds a softer day!

Ye planets, and each circling constellation,

In songs harmonious tell your generation!

Oh, while yon radiant Seraph turns the spheres,

And on the stedfast pole-star stands sublime;

Wheel your rounds

To heavenly sounds;

And sooth his song-enchanted ears

With your celestial chime.

In dumb surprize the listning monarch lay;

(His woe suspended by sweet Music's sway;)

And awe struck, with uplifted eye

Mus'd on the new-born wonders of the sky.

Lead the soothing verse along:

He feels, he feels the power of song—

Ocean hastens to his bed:

The lab'ring mountain rears his rock-encumber'd head:

Down his steep and shaggy side

The torrent rolls his thundering tide;

Then smooth and clear, along the fertile plain

Winds his majestic waters to the distant main.

Flocks and herds the hills adorn:

The lark, high-soaring, hails the morn.

And while along yon crimson-clouded steep

The slow sun steals into the golden deep,

Hark! the solemn Nightingale

Warbles to the woodland dale.

See, descending angels shower

Heaven's own bliss on Eden's bower:

Peace on Nature's lap reposes;

Pleasure strews her guiltless roses:

Joys divine in circles move,

Link'd with Innocence and Love.

Hail, happy Love, with Innocence combin'd!

All hail, ye sinless parents of mankind!

They paus'd:—the monarch, prostrate on his bed,

Submissive, bow'd his head;

Ador'd the works of boundless power divine:

Then, anguish-struck, he cry'd (an smote his breast),

Why, why is peace the welcome guest

Of every heart but mine!

Now let the solemn numbers flow,

'Till he feel that guilt is woe.

Heavenly harp, in mournful strain

O'er yon weeping bower complain:

What sounds of bitter pangs I hear!

What lamentations wound mine ear!

In vain, devoted pair, these tears ye shed:

Peace with Innocence is fled.

The messengers of Grace depart:

Death glares, and shakes the dreadful dart!

Ah, whither fly ye, by yourselves abhorr'd,

To shun that frowning cherub's fiery sword?—

Lo!

Hapless, hapless pair,

Goaded by despair,

Forlorn, thro' desart climes they go!

Wake, my lyre! can Pity sleep,

When heaven is mov'd, and angels weep!

Flow, ye melting numbers, flow;

Till he feel, that guilt is woe.—

The king, with pride, and shame, and anguish torn,

Shot fury from his eyes, and scorn.

The glowing youth,

Bold in truth,

(So still should Virtue guilty power engage)

With brow undaunted met his rage.

See, his cheek kindles into generous fire:

Stern, he bends him o'er his lyre;

And, while the doom of guilt he sings,

Shakes horror from the tortur'd strings.

What sounds of terror and distress

Rend yon howling wilderness!

The dreadful thunders sound;

The forked lightnings flash along the ground.

Why yawns that deep'ning gulph below?—

'Tis for heaven's rebellious foe:—

Fly, ye sons of Israel, fly,

Who dwells in Korah's guilty tents must die!—

They sink!—Have mercy, Lord!—Their cries

In dreadful tumult rise!

Hark, from the deep their loud laments I hear!

They lessen now, and lessen on the ear!

Now, destruction's strife is o'er!

The countless host

For ever lost!

The gulph is clos'd!—Their cries are heard no more!—

But oh, my lyre, what accents can relate

Sinful man's appointed sate!

He comes, he comes! th' avenging God!

Clouds and darkness round him roll:

Tremble, earth! Ye mountains, nod!

He bows the skies, and shakes the pole.

The gloomy banners of his wrath unfurl'd,

He calls the floods, to drown a guilty world:

" Ruin, lift thy baleful head;

" Rouze the guilty world from sleep:

" Lead up thy billows from their cavern'd bed,

" And burst the rocks that chain thee in the deep.—

Now, th' impetuous torrents rise;

The hoarse-ascending deluge roars:

Down rush the cataracts from the skies;

The swelling waves o'erwhelm the shores.

Just, O God, is thy decree!

Shall guilty man contend with thee!

Lo, Hate and Envy, sea-entomb'd,

And Rage with Lust in ruin sleep;

And scoffing Luxury is doom'd

To glut the vast and ravenous deep!—

In vain from Fate th' astonish'd remnant flies:—

" Shrink, ye rocks! Ye oceans, rise!"—

The tottering cliffs no more the floods controul;

Sea following sea ingulphs the ball:

O'er the sunk hills the watry mountains roll,

And wide Destruction swallows all:

Now fiercer let th' impassion'd numbers glow:

Swell the song, ye mighty choir!

Wing your dreadful darts with fire!

Hear me, monarch!—Guilt is woe!—

Thus while the frowning shepherd pour'd along

The deep impetuous torrent of his song;

Saul, stung by dire despair,

Gnash'd his teeth, and tore his hair:

From his blood, by horror chill'd,

A cold and agonizing sweat distill'd:

Then, foaming with unutterable smart.

He aim'd a dagger at his heart.

His watchful train prevent the blow;

And call each lenient balm to sooth his frantic woe:

But pleas'd, the shepherd now beheld

His pride by heaven's own terrors quell'd:

Then bade his potent lyre controul

The mighty storm that rent his soul.

Cease your cares: the body's pain

A sweet relief may find:

But gums and lenient balms are vain,

To heal the wounded mind.

Come, fair Repentance, from the skies,

O sainted maid, with upcast eyes!

Descend, in thy celestial shrowd,

Vested in a weeping cloud!

Holy guide, descend, and bring

Mercy from th' Eternal King!

To his soul your beams impart,

And whisper comfort to his heart!—

They come: O King, thine ear incline!

Listen to their voice divine:

Their voice shall every pang compose,

To gentle sorrow sooth thy woes;

Till each pure wish to heaven shall soar,

And Peace return, to part no more!

Behold, obedient to their great command,

The lifted dagger quits his trembling hand:

Smooth'd is his brow, where sullen Care

And furrow'd Horror couch'd with fell Despair:

No more his eyes with fury glow;

But heavenly grief succeeds to hell-born woe.—

See, the signs of grace appear:

See the soft relenting tear,

Trickling at sweet Mercy's call!

Catch it, angels, ere it fall!

And let the heart-sent offering rise,

Heaven's best-accepted sacrifice!—

Yet, yet again?—Ah see, the pang returns!

Again with inward fire his heaving bosom burns!

Now, shepherd, wake a mightier strain;

Search the deep, heart-rending pain;

Till the large floods of sorrow roll,

And quench the tortures of his soul.

Almighty Lord, accept his pang sincere!

Let heavenly hope dispel each dark temptation!

And, while he pours the penitential tear,

O visit him with thy salvation!—

Stoop from heaven, ye raptur'd throng!

Sink, ye swelling tides of song!

For lo! dissolv'd by Music's melting power,

Celestial Sorrow rolls her plenteous shower,

O'er his wan cheek the colours rise;

And beams of comfort brighten in his eyes.

Happy king, thy woes are o'er!

Thy God shall wound thy soul no more:

The pitying Father of mankind

Meets the pure-returning mind.

No more shall black Despair afflict his soul:

Each gentler sound, ye shepherds, now combine:

Sweetly let the numbers roll:

Sooth him into hope divine.

Now lowly let the rustic measure glide,

To quell the dark remains of self-consuming Pride;

Till Nature's home-sprung blessings he confess,

And own that calm content is happiness.—

Ye woods and lakes, ye cliffs and mountains!

Haunted grots, and living fountains!

Listen to your shepherd's lay,

Whose artless carols close the day.

Bounding kids around him throng;

The steep rock echoes back his song:

While all unseen to mortal eye,

Sliding down the evening sky,

Holy Peace, tho' born above,

Daughter of Innocence and Love,

Quits her throne and mansion bright,

Her crown of stars, and robe of light,

Serene, in gentle smiles array'd,

To dwell beneath his palm-tree shade.

Hail, meek angel! awful guest!

Still pour thy radiance o'er my breast!

Pride and Hate in courts may shine:

The shepherd's calm and blameless tent is thine!—

Softly, softly breathe your numbers;

And wrap his weary'd soul in slumbers!

Gentle Sleep, becalm his breast,

And close his eyes in healing rest!

Descend, celestial visions, ye who wait,

God's ministring powers, at heaven's eternal gate!

Ye, who nightly vigils keep,

And rule the silent realms of Sleep,

Exalt the just to joys refin'd,

And plunge in woe the guilty mind;

Descend!—Oh, waft him to the skies,

And open all heaven's glories to his eyes!

Beyond yon starry roof, by seraphs trod,

Where Light's unclouded fountains blaze;

Where choirs immortal hymn their God,

Intranc'd in extasy of ceaseless praise.

Angels, heal his anguish!

Your harps and voices join!

His grief to bliss shall languish,

When sooth'd by sounds divine.

Behold, with dawning joy each feature glows!

See, the blissful tear o'erflows!—

The fiend is fled!—Let music's rapture rise:

Now Harmony, thy every nerve employ:

Shake the dome, and pierce the skies:

Wake him, wake him into joy.—

What power can every Passion's throne controul?

What power can boast the charm divine,

To still the tempest of the soul?

Celestial Harmony, that mighty charm is thine!

She, heavenly-born, came down to visit earth,

When from God's eternal throne

The beam of all-creative Wisdom shone,

And spake fair Order into birth.

At Wisdom's call she robed yon glittering skies,

Attun'd the spheres, and taught consenting orbs to rise.

Angels wrapt in wonder stood,

And saw that all was fair, and all was good.

'Twas then, ye sons of God, in bright array

Ye shouted o'er creation's day:

Then kindling into joy,

The morning stars together sung:

And thro'the vast ethereal sky

Seraphic hymns and loud hosannahs rung.

AN INSCRIPTION WRITTEN AT A FAVOURITE RETIREMENT IN MAY MDCCLVIII.

BY THE SAME.

WHAT tho' nor glittering turret rise,

Nor Splendor gild these mild retreats?

Yet Nature here, in modest guise,

Displays her unambitious sweets:

Along each gentle swelling lawn

She strays, with rustic garlands crown'd;

And wakes the flowers at early dawn,

To fling their bosom'd fragrance round.

Here teach thy votary, blameless guide,

To trace thy step serene and free;

To shun the toilsome heights of Pride,

Thro' these calm scenes to follow thee.

His silent walk do thou adorn,

O'er these green slopes, from tumult far;

Whether he greet the blushing morn,

Or welcome up you evening star:

Intent, while thro' these tufted bowers

Thy generous whispers charm his ear,

To hail from heaven thy kindred powers,

And meet fair Peace and Freedom here.

Yet prompt to stay his country's fall,

The stormy city's war he'll join,

When thou, and Truth, and Freedom call:

For Freedom's voice, and Truth's, are thine.

AN ELEGY WRITTEN AMONG THE RUINS OF AN ABBEY.

BY MR. JERNINGHAM.

WHERE sighs the zephyr to you lonely tree,

A solemn grove its leafy mantle spread:

Where bend you mouldering turrets o'er the sea,

A venerable dome once rear'd its head.

The solemn grove, the venerable dome,

Were erst frequented by a numerous train,

Ev'n chaste as they who Dian's mountain roam,

But not subjected to her gentle reign:

Far other Goddess did this train obey,

Far other temples, other altars rais'd,

Far other meaning breath'd their choral lay,

Far other incense on their altars blaz'd:

Veil'd Superstition wak'd her magic sound,

Bad Albion's sons sorsake the splendid court,

Forsake Amusement's variegated round,

And to her sable standard here resort:

Alas! obsequious to her stern command,

A sullen-pensive brotherhood they came,

Refus'd to trace the paths by Nature plann'd,

And raz'd from Glory's page their ancient name.

Nor these alone were found incloister'd here,

Here also dwelt the simple-minded swain,

Who, wrapt in sloth, dream'd out the lazy year,

While Industry sat weeping on the plain!

The many temples rising fair to view,

Which towering Superstition call'd her own,

With hand unerring radiant Truth o'erthrew,

And snatch'd th' impostor from her tinsell'd throne.

On yon dust-levell'd spire the crafty maid,

With indignation brooding in her breast,

Sits gloomily.—Her votaries all are fled,

Her lamps extinguish'd, and her rites suppress'd:

Within her hand a vacant string she holds,

That once connected many a hallow'd bead:

The blotted scroll the other hand unfolds,

Contain'd the maxims of her slighted creed.

Couch'd at her feet, behold a mouldering shrine,

(Of various relics once the dread abode)

Where runs the spider o'er his treacherous line,

Where lurks the beetle, and the loathso me toad:

On Darkness' wing now sails the midnight hour,

When for the grateful sound of choral prayer,

The shrieking owl from you disparted tower,

With notes of horror wakes her trembling ear.

Of human grandeur mark the fleeting day,

How frail each purpose, and each wish how vain!

The strong-built domes, the cloister'd fanes decay,

And ruin hovers round the desert scene.

The path that leads to yonder shatter'd pile

Is now perplex'd with many a sordid brier:

No crowd is seen within the sacred isle,

The Sabbath mourns its long-deserted choir.

The golden crozier blended with the dust

In horrid folds the serpent clasps around:

The powerful image, and the sainted bust,

Desam'd, unhallow'd, press the weedy ground.

Not distant far, her gold encircled tower

Th' inviolable dame majestic rear'd,

On whose dread altar breath'd some hidden power,

By Terror guarded, and by kings rever'd:

To which asylum ev'n th' assassin came,

(His hand audacious still imbru'd with gore)

The boon of full impunity to claim,

While feeble Justice wept her baffled lore.

So Truth at once dissolv'd the mental chain,

And banish'd Error from th' enlighten'd shore;

So clos'd at length the busy-acted scene,

The curtain dropp'd, and Folly's mask was o'er.

The gladsome Ceres rais'd her drooping head,

(While yellow harvests gilt the smiling plain)

Beheld a youthful band around her spread,

With sickles arm'd to reap the bearded grain.

The warrior then beneath the trailing vest,

The peaceful cessock, or the drowsy cowl,

No longer quench'd the flame within his breast,

Or lull'd the purpose of his daring soul:

But rush'd undaunted to the doubtful war,

Pursu'd where Glory led the radiant way,

Till Neptune rising on his coral car,

Resign'd his watry world to Britain's sway.

The virgin fair by venal guardians doom'd,

By error prompted, or subdu'd by force,

No more in cloisters drear their days consum'd:

Like flow'rets strew'd around the senseless corse.

Triumphant Hymen hail'd the blissful hour,

And saw a white-rob'd social train approach,

For whom the Pleasures dress'd the happy bower,

And scatter'd roses o'er the destin'd couch.

Still other blessings from this change appear'd;

No injur'd family did then behold

On loitering monks its native wealth conferr'd,

Nor spacious altars cover'd with its gold.

Full many trod that crooked path to Fame,

Yet from her hand receiv'd no lasting meed,

She from her annals rends their fading name,

And gives to Infamy the worthless deed:

But Vengeance some pursu'd with dire disgrace,

Pursu'd beyond the circle of its sphere,

Even to the cementery's dark recess,

Nor spar'd them sleeping on the peaceful bier.

Beside the spreading of that sombrous yew,

Where yawns with hideous chasm the vaulted cave,

Presenting to the fix'd astonish'd view

The profanation of a rifled grave:

The large-endowing Rufus lay inurn'd,

With many a sculputur'd image on his shrine,

That smit with sorrow o'er his ashes mourn'd,

The Sister-Graces, and the tuneful Nine.

Imprinted on Tradition's storied leaf

Is found (to this sepulchral spot confin'd)

A terror-breathing tale that wins belief,

And oft repeated by the neighb'ring hind!

From where yon mountain shades the dreary plain,

Attracted by the scent of human blood,

A troop of wolves voracious scour'd amain,

And at this charnel-vault requir'd their food.

When, horrid to relate! they burst the tomb,

And swift descending to the deepest shade,

Up-tore the shrowded tenant from its womb,

And o'er the mangled corse relentless prey'd.

The paly stars with dim reluctant light,

Like tapers glimmer'd on their orgies foul,

While gliding spectres scream'd with wild affright,

Re-echo'd loud by their tremendous howl!

Ah! what avail'd the solemn-moving hearse?

The sable mantled cars, the funeral throng?

Grav'd on his monument the soothing verse?

The priests, the torches, and the choral song?

Misjudging wretch! while thou with hand profuse

Thy treasures on this mansion didst entail,

And pour down riches on the vow'd recluse,

Thine orphan babes partook a scanty meal.

Thy widow'd fair, her cheek bedew'd with tears,

Approach'd with suppliant knee the cloister-gate,

There ost disclos'd in vain her poignant cares,

Returning still to weep her hapless fate.

IL LATTE: AN ELEGY.

BY THE SAME.

YE fair, for whom the hands of Hymen weave

The nuptial wreath to deck your virgin brow,

While pleasing pains the conscious bosom heave,

And on the kindling cheeks the blushes glow:

Whose spotless soul contains the better dower,

Whose life unstain'd full many virtues vouch,

For whom now Venus frames the fragrant bower,

And scatters roses o'er th' expecting couch:

To you I sing.—Ah! ere the raptur'd youth

With trembling hand removes the jealous veil,

Where, long regardless of the vows of truth,

Unsocial coyness stamp'd th' ungrateful soul,

A low the Poet round your flowing hair,

Cull'd from an humble vale, a wreath to twine,

To Beauty's altar with the Loves repair,

And wake the lute beside that living shrine:

That sacred shrine! where female virtue glows,

Where ev'n the Graces all their treasures bring,

And where the lilly, temper'd with the rose,

Harmonious contrast! breathes an Eden spring:

That shrine! where Nature with presaging aim,

What time her friendly aid Lucina brings,

The snowy nectar pours, delightful stream!

Where fluttering Cupids dip their purple wings:

For you who bear a Mother's sacred name,

Whose cradled offspring, in lamenting strain,

With artless eloquence asserts his claim,

The boon of Nature, but asserts in vain.

Say why, illustrious daughters of the great,

Lives not the nursling at your tender breast?

By you protected in his frail estate?

By you attended, and by you caress'd?

To foreign hands, alas! can you resign

The parent's task, the mother's pleasing care?

To foreign hands the smiling babe consign?

While Nature starts, and Hymen sheds a tear.

When, 'mid the polish'd circle ye rejoice,

Or roving join fantastic Pleasure's train,

Unheard perchance the nursling lifts his voice,

His tears unnotic'd, and unsooth'd his pain:

Ah! what avails the coral crown'd with gold?

In heedless infancy the title vain?

The colours gay the purfled scarfs unfold?

The splendid nursery, and th' attendant train?

Far better hadst thou first beheld the light,

Beneath the rafter of some roof obscure!

There in a mother's eye to read delight,

And in her cradling arm repos'd secure.—

No wonder, should Hygeia, blissful Queen!

Her wonted salutary gifts recall,

While haggard Pain applies his dagger keen,

And o'er the cradle Death unfolds his pall.

The flowret ravish'd from its native air,

And bid to flourish in a foreign vale,

Does it not oft elude the planter's care,

And breathe its dying odours on the gale?

For you, ye plighted fair, when Hymen crowns

With tender offspring your unshaken love,

Behold them not with Rigour's chilling frowns,

Nor from your sight unfeelingly remove.

Unsway'd by Fashion's dull unseemly jest,

Still to the bosom let your infant cling,

There banquet oft, an ever-welcome guest,

Unblam'd inebriate at that healthful spring.

With fond solicitude each pain asswage,

Explain the look, awake the ready smile,

Unfeign'd attachment so shall you engage,

To crown with gratitude maternal toil:

So shall your daughters in affliction's day,

When o'er your form the gloom of age shall spread,

With lenient converse chase the hours away,

And soothe with Duty's hand the widow'd bed:

Approach, compassionate, the voice of Grief,

And whisper patience to the closing ear;

From Comfort's chalice minister relief,

And in the potion drop a filial tear.

So shall your sons, when beauty is no more,

When fades the languid lustre in your eye,

When Flattery shuns her dulcet notes to pour,

The want of beauty, and of praise, supply.

Ev'n from the wreathe that decks the warrior's brow,

Some chosen leaves your peaceful walks shall strew.

And ev'n the flowers on classic ground that blow,

Shall all unfold their choicest sweets for you.

When to th' embattled host the trumpet blows,

While at the call fair Albion's gallant train

Dare to the field their triple-number'd foes,

And chase them speeding o'er the frighten'd plain:

The mother kindles at the glorious thought,

And to her son's renown adjoins her name;

For, at the nurturing breast, the hero caught

The love of virtue, and the love of fame.

Or in the senate when Britannia's cause

With generous themes inspires the glowing mind,

While listening Freedom grateful looks applause,

Pale Slavery drops her chain, and sculks behind:

With conscious joy the tender parent fraught,

Still to her son's renown adjoins her name;

For, at the nurturing breast, the patriot caught

The love of virtue, and the love of same.

THE TRANSFORMATION OF LYCON AND EUPHORMIUS.

BY WILLIAM MELMOTH, ESQ.

DEEM not, ye plaintive crew, that suffer wrong,

Ne thou, O man! who deal'st the tort, misween

The equal gods, who heaven's sky-mansions throng,

(Though viewless to the eyne they distant sheen)

Spectators reckless of our actions been.

Turning the volumes of grave sages old,

Where auncient saws in fable may be seen,

This truth I fond in paynim tale enroll'd;

Which for ensample drad my muse shall here unfold.

What time Arcadia's flowret vallies fam'd,

Pelasgus, first of monarchs old, obey'd,

There wonn'd a wight, and Lycon was he nam'd,

Unaw'd by conscience, of no gods afraid,

Ne justice rul'd his heart, ne mercy sway'd.

Some held him kin to that abhorred race,

Which heaven's high towers with mad emprize assay'd;

And some his cruel lynage did ytrace

From fell Erynnis join'd in Pluto's dire embrace.

But he, perdy, far other tale did feign,

And claim'd alliaunce with the Sisters nine;

And deem'd himself (what deems not pride so vain?)

The peerless paragon of wit divine.

Vaunting that every foe should rue its tine.

Right doughty wight! yet, sooth, withouten smart,

All powerless fell the losel's shafts malign:

'Tis Vertue's arm to wield Wit's heavenly dart,

Point its keen barb with force, and send it to the heart.

One only impe he had, Pastora hight,

Whose sweet amenaunce pleas'd each shepherd's eye▪

Yet pleas'd she not base Lycon's evil spright,

Tho blame in her not Malice moten spy,

Clear, without spot, as summer's cloudless sky.

Hence poets feign'd, Lycean Pan array'd

In Lycon's form, enflam'd with passion high,

Deceiv'd her mother in the covert glade,

And from the stoln embrace ysprong the heavenly maid.

Thus fabling they: mean while the damsel fair

A shepherd youth remark'd, as o'er the plain

She deffly pac'd elong so debonair:

Seem'd she as one of Dian's chosen train.

Full many a fond excuse he knew to feign,

In sweet converse to while with her the day,

'Till love unwares his heedless heart did gain.

Nor dempt he, simple wight, no mortal may

The blinded god once harbour'd, when he list, foresay.

Now much he meditates if yet to speak,

And now resolves his passion to conceal:

But sure, quoth he, my seely heart will break,

If aye I smother what I aye must feel.

At length by hope embolden'd to reveal,

The labouring secret dropped from his tong.

Whiles frequent singults check'd his faltring tale,

In modest wise her head Pastora hong:

For never maid more chaste inspired shepherd's song.

What needs me to recount in long detail

The tender parley which these lemans held:

How oft he vowed his love her ne'er should fail;

How oft the stream from forth her eyne outwell'd,

Doubting if constancy yet ever dwell'd

In heart of youthful wight: suffice to know,

Each rising doubt he in her bosome quell'd.

So parted they, more blithsome both, I trow:

For rankling love conceal'd, me seems, is deadly woe.

Eftsoons to Lycon swift the youth did fare,

(Lagg'd ever youth when Cupid urg'd his way?)

And straight his gentle purpose did declare,

And sooth the mount'naunce of his herds display.

Ne Lycon meant his suiten to foresay:

" Be thine, Pastora (quoth the masker sly)

" And twice two thousand sheep her dower shall pay."

Beat then the lover's heart with joyaunce high;

Ne dempt that aught his bliss could now betray,

Ne guess'd that foul deceit in Lycon's bosome lay.

So forth he yode to seek his reverend sire;

(The good Euphormius shepherds him did call)

How sweet Pastora did his bosome fire,

Her worth, her promis'd flocks, he tolden all.

Ah! nere, my son, let Lycon thee enthrall,

(Reply'd the sage, in wise experience old)

" Smooth is his tongue, but full of guile withal,

" In promise faithless, and in vaunting bold:

" Ne ever lamb of his will bleat within thy fold."

With words prophetick thus Euphormius spake:

And fact confirm'd what wisdom thus foretold:

Full many a mean devise did Lycon make,

The hoped day of spousal to with-hold,

Framing new trains when nought mote serve his old.

Nath'less he vow'd, Cyllene, cloud-topt hill,

Should sooner down the lowly delve be roll'd,

Than he his plighted promise nould fulfill:

But when, perdy, or where, the caitive sayen nill.

Whiles thus the tedious suns had journey'd round,

Ne ought mote now the lovers hearts divide,

Ne trust was there, ne truth in Lycon found;

The maid with matron Juno for her guide,

The youth by Concord led, in secret hy'd

To Hymen's sacred fane: the honest deed

Each god approv'd, and close the bands were ty'd.

Certes, till happier moments should succeed,

No prying eyne they ween'd their emprize mote areed.

But prying eyne of Lycon 'twas in vain

(Right practick in disguise) to hope beware.

He trac'd their covert steps to Hymen's fane,

And joy'd to find them in his long-laid snare.

Algates, in semblaunt ire, he 'gan to swear,

And roaren loud as in displeasaunce high;

Then out he hurlen forth his daughter fair,

Forelore, the houseless child of Misery,

Expos'd to killing cold, and pinching penury.

Ah! whither now shall sad Pastora wend,

To want abandon'd and by wrongs opprest?

Who shall the wretched out-cast's teen befriend?

Live's mercy then, if not in parent's breast?

At Jove's right hand, to Jove for ever dear,

Yes, MERCY lives, the gentle goddess blest,

Aye at his feet she pleads the cause distrest,

To Sorrow's plaints she turns his equal ear,

And wafts to heaven's star-throne fair Vertue's silent tear.

'Twas SHE that bade Euphormius quell each thought

That well mote rise to check his generous aid.

Tho high the torts which Lycon him had wrought,

Tho few the flocks his humble pastures fed,

When as he learn'd Pastora's hapless sted,

His breast humane with wonted pity flows.

He op'd his gates, the naked exile led

Beneath his roof: a decent drapet throws

O'er her cold limbs, and sooths her undeserved woes.

Now loud-tongu'd Rumor bruited round the tale:

Th' astonied swains uneath could credence give,

That in Arcadia's unambitious vale

A faytor false as Lycon e'er did live.

But Jove (who in high heaven does mortals prive,

And every deed in golden ballance weighs)

To earth his flaming charret baden drive,

And down descends, enwrapt in peerless blaze,

To deal forth guerdon meet to good and evil ways.

Where Eurymmanthus, crown'd with many a wood,

His silver stream through dasy'd vales does lead,

Stretch'd on the flowery marge, in reckless mood,

Proud Lycon sought by charm of jocund reed

To lull the dire remose of tortious deed.

Him Jove accosts, in reverend semblaunce dight

Of good Euphormius, and 'gan mild areed

Of compact oft confirm'd, of say yplight,

Of nature's tender tye, of sacred rule of right.

With lofty eyne, half loth to look so low,

Him Lycon view'd, and with swol'n surquedry

'Ganrudely treat his sacred eld: When now

Forth stood the God confest that rules the sky,

In sudden sheen of drad divinity:

" And know, false man," the lord of thunders said,

" Not unobserv'd by heaven's all-persent eye

" Thy cruel deeds: nor shall be unappay'd:

" Go! be in form that best beseems thy thews, array'd."

Whiles yet he spake th' affrayed trembling wight

Transmew'd to blatant beast, with hideous howl

Rush'd headlong forth, in well-deserved plight,

Mid'st dragons, minotaurs, and fiends to prowl,

A wolf in form as erst a wolf in soul!

To Pholoë, forest wild, he hy'd away,

The horrid haunt of savage monsters soul.

There helpless innocence is still his prey,

Thief of the bleating fold, and shepherd's dire dismay.

Tho Jove to good Euphormius' cot did wend,

Where peaceful dwelt the man of virtue high,

Each shepherd's praise and eke each shepherd's friend,

In every act of sweet humanity.

Him Jove approaching in mild majesty,

Grected all hail! then bade him join the throng

Of glit'rand lights that gild the glowing sky.

There shepherds nightly view his orb yhong,

Where bright he shines eterne, the brightest stars emong.

A TALE.

BY THE SAME.

ERE Saturn's sons were yet disgrac'd,

And heathen gods were all the taste,

Full oft (we read) 'twas Jove's high will

To take the air on Ida's hill.

It chanc'd, as once with serious ken

He view'd from thence the ways of men,

He saw (and pity touch'd his breast)

The world by three foul fiends possest.

Pale Discord there, and Folly vain,

With haggard Vice, upheld their reign.

Then forth he sent his summons high,

And call'd a senate of the sky.

Round as the winged orders prest,

Jove thus his sacred mind exprest:

" Say, which of all this shining train

" Will Virtue's conflict hard sustain?

" For see! she drooping takes her flight,

" While not a God supports her right."

He paus'd—when from amidst the sky,

Wit, Innocence, and Harmony,

With one united zeal arose,

The triple tyrants to oppose.

That instant from the realms of day,

With generous speed, they took their way;

To Britain's isle direct their car,

And enter'd with the evening star.

Beside the road a mansion stood,

Defended by a circling wood.

Hither, disguis'd, their steps they bend,

In hopes, perchance, to find a friend.

Nor vain their hope; for records say,

Worth ne'er from thence was turn'd away.

They urge the traveller's common chance,

And every piteous plea advance:

The artful tale that Wit had feign'd,

Admittance easy soon obtain'd.

The dame who own'd, adorn'd the place;

Three blooming daughters added grace.

The first, with gentlest manners blest

And temper sweet, each heart possest;

Who view'd her, catch'd the tender flame;

And soft Amasia was her name.

In sprightly sense and polish'd air,

What maid with Mira might compare?

While Lucia's eyes, and Lucia's lyre,

Did unresisted love inspire.

Imagine now the table clear,

And mirth in every face appear:

The song, the tale, the jest went round,

The riddle dark, the trick profound,

Thus each admiring and admir'd,

The hosts and guests at length retir'd;

When Wit thus spake her sister-train:

" Faith, friends, our errand is but vain—

" Quick let us measure back the sky;

" These nymphs alone may well supply

" Wit, Innocence, and Harmony."

EPISTLE TO SAPPHO[k].

BY THE SAME.

WHILE yet no amorous youths around thee bow,

Nor flattering verse conveys the faithless vow;

To graver notes will Sappho's soul attend,

And ere she hears the lover, hear the friend?

Let maids less bless'd employ their meaner arts

To reign proud tyrants o'er unnumber'd hearts;

May Sappho learn (for nobler triumphs born)

Those little conquests of her sex to scorn.

To form thy bosom to each generous deed;

To plant thy mind with every useful seed;

Be these thy arts: nor spare the grateful toil,

Where Nature's hand has bless'd the happy soil.

So shalt thou know, with pleasing skill, to blend

The lovely mistress, and instructive friend:

So shalt thou know, when unrelenting Time

Shall spoil those charms yet opening to their prime,

To ease the loss of Beauty's transient flower,

While reason keeps what rapture gave before.

And oh! while Wit, fair dawning, spreads its ray,

Serenely rising to a glorious day,

To hail the growing lustre oft be mine,

Thou early favourite of the sacred Nine!

And shall the Muse with blameless boast pretend,

In Youth's gay bloom that Sappho call'd me friend:

That urg'd by me she shunn'd the dangerous way,

Where heedless maids in endless error stray;

That scorning soon her sex's idler art,

Fair Praise inspir'd and Virtue warm'd her heart;

That fond to reach the distant paths of Fame,

I taught her infant genius where to aim?

Thus when the feather'd choir first tempt the sky,

And all unskill'd their feeble pinions try,

Th' experienc'd sire prescribes th' adventurous height,

Guides the young wing, and pleas'd attends the flight.

Notes

k
A young lady of thirteen years of age.
↵

VERSES WRITTEN IN LONDON ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING.

EARLY the sun his radiant axle guides,

Sloping his steep course with the Pleiades;

On every fragant briar the flowret blooms,

And the wild woodlark chaunts his early song

In heedless carol, to the smiling Hours,

Young Maia's festive train; their wavy dance

She jocund leads, and from her horn profuse

Pours roses, violets, woodbines, eglantine,

Fair Flora's dower, what time the youthful Spring

Clasp'd her all-blushing in a secret bower:

Thou the mild offspring of their warm embrace,

Oh lovely May, and these thine heritage,

Which bounteous thou with an unsparing hand

Scatterest to all, tho' chief thou lov'st to deck

The village Phaebe's brow, and fairer far

Is thy adorning, than the sunny glow

Of eastern ruby, ill assorted grace

That decks not but deforms the faded cheek

Of the wan courtier.—Far more raptur'd greets

Fancy's sond ear, where'er she musing roves,

Thy minstrelsy untutor'd, than the trill

And languid descant of Italian art.

Yet fings the woodlark, and the hawthorn blooms,

Unheard the song, the fragrance unperceiv'd

By me; tho' not among the sons of men

There lives, who listens with more raptur'd ear,

Or feels more lively, Nature's varied boon.

For tho' confined in the city walls

To dwell with busy Care, and with him watch

The call of Interest, is my lot affix'd,

Far happier seems to me the peasant's life,

Who treads the furrow labouring, yet his mind

Vacant of thought can muse of what around

Strikes his rapt eye with beauty, or his ear

With pleasing song, than if a golden mine

Disclos'd its boundless treasures, but condemn'd

My carking thought, to watch the gilded mischief,

And cunningly devise t' increase the store.

Bereav'd of every pleasure Nature gives

Each plain but heart-felt rapture, what is wealth?

In artful mazes we but toil for bliss:

True Pleasure dwells not in the arched roof,

She fings no carol to the midnight ball;

The loaded board and Bacchus' flustering draughts

In vain are tryed, for ah she dwells not there!

She dwells not with such rude ill-manner'd mirth,

But seeks with her mild sister Chearfulness

The russet plain; there prompts the virgin's song,

Breathes the brisk carol from the cottage reed,

Strikes the quick tabor glad with echoing pulse,

And animates the village holiday.

Nor then alone but when his honest labour

Calls the good swain, she early joins his step;

For the mild radiance of the opening dawn

Gives to her sight the wide-extended view

Of hill and dale, hoar forest, flowering heath,

Rich harvest, verdant meadow, where the stream

Rolls far its plenteous wave, and all around

To Pleasure's ear most grateful, thousand birds,

Lark, linnet, thrush, and thou of all the grove

The sweetest songster, witching Philomel,

Art rising to hymn out thy morning song.

Thou too at eve, when all his labour o'er,

He at the furrow's end unyokes the steer,

And seeks with weary step his rest at home,

Dost with thy tranquil warble sooth his soul;

Best prelude to the peace his cottage gives.

There at the door his numerous offspring watch

Their sire's return, and eager run to tell

The tyding of his coming, while his dame

Plys her glad evening care, to deck the board

With food uncater'd by the baleful hand

Of Luxury, and fittest to refresh

His toil-worn spirit, and her smiling welcome

Gives its due relish to the simple fare.

What are to this the proud luxurious feasts,

The City's boast, where distant colonies

Of East and Western worlds must be explor'd

To strike the sickly palate's feeble sense

With faint delight? Oh what are all our joys,

Ev'n those of monarchs, to the thousand beauties

That strike the rapt soul of the rudest hind?

Can Art's best mimicry their form express?

Can rich Loraine mix up the glowing tint

Bright as Aurora? Can he form a shade

To strike the fancy with a gloom so solemn

As every thicket, copse, or secret grove

At twilight hour affords? Can savage Rosa

With aught so wildly noble fill the mind,

As where the ancient oak in the wood's depth

Has shed his leafy honours, and around

The woodman with fell axe has lower'd the pride

Of many a tall tree, he deserted stands

A barren trunk, while rude winds howl around,

And dreary torrents lash his naked limbs?

Mean time the rifting thunder dreadful roars,

The livid lightnings flash, and elements

Conjoin'd pour out their wrath, as if to rend

The lone, defenceless, aged, feeble oak.

Such scenes awake Imagination's powers

To sacred thought; such Rosa cannot paint;

'Tis his alone to show the shatter'd trunk:

The winds keen howl, the thunder's aweful sound,

The dreary rain, these mock the pencil's power.

Can aught of artful music sooth the soul

To so serene a temper, as the flight

Of songsters in the grove? or can thy strain,

(Tho' there Enchantment strike the magic chord)

Oh matchless Purcell! with so wild a charm

Transport the mind, as when at dusk of eve

From the hoar battlement the lone owl's cry

Pierces the awful silence, and the fall'n

And time-worn hollow towers convey the sound

To the near wood, where in the devious path

Retired Fancy wanders, on her ear

The faint sound murmurs, strait the distant low

Of unyok'd heifer, strait the cuckow's note

She hears, while oft the roving Zephyr's tread

Rustling alarms her, and the measur'd step

Of the slow steer, who brushes thro' the thicket

To seek his food, beats duly regular.

As on he wanders, thro' the opening bower

He sees the pale moon rising; clouds on clouds

Pil'd mountainous awhile obstruct her beam,

Till labouring thence she lifts her silver brow,

And pours her full ray on the ivy'd steeple.

And hark its bell now tolls the minute knell,

And thro' the churchway path the surplic'd priest

Walks slowly forward, while the snowy pall

Covering the relicks of some love lorn virgin,

Passes with aweful pace along the glade.

Wrapt harmonist! what tho' thy studied chord

Can sound the slow knell, echo to the note

The lone owl utters, breathe the heifer's low,

And mark the funeral step with pausing cadence,

And music can no more, where is the tower

O'er-hung with-ivy, seen by the pale moon,

Whose faint beam glimmers on the snowy pall?

Where are the rocky clouds from whence she breaks?

Yet do not these, does not the rustling breeze

And the slow-treading heifer add delight?

Do not accordant senses join to fill

The musing mind with calm and holy rapture?

And can the city by the utmost force

Of mimic art, with labour'd imitation

So soothe the soul, or give such mild delight?

Ye gay and sportive votaries of Joy,

Forgive the thoughtless Muse, for she has led me

To talk of pleasing horror, and the bliss

Which melancholy gives; ye cannot form

Amid the circling follies, which urge on

Your laughing hours, perhaps ye cannot form

A notion of these joys, and with a taunt

Of high contempt, despise the wild enthusiasm.

Yet on the well-trod stage have ye not seen

Your Roscius fired by the natural bard,

Immortal Shakespear, wander the bleak heath

A poor and outcast king, nor blame the winds

Whose keen tooth seiz'd his age, nor chide the elements

For their unkindness, while the ruffling storm

Tore the proud garments from his shivering trunk,

And the fierce lightnings fir'd his maddening brain?

Have you not then felt horror? Would ye not

Change your rich pomp for Edgar's naked hovel,

And be the poor king's host?—Have ye not wish'd

To range with Rosaline the forest wild,

Or live beneath the shelter of some oak

With melancholy Jaques? Tell me, why then

Ye look'd on wealth and greatness with a scorn?

Why but because the Muse with native strength

Pour'd truth on Fancy's eye; and yet the Muse

Can only boast in the most warm description

A faint resemblance, nor has she such force

To strike as Nature has. Alas! her voice

But wakes remembrance of our absent bliss;

And when she sings of incense-breathing Spring,

She wafts no odours to the longing sense,

But only prompts our sigh, that we must dwell

Confin'd in the full city, distant far

From every scene of rural innocence,

Whose woods, whose shades, whose storms, or funerals,

Ev'n raise a sense of pleasure. What can then

The brighter views, what can the happy hour

That gives the blushing bride to the true arms

Of faithful Damon? Thenot pleas'd revives

To former youth, and gayest of the day

Provokes the village mirth, and from his soul

Enjoys the spousal of his boy, who scarce

(O'ercome with rapture) can himself conduct

His festival; and but for busy Thenot,

Each due right were neglected, and the guests

Unbidden by the tabor's sprightly sound

To seek the green, and in the jocund dance

Each maiden with her youth breathe sport and joy,

Save the still happier pair: their greater bliss

Fills the whole breast, nor leaves a vacant place

For lighter mirth. Unnotic'd speaks the pipe:

They hear no sound but the endearing voice

Of mutual love: they do not mark the joy

In every face around; for their attention,

Fix'd on each other, watches every glance

Diffused by the lovely languid eye.

Well may all else be unperceiv'd; for who

Observes bright Hesper dart his pointed ray,

When riding high mild Cynthia pours serene

Her steady beam. Oh tell me, when compar'd

To these true raptures, what's the shadowy pomp

And artful splendour, when the golden shackles

Fetter two venal souls, by interest call'd

To prostitute the ever-hallow'd rites

Of holy Hymen?—On the village plain

Nought joins but mutual love; no sordid motive

Promotes unnatural union; but the flame

That first united glows throughout their life

A steady fire, whose unabating light

Gilds Youth with rapture, and with fostering warmth

Chears drooping Age, who smiling sees his offspring

Step forth to claim the joys he celebrates

With annual hospitality, what time

The circling year brings round the happy day

That shower'd down blessings on him, when it gave

To his fond vow the willing Sylvia's charms,

Then blooming young, now hoary, but her heart

Unchang'd by time; for still the same desire

To add to every joy, or fondly soothe

Each woe he feels, reigns unabated there.

His social roof receives each welcome guest,

His open heart diffuses round his pleasure,

And each plain neighbour with unfeigning tongue

Congratulates his bliss. Who would not leave

For these sincere delights, the pageant pomp,

The rich array, the courtly formal speech

Unutter'd by the heart, the birth-day wish

Of venal hirelings, who for interest croud

The glittering levee? Happier (Reason deems

View'd in each light) the simple village life,

Than all that courtiers wish, or kings bestow.

Kings cannot give a boon of so rich price

As are thy smiles, O lovely Health! and thou

Shunning the tumult, to the rural green

Retirest. There, not built by mortal hand,

Stands on the southern slope of the fresh hill

Thy temple, from whose roof the eglantine

And vagrant woodbine hang; and at the porch

Sits thy good priestess Ease, administring

To Exercise (who up the gentle slope

By moderate footing moves) the holy cup

Of Temperance, nymph of the crystal spring

That dwells beneath thy altar; and from thence

Warbling with gentle lapse joins the full stream,

That winding wild delays its silver course

In the rich mead, whose bank the peasant oft

Approaches to allay his thirst, and quaffs

The simple beverage from the limpid fount.

Bright virgin, thee of all the Powers who range

The rural plain, I woo with constant vow

Most ardent! Deign around my temples bind

Thy fragrant wreath, and deck my purpled cheek

With thy rich glow. Then undisturb'd the mind

Musing pursues its holy meditation,

And rapt in trance, can trace a thousand gifts

Shower'd by the gracious hand of Nature's King

To deck the various field. The wondering eye

Roams o'er the fair creation; then to heaven

Unbidden soars; for the full soul imprest

With holy transport, there directs its view

From whence its blessings flow, and the rapt voice

Accordant hymns the grateful song of praise.

The rapid gusts of passion, which or pride,

Or folly, or the thousand varying forms

Of courtly affectation ever raise,

Here all subside, and the composed breast

Expands with love, and to its utmost power

Diffuses blessings to mankind, nor fears

Ingratitude should check, or pride should spurn

The offer'd bounties of the generous heart.

Bless'd be the day, and doubly bless'd the hour,

When my Fidele with unfeigned vow

Gave her fond hand, and own'd her constant love:

Tho' since that hour already thrice the sun

From every sign has seen our growing bliss;

And tho' thy smile of unaffected love

Adds joy to every joy, and charms to ease

The brow of Care; tho' thou art all that heaven

Could give in woman, tenderness, and truth,

And all my heart e'er wish'd, when warmest Fancy

Form'd the fond future view of houshold bliss;

Yet happier still perhaps our lot had been,

Hadst thou beneath the rural thatch receiv'd

My faithful vow, and we had never heard

Of town or city life; a Marian thou,

And rustic Corin I. Then on the plain

Contented we had pass'd Life's little day.

While Youth with sprightly beam illum'd her hours,

They would move on with joy; and when at noon

Firm Manhood call'd us forth to till the soil,

And with our labouring hand direct the plough,

We would be ready, nor refuse the task,

Due tribute to the public; till at eve

Our vigour lost, when Age came creeping on,

We would unyoke our heifers, and retire

To welcome ease, our best skill then employ'd

At our own home; attentive there to thatch

The chinks which Time had made, and to root up

Each foul weed that deform'd our little plot.

This business over, calm we should attend

Th' approaching hour of our eternal rest;

And when it came, borne to our peaceful grave

By the plain villager; what tho' no tomb

Of sculptur'd marble call'd the passing eye

To read our story, yet the cottage tear

Should on our ashes fall, and the good heart

O'erflow sincerely for a neighbour lost:

Upon our bier the virgin troop would hang

Fresh-woven chaplets of the sweetest flowers:

Green turf should deck our grave; and every year

In spring-time would some friendly hand with care

Bind the fresh briar around, to guard the place

From the rude insult of the careless step;

And faithful Memory to late time record,

We were the happiest pair of human kind.

WOODSTOCK. AN ELEGY.
WRITTEN IN THE YEAR MDCCLIX.

AH me! what is this mortal life? (I cry'd)

What changes croud the page of flitting Time!

What dire reverse of Fate have numbers try'd!

What youth, what beauty, wither'd in the prime!

Inexorable Destiny pursues,

And levels in the chace with rapid wing•:

Pity in vain, or Mirth, or Merit sues,

Equally vain the beggar and the king!

Ah! what is Fame, the idol of the great?

No solid Pleasure can she e'er bestow;

If just to Worth, that justice comes too late:

Prompt is her malice, but her mercy slow!

Thus on the winding Isis' willowed bank,

The varying scenes of Fortune I deplore;

Wasting in fruitless sighs the evening dank,

Tears adding water to the river's store.

A gloomy mansion open to the view,

Disclosing horror heighten'd by the shade;

Where round the nodding walls the mournful yew

Points to the vault where Rosamond was laid:

Where with her birds of night, haggard and foul,

In sullen fellowship together dwell,

The bat ambiguous, and ill-omen'd owl,

Screaming to nighted swains a dreadful knell!

Intent I gaz'd, till Terror, ruling sight,

Rear'd a pale spectre from the yawning tomb,

A faint delusion of the murky night,

Begot and bred in Fancy's fruitful womb!

Semblance of virgin elegance and grace,

The mimic shape in every part adorn'd;

But wan and languid seem'd the beauteous face,

Which Elen envy'd, and which Henry mourn'd,

Now gently gliding o'er the hallow'd ground,

Close by my side the phantom made a stand,

Piercing the night-still'd air. An awful sound!

And claim'd attention with uplifted hand.

" I once was blest with Love's deluding joy,

" I also felt the worst extreme of hate!

" And can no length of time (she cry'd) destroy

" Remembrance of my love, and of my fate?

" O had Oblivion in her peaceful cell,

" Shrouded from every eye my mouldering dust!

" That on the chissel'd stone no verse might tell,

" My crime how great! my punishment how just!

" But Woodstock's blooming bowers still remain,

" The scenes, to me, of pleasure and of woe;

" And Godstow's walls perpetuate the stain

" My name reproaching, whilst my grave they shew.

" O Woodstock, fated long to be the seat

" Of all the charms that Wit and Beauty boast,

" The hero's guerdon, and his soft retreat,

" Yielding content, in fields and senates lost.

" Thy glories now are levell'd low in earth;

" No longer Beauty doth thy bowers adorn;

" No more thy woods resound the voice of Mirth;

" The laurel from thy victor brow is torn!

" But thou whose bosom foreign sorrow heaves,

" Whose eyes can stream for anguish not thine own;

" Whose heart the white-rob'd fugitive receives,

" When forc'd by awful Rigour from her throne;

" The scourge of vice, the good man's destiny,

" The wreck of fortune, and the waste of years;

" The miseries thou mournest thou shalt see,

" Sad consolation granted to thy tears."

Now on the summit of a cloud-built height

Methought I stood: and from an opening glade

With faultering ray gleam'd forth a magic light,

And round the plain in lambent circles play'd.

Sudden the ground with inbred motion shook,

A solemn murmur rustled thro' the trees;

And on the pebbled shore the surging brook

Dash'd angry waves, unconscious of a breeze▪

Daedalian mystery! from the parted soil,

A labyrinth 'rose to sounds of melting note;

A moment's labour mocking all the toil

Of nations old, and monarchs long forgot.

High over-arch'd in Summer's gayest weed,

Meandering alleys form the wonderous maze,

And puzzle most when best they seem to lead

The untaught foot, that in their precincts strays.

Deep in a vale impervious to all tread,

Save by a flower-hid path, a grotto stood!

And ancient oaks their foliage round it spread,

O'ershading with their tops the neighbouring wood

And Nature sporting, with a lavish hand

This little spot in gay profusion grac'd,

With every wanton variation plann'd,

Luxuriant Fancy yielding but to Taste.

Here on the brink of a pellucid stream,

Circling in eddies o'er its moss-grown bed,

Where ever and anon a quivering beam,

Piercing the covert, on the surface play'd:

A Beauty lay, surpassing all the train

Of virgin Delia, or Idalia's queen;

Or what of dryads poets sweetly feign,

On Ida, or thessalian Oeta seen.

And by her side a form imperial lay,

With roses, and with myrtle garlands crown'd;

The wither'd laurel cast in scorn away,

The pomp of war in Lydian measures drown'd.

The little Loves that flutter'd on the boughs,

In grateful bondage did their limbs entwine,

And strove to join them closer than their vows,

With woodbine sweet, and twisted eglantine.

But weak all bonds when those of Beauty fail;

The monarch sated left the flowery bed,

Nor griev'd to see the maid his loss bewail,

Nor mingled parting tears with those she shed.

Now swift advancing to the guilty bower,

With frantic step the injur'd queen drew nigh;

And arm'd for vengeance seiz'd the fatal hour,

When all things slept but rage and jealousy.

Each eager hand a deadly weapon fill'd,

A pointed dagger, and a poison'd bowl;

My ebbing blood her mad demeanor chill'd,

And anguish unallay'd possess'd my soul.

Ah stop, inhuman! with a faultering tongue

And inarticulate voice, as in a dream,

I cry'd; and strait the rattling thunder rung,

And livid lightnings in the welkin gleam!

No more the mazy grove, or bower appear'd,

But all around a waste and barren plain;

The scatter'd trees of leaves and branches bar'd,

And blanch'd by srowning winds and beating rain.

And Murder shrieking hideous wander'd there:

And ruthless Envy, and relentless Hate,

With snaky locks, and shrivell'd bosoms bare,

Whilst lurking felons on their motions wait.

And soon the landscape shifting like a cloud,

To less'ning distance bore the hellish crew;

Now twang in fainter sounds their yellings loud;

Now vanish'd quite; a milder scene I view.

Of chequer'd light and shade, a sober dawn,

Faint thro' a lingering vapour did disclose,

A hamlet seated on an open lawn,

And from each roof the pillar'd smoke arose.

For now with freqent challenge, had the cock

His rivals menacing, awak'd the swain;

Now in the pen impatient bleats the flock,

And ruddy streaks the horizon distain.

The crouching dog the moon no longer bays,

But stretch'd supine upon the social hearth

He lies, rejoicing in the crackling blaze,

Whilst slaunting sun-beams dry the moisten'd earth.

Whilst to the strain of rural minstrelsy,

A band forth issuing to a neighbouring hill

Welcom'd the morn with decent jollity,

And all the air their youthful carrols fill.

With unskill'd hands a simple crown they wove

Of vervain, and the never-sading bay;

And rais'd a throne within a rude alcove;

To grace the parent of the British lay:

Old Chaucer, who in rough, unequal verse,

Sung quaint allusion and sacetious tale;

And ever as his jests he would rehearse,

Loud peals of laughter echo'd thro' the vale:

And eager gap'd the rustic listening throng,

And still their joy and laughter they renew;

And warlike barons, soften'd by the song,

From loud alarms to mute attention drew.

But short-liv'd pleasure soon to sorrow chang'd;

For melody a sigh, for mirth a tear;

And now the swains in solemn order rang'd,

Surround the bard extended on his bier.

What tho' succeeding poets, as their sire,

Revere his memory, and approve his wit;

Tho' Spenser's elegance and Dryden's fire

His name to ages far remote transmit;

His tuneless numbers hardly now survive,

As ruins of a dark and Gothic age;

And all his blithsome tales their praise derive

From Pope's immortal song, and Prior's page!

Again, quick rising thro' the tufted green,

Turrets and lofty battlements ascend;

Trees half obscuring columns, intervene,

And real boughs with sculptur'd fruitage blend.

And arched windows shine with torches clear,

Soothing the wanderer. A delusive home!

And busy crouds of ministers appear,

Decking with jocund haste a festive room.

And now of sprightly youths and damsels gay,

A wanton bevy at the board was set,

And all intent they seem'd on amorous play,

For kindling glances, kindling glances met.

Their volant fingers o'er the chorded lyre,

With modulating touch the artists ply;

Pursuing still to animate desire,

Strains that in thrilling undulations die.

And every cheek with deep suffusion glow'd,

Denoting thought inflam'd, and troubled breast,

And passion in seducing sighs avow'd

Mutual, yet still by decency represt.

But soon excess to madding riot led,

Ensuing meaning jest, and licence bold;

Till comely Order from the banquet fled,

Asham'd the lustful orgies to behold.

A youth exalted high above the rest,

In bad pre-eminence conspicuous shone!

And blind submission to his lewd behest,

Unrivall'd lewdness from them all had won.

And deeply was he skill'd in wanton lore,

With sertile thought suggesting every art,

To make impurer, fires impure before,

Tainting at once the manners and the heart.

Pleasing proportion, youthful Beauty's aid,

And bland complacency and winning smile,

And wit diffusive tempting to persuade,

Maintain'd his power, and held him in the toil.

Ah! why should Nature in an angel dress,

To lure with seeming worth unwary eyes,

Conceal rank thoughts and gross voluptuousness,

Too apt to poison without Virtue's guise?

Pride of thy country, Wilmot, and her shame!

By every grace adorn'd, and Muse inspir'd!

Thy early fall how pitied! and thy name,

How much detested, and how much admir'd!

Yet must unbiass'd posterity admit,

For all thou wrot'st and acted'st to atone,

Thy failings were the age's, but thy wit,

Thy parts and dying penitence, thine own.

But now prevailing o'er the hubbub wild,

The clanging trumpet kindles great acclaim;

And all around are warlike trophies pil'd,

And crouds triumphant echo Churchill's fame.

And thronging senates in the glorious cause,

Repell'd oppression, liberty maintain'd,

Accord with gratulant vote the loud applause;

The fairest prize by British valour gain'd.

Who erst implor'd, and soon obtain'd relief,

High-fated monarchs grateful homage pay,

And fulgent honours crown the matchless chief,

And verse harmonious, never to decay:

And humbled Gallia kneels with distant awe;

Her generals baffled, and her warriors slain;

No more to dictate but receive the law,

No longer to impose but wear the chain.

But venom'd Faction spreading o'er the land,

Too soon forgets the mighty debt to owe;

And Envy stretches out her lurid hand,

The victor's meed to blast and overthrow.

And yet unfinish'd stands the votive dome,

By all his toil and all his danger bought:

When just resentment calls him far from home,

Revisiting the fields where late he fought.

In vain auspicious Brunswick's happy reign,

Blunting the rancorous point of party strife,

Restores the hero to his friends again;

Too late to chear the dregs of lengthen'd life!

The lofty column and the voice of praise

In vain proclaim him great, and just, and brave;

Tardy repentance merit ill repays,

Unheard, unheeded, in the silent grave!

In conquest equal, and alike in fate,

Rome's mounting genius, godlike Scipio stood;

And propp'd by worth and dignity innate,

Contemn'd the venal censure of the croud.

Yet once again the visionary scene,

Ductile, for sorrow social beauty yields;

A temperate sunshine and an air serene,

Fostering the upland downs and level fields.

And tepid showers bedew the frolic herd,

Bounding in gamesome measure o'er the lea,

With daisies crimson-tipt, and green parterr'd,

And shadowing fragrance drops from every tree.

The wide expanded prospect gently clos'd,

On visto'd walks leading to high arcades;

Each waving copse in symmetry dispos'd,

Points to the terras capt with colonnades.

And more remote the cloister'd wings confine,

In architecture elegant and just,

A portall'd front where niches deep inshrine

The marble statue, and the gilded bust.

Unfolding wide the hospitable port

On ready hinges, to the searching eye

Reveals unblemish'd Childhood's harmless sport,

And placid parents stand delighted by.

For here unmindful of the call of State,

The smile of Favour, or the voice of Power;

In tranquil pleasure, even and sedate,

Great Churchill's heir enjoy'd the wasting hour.

And beaming rapture glisten'd on his brow,

And glad dependants share their patron's joy,

No frowns their heart-bred transports disallow,

Debasing worth in Servitude's alloy.

Such charms hath Innocence! such virtues Pride!

From starry height her sacred powers descend,

The garish pomp of Grandeur to deride,

And giddy Fortune's rash decrees amend.

A day he flourish'd in the peaceful soil,

Another saw him on the hostile strand,

Guiding the thunders of the white-cliff'd isle,

Ambition's wasteful rapine to withstand.

To match his great progenitor in war,

Elate with hope his generous bosom burns;

But inauspicious twinkled every star,

And heaven averted all his wishes spurns.

Too high request in every sphere to shine,

In peace a pattern, and a chief in blood;

The gods to each a separate path assign,

But he alone is great who's truly good.

ODE ON THE REBELLION IN THE YEAR MDCCXLV.

BY R. SCHOMBERG, M. D.

DO thou, fair Liberty, descend

To tune my harp, and guide my hand,

Thy sacred Sister with thee bring,

She too shall aid me, as I sing,

And every Briton's breast engage

With well-becoming zeal, and kindle honest rage.

Daughter of royal Brunswick's line,

Great Anna, [l] more than half divine,

Thou too, the happy theme inspire,

So shall I strike the golden lyre

With manly force, and raise my voice

Above a common strain, if thou approv'st my choice.

Britannia hail! hail happy isle,

Wherej oys inhabit, pleasures smile;

Great nurse of heroes, seat of charms,

Supreme in arts, and first in arms,

Queen of the seas, and distant trade,

Arise, majestic nymph, and shew thy awful head.

Ambitious Caesar saw thee fair,

(What will not proud Ambition dare!)

And strait he courts thee as his own,

Fond to possess thy splendid throne.

Albion submits, tho' not to chains,

But ever uncontroul'd th' imperial virgin reigns.

The Roman eagle shrunk his head,

Before th' invited Saxons fled;

Aspiring nations shook her state,

(Dread consequence of being great)

Wild Heptarchy began her reign,

Till overaw'd she yields her scepter to the Dane.

Awhile in ignorance she lay,

The pagan worlds obscur'd her day:

The Goths, a wild barbarian train,

And savage Vandals, sweep her plain:

Soon of herself thro' clouds she shone,

And brighten'd once again a strong meridian sun

The royal Alfred, greatly born,

Britain to govern and adorn,

His kingdom's honour, subjects' good,

This well preserv'd, that understood,

Courted Astraea to his throne;

Oppression sunk disarm'd, nor more his people groan,

The happy prince nor rested here;

His ships to different regions steer,

And in Britannia's lap unlade

The sweet reward of gainful trade;

Far distant India's burning shore

Beheld his floating strength, and wonder'd at his power.

Commerce advance! by heaven design'd

To polish, and enrich mankind;

Old Maja's daughter, Albion's care,

Advance, and breathe thy native air!

Here dwell, and fix thy sweet resort,

Nations shall hither flock, to pay their eager court.

Thou gavest to hidden knowledge birth;

By thee, the limits of the earth

Greatly enlarg'd, show'd worlds unknown,

The frigid and the torrid zone;

Guided and influenc'd by thee,

We first were taught to learn divine Astronomy.

To thee her silk rich Persia brings,

The proud magnificence of kings,

Arabia's spice and India's mine,

Peru's vast golden womb is thine;

Behold the costly pillars rise,

And swell thy lofty seats, and temples to the skies.

Seated along th' Aonian spring,

No more the vocal Sisters sing:

Oxford, the seat of learning now,

Crowns with her bay Apollo's brow;

Again refreshing Science streams,

Poeonian Phoebus hence, sends forth his warmer beams.

Next Cambridge rear'd her awful head,

Whence Arts from Danish arms had fled;

Virgil and Homer here retir'd,

And pleas'd her studious sons inspir'd;

Philosophy shone heavenly bright,

The thickening clouds dispers'd, and all was wondrous light.

Favour'd of God, here Newton saw

Errors obscuring Nature's law;

He saw, and clear'd the gloomy way,

And shew'd mankind eternal day:

He shew'd, and worlds beheld with joy

Labours which distant time nor envy shall destroy.

Innately bright the diamond shines,

Tho' deep conceal'd in Indian mines;

The lapidary's nicer art

Luxuriant flames on every part;

Till then, false jewels we admire,

Behold their tinsel blaze, and artificial fire.

Priests thus with shew enslav'd the mind,

To shew, the human eye inclin'd;

To papal power our princes bend,

Nor see the errors they defend,

While monkish artifices long

Dazzled implicit worlds, and led a bigot throng.

Religion trembled at their crimes,

But pleas'd, foresaw succeeding times;

Succeeding times when she alone

Shou'd govern Britain's royal throne;

With undisturb'd and downy rest

Baffled the sons of Rome, but all her children blest.

Edward the happy theme began,

A glorious and immortal plan!

Skies azure-opening greet his day,

The Reformation points the way;

By Reason and by Virtue led,

Behold her beauteous form, and mark her solemn tread!

Not so imperious Mary sways,

Blind zeal again obscur'd her blaze.

Disgrac'd, Religion mournful stood,

While Persecution smil'd in blood:

Heaven saw, enrag'd, the horrid deed,

Shorten'd her tyrant reign, no more her subjects bleed.

Eliza shone serenely bright,

And on her throne reflected light;

Her royal brother's will maintain'd:

For this, the virgin princess reign'd,

Reign'd most supremely wise and great,

And neighb'ring realms preserv'd, and sav'd her sinking state.

When Spanish sleets her coasts alarm,

Eliza rais'd her mighty arm,

Her people's darling, she secure,

Smiling (of easy conquest sure),

Quell'd like a Jove their giant rage,

Her thunders burst aloud, nor dare the foe engage.

As when the sun darts forth his beams,

Whence trembling light refulgent streams,

And kindly gladdens for a while,

Alike adorns, and aids our toil,

A sudden cloud o'erspreads his rays,

Destroys our flattering hopes, and dims our golden days:

So when eclips'd Eliza's reign,

And heaven recall'd the saint again,

Too happy to be long admir'd,

With her our short-liv'd bliss retir'd:

Darkness returns, the light disdains

To shine on a soul series of inglorious reigns.

Thou awful shade of Pope, inspire,

And give expression to my lyre!

Lend harmony to every line,

And teach my verse to flow like thine!

Maria's wonderous charms I'd sing,

Would'st thou, lov'd poet, dictate to the silver string.

Her William saw Britannia's grief,

And swift he flew to her relief,

With noble resolution draws

The sword vindictive in her cause;

The glorious cause demands his sword,

Religion once again, and Liberty restor'd.

With horror he beheld the state

Oppress'd beneath the papal weight;

He kindled not War's fiercer flame,

But like a guardian angel came,

(Britannia's best and surest friend)

To save the fading honours of a groaning land.

The grand event, the bold design,

Th' immortal task, Nassau, were thine;

The British lion, rous'd by thee,

First broke his chain, and dar'd be free;

The royal line of great Nassau

Was sent mankind by heaven to keep the world in awe.

The dark horizon clear'd again,

And shone propitious on his reign;

Fair Liberty assum'd her seat,

And crush'd Oppression at her feet:

Religion trumph'd, Albion smiles,

Once more the first of states, again the queen of isles.

Inspir'd by heaven, the wise Nassau

Her rising greatness well foresaw

Rising from royal Brunswick's care,

Brunswick by senates mark'd his heir;

Britons rejoicing shout applause,

By him secur'd our faith, our property, our laws.

But first our powerful realms obey,

Illustrious Anne, thy easy sway.

Check'd by thy power, insulting Gaul

Beheld with grief his legions fall:

They fell, for Malbro' drew the sword,

Pre-eminent in arms, victorious, and ador'd.

Gallia beholds with treacherous eyes

Sophia's high-born offspring rise

To glory, empire, and renown,

Deck'd with Britannia's glittering crown:

Again she dar'd the isle engage,

And stir intestine war, and raise seditious rage.

The rancorous hate of France in vain

Threatens Mavortian Brunswick's reign;

Guardian of liberty and peace,

He bids rebellious Discord cease;

The injur'd monarch soon forgives,

And by his nod, again th' offending rebel lives.

With distant conquests he extends

The throne his royal son ascends;

Imperial dignity and grace

Serenely smile upon his face:

Brunswick to martial honour bred,

Governs, by Virtue counsell'd, and by Glory led.

Trade, Arts, and Science, flourish here,

And bless each fair revolving year;

Gay-smiling Plenty reigns around,

And golden harvests load the ground;

So Liberty, and George, and Britons should be crown'd!

While Brunswick Europe's rights maintains,

And fights her cause on Flandria's plains,

Proud Gallia, treacherously brave,

Calls coward Treason from her cave,

Tho' Agincourt and Blenheim tell,

How all her valour sunk, and boasting heroes fell.

Fam'd Dettingen still reeks with blood,

Where like a God great Brunswick stood;

Triumphant Fame on silken wing

Rode smiling on before the king;

Like Mars he shook the pointed spear,

The Gauls retreat, and all their battle shrunk with fear.

Tremendous Death and Horror stride

Close by intrepid William's side:

William, he bled, and soldiers griev'd;

" Revenge (they cry) the wound receiv'd"!

Bright Venus mourn'd her favourite care,

And quick she bid her nymphs the healing drugs prepare.

The Cyprian goddess stood confest,

As when Aeneas' wound she drest:

Her weeping nymphs around her wait,

Impatient for the prince's fate;

With healing herbs, and balmy sweets,

The Dionoean queen the cannons rage defeats.

Who are these base, these dastard foes,

That dare their country's laws oppose!

Their lives and fortunes not their own,

But given in mercy from the throne:

Do they, ungrateful men, presume

To act the scheme of France, or play the part of Rome?

Discord and Horror stalk along,

With pale Rebellion in the throng;

Bellona stains the purple field,

And Mars displays his brazen shield;

William his brother-god appears,

To curb the traitorous war, and ease Britannia's fears.

He comes, the hero comes, and strait

Conscious Rebellion knows her fate;

His troops, with manly rage inspir'd,

Rush on, by his example fir'd;

His name strikes terror to the foe,

Precipitate they fly, nor wait th' impending blow.

Brave Huske and Hawley strive in vain

To animate th' embattled plain;

Train'd up in arms, the warriors fly

From rank to rank, resolv'd to die,

Or conquer, in their country's cause;

But heaven to Cumberland decrees the crown'd applause.

Hence worthless slaves, and wear the chain

Of punick France, and haughty Spain;

Blinded by Rome, your ruin court,

And be your very masters' sport;

Like Cain roam, of bliss bereft,

No clime, no country yours, no friendly shelter left.

Shall Gauls insult the wide domain,

When Neptune views them with disdain?

Shall they with dark invafive schemes

(The mere result of idle dreams)

Threaten Britannia's guarded shore,

Nor dread the angry god, nor fear his cannons' roar?

Proud boasters hence, and learn to know,

Our Albion dreads no foreign foe;

Her fleets but ask propitious gales,

But ask, and Conquest swells her sails;

France strikes the flag, our colours near,

Whitens her golden flowers, and shrinks with coward fear.

Britons, united by their laws,

Can never swerve from Freedom's cause;

Blest in great George, we guard his reign,

And Gallic insolence disdain!

Well may we guard th' imperial throne,

Which every Briton's voice, and Virtue made his own.

Calm as a god, behold him there,

Express his soft paternal care;

Mercy sits mourning on his face,

To see severer Law take place;

And whilst rebellious subjects die,

Sighs swell his royal breast, and tears his pitying eye.

Such Brunswick is who rules our land!

Such is the monarch we defend!

Blessing and bless'd! (a mutual good,

By Britons only understood)

Late may he England's scepter wield,

Protect our laws at home, and guard us in the field!

A long illustrious race of kings

From Frederick and Augusta springs;

This Brunswick views with joyous eye,

And knows in them he ne'er shall die;

He sees his royal offspring smile,

The grace of future worlds, and honour of their isle.

Notes

l
Princess of Orange.
↵

HEAVEN. A VISION.

BY MR. SCOTT.

FULL many a tedious hour, with care opprest,

Stretch'd on my weary bed, I wakeful lay,

Sad troublous thoughts, like hornets, stung my breast,

And brush'd the dews of balmy sleep away.

Ah! what avails, I cry'd, with painful toil,

By Virtue's stedfast star the bark to guide,

Far from [m] Acrasia's wily-wandering isle,

Where ease and pleasure the frail heart divide;

If Life's short voyage undistinguish'd tends

To darkness, and the land where all forgotten ends?

Shall Worth lie hid in Sorrow's baleful shade?

And no reward shall suffering Goodness find,

While Vice triumphant lifts her pamper'd head,

[n] Nor hears the steps of Vengeance close behind?—

Then take me, Power of Beauty, to thy arms,

And lull, ah lull to peace my troubled soul!

Disclose, O God of Wine, thy purple charms,

I'll drown reflection in the mantling bowl!

'Gainst wind, and tide, let Stoic dulness sail,

Be mine the calmest sea, and Pleasure's briskest gale.

Pensive I mus'd, 'till rose the blushing Morn,

And spread her saffron mantle o'er the skies;

When pitying Morpheus shook his opiate horn,

And slumbrous humours drown'd my weary'd eyes:

Yet Fancy still awake, to sooth my pain,

Sweet scenes of joy in liveliest hue pourtray'd;

She call'd forth all her bright ideal train,

And pleasing truths in mystic dreams convey'd:

Oh fail me not, thou fair enchanting Power,

At Sorrow's grim approach, and Care's distressful hour!

Born thro' the yielding air, methought I flew

To some more blissful clime, sequester'd far

From this frail world, that just appear'd to view,

Like the faint glimmering of a distant star.

Deep in the sea's encircling wave 'twas plac'd,

As gems in silver; hoary Ocean smil'd,

Chear'd with the pleasing sight; [o] and from his breast

Sent his sweet children, breezes fresh and mild:

No clouds nor darkness veil'd the chearful scene,

Nor wintry blasts deform'd the ground's eternal green.

Lo to the West a large and spacious plain,

Where meet in concert, wood, and hill, and dale;

Brighter than all that muse-led poets feign

Of Ida's grove, and Tempe's hallow'd vale:

Tho' Peneus there revolves his [p] amber stream,

And suppliant Daphne spreads her branching arms;

Still trembling lest the sun's prolific beam,

Too fiercely wanton, blast her virgin charms:

Would'st thou escape? Go, coy relentless maid,

Go chuse some worse retreat, some less luxurious shade!

There blooming groves, gay smiling with delight,

From her fair womb spontaneous Nature brings;

Where percht on every bough, all richly dight

With painted plumes, some [q] harmless siren sings:

Pleas'd with the wild notes Zephyr flits unseen,

And on his musky wings the sound conveys;

While trickling soft, each varying pause between,

The murmuring rivulets roll their silver base;

Winds, waters, birds in seemly sort agree,

And amorous Echo blends the liquid melody.

Nor there alone was charm'd one scanty sense:

The loaded trees ambrosial fruitage bear;

The [r] weeping shrubs their spicy gums dispense,

Whose fragrance fresh imbalms the buxom air;

Thousands of flowers their silken webs unfold,

Amaranths, immortal amaranths arise,

These beaming bright with [s] vegetable gold,

And these with azure, these with Tyrian dies;

There laughing sweetly red the roses glow,

While from their breathing souls celestial odours flow.

But hark, a voice soft-warbling strikes my ear!

" Behold, O man, fair Virtue's ample meed;

" Behold these radiant plains, this star-girt sphere,

" By righteous Jove her portion are decreed!

" Mould not, ah mould not then in idle cell,

" But strive these rapturous mansions to attain;

" Here all the wise, the brave, the virtuous dwell,

" Eternal [t] ages free from care and pain;

" Here in Elysian seats, their calm abodes,

" Live in communion blest [u], with heroes and with gods!

Eastward to this methought a different scene

Of equal beauty charm'd my raptur'd sight:

Wide spacious lawns with swelling hills between,

And groves of bliss, and gardens of delight.

There lotes and palms their copious branches twine,

And over-arching form delicious bowers;

There gush nectareous rills of dulcet wine,

And honey'd streams revolve their milky stores;

Fresh bleeding myrrh and cassia shed perfume,

Ananas swell with sweets, and wild pomegranates bloom,

Fast by a fount [x], whose spicy waters glide

In amorous mazes, on the velvet ground,

With blushing flowers all goodly beautify'd,

A smiling troop of virgins dance around;

Fairer than Delia's silver-buskin'd train,

When erst, Ladona, by thy lillied banks,

Or cool [y] Eurota's laurel-fringed plain,

To breathing lutes they tript in seemly ranks;

And fairer, Cypris, than thy wanton quire,

That melt the soul to love, and kindle fierce desire.

Their eyes [z], like pearls within their shells conceal'd,

Beauteous and black; their lips with rubies vye;

On their fair cheeks, with white and red anneal'd,

What thousand dimpling smiles in ambush lie!

See, see they point to you embowering shade,

Where cool gales fan their odoriferous wings,

And Flora's freshest, softest couch is spread;

The whiles some one this lovely ditty sings!

Thro' all my veins what thrilling transport flew

To hear the nectar'd words, dropping like honey'd dew!

" Haste, gentle youth, for lo, the way is plain!

" Haste, gentle youth, and hear the Prophet's call!

" These are the joys that true believers gain,

" Immortal joys that never know to pall.

" Come then, ah come thy weary limbs recline

" On silken beds of roses sweetly strow'd,

" Where to thy touch compliant bows the vine,

" All faint, and labouring with the luscious load;

" Where Nymphs of Paradise their charms reveal,

" And with their amorous spoils thy greedy eyes regale!"

She ceas'd—and molten with excess of joy,

Voluptuous Hope was busy in my breast:

When lo! swift-darting from th' extremest sky,

With seraph-plumes, an Angel stood confest!

A pure immortal crown adorn'd her head,

Of gold inwove with jewels; in her hand,

The book of life, and mercy was display'd,

With ruddy drops of dying martyrs stain'd;

Her eagle-eyes were quick, and passing bright,

Yet beam'd serene, and mild, with heaven's celestial light.

" And O fond foolish man," she cry'd, "forbear

" Idly to glote on forms so light, and vain!

" What are these jocund scenes, but empty air,

" The fleeting coinage of a phrenzy'd brain?—

" Yet ev'n in these, as [a] darkly thro' a glass,

" Some faint, some glimmering view the eye may gain

" Of those unmingled joys, that far surpass

" Whate'er of bliss the wit of man can feign;

" Those pure delights, that flow in streams divine,

" Where thy imperial towers, O heavenly Salem, shine!

" For know, my son, that they whose worth is try'd,

" As gold by fire, by great and virtuous deeds,

" Soon as the carnal fetters are unty'd,

" That chain the soul, and stript these mortal weeds;

" Haply shall soar, in robes of glory clad,

" To heavenly mansions, bright abodes, prepar'd

" [b] Ere the foundations of the deep were laid,

" Or the firm pillars of the earth were rear'd;

" Ere God his golden compasses employ'd,

" And markt this beauteous world on chaos dark, and void.

" There shall they live, O happy, happy spirits!

" There shall they live remov'd from all the cares,

" And thousand ills, that feeble flesh inherits:

" No greedy Want, nor wayard Lust, that tears

" With viperous rage the breast from whence it sprung,

" Their deep-embosom'd peace shall e'er torment;

" But hymning sweet, the angel troops among,

" Their undisturbed lays of pure content,

" The smiling hours immortal shall employ

" In trance of holy ease, or extacy of joy.

" Then shall their eyes, from cloudy films secure,

" With lightning-glance unmeasur'd space behold;

" And all the thousand stars, that pave the floor

" Of heaven, with orient pearl, or living gold;

" Then floating thro' the boundless deep of air,

" An azure sea, like gems of richest hue,

" Myriads of worlds thick-scatter'd shall appear,

" With all their bright inhabitants to view:

" Their active minds shall traverse, quick as thought,

" Creation's ample fields, the range 'twixt God and nought.

" And oh what streams of music sweet, and clear,

" Shall drown in deep delight their raptur'd souls!

" Ay me, in vain to man's unpurged ear

" Their heavenly notes each tuneful planet rolls!

" Ay me, in vain with softly-thrilling voice,

" [c] Thro' every land they hymn their Maker's praise,

" While choirs of young-ey'd cherubims rejoice,

" And to their golden harps mellifluous lays

" Attuning, holy, holy, holy, sing,

" O Lord, Almighty God, the saints' eternal king!

" But not in vain the tuneful planets raise

" To pure ethereal souls their voice divine;

" Nor yet in vain their great Creator's praise

" Do gladsome choirs of young-ey'd cherubs join:

" No blessed spirit but hears the sacred song,

" And wakes his lyre melodious part to bear

" In the sweet symphony; while all the throng

" Of angels, and arch-angels, nay, the ear

" Of God delighted listens to the strains.—

" In heaven, and heaven-born minds such rapturous concord reigns!

" But where, ah where can glowing tints be found

" To paint the charms of [d] Sion's sacred place,

" [e] Where Christ the lamb in radiance sits enthron'd,

" The [f] lively image of his Father's grace?

" O flower of love! O [g] glorious morning star!

" O [h] sun of righteousness, whose healing wings

" Brought life, and peace, and mercy from afar!

" From thee the light, thou beaming fountain, springs,

" That guides poor mortals in their weary way,

" Thro' black Affliction's night, to Pleasure's endless day!

" Jesus!—and didst thou leave thy bowers of joy?

" And didst thou leave thy Father's dear embrace,

" Content with agonizing pangs to die

" For man's forlorn, rebellious, sinful race?

" What bliss to hear the high mysterious story;

" By all the prophets, all th' apostles sung,

" And noble army of martyrs, crown'd with glory;

" Where blest, the six-wing'd seraphims among,

" They drink immortal, from thy rapturous sight,

" Conceiveless draughts of Love's ineffable delight!

" Hail saints of light! who once the patient train

" Of silent Sorrow, thro' the thorny road

" Of Misery toil'd, and unappall'd by pain,

" With pilgrim-feet the long, long journey trod!

" O taught by them, thou man of earth, sustain

" With firm unweary'd arm the dangerous fight!

" The [i] prize of thy high-calling dare to gain,

" [k] Victorious palms, and robes of spotless white;

" So in [l] the book of life thy name shall shine,

" And heaven's eternal joys and transports all be thine."

Scarce had she spoke, when that [m] cherubic car,

Instinct with soul, and those self-moving wheels,

That whirl'd the holy sage from Chebar far,

Appear'd:—my breast the rushing impulse feels!

I see, I see thy glittering turrets rise,

Celestial Salem, all of [n] lucid gold,

Inlaid with gems of thousand, thousand dyes!

And lo, the everlasting gates unfold

Their [o] doors of pearl, and o'er my aching sight

Full tides of glory flow, and streams of living light!

Of light surpassing far thy glimmering ray,

(More bright, more clear, more glorious, more divine)

Tho' drest by thee, [p] O golden eye of day,

In gaudy robes the sparkling diamonds shine;

Tho' yon fair moon to thee her lustre owes,

Gilding with borrow'd light the mountain's brow;

And Iris steals from thee each tint that glows

In the gay forehead of the showery bow:

Faint is thy feeble blaze, O beauteous Sun!

Such peerless beams appear from Truth's eternal throne.

See thro' the streets, [q] like liquid jasper clear,

The fount of life in mazy error flows!

Thro' the bright [r] crystal sands of gold appear,

And heaps of pearly grain; while blooming grows,

On either bank of dainty flowers profuse,

The tree of life superior o'er the rest,

Whose teeming branches nectar'd fruits produce:

[s] Twelve various fruits of sweetly-vary'd taste,

From every leaf [t] salubrious dews exhale,

And pure elixirs breathe in every balmy gale.

Lo there, diffus'd along the sacred brink,

Angelic choirs replete with love and joy,

Conceive their God, and from his presence drink

Beatitude past utterance!—There they lie

On flowering beds of balsam, cassia, nard,

And myrrh, a wilderness of rich perfumes;

Embalm'd they lie, like that Arabian bird,

'Midst odorous shrubs, and incense-breathing gums,

Whose life springs recent from the sun-born fire,

While clouds of spicy smoke in bluish wreaths aspire.

But spare, O spare me, heaven!—My fainting soul

Sickens with bliss too great for mortal sense!

Come, o'er my limbs thy quickening waters roll,

Life-giving stream, and all thy balm dispense!

And thou, fair tree, the source of all our woes,

(That bloom'd so fatal erst in Eden's glade,

Transplanted since to heaven) thy friendly boughs

Extend, and wrap me in the brownest shade!

O veil me from the Lamb's too glorious sight,

From majesty's full blaze, insufferably bright!

Trembling I wak'd with sweet excess of joy,

And on the wings of sleep, more swift than wind,

Away the fickle, fond delusions fly;

Yet leave their fairy-steps the trace behind:

Hear then, ye sainted myriads, from your spheres,

And gently beam your kindliest influence down;

Lift, lift my thoughts above life's groveling cares,

To joys sublime, and Virtue's glorious crown!

O guide my virgin-soul the high abode,

To reach, the heaven of heavens, where reigns th' eternal God!

Notes

m
Spenser's Faery Queen, Book II.
↵

n
Antecedentem scelestum deseruit poena,

Hor.

↵

o

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
.

Pind.

↵

p

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉. CALLIM.

—Amnis purior Electro.
Virg.

↵

q
Nemoris siren, innoxia siren. Strada's Nightin.
↵

r
Flet tamen et tepidae manant ex arbore guttae.

Ovid Met.

↵

s

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
.

Pind.

↵

t

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
.

Ibid.

↵

u

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
.

Ibid.

↵

x
Called by the Arabic writers Zenzebil, and promised by Mahomet to all the faithful.
↵

y

—In Eurotae ripis

Exercet Diana choros—

Virg.

↵

z
See Sale's Koran, chapter the 56th.
↵

a
1 Cor. xiii. 12.
↵

b
Prov. viii. 6. 24, 25. 27, &c.
↵

c
Psal. xix. 3, 4,
↵

d
Heb. xii. 22.
↵

e
Psal. ii. 6.
↵

f
Heb. i. 3.
↵

g
Rev. xxii. 16.
↵

h
Mal. iv. 2.
↵

i
Phil. iii. 14.
↵

k
Rev. vii. 9.
↵

l
Rev. iii. 5.
↵

m
Ezek. i. 5.
↵

n
Rev. xxi. 18, 19.
↵

o
Rev. xxi. 21.
↵

p

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
.

Soph.

↵

q
Rev. xxi. 11,
↵

r
Ibid.
↵

s
Rev. xxii, 2.
↵

t
Rev. xxii. 2.
↵

ODE ON SLEEP.

BY THE SAME.

WHY, gentle God, this long delay,

Since night, and careless quiet reigns?

O hither take thy silent way,

And sooth, ah sooth my wakeful pains!

So shall my hands for thee the wreath entwine,

And strew fresh poppies at thy votive shrine.

When from the North, all wan and pale,

The sun withdraws his chearful light,

And arm'd with whirlwind, frost, and hail,

The big clouds bring the half-year's night,

Quick to their caves the shivering natives tend,

And hear without the rattling storms descend.

Then stretcht along the shaggy bed,

To thee, indulgent Power, they cry;

Born on thy wings, with happier speed,

The leaden-footed moments fly;

While Fancy paints Spring's visionary stores,

And calls the distant sun to wake the slumbering flowers.

Nor yet is Sleep's supreme command

Confin'd to these cold dreary plains,

O'er sultry Lybia's boiling sand

This universal monarch reigns;

And where with heat the sable Indians glow,

While streams of light thro' purest aether flow.

Weary and faint the dusky slaves

From cold Potosi's mines retire,

From rugged rocks, and darkling caves,

When scarce the panting lungs respire:

To citron-shades they take their pensive way,

Where bath'd in odorous winds their listless limbs they lay.

The tyrant's voice, the galling chain,

Th' uplifted scourge no more they fear,

Deep slumbers drown the sense of pain;

And floating thro' the peopled air

Ideal forms in pleasing order rise,

And bright illusions swim before their eyes.

Now Orellana's foaming tide

With pliant arms they seem to cleave;

And now the light canoe to guide

Across Muenca's glassy wave;

Or chase in jocund troops the savage prey,

Thro' woods impervious to the solar ray.

Some gentle youth, by love betray'd,

Recalls the joys he felt of old,

When wandering with his sable maid

Thro' groves of vegetable gold,

He claspt her yielding to his raptur'd breast,

And free from guile his honest soul exprest.

Sleep on, much injur'd hapless swain,

Nor wake thy cruel fate to moan,

To curse th' insatiate thirst of gain,

And proud Iberia's [u] bloody son!

Old India's Genius wept o'er millions slain,

And streams of gore ran foaming to the main.

But why to tragic scenes like these,

Wilt thou, my restless Fancy, rove?

Bear me to climes of downy ease,

To climes that sleep and silence love:

Whether the shades of Lemnos most invite,

Or dark Cimmerian caves the still abode of night.

Fond fables all!—The partial God

Is flown to Belgia's drowzy plains,

There waves his Lethe-sprinkled rod,

And linkt with kindred Dulness reigns;

Midst stagnant pools, the bittern's safe retreat,

Beset with oziers dank, behold his gloomy seat!

His dwelling is a straw-built shed,

Safe from the sun's too curious eye;

A yew-tree rears its blighted head,

And frogs and rooks are croaking nigh:

Thro' many a chink the hollow murmuring breeze

Sounds like the distant hum of swarming bees.

And more to feed his slumbers soft,

And lull him in his senseless swoon,

The hard rain beats upon the loft,

And swiftly-trickling tumbles down:

All livelier, ruder sounds are banish'd far,

The lute's shrill voice, and brazen throat of war.

Hence let me woo thee, God of Ease,

Ah leave thy favourite haunt awhile,

And bid the midnight hours to please,

And bid the midnight gloom to smile!

Oh come, and o'er my weary limbs diffuse

The slumberous weight of sweet oblivious dews!

Bring too thy soft, enchanting dreams,

Such as enamour'd Petrarch knew,

When stretcht by Sorgia's gentle streams,

Fair Laura's form his fancy drew:

Of see he woos the soul-dissolving maid,

And grasps with eager arms the visionary shade.

At morn he sung the tender tale,

He sung his Laura's matchless charms,

And every tree, in Clausa's vale,

Attentive breath'd Love's soft alarms;

Even hoary monks full many a careless bead

Have dropt, and left their aves half unsaid.

Notes

u
Hernando Cortez. See the History of the Conquest of Mexico and Peru by the Spaniards.
↵

ODE ON PLEASURE.

BY THE SAME.

I. 1.

HENCE from my sight, unfeeling sage,

Hence, to thy lonely hermitage!—

There far remov'd from joy, and pain,

Supinely slumber life away;

Act o'er dull yesterday again,

And be thy morrow like to-day.

[f] Rest to thy bones!—While to the gale

Happier I spread my festive wing,

And like the wandering bee exhale

Fresh odours from Life's honey'd spring;

From bloom to bloom in pleasing rapture stray,

Where Mirth invites, and Pleasure points the way.

I. 2.

Hail, heaven-born virgin, fair and free,

Of language mild, of aspect gay,

Whose voice the sullen family

Of Care and Discontent obey!

By thee inspir'd, the simplest scenes,

The russet cots, the lowly glens,

Mountains, on whose craggy brow

Nature's lawless tenants feed,

Bushy dells, and streams, that flow

Thro' the violet-purpled mead,

Delight; thy breath exalts the rich perfumes,

That brooding o'er embalm the bean-flower field,

Beyond Sabean sweets, and all the gums

The spicy desarts of Arabia yield.

I. 3.

When the Attic bird complains

From the still, attentive grove,

Or the linnet breathes his strains,

Taught by Nature and by Love;

Do thou approve the dulcet airs,

And Harmony's soft, silken chain,

In willing bondage leads our cares,

And binds the giant-sense of Pain:

Untun'd by thee, how coarse the long drawn note,

Spun from the labouring Eunuch's tortur'd throat!

Harsh are the sounds, tho' Farinelli sings;

Harsh are the sounds, tho' Handel wakes the strings:

Untouch'd by thee, see senseless Florio sits,

And stares, and gapes, and nods, and yawns by fits.

II. 1.

Oh Pleasure come!—and far, far hence

Expel that nun, Indifference!—

Where'er she waves her ebon wand,

Drencht in the dull Lethaean deep,

Behold the marble Passions stand

Absorb'd in everlasting sleep!

Then from the waste and barren mind

The Muse's fairy-phantoms fly;

They fly, nor leave a wreck behind

Of heaven-descended Poesy:

Love's thrilling tumults then are felt no more,

Quencht is the generous heat, the rapturous throbs are o'er!

II. 2.

'Twas thou, O nymph, that ledd'st along

The fair Dione's wanton choir,

While to thy blithest, softest song,

Ten thousand Cupids strung the lyre:

Aloft in air the cherubs play'd,

What time, in Cypria's myrtle-shade,

Young Adonis slumbering lay

On a bed of blushing flowers,

Call'd to life by early May,

And the rosy-bosomed Hours:

The Queen of love beheld her darling boy,

In amorous mood she nestled to his side,

And thus, to melt his frozen breast to joy,

Her wanton art she gayly-smiling try'd.

II. 3.

From the musk-rose, wet with dew,

And the lilly's opening bell,

From fresh eglantine she drew

Sweets of aromatic smell:

Part of that honey next she took,

Which [g] Cupid too adventurous stole,

When stung his throbbing hand he shook,

And felt the anguish to his soul;

His mother laught to hear the elf complain,

Yet still she pity'd, and reliev'd his pain;

She drest the wound with balm of sovereign might,

And bath'd him in the well of dear delight:

Ah who would fear to be so bath'd in bliss,

More agonizing smart, and deeper wounds than this?

III. 1.

Her magic zone she next unbound,

And wav'd it in the air around:

Then cull'd from ever-frolic smiles,

That live in Beauty's dimpled cheek,

Such sweetness as the heart beguiles,

And turns the mighty strong to weak:

To these ambrosial dew she join'd,

And o'er the flame of warm desire,

Fann'd by soft sighs, Love's gentlest wind,

Dissolv'd, and made the charm entire;

O'er her moist lips, that blush'd with heavenly red,

The Graces' friendly hand the blest ingredients spread.

III. 2.

Adonis wak'd—he saw the fair,

And felt unusual tumults rise;

His bosom heav'd with amorous care,

And humid languor veil'd his eyes!

Driven by some strong impulsive power,

He sought the most sequester'd bower,

Where diffus'd on Venus' breast,

First he felt extatic bliss,

First her balmy lips he prest,

And devour'd the new-made Kiss:

But, O my Muse, thy tattling tongue restrain,

Her sacred rites what mortal dares to tell?

She crowns the silent, leads the blabbing swain

To doubts, desires, and fears, the feverish lover's hell.

III. 3.

Change then, sweetest nymph of nine,

Change the song, and fraught with pleasures,

String anew thy silver twine,

To the softest, Lydian measures!

My Cynthia calls, whose natal hour

Th' assistant Graces saw, and smil'd;

Then deign'd this Cyprian charm to pour

With lavish bounty o'er the child:

Sithence where'er the Siren moves along,

In pleasing wonder chain'd is every tongue;

Love's soft effusion dims the aching eyes,

Love's subtlest flame thro' every artery flies:

Our trembling limbs th' unequal pulse betray,

We gaze in transport lost—then faint, and die away,

Notes

f

—〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉.

Soph.

↵

g
Theoer.
↵

ODE ON DESPAIR.

BY THE SAME.

SAVE me!—What means you grisly shade,

Her stony eye-balls staring wide;

In soul, and tatter'd patches clad,

With dirt, and gore, and venom dy'd?

A burning brand she whirls around,

And stamps, and raves, and tears the ground,

And madly rends her clotted hair;

While thro' her canker'd breast are seen

Myriads of serpents bred within,

The cursed spawn of self consuming Care!—

'Twas thus, [h] O poor enamour'd maid,

The Stygian fiend approach'd the sea-girt tower,

What time, in sad misfortune's evil hour,

The faithless lamp Love's cynosure decay'd.

" And why," the ghastly phantom cries,

" Wilt thou, deluded Hero, wait

" Leander's wish'd return, forbid by Fate?

" See floating on his watery bier he lies;

" Pale are his cheeks, where Love was wont to play,

" And clos'd those radiant eyes, that late out-shone the day."

The woe-foreboding voice she heard,

And wishing, trembling pray'd for morn—

When lo! the bleeding corse appear'd,

By savage rocks all rudely torn!

Where were ye, Nymphs, O tell me where,

Daughters of Nereus, fresh and fair?

And why, sweet silver-footed Queen,

Would'st thou not leave thy coral cave,

And sooth the rough remorseless wave,

Ere Death had seiz'd thy best, thy boldest swain?—

With haggard eyes, all-streaming blood,

Distracted Hero saw her lover slain,

And thrice indignant view'd the guilty main,

And thrice accus'd each merciless watry God.

Aye me in vain!—For "see, she cry'd,

" My dear Leander's beckoning shade!

" And canst thou live, O lost, O wretched maid?

" Shall envious Fate so fond a pair divide?

" Forbid it, Love!"—Then head-long from the tower

Deep in the ruthless flood she plung'd to rise no more!

With scenes of woe, O cursed Power,

How are thy greedy eyes regal'd?

How did thy heart exult of yore,

When heaven's vindictive rod assail'd

[i] The Queen of arts?—With giant-stride

Contagion stalks, and lo the bride,

The virgin-bride unpity'd dies!

Claspt to his daughter's throbbing breast,

The father breathes his soul to rest,

And sorrowing sons compose the widow'd mother's eyes?

Scar'd by the Daemon's spotted hand,

The eagle scream'd, the famish'd vulture fled,

The hungry wolf forsook th' unburied dead,

And pale diseases shivering left the land!

What cries, and piercing shrieks resound

Thro' every street, at every fane?

Yet ah! they weep, they weary heaven in vain!

Death and Distraction stare on all around!

The wretched few, whom poisonous Pestilence spares,

Of moody madness die, and heart-distracting fears.

These are thy deeds, O fell Despair,

Thou tyrant of the tortur'd soul,

[k] Sister of pale-ey'd Grief, and Care,

At whose command impetuous roll

Passion's rough tides, and swelling high

Burst thro' each dear, and sacred tye,

And every pleasing thought o'erwhelm;

Anon the crazy bark is born,

Of winds, and waves, and rocks the scorn,

For Reason shrinks appall'd, and trembling quits the helm!

O fly, thou first born child of hell,

To some far distant, dreary, doleful plain,

Where starting Fear, and agonizing Pain,

And black Remorse, and sullen Sorrows dwell:

Where arm'd with poison, racks, and death,

Stern Horror rears his Gorgon head;

And writhing dreadful on the iron bed,

The purple Furies grind their canker'd teeth;

While percht on stubs of trees the shriek-owl sings,

And screaming deadly hoarse night-ravens flap their wings!

Thither embost with varied woe,

Misfortune's pallid slave retires—

Hark, hark, he raves!—Thy tablet shew,

Charg'd with damn'd ghosts, and sulphurous fires.

Oh mercy, heaven!—Upstarting stands

His grisly hair; his nerveless hands

Shake; o'er his face the curdled blood,

From his swoln heart, with tidings flies:

" Give me another horse," he cries,

" Oh! bring the poison'd bowl, let loose Life's crimson flood!"

Sad, sacred wretch!—Thou Power divine,

Whose god-like word from chaos dark and dread,

Bad Discord fly, and Light sweet-smiling spread

Her orient wing, controul this breast of mine!

And still when gloomy thoughts prevail,

Oh short, and partial be their sway!

And beam'd from thee, let Pleasure's gladsome ray

The mournful progeny of Grief dispel.

So shall the checquer'd scenes of Life delight,

As morning brighter peers preceded still by night.

Notes

h
Vide Musaeum
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
.

↵

i
See the account, which is given by Thucydides, of the plague at Athens.
↵

k
According to the table of Cebes,
〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉
is the Sister of

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉

.
↵

ODE TO THE MUSE.

BY THE SAME.

I. 1.

YET once more, sweetest Queen of Song,

Thy humble suppliant lead along,

Thro' Fancy's flowery plains:

Oh bear me to th' ideal grove,

Where hand in hand the Graces rove,

And sooth me with seraphic strains!

'Tis thine, harmonious maid, to cull

Delicious balm to heal our cares;

'Tis thine to take the prison'd soul,

And lap it in Elysian airs;

While quick as thought at thy divine command

The realms of Grace and Harmony expand.

I. 2.

And lo! before my ravish'd eyes

The visionary scenes arise!

I hear the tender lute complain,

While Sappho breathes her amorous pain;

(O guard me from such fierce desires,

Thou God of Raptures, God of Fires!)

I hear Anacreon's honey'd tongue

To Love and Wine repeat the song;

His flight sublime the Theban swan prepares,

And louder music wakes the wondering spheres.

I. 3.

But hark! how sweet the numbers swell,

While Homer waves his soul-enchanting wand!

Entranc'd the listening Passions stand,

Charm'd with the magic of his shell.

Whether to arms his trump resounds,

The heart with martial ardor bounds;

Or sprightly themes his hand employ,

Instant we catch the spreading joy;

Or when in notes majestic, deep, and slow,

He bids the solemn streams of Sorrow flow,

Amaz'd we hear the sadly-pleasing strain,

While tender anguish steals thro' every vein.

II. 1.

Father of Verse, whose eagle flight

Fatigues the gazer's aching sight,

And strains th' aspiring mind:

Teach me thy wonderous heights to view,

With trembling wings thy steps pursue,

And leave the lessening world behind.

Fond, foolish wish!—Can human eyes

The rapid arrow's track descry?

Can gross Mortality arise,

And spring beyond the vaulted sky?

Lost is the momentary path, and bound

By cumbrous chains we creep along the ground!

II. 2.

Yet some there are with power endow'd

To soar above the groveling croud;

By thee, fair Fancy, rapturous maid,

By thee, O sweet enthusiast, led,

Sublime beyond the milky way

With strong seraphic plumes they stray;

Or pierce within the sacred shade,

Where Nature's plastic forms are laid;

Then strike with daring hand the magic strings,

And warm to life a new creation springs.

II. 3.

Hail chosen few, whose happier birth

The Muse beheld, and bad your due feet climb

Fame's slippery hill, and paths sublime,

Untrod by vulgar sons of earth!

When Virtue droops, all sick and pale,

In bleak Misfortune's desart vale,

'Tis yours to steal away her care,

And softly sooth the pensive fair:

'Tis yours to cull from Fancy's fairy stores,

The brightest gems, and sweetest-breathing flowers.

Then bind with Daedal art such wreaths divine,

As bloom secure on Truth's immortal shrine.

III. 1.

Haste then!—for soft Etesian gales

Supply the [l] pilot's welcome sails,

And waft him o'er the main:

And gentle showers, the daughters fair

Of pregnant clouds, and balmy air,

Rejoice the faint, and thirsty plain:

O haste, your sweetest numbers shed,

Fraught with the genial dew of praise,

On Glory's favourite sons, who tread

Unweary'd Danger's thorny maze;

Who tear fresh laurels from War's ghastly brow,

Or steer the stedfast bark, tho' tides of Faction flow.

III. 2.

But, O ye delegates of Jove,

Sent from the starry realms above

To guard the clime, with dragon eyes,

When all the Muse's treasures rise,

Should Gothic Ignorance invade

With lawless foot the virgin shade,

And too incontinent presume

Rashly to pluck the golden bloom;

Wide wave the flaming sword, and send, O send

Your brightest shafts to quell the Stygian fiend!

III. 3.

With holy dread, ye guardians of her store,

Fulfil your charge, not too profuse of praise

Embalm, with her immortal lays,

The carrion corps of Pride, or Power!

Let Dulness her vain favours shed

On smiling Folly's kindred head;

Or Vice, in tinsel trappings drest,

Promote the wretch who flatters best;

Disdain the crew!—and in some distant grove,

To Worth afflicted, friendless, raise your voice;

So shall the Muse your honest songs approve,

And deathless Fame reward your uncorrupted choice!

Notes

l
Pind.
↵

THE WISH: AN ELEGY.
TO URANIA.

BY THOMAS BLACKLOCK, D. D.

LET others travel, with incessant pain,

The wealth of earth and ocean to secure;

Then with fond hopes caress the precious bane;

In grandeur abject, and in affluence poor.

But soon, too soon, in Fancy's timid eyes,

Wild waves shall roll, and conflagrations spread;

While bright in arms, and of gigantic size,

The fear-form'd robber haunts the thorny bed.

Let me, in dreadless poverty retir'd,

The real joys of life, unenvied, share:

Favour'd by Love, and by the Muse inspir'd,

I'll yield to Wealth its jealousy and care.

On rising ground, the prospect to command,

Unting'd with smoke, where vernal breezes blow,

In rural neatness let my cottage stand;

Here wave a wood, and there a river flow.

Oft from the neighbouring hills and pastures round,

Let sheep with tender bleat salute my ear;

Nor fox insidious haunt the guiltless ground,

Nor man pursue the trade of murder near:

Far hence, kind heaven! expel the savage train,

Inur'd to blood, and eager to destroy;

Who pointed steel, with recent slaughter stain,

And place in groans and death their cruel joy.

Ye Powers of social life and tender song!

To you devoted shall my fields remain;

Here undisturb'd the peaceful day prolong,

Nor own a smart but Love's delightful pain.

For you, my trees shall wave their leafy shade;

For you, my gardens tinge the lenient air;

For you, be Autumn's blushing gifts display'd,

And all that Nature yields of sweet or fair.

But, O! if plaints which love and grief inspire,

In heavenly breasts could e'er compassion find,

Grant me, ah! grant my heart's supreme desire,

And teach my dear Urania to be kind.

For her, black Sadness clouds my brightest day;

For her, in tears the midnight vigils roll;

For her, cold horrors melt my powers away,

And chill the living vigour of my soul.

Beneath her scorn each youthful ardor dies,

Its joys, its wishes, and its hopes, expire!

In vain the fields of Science tempt my eyes;

In vain for me the Muses string the lyre.

O! let her oft my humble dwelling grace,

Humble no more, if there she deign to shine;

For heaven, unlimited by time or place,

Still waits on god-like worth and charms divine.

Amid the cooling fragrance of the morn,

How sweet with her through lonely fields to stray!

Her charms the loveliest landskip shall adorn,

And add new glories to the rising day.

With her, all Nature shines in heighten'd bloom;

The silver stream in sweeter music flows;

Odours more rich the fanning gales perfume;

And deeper tinctures paint the spreading rose.

With her, the shades of night their horrors lose,

Its deepest silence charms if she be by;

Her voice the music of the dawn renews,

Its lambent radiance sparkles in her eye.

How sweet, with her, in Wisdom's calm recess,

To brighten soft desire with wit refin'd!

Kind Nature's laws with sacred Ashley trace,

And view the fairest features of the mind!

Or borne on Milton's flight, as heaven sublime,

View its full blaze in open prospect glow;

Bless the first pair in Eden's happy clime,

Or drop the human tear for endless woe.

And when, in virtue, and in peace grown old,

No arts the languid lamp of life restore;

Her let me grasp with hands convuls'd and cold,

Till every nerve relax'd can hold no more.

Long, long on her my dying eyes suspend,

Till the last beam shall vibrate on my sight;

Then soar where only greater joys attend,

And bear her image to eternal light.

Fond man, ah! whither would thy fancy rove?

'Tis thine to languish in unpitied smart;

'Tis thine, alas! eternal scorn to prove,

Nor feel one gleam of comfort warm thy heart.

But, if my fair this cruel law impose,

Pleas'd, to her will I all my soul resign;

To walk beneath the burden of my woes,

Or sink in death, nor at my fate repine.

Yet when, with woes unmingled and sincere,

To Earth's cold womb in silence I descend;

Let her, to grace my obsequies, appear,

And with the weeping throng her sorrows blend.

Ah! no, be all her hours with pleasure crown'd,

And all her soul from every anguish free:

Should my sad fate that gentle bosom wound,

The joys of heaven would be no joys to me.

AN HYMN TO FORTITUDE.

BY THE SAME.

NIGHT, brooding o'er her mute domain,

In aweful silence wraps her reign;

Clouds press on clouds, and, as they rise,

Condense to solid gloom the skies.

Portentous, thro' the foggy air,

To wake the Daemon of Despair,

The raven hoarse, and boding owl,

To Hecate curst anthems howl.

Intent with execrable art,

To burn the veins, and tear the heart,

The witch, unhallowed bones to raise,

Through funeral vaults and charnels strays;

Calls the damn'd shade from every cell,

And adds new labours to their hell.

And, shield me, heaven! what hollow sound,

Like Fate's dread knell, runs echoing round?

The bell strikes one, that magic hour,

When rising fiends exert their power.

And now, sure now, some cause unblest

Breathes more than horror thro' my breast:

How deep the breeze! how dim the light!

What spectres swim before my sight!

My frozen limbs pale Terror chains,

And in wild eddies wheels my brains:

My icy blood forgets to roll,

And Death e'en seems to seize my soul.

What sacred power, what healing art,

Shall bid my soul herself assert;

Shall rouze th' immortal active flame,

And teach her whence her being came?

O Fortitude! divinely bright,

O Virtue's child, and man's delight!

Descend, an amicable guest,

And with thy firmness steel my breast:

Descend, propitious to my lays,

And, while my lyre resounds thy praise,

With energy divinely strong,

Exalt my soul, and warm my song.

When raving in eternal pains,

And loaded with ten thousand chains,

Vice, deep in Phlegeton, yet lay,

Nor with her visage blasted day;

No fear to guiltless man was known,

For God and Virtue reign'd alone.

But, when from native flames and night,

The cursed monster wing'd her flight,

Pale Fear, among her hideous train,

Chas'd sweet Contentment from her reign;

Plac'd Death and Hell before each eye,

And wrapt in mist the golden sky;

Banish'd from day each dear delight,

And shook with conscious starts the night.

When, from th' imperial seats on high,

The Lord of Nature turn'd his eye,

To view the state of things below;

Still blest to make his creatures so:

From earth he saw Astraea fly,

And seek her mansions in the sky;

Peace, crown'd with olives, left her throne,

And white rob'd Innocence was gone:

While Vice, reveal'd in open day,

Sole tyrant rul'd with iron sway;

And Virtue veil'd her weeping charms,

And fled for refuge to his arms,

Her altars scorn'd, her shrines defac'd—

Whom thus th' Essential Good address'd.

" Thou, whom my soul adores alone,

Effulgent sharer of my throne,

Fair Empress of Eternity!

Who uncreated reign'st like me;

Whom I, who sole and boundless sway,

With pleasure infinite obey:

To yon diurnal scenes below,

Who feel their folly in their woe,

Again propitious turn thy flight;

Again oppose yon tyrant's might;

To earth thy cloudless charms disclose,

Revive thy friends, and blast thy foes:

Thy triumphs man shall raptur'd see,

Act, suffer, live, and die for thee.

But since all crimes their hell contain,

Since all must feel who merit pain,

Let Fortitude thy steps attend,

And be, like thee, to man a friend;

To urge him on the arduous road,

That leads to virtue, bliss, and God.

To blunt the sting of every grief,

And be to all a near relief."

He said; and she, with smiles divine,

Which made all heaven more brightly shine,

To earth return'd with all her train,

And brought the golden age again.

Since erring mortals, unconstrain'd,

The God, that warms their breast, profan'd,

She guardian of their joys no more,

Could only leave them, and deplore:

They, now the easy prey of Pain,

Curst in their wish, their choice obtain!

Till arm'd with heaven and fate, she came

Her destin'd honours to reclaim.

Vice and her slaves beheld her flight,

And fled like birds obscene from light,

Back to th' abode of plagues return,

To sin and smart, blaspheme and burn.

Thou, Goddess! since, with sacred aid,

Hast every grief and pain allay'd,

To joy converted every smart,

And plac'd a heaven in every heart:

By thee we act, by thee sustain,

Thou sacred antidote of Pain!

At thy great nod the [m] Alps subside,

Reluctant rivers turn their tide;

With all thy force Alcides warm'd,

His hand against Oppression arm'd:

By thee his mighty nerves were strung,

By thee his strength for ever young;

And whilst on brutal force he press'd,

His vigour with his foes increas'd.

By thee, like Jove's almighty hand,

Ambition's havock to withstand,

[n] Timoleon rose, the scourge of fate,

And hurl'd a tyrant from his state;

The brother in his soul subdu'd,

And warm'd the poniard in his blood;

A soul by so much virtue fir'd,

Not Greece alone, but heaven admir'd.

But in these dregs of human kind,

These days to guilt and fear resign'd,

How rare such views the heart elate!

To brave the last extremes of fate;

Like heaven's almighty power, serene,

With fix'd regard to view the scene,

When Nature quakes beneath the storm,

And Horror wears its direst form.

Tho' future worlds are now descry'd,

Though Paul has writ, and Jesus dy'd,

Dispell'd the dark infernal shade,

And all the heaven of heavens display'd;

Curst with unnumber'd groundless fears,

How pale yon shivering wretch appears!

For him the day-light shines in vain,

For him the fields no joys contain;

Nature's whole charms to him are lost,

No more the woods their Music boast;

No more the meads their vernal bloom,

No more the gales their rich perfume:

Impending mists deform the sky,

And beauty withers in his eye.

In hopes his terror to elude,

By day he mingles with the croud;

Yet finds his soul to fears a prey,

In busy crouds, and open day.

If night his lonely walk surprize,

What horrid visions round him rise!

That blasted oak, which meets his way,

Shown by the meteor's sudden ray,

The midnight murderer's known retreat,

Felt heaven's avengeful bolt of late;

The clashing chain, the groan profound,

Loud from yon ruin'd tower resound;

And now the spot he seems to tread,

Where some self-slaughter'd corse was laid:

He feels fixt Earth beneath him bend,

Deep murmurs from her caves ascend;

Till all his soul, by fancy sway'd,

Sees lurid phantoms croud the shade;

While shrouded manes palely stare,

And beckoning wish to breathe their care:

Thus real woes from false he bears,

And feels the death, the hell he fears.

O thou! whose spirit warms my song,

With energy divinely strong,

Erect his soul, confirm his breast,

And let him know the sweets of rest;

Till every human pain and care,

All that may be, and all that are,

But false imagin'd ills appear,

Beneath our hope, our grief, or fear.

And, if I right invoke thy aid,

By thee be all my woes allay'd;

With scorn instruct me to defy

Imposing fear, and lawless joy;

To struggle thro' this scene of strife,

The pains of death, the pangs of life,

With constant brow to meet my fate,

And meet still more, Euanthe's hate.

And when some swain her charms shall claim,

Who feels not half my generous flame,

Whose cares her angel-voice beguiles,

On whom she bends her heavenly smiles;

For whom she weeps, for whom she glows,

On whom her treasur'd soul bestows;

When perfect mutual joy they share,

Ah! joy enhanc'd by my despair!

Mix beings in each flaming kiss,

And blest, still rise to higher bliss:

Then, then, exert my utmost power,

And teach me being to endure;

Lest reason from the helm should start,

And lawless fury rule my heart;

Lest madness all my soul subdue,

To ask her Maker, What dost thou?

Yet, couldst thou in that dreadful hour,

On my rack'd soul all Lethe pour,

Or fan me with the gelid breeze,

That chains in ice th' indignant seas;

Or wrap my heart in tensold steel,

I still am man, and still must feel.

Notes

m
Alluding to the history of Hannibal.
↵

n
Timoleon, having long in vain importuned his brother to resign the despotism of Corinth, at last restored the liberty of the people by stabbing him. Vid. Plut.
↵

ODE AGAINST ILL-NATURE.

BY CHRISTOPHER SMART, M. A.

I.

OFFSPRING of Folly and of Pride,

To all that's odious, all that's base allied;

Nurs'd up by Vice, by Pravity misled,

By pedant Affectation taught and bred:

Away, thou hideous hell-born spright,

Go, with thy looks of dark design,

Sullen, sour, and saturnine;

Fly to some gloomy shade, nor blot the goodly light.

Thy planet was remote, when I was born;

'Twas Mercury that rul'd my natal morn,

What time the sun exerts his genial ray,

And ripens for enjoyment every growing day;

When to exist is but to love and sing,

And sprightly Aries smiles upon the spring.

II.

There in yon lonesome heath,

Which Flora, or Sylvanus never knew,

Where never vegetable drank the dew,

Or beaff, or sowl attempts to breathe;

Where Nature's pencil has no colours laid;

But all is blank, and universal shade;

Contrast to figure, motion, life and light,

There may'st thou vent thy spight,

For ever cursing, and for ever curs'd,

Of all th' infernal crew the worst;

The worst in genius, measure and degree;

For envy, hatred, malice, are but parts of thee.

III.

Or would'st thou change the scene, and quit thy den,

Behold the heaven-deserted sen,

Where spleen, by vapours dense begot and bred,

Hardness of heart, and heaviness of head,

Haverais'd their darksome walls, and plac'd their thorny bed;

There may'st thou all thy bitterness unload,

There may'st thou croak, in concert with the toad,

With thee the hollow howling winds shall join,

Nor shall the bittern her base throat deny,

The querulous frogs shall mix their dirge with thine,

Th' ear piercing hern, and plover screaming high,

While million humming gnats sit oe strum shall supply.

IV.

Away—away—behold an hideous band,

An herd of all thy minions are at hand:

Suspicion first with jealous caution stalks,

And ever looks around her as she walks,

With bibulous ear imperfect sounds to catch,

And prompt to listen at her neighbour's latch.

Next Scandal's meagre shade,

Foe to the virgins, and the Poet's fame,

A wither'd, time-deflower'd old maid,

That ne'er enjoy'd Love's ever sacred flame.

Hypocrisy succeeds with saint-like look,

And elevates her hands, and plods upon her book.

Next comes illiberal scambling Avarice,

Then Vanity and Affectation nice—

See, she salutes her shadow with a bow,

As in short Gallic trips she minces by,

Starting Antipathy is in her eye,

And squeamishly she knits her scornful brow.

To thee, Ill-nature, all the numerous group

With lowly reverence stoop—

They wait thy call, and mourn thy long delay,

Away—thou art infectious—haste away,

ODE ON ST. CECILIA's DAY.

BY THE SAME.

I.

FROM your lyre-enchanted towers,

Ye musically mystic Powers,

Ye, that inform the tuneful spheres,

Inaudible to mortal ears,

While each orb in ether swims

Accordant to th' inspiring hymns;

Hither Paradise remove,

Spirits of Harmony and Love!

Thou too, divine Urania, deign to appear,

And with thy sweetly-solemn lute

To the grand argument the numbers suit;

Such as sublime and clear,

Replete with heavenly love,

Charm th' inraptur'd souls above.

Disdainful of fantastic play,

Mix on your ambrosial tongue

Weight of sense with sound of song,

And be angelically gay.

II.

And you, ye sons of Harmony below,

How little less than angels, when ye sing!

With Emulation's kindling warmth shall glow,

And from your mellow-modulating throats

The tribute of your grateful notes

In union of piety shall bring.

Shall Echo from her vocal cave

Repay each note the shepherd gave,

And shall not we our mistress praise,

And give her back the borrow'd lays?

But farther still our praises we pursue;

For ev'n Cecilia, mighty maid,

Confess'd she had superior aid—

She did—and other rites to greater Powers are due:

Higher swell the sound and higher:

Let the winged numbers climb:

To the heaven of heavens aspire,

Solemn, sacred, and sublime:

From heaven Music took its rise,

Return it to its native skies.

III.

Music's a celestial art;

Cease to wonder at its power,

Tho' lifeless rocks to motion start,

Tho' trees dance lightly from the bower,

Tho' rolling floods in sweet suspence

Are held, and listen into sense,

In Penshurst's plains, when Waller, sick with love,

Has found some silent, solitary grove,

Where the vague moon-beams pour a silver flood

Of tremulous light athwart th' unshaven wood,

Within an hoary moss-grown cell,

He lays his careless limbs without reserve,

And strikes, impetuous strikes each querulous nerve

Of his resounding shell.

In all the woods, in all the plains,

Around a lively stillness reigns;

The deer approach the secret scene,

And weave their way thro' labyrinths green;

While Philomela learns the lay,

And answers from the neighbouring bay.

But Medway, melancholy mute,

Gently on his urn reclines,

And all-attentive to the lute,

In uncomplaining anguish pines:

The crystal waters weep away,

And bear the tidings to the sea:

Neptune in the boisterous seas

Spreads the placid bed of peace,

While each blast,

Or breathes its last,

Or just does sigh a symphony and cease.

IV.

Behold Arion—on the stern he stands,

Pall'd in theatrical attire,

To the mute strings he moves th' enlivening hands,

Great in distress, and wakes the golden lyre:

While in a tender Orthian strain

He thus accosts the mistress of the main:

By the bright beams of Cynthia's eyes,

Thro' which your waves attracted rise,

And actuate the hoary deep;

By the secret coral cell,

Where Love, and Joy, and Neptune dwell,

And peaceful floods in silence sleep;

By the sea-flowers, that immerge

Their heads around the grotto's verge,

Dependent from the stooping stem;

By each roof-suspended drop,

That lightly lingers on the top,

And hesitates into a gem;

By thy kindred watery gods,

The lakes, the rivulets, founts and floods,

And all the Powers that live unseen

Underneath the liquid green;

Great Amphitrite (for thou canst bind

The storm, and regulate the wind)

Hence waft me, fair Goddess, oh waft me away,

Secure from the men, and the monsters of prey!

V.

He sung—The winds are charm'd to sleep,

Soft stillness steals along the deep,

The Tritons and the Nereids sigh

In soul-reflecting sympathy,

And all the audience of waters weep.

But Amphitrite her dolphin sends—the same,

Which erst to Neptune brought the nobly perjur'd dame.—

Pleas'd to obey, the beauteous monster flies,

And on his scales as the gilt sun-beams play,

Ten thousand variegated dies

In copious streams of lustre rise,

Rise o'er the level main, and signify his way.—

And now the joyous Bard, in triumph bore,

Rides the voluminous wave, and makes the wish'd-for shore.

Come, ye festive, social throng,

Who sweep the lyre, or pour the song,

Your noblest melody employ,

Such as becomes the mouth of Joy;

Bring the sky-aspiring thought,

With bright expression richly wrought;

And hail the Muse ascending on her throne,

The main at length subdu'd, and all the world her own.

VI.

But o'er th' affections too she claims the sway,

Pierces the human heart, and steals the soul away;

And as attractive sounds move high or low,

Th' obedient ductile passions ebb and flow.

Has any nymph her faithful lover lost,

And in the visions of the night,

And all the day-dreams of the light,

In Sorrow's tempest turbulently tost—

From her cheeks the roses die,

The radiations vanish from her sun-bright eye,

And her breast, the throne of love,

Can hardly, hardly, hardly move,

To send th' ambrosial sigh.

But let the skilful Bard appear,

And pour the sounds medicinal in her ear:

Sing some sad, some plaintive ditty,

Steept in tears that endless flow,

Melancholy notes of pity,

Notes that mean a worldof woe;

She too shall sympathize, she too shall moan,

And pitying others sorrows sigh away her own.

VII.

Wake, wake the kettle-drum, prolong

The swelling trumpet's silver song,

And let the kindred accents pass

Thro' the horn's meandering brass.

Arise—The patriot Muse invites to war,

And mounts Bellona's brazen car;

While Harmony, terrific maid!

Appears in martial pomp array'd:

The sword, the target, and the lance

She wields, and as she moves, exalts the Pyrrhic dance.

Trembles the earth, resound the skies—

Swift o'er the fleet, the camp she flies

With thunder in her voice, and lightning in her eyes.

The gallant warriors engage

With inextinguishable rage,

And hearts unchill'd with fear;

Fame numbers all the chosen bands,

Full in the front fair Victory stands,

And Triumph crowns the rear.

VIII.

But hark the temple's hollow'd roof resounds,

And Purcell lives along the solemn sounds.—

Mellifluous, yet manly too,

He pours his strains along,

As from the lion Sampson slew,

Comes sweetness from the strong.

Not like the soft Italian swains,

He trills the weak enervate strains,

Where Sense and Music are at strife;

His vigorous notes with meaning teem,

With fire, with force explain the theme,

And sing the subject into life.

Attend—he sings Cecilia—matchless dame!

'Tis she—'tis she,—fond to extend her fame,

On the loud chords the notes conspire to stay,

And sweetly swell into a long delay,

And dwell delighted on her name.

Blow on, ye sacred organs, blow,

In tones magnificently slow;

Such is the music, such the lays

Which suit your fair inventress' praise:

While round religious silence reigns,

And loitering winds expect the strains.

Hail majestic mournful measure,

Source of many a pensive pleasure!

Blest pledge of love to mortals given,

As pattern of the rest of heaven!

And thou, chief honor of the veil,

Hail, harmonious virgin, hail!

When Death shall blot out every name,

And Time shall break the trump of Fame,

Angels may listen to thy lute:

Thy power shall last, thy bays shall bloom,

When tongues shall cease, and worlds consume,

And all the tuneful spheres be mute.

THE SEASONS.
IN IMITATION OF SPENSER.

BY MOSES MENDEZ, ESQ.

SPRING,

ERE yet I sing the round revolving year,

And show the toils and pastime of the swain,

At [o] Alcon's grave I drop a pious tear;

Right well he knew to raise his learned strain,

And, like his Milton, scorn'd the rhiming chain.

Ah! cruel Fate, to tear him from our eyes;

Receive this wreath, albe the tribute's vain;

From the green sod may flowers immortal rise,

To mark the sacred spot where the sweet Poet lies!

It is the Cuckoo that announceth Spring,

And with his [p] wreakful tale the spouse doth fray;

Mean while the Finches harmless ditties sing,

And hop, in buxom youth, from spray to spray,

Proud as Sir Paridel of rich array.

The little wantons that draw Venus team,

Chirp amorous thro' the grove in beavies gay;

And he, who erst gain'd Leda's fond esteem,

Now sails on Thamis' tide, the glory of the stream!

Proud as the Turkish soldan, chaunticleer

Sees, with delight, his numerous race around:

He grants fresh favours to each female near;

For love as well as cherisaunce renown'd.

The waddling dame that did the Gauls confound,

Her tawny sons doth lead to rivers cold;

While Juno's [q] dearling, with majestic bound,

To charm his [r] leman doth his train unfold,

That glows with vivid green, that flames with burning gold.

The balmy cowslip gilds the smiling plain,

The virgin snow-drop boasts her silver hue,

An hundred tints the gaudy daisy stain,

And the meek violet, in amis blue

Creeps low to earth, and hides from public view:

But the rank nettle rears her crest on high;

So ribaulds loose their front unblushing shew,

While modest merit doth neglected lie,

And pines in lonely shade unseen of vulgar eye.

See! all around the gall-less [s] culvers bill,

Mean while the nightingale's becalming lays

Mix with the plaintive music of the rill,

The which in various [t] gyres the meadow [u] bays.

Behold! the welkin bursts into a blaze!

Fast by the car of light the nimble Hours,

In songs of triumph, hail his genial rays,

And, as they [x] wend to Thetis cooling bowers,

They bound along the sky, and strew the heavens with flowers.

And now the human bosom melts to love;

The raptur'd Bard awakes his skilful lyre,

By running streams, or in the laurel grove,

He tunes to amorous notes his sounding wire:

All, all his harmony, and all desire.

The happy numbers charm the blooming maid;

Her blushing cheeks pronounce her heart on fire,

She now consents, then shuns th' embowering shade,

With faint reluctance yields; desirous, yet afraid.

Now rustic Cuddy, with untutor'd throat,

(Tho' much admir'd, I ween, of nymph and swain)

By various songs would various ends promote.

Seeks he to prove that woman's vows are vain!

He Bateman's fortune tells, a baleful strain!

And if to honour Britain he be led,

He sings a 'prentice bold, in londs profane,

Who, all unarm'd, did strike two lions dead,

Tore forth their savage hearts, and did a princess wed.

But hark! the bag-pipe summons to the green,

The jocund bag-pipe, that awaketh sport;

The blithesome lasses, as the morning sheen,

Around the flower-crown'd may-pole quick resort:

The Gods of pleasure here have fix'd their court.

Quick on the wing the flying moment seize,

Nor build up ample schemes, for life is short,

Short as the whisper of the passing breeze.

Yet, ah! in vain I preach—mine heart is ill at ease.

SUMMER.

BENEATH yon [y] snubby oak's extended shade

Safe let me hide me from the eye of day;

Nor shall the dog-star this retreat invade,

As thro' the heavens he speeds his burning way:

The sultry lion rages for his prey.

Ah Phoebus, quench thy wild destroying fire,

Each flower, each shrub doth sink beneath thy ray,

Save the fresh laurel, that shall ne'er expire.

The leaves that crown a bard may brave celestial ire.

Or shall I hie to mine own hermitage,

Round which the wanton vine her arms doth wind,

There may I lonely turn the sacred page,

Improve my reason, and amend my mind;

Here 'gainst Life's ills a remedy I find.

An hundred flowers emboss the verdant ground;

A little brook doth my sweet cottage bind,

Its waters yield a melancholy sound,

And sooth to study deep, or lull to sleep profound.

The playful insect hopping in the grass

Doth tire the hearer with his sonnet shrill;

The pool-sprung gnat on sounding wing doth pass,

And on the [z] ramping steed doth suck his fill;

Ah me, can little creatures work such ill!

The patient cow doth, to eschew the heat,

Her body steep within the neighbouring rill;

And while the lambs in fainter voices bleat,

Their mothers hang their head, in doleful plight I weet.

[a] Rechless of seasons, see the lusty swains

Along the meadow spread the tawny hay;

The maidens too undaunted seek the plains,

Ne fear to show their faces to the ray;

But all the honest badge of toil display.

See how they mould the haycock's rising head;

While wanton Colin, full of amorous play,

Down throweth Susan, who doth shriek for dread.

Fear not—thou canst be hurt upon so soft a bed.

At length the sun doth hasten to repose,

And all the vault of heaven is streak'd with light;

In flamy gold the ruddy welkin glows,

And, for the noon-day heat, our pains doth [b] quite,

For all is calm, serene, and passing bright:

Favonius gentle skims along the grove,

And sheds sweet odours from his pennons light.

The little bat in giddy orbs doth rove,

And loud the screech-owl shrieks, to rouse her blue-ey'd love.

Menalcas came to taste the evening gale,

His cheeks impurpled with the rose of youth;

He won each damsel with his piteous tale,

They thought they listen'd to the words of truth,

Yet their belief did work them muchel [c] ruth.

His oaths were light as gossimer, or air,

His tongue was poisonous as an aspic's tooth.

Ah! cease to promise joy, and give despair:

'Tis brave to smite the foe; 'tis base to wrong the fair.

The gentle Thyrsis, mild as opening morn,

Came to the lawn, and Marian there was found;

Marian whom many huswife arts adorn:

Right well she knew the apple to surround

With dulcet crust: and Thomalin renown'd

For prow [d] atchievements in the wrestling ring;

He held at nought the vantage of the ground,

But prone to earth the hardiest wight would fling;

Such was Alcides erst, if poets [e] sooth do sing.

From tree-crown'd hill, from flower-enamel'd vale,

The mild inhabitants in crouds appear

To tread a measure; while Night's regent pale

Doth thro' the sky her silver chariot steer,

Whose lucid wheels were deck'd with dew-drops clear;

The which, like pearls, descended on the plain.

Now every youth doth clasp his mistress dear,

And every nymph rewards her constant swain.

Thrice happy he who loves, and is belov'd again.

AUTUMN.

SEE jolly Autumn, clad in hunter's green,

In wholesome [f] lusty-hed doth mount the sphere;

A leafy girlond binds her temples sheen,

Instudded richly with the spiky ear.

Her right hand bears a vine-incircled spear;

Such as the crew did wield whom Bacchus lad,

When to the Ganges he his course did steer;

And in her left a bugle-horn she had,

On which she [g] est did blow, and made the heart right glad.

In slow procession moves the tottering wain,

The sun-burnt hinds their finish'd toil [h] ensue;

Now in the barn they house the glittering grain,

And there the cries of "harvest home" renew.

The honest farmer does his friends [i] salew;

And them with jugs of ale his wife doth treat,

Which for that purpose she at home did brew;

They laugh, they sport, and homely jests repeat,

Then smack their lasses lips, their lips as honey sweet.

On every hill the purple blushing vine

Beneath her leaves her racy fruit doth hide:

[k] Albe she pour not floods of foaming wine,

Yet are we not potations bland denied;

See where the pear-tree doth in earth abide!

Bruise her rich fruitage, and the grape disdain;

The apple too will grant a generous tide,

To sing whose honours Thenot rais'd his strain,

Whose soul-inchanting lays still charm the listening plain.

Thro' greyish mists behold Aurora dawns,

And to his sport the wary fowler hies;

Crouching to earth his guileful pointer fawns,

Now the thick stubble, now the clover tries,

To find where, with his race, the partridge lies.

Ah! luckless fire, ah! luckless race, I ween,

Whom force compels or subtle arts surprize;

More [l] uncles wait to cause thee dolorous [m] teen,

Doom'd to escape the deep, and perish on the green.

The full-mouth'd hounds pursue the timorous hare,

And the hills echo to the joyful cry;

Ah! borrow the light pennons of the hare,

If you're [n] arraught, you die, poor wretch, you die.

Nought will avail the pity-pleading eye,

For our good squire doth much against you rail,

And saith you often magic arts do try;

At times you wave Grimalkin's sooty tail,

Or on a beesom vild you thro' the welkin sail.

The stag is rous'd; he stems the threatening flood,

That shall ere long his matchless swiftness quell;

And, to avoid the tumult of the wood,

Amongst his well known [o] pheers attempts to [p] mell:

With horn and hoof his purpose they repell.

Thus, should a maid from Virtue's lore ystray,

Your sex, my Daphne, show their vengeance sell;

Your cruel selves with gall the shaft [q] embay,

And lash from Pardon's shrine the penitent away.

Now silence charms the sages of the gown,

To purer air doth speed each crafty wight;

The well-squeez'd client quits the dusty town,

Grown grey in the asserting of his right,

With head yfraught with law, and pockets light,

Well pleas'd he wanders o'er the fallow lea,

And views each rural object with delight.

Ne'er be my lot the brawling courts to see;

Who trusts to lawyer's tongue doth much [r] misween, perdy.

Right bless'd the man who free from bitter [s] bale,

Doth in the little peaceful hamlet dwell,

No loud contention doth his ears assail,

Save when the tempest whistles o'er his cell:

The fruitful down, the flower-depainted dell,

To please his eyne are variously array'd;

And when in roundelay his flame he'd tell,

He gains a smile from his beloved maid;

By such a gentle smile an age of pain's repaid.

WINTER.

THE little brook that erst my cot did lave,

And o'er its flinty pavement sweetly sung,

Doth now forget to roll her wanton wave,

For Winter hoar her icy chain has flung,

And still'd the babbling music of her tongue.

The lonely woodcock seeks the splashy glen,

Each mountain head with fleecy snow is hung;

The snipe and duck enjoy the moorish fen,

Like [t] Eremites they live, and shun the sight of men.

The [u] wareless sheep no longer bite the mead,

No more the plough-boy turns the stubborn ground,

At the full crib the horned labourers feed,

Their nostrils cast black clouds of smoak around;

A squalid coat doth the lean steed surround.

The wily fox doth prowl abroad for prey,

Rechless of snares, or of th' avenging hound;

And trusty Lightfoot, now no longer gay,

Sleeps at the kitchen hearth his cheerless hours away.

Where erst the boat, and slowly moving barge,

Did with delight cut thro' the dimpling plain,

Now wanton boys and men do roam at large;

The river-gods quit their usurp'd domain,

And of the wrong at Neptune's court complain.

There mote you see mild Avon crown'd with flowers,

And milky Wey withouten spot or stain;

There the fair stream that washes Hampton's bowers,

And Isis who with pride beholds her learned towers.

Intent on sport, the ever jocund throng

Quit their warm cots, and for the game prepare;

Behold the restless foot-ball whirls along,

Now near the earth, now mounted high in air.

Thus often men, in life's wild lottery fare,

Who quit true bliss to grasp an empty toy.

Our honest swains for wealth nor titles care,

But lusty health in exercise employ.

The distant village hears the rude tumultuous joy.

The careful hedger looks the fields around,

To see what labour may his skill demand;

He mends the fence, repairs the sinking mound,

Or in long drains he cuts the lower land,

That shall henceforth all sudden floods withstand.

Mean while at home his dame, with silver hair,

Doth sit incircled by a goodly band

Of lovely maids, who various works prepare,

All chaste as Jove's wise child, as Cupid's mother fair.

She them discourses not of fashions nice,

Nor of the trilling notes which eunuchs sing;

Allurements vain, that prompt the soul to vice!

Ne tells she them of Kesar or of king;

Too great the subject for so mean a ring.

Her lessons teach to swell the capon's size;

To make the hen a numerous offspring bring;

Or how the way-ward mother to chastise,

When from her vetchy nest the weetless vagrant hies.

When glistering spangles deck the robe of night,

And all their kine in pens avoid the cold,

The buxom troops, still eager of delight,

Round Damon's eyne a [x] drapet white infold,

He darkling gropes till he some one can hold.

Next Cori hides his head, and must impart

What wanton fair-one smote his hand so bold.

He Delia names, nor did from truth depart;

For well he knew her touch, who long had fir'd his heart.

Stay, I conjure you by your hopes of bliss,

Trust not, my Daphne, the rough-biting air,

Let not rude winds those lips of softness kiss;

Will Eurus stern the charms of beauty spare?

No, he will hurt my rosy-featur'd fair,

If aught so bright dares rugged carl invade,

Too tender thou such rough assaults to bear;

The mountain ash may stand tho' stripp'd of shade,

But at the slightest wound the silken flowers will fade.

Notes

o
Mr. Thomson, author of the Seasons.
↵

p
Revengeful.
↵

q
Darling.
↵

r
Lover.
↵

s
Doves.
↵

t
Circles, or windings.
↵

u
Bathes.
↵

x
Go.
↵

y
Knotty.
↵

z
Starting, flying-out.
↵

a
Careless.
↵

b
Requite.
↵

c
Sorrow.
↵

d
Hardy, valiant.
↵

e
Truth.
↵

f
Vigour.
↵

g
Often.
↵

h
Follow.
↵

i
Salute.
↵

k
Although.
↵

l
Daedalus envying Perdix his nephew's skill in mechanics, threw him into the sea. He escaped death by being changed into a partridge.
↵

m
Anguish, pain.
↵

n
Reach'd, overtaken.
↵

o
Companions,
↵

p
Mix.
↵

q
Bathe.
↵

r
Judges ill.
↵

s
Sorrow.
↵

t
Hermits.
↵

u
Stupified.
↵

x
A linnen cloth.
↵

ODE TO LIBERTY.

BY DR. JOSEPH WARTON.

O Goddess, on whose steps attend

Pleasure and laughter-loving Health,

White-mantled Peace with olive-wand,

Young Joy, and diamond-scepter'd Wealth,

Blithe Plenty, with her loaded horn,

With Science bright-ey'd as the morn,

In Britain, which for ages past

Has been thy choicest darling care,

Who mad'st her wise, and strong, and fair,

May thy best blessings ever last.

For thee, the pining prisoner mourns,

Depriv'd of food, of mirth, of light;

For thee pale slaves to galleys chain'd,

That ply tough oars from morn to night;

Thee the proud Sultan's beauteous train,

By eunuchs guarded, weep in vain,

Tearing the roses from their locks;

And Guinea's captive kings lament,

By Christian lords to labour sent,

Whipt like the dull, unfeeling ox.

Inspir'd by thee, deaf to fond Nature's cries,

Stern Brutus, when Rome's Genius loudly spoke,

Gave her the matchless filial sacrifice,

Nor turn'd, nor trembled at the deathful stroke!

And he of later age, but equal fame,

Dar'd stab the tyrant, tho' he lov'd the friend.

How burnt the [y] Spartan with warm patriot-flame,

In thy great cause his valorous life to end!

How burst Gustavus from the Swedish mine!

Like light from chaos dark, eternally to shine.

When heaven to all thy joys bestows,

And graves upon our hearts—Be free—

Shall coward man those joys resign,

And dare reverse this great decree?

Submit him to some idol-king,

Some selfish, passion-guided thing,

Abhorring man, by man abhorr'd,

Around whose throne stands trembling Doubt,

Whose jealous eyes still rowl about,

And Murder with his reeking sword?

Where trampling Tyranny with Fate

And black Revenge gigantic goes:

Hark, how the dying infants shriek,

How hopeless Age is sunk in woes!

Fly, mortals, from that fated land,

Tho' rivers roll o'er golden sand:

Tho' birds in shades of Cassia sing,

Harvests and fruits spontaneous rise,

No storms disturb the smiling skies,

And each sost breeze rich odours bring.

Britannia, watch!—remember peerless Rome,

Her high-tower'd head dash'd meanly to the ground;

Remember, Freedom's guardian, Grecia's doom,

Whom weeping the despotic Turk has bound:

May ne'er thy oak-crown'd hills, rich meads and downs,

(Fame, Virtue, Courage, Poverty, forgot)

Thy peaceful villages, and bufy towns,

Be doom'd some death-dispensing tyrant's lot;

On deep foundations may thy freedom stand,

Long as the surge shall lash thy sea-encircled land.

Notes

y
Leonidas.
↵

ODE TO HEALTH.
WRITTEN ON A RECOVERY FROM THE SMALL-POX.

BY THE SAME.

O Whether with laborious clowns

In meads and woods thou lov'st to dwell,

In noisy merchant-crouded towns,

Or in the temperate Brachman's cell;

Who from the meads of Ganges' fruitful flood,

Wet with sweet dews collects his flowery food;

In Bath, or in Montpellier's plains,

Or rich Bermudas' balmy isle,

Or the cold North, whose fur-clad swains

Ne'er saw the purple Autumn smile,

Who over Alps of snow, and desarts drear,

By twinkling star-light drive the flying deer;

O lovely queen of mirth and ease,

Whom absent, beauty, banquets, wine,

Wit, music, pomp, nor science please,

And kings on ivory couches pine;

Nature's kind nurse, to whom by gracious heaven

To sooth the pangs of toilsome life 'tis given;

To aid a languid wretch repair,

Let pale-ey'd Grief thy presence fly,

The restless demon gloomy Care,

And meagre Melancholy die;

Drive to some lonely rock the giant Pain,

And bind him howling with a triple chain!

O come, restore my aking sight,

Yet let me not on Laura gaze,

Soon must I quit that dear delight,

O'erpower'd by Beauty's piercing rays;

Support my feeble feet, and largely shed

The oil of gladness on my fainting head.

How nearly had my spirit past,

Till stopt by Metcalf's skilful hand,

To Death's dark regions wide and wast,

And the black river's mournful strand;

Or to those vales of joy and meadows blest,

Where sages, heroes, patriots, poets rest;

Where Maro and Musaeus sit

Listening to Milton's loftier song,

With sacred silent wonder smit;

While, monarch of the tuneful throng,

Homer in rapture throws his trumpet down,

And to the Briton gives his amaranthine crown.

ODE TO SUPERSTITION.

BY THE SAME.

HENCE to some convent's gloomy isles,

Where chearful day-light never smiles,

Tyrant, from Albion haste to slavish Rome;

There by dim tapers livid light,

At the still solemn hours of night,

In pensive musings walk o'er many a sounding tomb.

Thy clanking chains, thy crimson steel,

Thy venom'd darts, and barbarous wheel,

Malignant fiend, bear from this isle away,

Nor dare in Error's fetters bind

One active, freeborn, British mind,

That strongly strives to spring indignant from thy sway.

Thou bad'st grim Moloch's frowning priest

Snatch screaming infants from the breast,

Regardless of the frantic mother's woes;

Thou led'st the ruthless sons of Spain

To wondering India's golden plain,

From deluges of blood where tenfold harvests rose.

But lo! how swiftly art thou fled,

When Reason lifts his radiant head;

When his resounding, awful voice they hear,

Blind Ignorance, thy doating sire,

Thy daughter, trembling Fear, retire;

And all thy ghastly train of terrors disappear.

So by the Magi hail'd from far,

When Phoebus mounts his early car,

The shrieking ghosts to their dark charnels slock;

The sull-gorg'd wolves retreat, no more

The prowling lionesses roar,

But hasten with their prey to some deep cavern'd rock.

Hail then, ye friends of Reason hail,

Ye foes to Mystery's odious veil,

To Truth's high temple guide my steps aright,

Where Clarke and Wollaston reside,

With Locke and Newton by their side,

While Plato sits above enthron'd in endless light.

ODE TO A GENTLEMAN UPON HIS TRAVELS THROUGH ITALY.

BY THE SAME.

WHILE I with fond officious care

For you my chorded shell prepare,

And not unmindful frame an humble lay;

Where shall this verse my Cynthio find?

What scene of art now charms your mind?

Say, on what sacred spot of Roman ground you stray?

Perhaps you cull each valley's bloom,

To strew o'er Virgil's laurell'd tomb,

Whence oft at midnight echoing voices sound;

For at that hour of silence, there

The shades of ancient Bards repair,

To join in choral song his hallow'd urn around:

Or wander in the cooling shade

Of Sabine bowers, where Horace stray'd,

And oft repeat in eager thought elate,

(As round in classic search you trace

With curious eye the pleasing place)

" That fount he lov'd, and there beneath that hill he sate."

How longs my raptur'd breast with you

Great Raphael's magic strokes to view,

To whose blest hand each charm the Graces gave!

Whence each fair form with beauty glows,

Like that of Venus, when she rose

Naked in blushing charms from Ocean's hoary 〈◊〉

As oft by roving fancy led

To smooth Clitumnus' banks you tread,

What awful thoughts his fabled waters raise!

While the low-thoughted swain, whose flock

Grazes around, from some steep rock

With vulgar disregard his mazy course surveys.

Now thro' the ruin'd domes my Muse

Your steps with eager flight pursues,

That their cleft piles on Tyber's plains present,

Among whose hollow-winding cells

Forlorn and wild Rome's Genius dwells,

His golden sceptre broke, and purple mantle rent.

Oft to those mossy mouldering walls,

Those caverns dark, and silent halls,

Let me repair by midnight's paly fires;

There muse on Empire's fallen state,

And frail Ambition's hapless fate,

While more than mortal thoughts the solemn scen• 〈◊〉.

What lust of power from the cold North

Could tempt those Vandal-robbers forth,

Fair Italy, thy vine-clad vales to wast!

Whose hands profane, with hostile blade,

Thy story'd temples dar'd invade,

And all thy Parian seats of Attic art defac'd.

They, weeping Art in fetters bound,

And gor'd her breast with many a wound,

And veil'd her charms in clouds of thickest night;

Sad Poesy, much-injur'd maid,

They drove to some dim convent's shade,

And quench'd in gloomy mist her lamp's resplendent light.

There long she wept, to darkness doom'd,

'Till Cosmo's hand her light relum'd,

That once again in losty Tasso shone;

Since has sweet Spenser caught her fire,

She breath'd once more in Milton's lyre,

And warm'd the soul divine of Shakespear, Fancy's son.

Nor she, mild queen, will cease to smile

On her Britannia's much-lov'd isle,

Where these her best, her favourite three were born,

While [z] Theron warbles Graecian strains,

Or polish'd Dodington remains,

The drooping train of Arts to cherish and adorn.

Notes

z
The author of the Pleasures of Imagination.
↵

ODE AGAINST DESPAIR.

BY THE SAME.

FArewell thou dimpled cherub Joy,

Thou rose-crown'd, ever-smiling boy,

Wont thy sister Hope to lead

To dance along the primrose mead!

No more, berest of happy hours,

I seek thy lute-resounding bowers,

But to yon ruin'd tower repair,

To meet the God of groans, Despair;

Who, on that ivy-darken'd ground,

Still takes at eve his silent round,

Or sits yon new-made grave beside,

Where lies a frantic Suicide:

While labouring sighs my heart-strings break,

Thus to the sullen Power I speak:

" Haste, with thy poison'd dagger, haste,

" To pierce this sorrow-laden breast;

" Or lead me at the dead of night,

" To some sea-beat mountain's height,

" Whence with headlong haste I'll leap

" To the dark bosom of the deep;

" Or shew me far from human eye,

" Some cave to muse in, starve, and die,

" No weeping friend or brother near,

" My last fond, faultering words to hear?"

'Twas thus with weight of woes opprest,

I sought to ease my bruised breast:

When straight more gloomy grew the shade,

And lo! a tall majestic maid!

Her limbs, not delicately fair,

Robust, and of a martial air;

She bore of steel a polish'd shield,

Where highly-sculptur'd I beheld

Th' Athenian [a] martyr smiling stand,

The baleful goblet in his hand;

Sparkled her eyes with lively flame,

And Patience was the seraph's name;

Sternly she look'd, and stern began—

" Thy sorrows cease, complaining man,

" Rouse thy weak soul, appease thy moan,

" Soon are the clouds of sadness gone;

" Tho' now in Grief's dark groves you walk,

" Where griesly fiends around you stalk,

" Beyond, a blissful city lies,

" Far from whose gates each anguish flies:

" Take thou this shield, which once of yore

" Ulysses and Alcides wore,

" And which in later days I gave

" To Regulus and Raleigh brave;

" In exile or in dungeon drear

" Their mighty minds could banish fear;

" Thy heart no tenfold woes shall feel,

" 'Twas Virtue temper'd the rough steel,

" And, by her heavenly fingers wrought,

" To me the precious present brought."

Notes

a
Socrates.
↵

ODE TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

BY THE SAME.

O Thou, that to the moon-light vale

Warblest oft thy plaintive tale,

What time the village murmurs cease,

And the still eye is hush'd to peace,

When now no busy sound is heard,

Contemplation's favourite bird!

Chauntress of Night, whose amorous song

First heard the tufted groves among,

Warns wanton Mabba to begin

Her revels on the circled green,

Whene'er by meditation led,

I nightly seek some distant mead,

A short repose of cares to find,

And soothe my love-distracted mind,

O fail not then, sweet Philomel,

Thy sadly-warbled woes to tell;

In sympathetic numbers join

Thy pangs of luckless love with mine!

So may no swain's rude hand infest

Thy tender young, and rob thy nest;

Nor ruthless fowler's guileful snare

Lure thee to leave the fields of air,

No more to visit vale or shade,

Some barbarous virgin's captive made.

ODE TO A LADY WHO HATES THE COUNTRY.

BY THE SAME.

NOW Summer, daughter of the Sun,

O'er the gay fields comes dancing on,

And earth o'erflows with joys;

Too long in routs and drawing-rooms,

The tasteless hours my fair consumes

'Midst folly, flattery, noise.

Come hear mild Zephyr bid the rose

Her balmy-breathing buds disclose,

Come hear the falling rill;

Observe the honey-loaded Bee,

The beech-embower'd cottage see,

Beside yon' sloping hill.

By Health awoke at early morn,

We'll brush sweet dews from every thorn,

And help unpen the fold;

Hence to yon hollow oak we'll stray,

Where dwelt, as village-fables say,

An holy Druid old.

Come wildly rove thro' desart dales

To listen how lone Nightingales

In liquid lays complain;

Adieu, the tender thrilling note,

That pants in Monticelli's throat,

And Handel's stronger strain.

" Insipid pleasures these! you cry,

" Must I from dear assemblies fly,

" To see rude peasants toil?

" For operas listen to a bird?

" Shall [b] Sydney's fables be preferr'd

" To my sagacious Hoyle?

O falsly fond of what seems great,

Of purple pomp and robes of state,

And all life's tinsel glare!

Rather with humble violets bind,

Or give to wanton in the wind

Your length of sable hair.

Soon as you reach the rural shade,

Will Mirth, the sprightly mountain maid,

Your days and nights attend;

She'll bring fantastic Sport and Song,

Nor Cupid will be absent long,

Your true ally and friend.

Notes

b
Arcadia.
↵

ODE TO SOLITUDE.

BY THE SAME.

THOU, that at deep dead of night

Walk'st forth beneath the pale moon's light,

In robe of flowing black array'd,

While cypress-leaves thy brows o'ershade;

Listening to the crowing cock,

And the distant sounding clock;

Or sitting in thy cavern low,

Do'st hear the bleak winds loudly blow,

Or the hoarse death-boding owl,

Or village maistiff's wakeful howl,

While through thy melancholy room

A dim lamp casts an awful gloom;

Thou, that on the meadow green,

Or daisy'd upland art not seen,

But wandering by the dusky nooks,

And the pensive-falling brooks,

Or near some rugged, herbless rock,

Where no shepherd keeps his flock!

Musing maid, to thee I come,

Hating the tradeful city's hum;

O let me calmly dwell with thee,

From noisy mirth and business free,

With meditation seek the skies,

This folly-fetter'd world despise!

HOLKHAM[c]. A POEM.

BY MR. POTTER.

THE lofty beeches, and their sacred shade

O'er Penshurst's flower embroider'd vale display'd,

Have yet their glory: not that Sidney's hand

" Marshall'd in even ranks th' obsequious band;"

Or his fresh garlands in these bowers entwin'd,

Whilst all Arcadia open'd on his mind:

But here sweet Waller breath'd his amorous flame,

And taught the groves his Sacharissa's name;

Here met the Muse, "while gentle Love was by,

" That tun'd his lute, and wound the strings so high:"

Still with th' entraptur'd strains the valleys ring,

And the groves flourish in eternal Spring.

Eternal Spring smiles in those green retreats,

" No more the Monarch's, still the Muse's seats,"

Where crown'd with towers majestic Windsor stands,

And the wide world beneath her feet commands:

Not that her regal rampires boast the fame

Of each great Edward's, each great Henry's name;

Not that, in days of high-atchiev'd renown,

There Britain's Genius fix'd his aweful throne,

Encircled with that glorious blaze that springs

From conquer'd nations, and from captive kings:

When each proud trophy moulders from the wall,

And e'en the imperial dome itself shall fall:

When those great names, the Warrior and the Sage,

Lie clouded in the dark historic page;

Then shall the heaven-born Muse (to whom belong

The more than mortal-making powers of Song)

Thro' Time's deep shades her sacred light display,

And pour the beam of Fame's eternal day.

Queen of sweet numbers and melodious strains,

If yet thou deign to visit Britain's plains;

If yet thy hallow'd haunts partake thy love,

Clear spring, enamel'd vale, or bowery grove;

O come, and range with me th' aspiring glades,

Where Leicester spreads the lawns and forms the shades,

On Holkham's plains bid Graecian structures rise,

And the tall column shoot into the skies:

Beneath whose proud survey, extended wide,

New scenes, new beauties charm on every side:

Here, crown'd with woods, the shaded hills ascend,

In open light there the low vales extend;

Here in rich harvests waves the ripen'd grain,

And there fresh verdure cloaths the pastur'd plain,

Sweetly intermix'd, and lovely to behold,

As the green emerald enchas'd in gold.

See where the limpid lake thro' pendant shades,

The hills between, her liquid treasures leads;

And to the boughs, that fringe her crisped sides,

Holds the clear mirror of her crystal tides:

Her crystal tides reflect the waving scene,

Their silvery surface darkening into green;

As on the steep banks, bending o'er the flood,

Grotesque and wild up springs th' o'ershadowing wood;

Or the slope margent, with a softer rise,

Shade above shade, and rank o'er rank supplies;

The verdant basis of yon' champain mound,

Its hallow'd head with God's own temple crown'd:

The home-bound mariner from far descries,

Emerging from the waves the tall tower rise;

With transport bids the solemn structure hail,

And wing'd for Britain speeds the flying sail.

In nearer view, 'midst the lawn's wide extent,

That gently swells with an unforc'd ascent,

In just proportion rising on the sight,

The stately mansion lifts its towery height,

And glitters o'er the groves. An oak beneath,

That calls the cool gales thro' its boughs to breathe,

Where the sun darts his fervid rays in vain,

Like the great patriarch on Mamre's plain

The princely Leicester sits: the pageant pride

Of cumbrous greatness banish'd from his side,

In these blest bowers he plans the great design;

With heighten'd charms bids modest nature shine;

Shows us magnificence allied to use;

Tho' rich, yet chaste; tho' splendid, not profuse;

Calls forth each beauty that from order springs;

From its lov'd Greece each honour'd Science brings;

O'er Art's fair train extends his generous care;

And bids each polish'd Grace inhabit here.

Nor these alone: here Virtue loves to dwell,

No cold recluse self-cavern'd in a cell;

Active and warm she breathes a noble part,

Glows in the breast, and opens all the heart;

To generous deeds she fires th' empassion'd mind,

The substitute of heaven to bless mankind;

She thro' desponding Misery's chearless gloom

Pours joy, and gives neglected Worth to bloom;

She in each bosom stills the rising sigh,

And wipes off every tear from every eye;

She to yon' alms-house, bosom'd in the grove,

From toil and cares bids Age and Want remove;

There the tir'd eve of labour'd life to rest,

Fed by her hand, and by her bounty blest.

These, these are rays that round true greatness shine,

And thine, bright Clifford! the full blaze is thine.

Bring the green bay, the fragraut myrtle bring,

The violet glowing in the lap of spring;

Bid the sweet vallies send each honied flower,

Each herb, each leaf of aromatic power;

The Muse's hand shall their mix'd odours spread,

And screw the ground where Clifford deigns to tread.

In distant prospect, sinking from the eye,

Low in the tufted dales the hamlets lie;

Where virgin Innocence, and meek-ey'd Peace,

With calm Content, the straw-roof'd cottage bless:

And strong-nerv'd Industry in purest flow

Spreads o'er the vermeil cheek Health's roseate glow.

More distant yet the throng'd commercial town,

That makes the wealth of other worlds her own,

Lifts her proud head, and sees with every tide

Rich-freighted navies croud her harbour'd side:

Or bids the parting vessel spread the sail

Loose to the wind, and catch the rising gale:

Whilst the vast ocean, Albion's utmost bound,

Rolls its broad wave, a world of waters, round.

In sweet astonishment th' impatient Mind

Bids her free powers expatiate unconfin'd;

From scene to scene in rapid progress flies,

Glances from earth to seas, from seas to skies;

Delights to feel the great ideas roll,

Swell on the sense, and fill up all the soul.

Not such the scene, when o'er th' uncultur'd wild

No harvest rose, no chearful verdure smil'd;

On the bare hill no tree was seen to spread

The graceful foliage of its waving head;

No breathing hedge-row form'd the broider'd bound,

Nor hawthorn blossom'd on th' unsightly ground;

Joy was not here; no bird of finer note

Pour'd the thick warblings of his dulcet throat;

E'en Hope was fled; and o'er the chearless plain,

A waste of sand, Want held her unbless'd reign.

Lo, Leicester comes! Before his mastering hand

Flies the rude Genius of the savage land;

The russet lawns a sudden verdure wear;

Starts from the wondering fields the golden ear;

Up rise the waving woods, and haste to crown

The hill's bare brow, and shade the sultry down:

The shelter'd traveller sees, with glad surprise,

O'er trackless wilds th' extended rows arise;

And, as their hospitable branches spread,

Blesses the friendly hand that form'd the shade:

Joy blooms around, and chears the peasant's toil,

As smiling plenty decks the cultur'd soil;

The brightning scenes a kinder Genius own,

And Nature finishes what Art begun.

But can the verse, tho' Philomela deign

To breathe the sweet notes thro' the warbled strain;

Tho' every Muse and every Grace should smile,

And raptures raise the honey-steeped style;

Can the verse paint like Nature? Can the power

That wakes to life free Fancy's imag'd store,

Boast charms like her's? or the creative hand

In blended tints such beauteous scenes command,

Tho' learned Poussin gives each grace to flow,

And bright Lorrain's ethereal colours glow?

Yet peerless is the power of sacred song,

That bursts in transport from the Muse's tongue:

And hark! methinks her hallow'd voice I hear,

In notes mellifluous stealing on the ear;

Now clearer, and yet clearer trills the strain,

Swells thro' the grove, and melts along the plain.

" Ye nymphs, that love to range the lillied vale,

" Where streams the silver fount of Acidale;

" Ye, that in Pindus' laurel'd groves abide,

" Or haunt Cyllene's cypress-shaded side;

" Or braid your fine wreaths in the pearly caves,

" Where fam'd Ilissus rolls his Attic waves;

" Whilst the barbarian's rude unletter'd race

" Profane your grottos, and your bowers deface,

" See Leicester courts you to th' Icenian shore,

" Studious your long-lost honours to restore!

" See, the fair rival of your native seats,

" Aonian Holkham opens all its sweets;

" Deign then, ye sacred sisters! deign to tread

" The rich embroidery of yon velvet mead,

" As fresh, as lovely as your lilied vale,

" Where streams the silver fount of Acidale:

" If old Cyllene's cypress-shaded bower,

" Or Pindus' laurel'd mount delight you more;

" Go, sweet enthusiasts! softly-silent rove

" The studious mazes of the twilight grove;

" Or, at the foot of some hoar elm reclin'd,

" Wake the high thought that swells the raptur'd mind

" Or pensive listen to the solemn roar

" Of whitening billows breaking on the shore:

" If the majestic domes, whose towery pride

" Glitter o'er fam'd Ilissus' Attic tide,

" Your steps detain; yon' princely structure view,

" Grac'd with each finer art your Athens knew!

" Each finer art to just perfection brought,

" All that Vitruvius and Palladio thought;

" The trophied arch; the porphyry-pillar'd hall;

" The sculptur'd forms that breathe along the wall;

" Lycaean Pan; the faun's Arcadian race;

" The huntress-queen's inimitable grace;

" Athenian Pallas clad in radiant arms;

" Heaven's empress conscious of her slighted charms;

" Your own Apollo, on whose polish'd brow

" Youth blooms, and grace, and candor's brightning glow;

" Gods, heroes, sages, an illustrious train,

" Court you to Holkham's consecrated plain.

" Haste then, ye sacred sisters! haste, and bring

" The laurel steep'd in the Castalian spring;

" On the choice bough a purer fragrance breathe,

" And twine for Leicester's brow th' unfading wreath."

She ceas'd the raptur'd strain; and dear to fame,

Flows the proud verse inscrib'd with Leicester's name.

Notes

c
A seat belonging to the earl of Leicester in the county of Norfolk.
↵

THE POOR MAN's PRAYER.
WRITTEN 1766. ADDRESSED TO THE EARL OF CHATHAM.

AMIDST the more important toils of state,

The counsels labouring in thy patriot soul,

Tho' Europe from thy voice expect her fate,

And thy keen glance extend from pole to pole;

O Chatham, nurs'd in ancient Virtue's lore,

To these sad strains incline a favouring ear;

Think on the God, whom thou, and I adore,

Nor turn unpitying from the poor man's prayer.

Ah me! how blest was once a peasant's life!

No lawless passion swell'd my even breast;

Far from the stormy waves of civil strife,

Sound were my slumbers, and my heart at rest.

I ne'er for guilty, painful pleasures rov'd,

But taught by Nature, and by choice to wed,

From all the hamlet cull'd whom best I lov'd,

With her I staid my heart, with her my bed.

To gild her worth I ask'd no wealthy power,

My toil could feed her, and my arm defend;

In youth, or age, in pain, or pleasure's hour,

The same fond husband, father, brother, friend.

And she, the faithful partner of my care,

When ruddy evening streak'd the western sky,

Look'd towards the uplands, if her mate was there,

Or thro' the beech-wood cast an anxious eye.

Then, careful matron, heap'd the maple board

With savoury herbs, and pick'd the nicer part

From such plain food as Nature could afford,

Ere simple Nature was debauch'd by Art.

While I, contented with my homely cheer,

Saw round my knees my prattling children play;

And oft with pleas'd attention sat to hear

The little history of their idle day.

But ah! how chang'd the scene! On the cold stones,

Where wont at night to blaze the chearful fire,

Pale Famine sits and counts her naked bones,

Still sighs for food, still pines with vain desire.

My faithful wife with ever-streaming eyes

Hangs on my bosom her dejected head;

My helpless infants raise their feeble cries,

And from their father claim their daily bread.

Dear tender pledges of my honest love,

On that bare bed behold your brother lie;

Three tedious days with pinching want he strove,

The fourth, I saw the helpless cherub die.

Nor long shall ye remain. With visage sour

Our tyrant lord commands us from our home;

And arm'd with cruel Law's coercive power,

Bids me and mine o'er barren mountains roam.

Yet never, Chatham, have I pass'd a day

In Riot's orgies, or in idle ease;

Ne'er have I sacrific'd to sport and play,

Or wish'd a pamper'd appetite to please.

Hard was my fare, and constant was my toil,

Still with the morning's orient light I rose,

Fell'd the stout oak, or rais'd the lofty pile,

Parch'd in the sun, in dark December froze.

Is it that Nature with a niggard hand

Witholds her gifts from these once favour'd plains?

Has God, in vengeance to a guilty land,

Sent Dearth and Famine to her labouring swains?

Ah no; yon hill, where daily sweats my brow,

A thousand flocks, a thousand herds adorn;

Yon field, where late I drove the painful plow,

Feels all her acres crown'd with wavy corn.

But what avails that o'er the furrow'd soil

In Autumn's heat the yellow harvests rise,

If artificial want elude my toil,

Untasted plenty wound my craving eyes?

What profits, that at distance I behold

My wealthy neighbour's fragrant smoke ascend,

If still the griping cormorants withold

The fruits which rain and genial seasons send?

If those fell vipers of the public weal

Yet unrelenting on our bowels prey;

If still the curse of penury we feel,

And in the midst of plenty pine away?

In every port the vessel rides secure,

That wasts our harvest to a foreign shore;

While we the pangs of pressing want endure,

The sons of strangers riot on our store.

O generous Chatham, stop those fatal sails,

Once more with out-strecth'd arm thy Britons save;

The unheeding crew but wait for favouring gales,

O stop them, ere they stem Italia's wave.

From thee alone I hope for instant aid,

'Tis thou alone canst save my childrens breath;

O deem not little of our cruel meed,

O haste to help us, for delay is death.

So may nor Spleen, nor Envy blast thy name,

Nor voice profane thy patriot acts deride;

Still may'st thou stand the first in honest fame,

Unstung by Folly, Vanity, or Pride.

So may thy languid limbs with strength be brac'd,

And glowing Health support thy active soul;

With fair renown thy public virtue grac'd,

Far as thou bad'st Britannia's thunder roll.

Then joy to thee, and to thy children peace,

The grateful hind shall drink from Plenty's horn:

And while they share the cultur'd land's increase,

The poor shall bless the day when Pitt was born.

FIVE PASTORAL[d] ECLOGUES.

ECLOGUE I.

LYCAS AND ALPHON.

ALPHON.

ARISE, my Lycas: in yon' woody wilds

From a rough rock in deep enclosure hid

Of thickest oaks, a gushing fountain falls,

And pours its airy stream with torrent pure:

Which late returning from the field at eve

I found, invited by its dashing sound,

As thro' the gloom it struck my passing ear.

Thither I mean to drive our languid flocks;

Fit place to cool their thirst in mid-day hour.

Due west it rises from that blasted beech;

The way but short:—come, Lycas, rouze thy dog;

Let us be gone.

LYCAS.

Alas, my friend, of flock,

Of spring, or shepherd's lore, to me is vain

To tell: my favourite lamb, the solace dear

Of these grey locks, my sweet and sole delight,

Is snatch'd by cruel fate! An armed band,

On neighing steeds elate, in wide array

Trampled the youngling, as the vale along

At eve they pass'd, beneath their whelming march.

ALPHON.

Such throng I heard, as in the neighbouring wood

I wander'd to reduce a straggling ewe

Escap'd the fold: what time the griesly owl

Her shrieks began, and at the wonted elm

The cows awaiting stood Lucilla's hand.

When strait with sudden fear alarm'd I start,

And listening to the distant-echoing steps

Of unseen horsemen with attentive ear,

I stand aloof. But why this deep-felt grief?

Merits such loss these tears and black despair?

LYCAS.

Alphon, no more to Lycas now remains,

Since he my last and latest care is lost!

Thou know'st my little flock; three tender ewes

Were all my mean ambition wish'd or sought.

Even now nine days, and nine revolving nights

Are past, since these the Moldaw's raging flood

Swept with their wattled cotes, as o'er its banks

It rose redundant, swoln with beating rains,

And deep immers'd beneath its whirling wave.

I wak'd at early dawn, and to the field

I issu'd to pursue my wonted toil,

When lo! nor flocks, nor wattled cotes I saw;

But all that met my wondering eyes around,

Was desolation sad. Here stateliest oaks

Torn from their roots, with broken branches lay

In hideous ruin: there the fields, that laugh'd

With ripening corn, of all their charms despoil'd,

With oozy fragments scatter'd waste and wild

Were seen. I curst the wicked Spirit drear,

That in the ruin'd abbey's darkest cell,

(That stands immur'd amid yon' lonesome piles)

I bound with triple chains: his magic power

Oft-times with howling storms, and thunder loud,

Deforms the night, and blackens Nature's face.

His tempests swell'd the Moldaw's rising streams,

And thus o'erwhelm'd my flock.—But this my heart

Had learn'd to bear; at length to Comfort's voice

It had obey'd, and all its woes forgot;

When ah! too soon returning woes invade

My breast, just rising from its former stroke;

When this, the sole survivor of my flock,

Follows his lost companions; while a wretch

I here remain, deserted and forlorn!

He too had dy'd beneath the whelming surge,

Had not the shelter of my low-roof'd cott

That fatal night preserv'd him; where at eve

I hap'ly plac'd him with providing care,

Lest the fell storm, which yet from southern clouds

Threaten'd destruction, and to lour began,

Might violate his tender-blooming age.

ALPHON.

With piteous eye, and sympathizing heart,

Thy tears I view.—These scenes of war and blood,

The calm repose of every field invade!

Myself had fallen a victim to their rage,

As in deep dead of night my cave beneath

I lay dissolv'd in sleep, with warning voice

Had not my dog alarm'd with wondering ear.

When straight approach'd the cave a savage throng

With barbarous arms, and habit fierce and wild,

With stern demeanour and defying look

Terrify; which the moon's pale-glimmering rays

Presented to my sight, as in the boughs,

Close shrouded, of a neighbouring pine I sat

(Where sudden fear had driven me to evade

Impending fate, unconscious and amaz'd)

Secure, but trembling, and in chilly damps

My limbs bedew'd.—The monsters as they past,

With dire confusion all the cavern fill'd;

Hurl'd to the ground my scrip, and beechen cup,

Dispers'd the shaggy skins that form my bed,

And o'er the trampled floor had scatter'd wide

A hoard of choicest chesnuts, which I cull'd

With nice-discerning care, and had design'd

A present to my beauteous Rosalind.

Alas! with them her love had been obtain'd,

And me to Myron she had then preferr'd!

LYCON.

Shepherd, on thee has Fortune kindly smil'd;

Tis mine to feel her grief-inflicting hand!

Alas! each object that I view around

Recalls my perish'd darling to my sight,

And mocks me with his loss! See there the spring

Where oft he wont to slake his eager thirst!

And there the beech, beneath whose breezy shade

He lov'd to lie, close covert from the sun!

See yet the bark smooth-worn and bare remains,

Where oft the youngling rubb'd his tender side!

Ah! what avail'd my care, and foresight vain?

That day he fell oppress'd by whelming steeds,

This hand had built a bower of thickest boughs

Compos'd, and wove with intermingling leaves,

Impervious to the sun; and strew'd the floor

With choicest hay, that in the secret shade

He might repose, nor feel the dog-star's beam!

But why this sad, repeated track of woe

I still pursue? Farewel, my Alphon dear,

To distant fields, and pastures will I go,

Where impious War, and Discord, nurse of blood,

Shall ne'er profane the silence of the groves.

ECLOGUE II.

ACIS AND ALCYON.

ACIS.

WHILE in the bosom of this deep recess

The voice of war has lost its madding shouts,

Let us improve the transient hour of peace,

And calm our troubled minds with mutual songs;

While this recess conspiring with the Muse

Invites to peaceful thoughts; this cavern deep,

And these tall pines that nodding from the rock

Wave o'er its mouth their umbrage black, and cast

A venerable gloom, with this clear fount

That cleaves the riven stone, and fills the cave

With hollow-tinkling sounds. Repeat the song

Which late, Alcyon, from thy mouth I heard,

As to the spring we drove our thirsting slocks;

It tells the charms of grateful Evening mild:

Begin, Alcyon: Acis in return

Shall sing the praises of the dawning Morn.

ALCYON.

Behind the hills when sinks the western sun,

And falling dews breathe fragrance thro' the air,

Refreshing every field with coolness mild:

Then let me walk the twilight meadows green,

Or breezy up-lands, near thick-branching elms,

While the still landscape sooths my soul to rest,

And every care subsides to calmest peace:

The mists slow-rising from the rivers dank,

The woods scarce stirring at the whispering wind,

The streaky clouds, that tinge their darken'd tops

With russet hues, and fainter gleams of light,

The solitude that all around becalms

The peaceful air, conspire to wrap my soul

In musings mild: and nought the solemn scene

And the still silence breaks, but distant sounds

Of bleating flocks, that to their destin'd fold

The shepherd drives; mean-time the shrill-tun'd bell

Of some lone ewe that wanders from the rest,

Tinkles far off, with solitary sound:

The lowing cows that wait the milker's hand,

The cottage-mastiff's bark, the joyous shouts

Of swains that meet to wrestle on the green,

Are heard around. But ah! since ruthless war

Has ravag'd in these fields, so tranquil once,

Too oft alas, the din of clashing arms

And discord fell disturbs the softer scene!

Thy sweet approach delights the wearied ox,

While in loose traces from the furrow'd field

He comes: thy dawn the weary reaper loves,

Who long had sainted in the mid-day sun,

Pleas'd with the cooler hour, along the vale

Whistling he home returns to kiss his babes,

With joyful heart, his labour's sweet reward!

But ah! what sudden fears amaze his soul,

When near approaching, all before he sees

His lowly cottage and the village 'round

Swept into ruin by the hand of war,

Dispers'd his children, and his much-lov'd wife,

No more to glad his breast with home felt-joys!

I too, when in my wattled cotes are laid

My supping flock, rejoice to meet my dear,

My fair Lauretta, at the wonted oak;

Or haply as her miking-pail she bears

Returning from the field, to ease her arm,

(Sweet office!) and impart my aiding hand!

Thy charms (O beauteous Evening!) shall be sung,

As long as these tall pines shall wave their heads,

Or this clear fountain cleave the riven stone!

ACIS.

Sweet are the dews of Eve; her fragrance sweet;

Sweet are the pine-topt hills at sultry noon;

Sweet is the shelter of the friendly grot

To sheep, and shepherd, at impending storms;

But ah! less sweet the fragrant dews of Eve;

Less sweet the pine-topt hills at sultry noon;

Less sweet the shelter of the friendly grots,

Than when the rising sun with rosy beam

Peeps o'er the village-top, and o'er the fields,

The woods, the hills, the streams, and level meads,

Scatters bright splendors and diffusive joy!

As to his flock the shepherd issues forth,

Printing new footsteps in the dewy vale,

Each object of the joyous scene around

Vernal delight inspires, and glads his heart,

Unknowing of the cause, with new-felt glee!

The chaunt of early birds on every bush,

The steaming odours of the fresh-blown flowers—

ALCYON.

Cease, Acis, cease thy song:—from yonder hill,

Whose lofty sides inclose this secret seat,

Our flocks, that graze along its verdurous brow,

Tumultuous rush, as struck with sudden fright:

And hark, methinks I hear the deathful sounds

Of war approaching, and its thunders roar!

ACIS.

Kind heaven preserve my wife and children dear!

Alas! I fear the sound, that louder now

Swells in the wind, and comes with fuller din,

Is near my cottage; which, thou know'st, my friend,

Stands at the spring, that issues from beneath

That rising hill, fast by the branching elm!

ALCYON.

See, see, my friend, what darksome spires arise

Of wreathing smoak, and blacken all the sky!—

Nearer and nearer comes the threatening voice,

And more distinguish'd strikes our trembling ear!

But lo! the foes advance above the hill;

I see their glittering arms begin to gleam!

Come let us slie, and in the deepest nook,

The inmost cavern of this winding grott,

Close shroud ourselves, lest in the general stream

Of thousands thronging down, we sall opprest.

ECLOGUE III.

WHEN sable midnight on the fields and woods

Had spread her mantle dark, then wander'd forth

The pensive Alcon, and the bosom deep

Of a wild wood with solitary steps,

There to lament his wretched fate, he sought.

Him, late as o'er the vale at coming eve

Joyful he walk'd with his Lucilla dear,

A soldier stern advancing on his steed,

Robb'd of his love, and to•e the beauteous maid

With brutal hand from his contending arms,

Weeping in vain, and shricking for his aid,

And frowning bore the precious prize away.

The wood, whose shades the plaintive shepherd sought,

Was dark and pathless, and by neighbouring seet

Long time untrod: for there in ancient days

Two knights of bold emprise, and high renown,

Met in sierce combat, to d•spute the prize

Of beauty bright, whose valiant arm should win

A virgin fair, whose fair-emblazon'd charms

With equal love had smote their rival breasts.

The knight who fell beneath the victor's sword,

Unhears'd and restless, from that fatal day

Wanders the hated shades, a spectre pale;

And each revolving night, are heard to sound

Far from the inmost bower of the deep wood,

Loud shrieks, and hollow groans, and rattling chains.

When the dark secrets of the grove he gain'd,

Beneath an ancient oak his weary limbs

He laid adown, and thus to plain began.

This midnight deep to plaintive love accords;

This lonesome silence, and these hideous shades,

That in this darksome hour I dare to tread,

And all the horrors of this fearful place,

Will suit a wretch, abandon'd to despair!—

But ah!—what means this sudden fear, that creeps

In chilly sweats o'er all my trembling limbs?—

What hollow whispering sounds are those I hear

From yonder glade?—Do not I hear his voice?

Does not the knight, that in these shades was slain,

Call me to come, and beckon with his hand?

Do not I see his visionary sword

Wav'd in bright circles thro' the murky air?—

Does not he point his wounds?—Be still, my sears:

'Tis vain illusion all, and phantasie.

These sears my love-distemper'd brain suggests:

Alas, they will not bring me back my love!—

Who now, perhaps, amid the thronging camp

On earth's cold breast reclines her weary head,

A helpless virgin, subject to the will

Of each rude ravisher, and distant far

From her dear Alcon, and her native fields.—

Ill will the hardships of inclement skies

Suit with her tender limbs; the various toils

Of painful marches; her unwonted ears

How bear the trumpet, and the sounds of war:

This task is hard indeed—but soon, alas!

At will her savage lord may cast her off,

And leave her to succeeding scenes of woe!

I see my dear Lucilla, once my own,

Naked and hungry, tread the pensive steps

Of Desolation, doom'd to wander o'er,

Helpless and vagabond, the friendless earth!

I hear her sigh for Alcon and her home;

And ask for bread at some proud palace-gate

With unavailing voice! This toilsome scene,

Alas, how different from the smoother paths

Of rural life my dear was wont to tread!

Forth to the field to bear the milking-pail

Was all her wont; to tread the tedded grass,

To tend her father's flock, beneath the oak

To snatch her dinner sweet, and on the green

With the companions of her age to sport!

In vain I now expect the coming on

Of dew-bath'd Eve, to meet my wonted love;

No more I hear the wood-girt vallies ring

With her blythe voice, that oft has blest mine ear,

As in the distant shade I sat unseen;

No more I meet her at the wonted spring,

Where each revolving noon she daily went

To fill her pitcher with the crystal flood!—

If in her native fields the hand of death

Had snatch'd her from my arms, I could have born

The fatal shoek with less repining heart;

For then I could have had one parting kiss;

I could have strewn her hearse with fairest flowers,

And paid the last sad office to my dear!—

Return, my sweet Lucilla, to my arms;

At thy return, all Nature will rejoice.

Together will we walk the verdant vales,

And mingle sweet discourse with kisses sweet.

Come, I will climb for thee the knotted oak,

To rob the stock-dove of his feathery young;

I'll shew thee where the softest cowslips spring,

And clustering nuts their laden branches bend;

Together will we taste the dews of morn;

Together seek the grotts at sultry noon;

Together from the field at eve return.—

What have I said? what painted scenes of bliss

My vain imagination has display'd!

Alas, she's gone, ah, never to return!

Farewell my pasteral pipe, and my dear flock;

Farewell my faithful dog; my once-lov'd haunts

Farewell; or cave, or fountain, or fresh shade,

Farewell; and thou, my low ••…or'd cott, farewell!—

Here will I lie, and fellest wolves, that roam

This savage forest shall devour my limbs,

Unwept, unburied, in a place unknown!"

ECLOGUE IV.

MYCON AND PHILANTHES.

MYCON.

WELCOME, Philanthes, to thy native fields;

Thrice three revolving moons are gone and past,

Since first you parted from your father's cott,

To drive to pastures far remote your flock.

Since that, alas, how oft has savage war

Disturb'd our dwellings, and defac'd our fields.

PHILANTHES.

Mycon, each object that I view around

Speaks ruin and destruction. See, my friend,

The ancient wood, whose venerable shades

So oft have shelter'd us from noon-day suns;

So oft have echo'd to the lowing herds,

That fed wide-wandering in the neighbouring vales,

The soldier's ax has levell'd with the ground,

And to the sun expos'd its darksome bowers:

The distant villages, and blue-topt hills,

The far-stretch'd meads appear, and meet mine eyes,

That erst were intercepted by the grove.

MYCON.

How is the wonted face of all things chang'd!

Those trees, by whose aspiring tops we knew

The sun's ascent at noon, unerring mark,

No more are seen to tell the coming hour.

How naked does the winding rill appear,

Whose banks its pendant umbrage deep-imbrown'd,

And far-invested with its arborous roof,

As by its side it roll'd its secret streams!

How oft, alas! those shadowy banks along

(Close solitude!) my Rosalind and I

Have walk'd in converse sweet, and link'd in love!

But tell me, dear Philanthes, are the fields,

Which late you left, like ours by war opprest,

Alike in tumult and confusion wrapt?

PHILANTHES.

Mycon, I'll tell thee wonders past belief.

It happ'd one morn, when first the dawning sun

Began to chear the light-enliven'd earth,

Caught with so bright a scene, I sought the fields

Before my wonted hour, and roving wide

Among the vales, the villages and woods,

Where'er my fancy led, or pleasure call'd,

I chanc'd upon a neighbouring hill to stray,

To view the glittering prospect from its top

Of the broad Rhine, that roll'd his waves beneath,

Amid the level of extended meads;

When [d] lo! ere yet I gain'd its lofty brow,

The sound of dashing floods, and dashing arms,

And neighing steeds, confusive struck mine ear.

Studious to know what tumult was at hand,

With step adventurous I advanc'd, and gain'd

With timorous care and cautious ken its top.

Sudden a burst of brightness smote my sight,

From arms, and all th' imblazonrie of war

Reflected far, while steeds, and men, and arms

Seem'd floating wide, and stretch'd in vast array

O'er the broad bosom of the big-swoln flood,

That dashing roll'd its beamy waves between.

The banks promiscuous ••••…m'd with thronging troops:

These on the flood embarking, those appear'd

Crowding the adverse shore, already past.

All was confusion, all tumultuous 〈◊〉.

I trembled as I look'd, tho' far above,

And in one blaze their arms were blended bright

With the broad stream, while all the glistening scene

The morn illum'd, and in one splendor clad.

Struck at the sight, I lest with headlong haste

The steep-brow'd hill, and o'er th' extended vales,

The wood-girt lawns I ran, nor slack'd my pace,

Till at my flock thick-panting I arriv'd,

And drove far off, beneath a deep-arch'd cave.

But come, my friend, inform me in return,

Since this my absence what has here fell out.

MYCON.

Dost thou remember at the river side

That solitary convent, all behind

Hid by the covert of a mantling wood?—

One night, when all was wrapt in darkness deep,

An armed troop, on rage and rapine bent,

Pour'd o'er the fields and ravag'd all they met;

Nor did that sacred pile escape their arms,

Whose walls the murderous band to ruin swept,

And fill'd its caverns deep with armed throngs

Greedy of spoil, and snatch'd their treasures old

From their dark seats: the shrieking sisters fled

Dispers'd and naked thro' the fields and woods,

While sable night conceal'd their wandering steps.

Part in my moss grown cottage shelter sought,

Which haply scap'd their rage, in secret glade

Immersed deep.—I rose at early morn,

With fearful heart to view the ruin'd dome,

Where all was desolation, all appear'd

The seat of horror, and devouring war.

The deep recesses, and the gloomy nooks,

The vaulted isles, and shrines of imag'd saints,

The caverns worn by holy knees appear'd,

And to the sun were op'd.—In musing thought

I said, as on the pile I bent my brow—

" This seat to future ages will appear,

" Like that which stands fast by the piny rock;

" These silent walls with ivy shall be hung,

" And distant times shall view the sacred pile,

" Unknowing how it fell, with pious awe!

" The pilgrim here shall visit, and the swain

" Returning from the field at twilight grey,

" Shall shun to pass this way, subdued by fear,

" And slant his course across the adverse vale!"

PHILANTHES.

Mycon, thou see'st that cow, which stands in cool

Amid yon rushy lake, beneath the shade

Of willow green, and ruminates at ease

The watry herbage that around her floats.

That way my business leads. I go to greet

My father, and my wonted cottage dear.

MYCON.

Come, let us go: my path is that way too.

Come, my Philanthes, and may piteous heaven

Indulge more happy days, and calm our griefs!

Alas! I thought some trouble was at hand,

And long before presag'd the coming storm,

Even when the lightning one disastrous night

Blasted the hoary oak, whose ample boughs

Imbower my cottage; and as on the grass

At noon I slept, a serpent's sudden hiss

Broke my sweet rest!—But come, let us be gone,

The sun begins to welk in ruddy west.

ECLOGUE V.

CORIN AND CALISTAN.

CORIN.

WHICH way, Calistan, whither dost thou lead

That lamb, whom yet his mother scarce has wean'd?

CALISTAN.

His mother, Corin, as she wandering fed,

With this tender youngling by her side,

Fell by a shot which from the battle came,

That in the neighbouring fields so lately rag'd.

CORIN.

Alas! What woes that fatal day involv'd

Our suffering village, and the fields around!

But come, Calistan, on this rising bank,

Come, let us sit, and on the danger past

Converse secure, and number all our griefs.

See how the flaunting woodbine shades the bank,

And weaves a mantling canopy above!

CALISTAN.

Corin, that day I chanc'd at earlier hour

To rise, and drove far-off my flock unpent;

To wash them in a spring that late I mark'd.

There the first motions of the deathful day

I heard, as listening to the trickling wave

I stood attentive: when like rising storms,

Hoarse, hollow murmurs from asar I heard,

And undistinguish'd sounds of distant din.

Alarm'd I stood, unknowing whence it came;

And from the fount my flock unwash'd I drove

Suspecting danger: when as nearer yet,

I came advancing, all was tumult loud,

All was tempestuous din on every side,

And all around the roar of war was up,

From rock to rock retost, from wood to wood.

Not half so loud the tumbling cataract

Is heard to roar, that from the pine-clad cliff

Precipitates its waves; whose distant sounds

I oft have listen'd, as at twilight grey

I pent my flocks within their wattled cotes.

CORIN.

For three revolving days, nor voice of bird

Melodious chaunting, or the bleat of sheep,

Or lowing oxen, near the fatal place

Were heard to sound; but all was silence sad!

The ancient grove of elms deserted stood,

Where long had dwelt an aged race of rooks,

That with their nests had crowded every branch,

We oft have heard them at the dusk of eve

In troops returning to their well known home,

In mingled clamours sounding from on high!

CALISTAN.

Corin, thou know'st the fir-invested cave,

Where late we shelter'd from a gathering storm,

Our flocks together driven: beneath its shade

I had appointed at sweet even-tide

To meet my Delia homeward as she pass'd,

Bearing her milking-pail•: Alas! the thoughts

Of that sweet congress, the preceding night

Soften'd my dreams, and all my senses lull'd,

And with more joyful heart at morn I rose.

But ah! that tumult cropt my blooming hopes,

And in confusion wrapt my love and me.

CORIN.

That day, nor in the fold my flock I pent,

Or walk'd at eve the vales, or on the turf

Beneath the wonted oak my dinner took,

Or slept at noon amid my languid sheep,

Repos'd at ease on the green meadow's bed.

When sable night came on, for not even yet

The tumult had subsided into peace,

Even then low sounds, and interrupted bursts

Of war we heard, and cries of dying men,

And a confus'd hum of the ceasing storm.

All night close-shrouded in a forest thick

Wakeful I sat, my flock around me laid;

And of neglected boughs I kindled up

A scanty flame, whose darkly-gleaming blaze

Among th' enlighten'd trees form'd hideous shapes,

And spectres pale, to my distemper'd mind.

How oft I look'd behind with cautious fear,

And trembled at each motion of the wind!—

But where did you, Calistan, shelter seek?

What dark retreat conceal'd your wandering steps?

CALISTAN.

Corin, thou know'st the fur-clad Hermit's cell,

Deep-arch'd beneath a rock among the wilds;

Thither I bent my flight, a welcome guest,

And not unknown; for when my flock I fed

Of late beneath the neighbouring pastures green,

I oft was wont, invited at his call,

At noon beneath his cavern to retire

From the sun's heat, where all the passing hours

The good old man improv'd with converse high,

And in my breast enkindled Virtue's love;

Nor seldom would his hospitable hand

Afford a short repast of berries cool,

Which o'er the wilds (his scanty food) he pluck'd:

Here was my refuge.—All the live-long night

Pensive by one pale lonesome lamp we sat,

And listen'd to the bleak winds whistling loud,

And the shrill crash of forests from without.

Soon as the morning dawn'd, the craggy height

Of the steep rock I climb'd, on whose wild top

His rustic temple stood, and moss-grown cross

(The sacred object of his pious prayers)

Form'd of a tall fir's thunder-blasted trunk:

Where all beneath th' expansive plains I saw

With white pavilions hid, in deep array.

There too my little fold, which late I left

Standing at eve, amid the warlike scene

With tearful eyes affrighted, I beheld.

Alas, how chang'd the scene! when there I pitch'd

Those hurdled cotes, the night was calm and mild,

And all was peaceful. I remember well,

While there within that fold my flock I pent;

How blythe I heard my beauteous Delia sing!

Her distant echoing voice how sweetly rung,

And all my ravish'd senses wrapt in bliss!

CORIN.

Hast thou not seen the fatal plain of death,

Where rag'd the conflict? There, they say, at eve

Grim ghosts are seen of men that there were slain,

Pointing their wounds, and shrieking to their mates,

Still doom'd to haunt the fields on which they fell.

CALISTAN.

Corin, no more. This lamb demands my speed.

See how the youngling hangs his sickly head,

Tender, and fainting for his wonted food!

I haste to place him in my sheltering cot,

Fed from my hand, and cherish'd by my care.—

And see, my friend, far off in darken'd west

A cloud comes on, and threatens sudden rains:

Corin, farewell, the storm begins to lower.

Notes

d
The scenes of these eclogues are supposed to lie among the shepherds oppressed by the war in Germany.
↵

d
It m
••
be supposed that in these lines the shepherd is giving an account of Prince Charles's passing the Rhine.

↵

ON THE PEACE OF AIX LA CHAPELLE, MDCCXLVIII.

BY MR. HURD.

BE still my fears, suggest no false alarms;

The Poet's rapture and the lyric fire

Are vain: enough that inclination warms;

No foreign influence needs the willing Muse inspire.

The willing Muse, adventurous in her flight,

To thee, lov'd Peace, shall raise the untaught strain;

Her thy fair triumphs and thy arts delight,

Thy festive branch she bears and joins thy social train.

High on some wave worn cliff she views serene,

Safe on the deep, the freighted navies ride;

Old Ocean joys to see the peaceful scene,

And bids his billows roll with an exulting tide.

Or, where Augusta's turrets cleave the skies,

She loves to mix with Art's inventive band,

Sees Industry in forms unnumber'd rise,

To scatter blessings wide, and civilize the land;

Or flies, with transport, to her native plain,

Sees corn-clad fields, fresh lawns, and pastures fair,

Sees Plenty vindicate her ancient reign,

And pour forth all her charms to crown the various year.

But chief the Muse to Academic groves

Her kindred train and best-lov'd arts invite;

Thro' Cam's o'ershadowing bowers intranc'd she roves,

Whence sacred Science streams, and Genius spreads his light.

" Here will I rest, she cry'd; my laurel here

" Eternal blooms; here hangs my golden lyre,

" Which erst my Spenser tun'd to shepherd's ear,

" And lostiest Milton smote with genuine epic fire.

" And O! if aught my fond presages shew,

" On these lov'd bowers while Peace her influence sheds,

" Some hand again shall snatch it from the bough,

" Wake each high-sounding string, and charm the echoing glades.

" Then shall be sung the glorious deeds of war,

" How Virtue strove, where envious Fortune fail'd:

" Expecting Fame the conflict view'd from far,

" And Britain's valour crown'd, tho' Gallia's host prevail'd.

" Yet then, even then [th' indignant verse shall tell]

" A surer vengeance rose to whelm the foe;

" When hell-born Faction issu'd from her cell,

" And on her impious head drew half the destin'd blow.

" But, hark! the loud triumphant strains declare,

" How Britain's majesty unrivall'd rose,

" When all the glories of the naval war

" Beam'd round her conquering flag, and circled Anson's brows."

Till thus the Power by Freedom's sons obey'd:

" Let blood-stain'd glory swell the tyrant's breast;

" Be mine Compassion's healing wing to spread,

" To sheath the wasting sword, and give the nations rest:

" Then (as the Muse inraptur'd shall display)

" War's impious roar, and Faction's murmurs cease;

" His gracious eye sheds lustre on the day,

" And lends the quickening beam to chear the arts of Peace."

LAURA: OR, THE COMPLAINT. AN ELEGY.

BY JAMES MARRIOTT, L. L. D.

YE groves, with venerable moss array'd,

That o'er yon caverns stretch your pendent shade,

Where sacred Silence lulls the rural vale,

And Love in whispers tells his tender tale,

Ye lonely rocks, ye streams that ever flow,

Still as my tears, and constant as my woe,

To you behold the wretched Laura flies,

And haunts those seats from whence her sorrows rise;

Where, lost to love, how often has she stray'd?

When the fond lover led his blushing maid,

When his soft lips, too eloquent his art,

Pour'd the warm wish, and breath'd out all his heart.

Ah once lov'd seats, your pleasing scenes are o'er,

Nor you can charm, since he can love no more;

Tho' smile your lawns with vernal glories crown'd,

In vain gay Nature paints th' enamel'd ground;

While through your solitary paths I rove,

A prey to grief, to sickness, and to love.

Tho' gentle Zephyrs fan the bending bowers,

Tho' breathes the incense of your opening flowers,

Nor opening flowers, nor gentle Zephyrs charm,

Nor beauteous scenes a grief like mine disarm;

Fade every flower, and languish every sense,

Ye have no sweets for fallen innocence.

Torn by remorse, sad victim of Despair,

Where shall I turn? or where address my prayer?

Far as the morn its early beam displays,

Or where the star of evening darts its rays;

Far as wide earth is stretch'd, or oceans roll,

Where blow the winds, or heaven invests the pole,

In vain my fluttering soul would wing its way;

Stern Care pursues, where'er the wretched stray.

Sost God of Sleep, whose ever-peaceful reign

Lulls earth, and heaven, and all the extended main,

Powerful to give the labouring heart to rest,

To wipe the tear, and heal the wounded breast,

Say, by what crime offended, slies from me,

Invok'd, thy unpropitious Deity?

Or dooms, on racks of wildest Fancy torn,

In dreams my agonizing soul to mourn?

Why am I oft on angry billows tost,

Now in some wide and dreary desart lost?

Why yet in life infernal tortures feel,

Bound by fierce demons to some rapid wheel?

Now seem to climb, while hills on hills arife,

In vain: or fall in tempests from the skies,

Tread burning plains, or swim in seas of fire,

Just reach the shore, then see the shore retire?

As oft, dear youth! thy pleasing form appears;

I stretch my arms, and wake dissolv'd in tears;

Yet waking Fancy all that loss supplies,

And still I view thee with a lover's eyes;

Entranc'd, in thought, o'er all thy charms I gaze,

See thy bright eyes diffuse their softest rays,

Hang on thy hand, and on thy breast reclin'd,

Play with thy locks that waver with the wind,

Joy in thy joy, or in thy sorrows join,

And on thy lips my spirit mix with thine.

Now o'er dark wilds, or rugged rocks we stray,

Love lights the gloom, and smooths the dreary way;

Now on soft banks our weary limbs repose,

Where every flower of vernal beauty glows;

But light as air each pleasing vision flew,

Swift as the fun dispels the morning dew;

While with the day returns the sense of woe,

We wake more wretched when the cheat we know.

Imagination! mistress of the soul,

What powers unseen the active mind controul?

And fill the waking thought, or busy sleep?

When not a breeze disturbs the tranquil deep,

Nor lofty pines through all the forest move,

Why stir the motions of resistless love?

Urg'd by the golden morn, the night recedes,

And year to year in changeful course succeeds;

Nor night, nor morn, nor years to me restore

The peace which Laura's heart possess'd before;

Involv'd in clouds one darksome scene I view;

Bleed the same wounds, and all my pains renew.

O boast of Laura's long-forgotten praise!

Past are the triumphs of my happier days,

When plac'd supreme on Beauty's radiant throne,

I saw with conscious pride each heart my own;

Where'er I turn'd, a thousand nymphs admir'd;

Whene'er I smil'd, a thousand swains expir'd:

I spoke, 'twas music dwelt upon my tongue;

I mov'd a goddess, and an angel sung.

My careless steps in joys were taught to rove;

Each voice was flattery, and each look was love;

But Beauty's power, too mighty long to last,

Fled on the wings of rapid Time is past.

As some proud vessel to the prosperous gale

Her streamer waves, and spreads the silken sail,

While silver oars to flutes soft breathing sweep

With measur'd strokes the scarcely heaving deep,

But soon tempestuous clouds the scene deform,

And the loud surge remurmurs to the storm;

Thus big with hope, from dark suspicion free,

I sail'd with transport on Life's summer sea;

The gay attendants of my happy state,

The Smiles, the Graces round were seen to wait,

And all the moments, as they swiftly flew,

Shower'd down soft joys, and pleasures ever new.

How chang'd this fleeting image of a day?

How sets in awful gloom the evening ray?

While, fixt on earth her eye in sad suspence,

Pours the deep sigh incessant Penitence.

If youthful charms decay with age or pain,

Beauty, thy crouded worshippers how vain!

Why then such crowds of incense round ascend?

Why prostrate monarchs at thy altars bend?

Why earth's and ocean's mighty bounds explore

At once to win thee, and increase thy power?

Let sad example Reason's dictates aid;

Here see what ruin Grief and Love have made;

Even Love, who lives by Beauty's smiles carest,

Basks in her eyes, and wantons on her breast,

With cruel force the fatal shaft employs,

And soonest what he most adores destroys.

How cold I feel Life's idle current flow,

Where once the dancing spirits lov'd to glow!

No more these eyes with youthful rapture shine,

Nor cheeks soft blushing speak a warmth divine;

Graceful no more amid the festive dance

My steps with easy dignity advance,

And all the glossy locks, whose ringlets spread,

O'er my fair neck, the honours of my head,

Cease the neat labours of my hand to know;

Ill suits the care of elegance with woe!

Why did not Nature, when she gave to charm,

With unrelenting pride my bosom arm?

Why was my soul its tender pity taught,

Each soft affection, and each generous thought?

Hence spring my sorrows, hence with sighs I prove

How feeble woman, and how fierce is love.

In unavailing streams my tears are shed;

Sad Laura's bliss is with Lorenzo fled.

For thee, false youth, was every joy resign'd,

Young health, sweet peace, and innocence of mind;

Are these the constant vows thy tongue profest,

When first thy arms my yielding beauties prest?

Thus did thy kiss dispel my empty fears,

Or winning voice delight my raptur'd ears;

Thus swore thy lips, by ocean, earth, and sky;

By hell's dread powers, and heaven's all-piercing eye?

Yawns not the grave for thee? Why sleeps the storm

To blast thy limbs, and rend thy perjur'd form?

Unmov'd, O faithless, canst thou hear my pain,

Like the proud rocks which brave th' unwearied main?

Sooner the ship-wreck'd pilot shall appease

With sighs the howling winds, with tears the seas,

Than Laura's prayers thy heart unfeeling move,

O lost to fame, to honour, and to love.

Nurst in dark caverns on some mountain wild

To cruel manhood grew the daring child,

No female breast supplied thy infant food,

But tygers growling o'er their savage brood.

Curs'd be that fatal hour thy charms were seen,

While yet this mind was guiltless, and serene.

With thee, false man, I urg'd my hasty flight,

And dar'd the horrors of tempestuous night,

Nor fear'd with thee through plains unknown to rove,

Deaf to the dictates of paternal love.

In vain for me a parent's tears were shed,

And to the grave descends his hoary head.

When at my feet entranc'd my lover lay,

And pour'd in tender sighs his soul away,

Fond, foolish heart! to think the tale divine;

Why started not my hands when prest in thine?

Too well Remembrance paints the fatal hour

When Love, great conqueror, summon'd all his power;

When bolder grown, your glances flash'd with fire,

And your pale lips all trembled with desire;

Back to my heart my blood tumultuous flew,

From every pore distill'd the chilling dew,

When Shame presaging spoke each future pain,

And struggling Virtue arm'd my soul in vain.

But O let silence all my weakness veil,

And burning blushes only tell the tale.

Ah! faithless man! and thou more wretched maid,

To guilt, and grief, and misery betray'd!

Far flies thy lover: to some distant plain

Now cleaves his bounding bark the peaceful main;

Avenging heaven, that heard the vows he swore,

Bid howl the blackening storm, and thunder roar.

'Till waves on waves in tumbling mountains roll,

Now sink to hell, and now ascend the pole;

Then on some plank o'er foaming billows borne,

Trembling, his perjur'd faith the wretch shall mourn,

But mourn in vain: his vigorous arm shall fail,

Guilt sink him down, and angry heaven prevail;

No friendly hand to earth his limbs convey,

But dogs and vultures tear the bloated prey.

Yet, ah! fond heart! avert, kind heaven, the stroke,

My heart denies what trembling lips have spoke.

The varying accents real nature prove,

And only shew how wild a thing is love.

Go, much lov'd youth, with every blessing crown'd,

And Laura's wishes ever guard thee round.

Me to the silent shades and sad retreat,

Where love's expiring flames forget their heat,

Death wooes all-powerful: ere he parts the clew,

Once more thy Laura bids her love adieu:

Bids health and affluence every bliss afford,

Bids thee be lov'd, be happy, and ador'd;

In ease, in mirth, glide each glad hour away;

No pain to spot thy Fortune's cloudless day;

Nor sigh to swell, no tear to flow for me:

O grant, heaven, all; but grant thee constancy.

Yet from my hand this last address receive,

This last address is all that hand can give.

In vain thy bark with spreading canvas flies,

If these sad lines shall meet thy conscious eyes,

And, taught with winning eloquence to move,

The winds and waters waft the voice of love;

That voice, O grant what dying lips implore,

Asks but one tear from thee; and asks no more.

Then world, farewel; farewel life's fond desires,

False flattering hopes, and love's tormenting fires.

Already, Death, before my closing eyes

Thy airy forms and glimmering shades arise.

Hark! hear I not for me yon' passing bell

Toll forth, with frequent pause, its sullen knell?

Waits not for me yon' sexton on his spade,

Blythe whistling o'er the grave his toil has made?

Say, why in lengthened pomp yon' sable train,

With measur'd steps, slow, stalk along the plain?

Say, why yon' hearse with fading flowers is crown'd,

And midnight gales the deep-mouth'd dirge resound?

Hail, sister worms, and thou my kindred dust,

Secure to you my weary limbs I trust.

Dim burns life's lamp; O Death, thy work compleat,

And give my soul to gain her last retreat.

Such as before the birth of Nature sway'd,

Ere springing light the first great word obey'd,

Let silence reign—come, Fate, exert thy might;

And darkness wrap me in eternal night.

RINALDO AND ARMIDA.
TO A LADY SINGING.

BY THE SAME.

THE goldfinch swells his little throat,

And loudly pours his rural note;

High poiz'd above his nest in air,

The shrill lark chaunts his matins clear;

At evening brown, in woodland dale

Soft gurgling trills her amorous tale

The solitary nightingale;

But what avails, ye feather'd throng

Of warblers wild, your feeble song?

Our varying passions can ye move

With warmer hope, or fonder love?

Or run your notes th' enchanting round

Through all the labyrinths of sound?

As breathes some soft angelic strain,

When Midnight spreads her solemn reign,

Entranc'd the lonely hermit lies,

And tastes ideal paradise,

When at Armida's feet he lay,

So sigh'd Rinaldo's soul away;

His tongue in mute attention bound,

His ear in rapture drank the sound,

While magic numbers lull'd the sense,

And held swift thought in sweet suspence.

The mimic voice repeat the gales

That sigh along the flowery vales;

The flowery vales, the falling floods,

The rising rocks, and waving woods

To the sighing gales reply,

Redoubling all the harmony.

The Zephyrs, ever mild and fair,

Who lightly fan the vernal air,

Learn from Armida's voice the strain,

And whispering tell it to the main.

Whene'er, the foaming billows flowing,

The wintry storms are fiercely blowing,

When sable clouds invade the pole,

And lightnings dart, and thunders roll,

Th' enchantress can the rage appease,

And clear the skies, and smooth the seas.

When hurried to th' infernal coast,

His beauteous bride the Thracian lost,

Sure, hapless youth! so sweet a spell

Once more had charm'd the powers of hell;

Or if such had been the song

Which warbled erst the syren throng,

For councils sage the chief renown'd

His warrior limbs had vainly bound;

His eyes by love entranc'd, no more

Had seen with joy their native shore;

The cords had loos'd; the magic tale

Had stay'd his oars, and furl'd his sail.

SACRED ODE.

BY THE SAME.

HARK! thro' yon' fretted vaults and lofty spires

Peal the deep organs to the sacred quires;

And now, the full, the loud hosannas rise,

Float in the winds, and roll along the skies:

The solemn sounds Devotion's ardour raise;

Now mounts the spirit with diviner blaze:

Heaven opens: earth recedes: and Nature feels

The ray that fir'd the prophet's glowing wheels:

In fiery pomp bright seraphs quit the sky,

And wrap the soul in holy extasy;

While round the saphire throne th' ethereal train

Adoring prostrate raise the lofty strain:

I.

Arise, O Lord, arise;

In all thy awful glory stand confest;

In thee for ever blest,

Behold thy servants veil their dazzled eyes.

Night hath for thee no shades;

Alike to thee appears the orient day;

While one vast light, one inexhausted ray

Of thy effulgent power the whole pervades.

Then whither shall we stray,

Where of thy forming hand no trace is found?

Above, beneath, around,

The mighty voice is heard;

Where'er the hills are rear'd,

Where spreads the vaulted sky,

Or foams the deep profound;

Thro' Nature's utmost bound

To us her works reply,

Proclaim a parent God, a present Deity.

II.

Creation's praise is least;

Nature's Restorer, to preserve is thine;

Whose awful voice divine

Created all: when Discord heard, and ceas'd;

For it is thine to bind

The moral chain of Order's perfect law,

And to their course the swerving motions draw

Of changeful things, and erring human kind.

Death with insatiate jaw

Gnash'd oft his iron phang, and by his side

Stalking with ample stride

Vice rear'd his giant size

Up-towering to the skies.

The mourning earth was waste;

Confusion roll'd her tide;

When down the Virtues glide;

Soft Mercies urg'd their haste,

And o'er the bleeding world the sacred mantle cast.

III.

Beyond created sense

Mysterious goodness, hid in deepest night!

In vain our feeble sight

Would pierce the gloom, O mighty Providence.

Where the deep mazes meet

Beneath thy awful throne no eye hath seen,

Where wrapt in darkness sits thy power serene,

And the loud thunders roll beneath thy feet.

O, when shall close the scene?

And Hope be lost in Truth's wide bursting ray?

O haste, auspicious day.

O haste to light on earth

Great Nature's second birth;

New inmate of the skies,

When man renew'd shall shine

With innocence divine;

And blest Obedience rise

To snatch the palm that crowns her faithful victories.

INSCRIPTION UPON A HERMITAGE.

BY THE SAME.

BENEATH this rural cell

Sweet-smiling Peace and calm Content

Far from the busy crowd sequester'd dwell.

Mortal, approaching near,

The hallow'd seat revere,

Nor bring the loud tumultuous Passions here;

For not for these is meant

The sacred silence of the stream,

Nor cave prophetic prompting Fancy's dream;

If, with presumption rude,

Thy daring steps intrude,

Know, that with jealous eye

Peace and Content will fly;

The thoughtful Genius of the lone abode,

And Guardian Spirit of this solemn wood,

Will sure revenge the sacrilegious wrong;

Reflection's tear will then in secret flow,

And all the haunted solitude belong

To Melancholy's train,

Who point the sting of pain

With keen remorse, and oft redoubled woe.

CANZONETTA.

BY THE SAME.

SOFT slept the sea within its silver bed.

To the scarce breathing gale

The silken sail

With venturous hands I spread,

And saw the rocks, and pass'd; yet felt no fear;

All danger distant seem'd, which was alas! too near.

Love, calm deceiver, seated by my side,

His secret fraud enjoy'd,

Too ost employ'd

In sport my bark to guide.

We reach'd the port: the little pilot smil'd.

Can Love deceive! I said: and kiss'd the laughing child.

He clapp'd his wings, and lightly thro' the air

Flew from my longing eyes.

The storms arise,

And back my vessel bear.

Secure what port can hapless lovers meet:

We blame the winds and seas, yet clasp the dear deceit.

THE LOVER AND THE FRIEND.

ENDUED with all that could adorn

Or bless thee, first and fairest born!

A soul! that looks superior down,

Let giddy Fortune smile or frown;

With Age's wisdom, not her years,

Stella, all excellence appears;

Then, who can blame me if I blend

The name of Lover with the Friend.

Like Noah's dove, my busy breast

Has rov'd to find a place of rest!

Some faithful bosom, to repose,

And hush the family of woes.

Then, do I dream? or have I found

The fair and hospitable ground?

Ah! quit your sex's rules, and lend

A Lover's wishes to the Friend.

Absence I try'd,—but try'd in vain!

It heals not, but upbraids my pain;

For thee! I'd bear the reaper's toil;

For thee! consume the midnight oil;

Then, to your judgment wou'd I owe

All that I read, and write, and know.

Can those who wish like me, pretend

To part the Lover and the Friend?

Come, then, and let us dare to prove

Disinterested sweets of Love;

For generous Love no dwelling finds

In poor and mercenary minds:

Laugh at Life's idle fiuttering things;

Look down with pity upon kings;

Careless! who like, or discommend,

Blest in the Lover and the Friend!

Oh! come, and we'll together haste

O'er Life's uncomfortable waste:

Bear the sharp thorn, to find the rose,

And smile at transitory woes:

Keep the bright goal of Hope in view,

Nor look behind, as others do;

'Till death, and only death shall end

At once the Lover and the Friend.

THE ENTHUSIAST: AN ODE.

BY WM. WHITEHEAD, ESQ.

ONCE, I remember well the day,

'Twas ere the blooming sweets of May

Had lost their freshest hues,

When every flower on every hill,

In every vale, had drank its fill

Of sunshine, and of dews.

In short, 'twas that sweet season's prime

When Spring gives up the reins of Time

To Summer's glowing hand,

And doubting mortals hardly know,

By whose command the breezes blow

Which fan the smiling land.

'Twas then, beside a green-wood shade,

Which cloath'd a lawn's aspiring head

I urg'd my devious way,

With loitering steps regardless where,

So soft, so genial was the air,

So wonderous bright the day.

And now my eyes with transport rove

O'er all the blue expanse above,

Unbroken by a cloud!

And now beneath delighted pass,

Where winding thro' the deep-green grass

A full-brim'd river flow'd.

I stop, I gaze; in accents rude,

To thee, serenest Solitude,

Burst forth th' unbidden lay;

" Begone, vile world, the learn'd, the wise,

The great, the busy I despise,

And pity e'en the gay.

These, these are joys alone, I cry;

'Tis here, divine Philosophy,

Thou deign'st to fix thy throne!

Here Contemplation points the road

Thro' Nature's charms to Nature's God!

These, these are joys alone!

Adieu, ye vain low-thoughted cares,

Ye human hopes, and human fears,

Ye pleasures and ye pains!"

While thus I spake, o'er all my soul

A philosophic calmness stole,

A stoic stillness reigns.

The tyrant passions all subside,

Fear, anger, pity, shame and pride

No more my bosom move;

Yet still I felt, or seem'd to feel

A kind of visionary zeal

Of universal love.

When lo! a voice, a voice I hear!

'Twas Reason whisper'd in my ear

These monitory strains:

What mean'st thou, man? would'st thou unbind

The ties which constitute thy kind,

The pleasures and the pains?

The same Almighty Power unseen,

Who spreads the gay or solemn scene

To Contemplation's eye,

Fix'd every movement of the soul,

Taught every wish its destin'd goal,

And quicken'd every joy.

He bids the tyrant passions rage,

He bids them war eternal wage,

And combat each his foe:

Till from dissensions concords rise;

And beauties from deformities,

And happiness from woe.

Art thou not man, and dar'st thou find

A bliss which leans not to mankind?

Presumptuous thought and vain!

Each bliss unshar'd is unenjoy'd,

Each power is weak unless employ'd

Some social good to gain.

Shall light and shade, and warmth and air,

With those exalted joys compare,

Which active Virtue feels!

When on she drags, as lawful prize,

Contempt, and Indolence, and Vice,

At her triumphant wheels.

As rest to labour still succeeds

To man, whilst Virtue's glorious deeds

Employ his toilsome day;

This fair variety of things,

Are merely Life's refreshing springs,

To sooth him on his way.

Enthusiast go, unstring thy lyre,

In vain thou sing'st, if none admire,

How sweet soe'er the strain.

And is not thy o'erflowing mind,

Unless thou mixest with thy kind,

Benevolent in vain?

Enthusiast go, try every sense,

If not thy bliss, thy excellence,

Thou yet hast learn'd to scan;

At least thy wants, thy weakness know,

And see them all uniting show,

That man was made for man."

INDEX TO THE SECOND VOLUME.

- ORIENTAL Eclogues. By Mr. Collins.

- Eclogue I. Selim, or the Shepherd's Moral. Page 1

- Eclogue II. Hassan, or the Camel-driver. 2

- Eclogue III. Abra, or the Georgian Sultana. 8

- Eclogue IV. Agib and Secander, or the Fugitives. 11

- Ode on the Death of Mr. James Thomson. By the same. 15

- Ode to Pity. By the same. 17

- Ode to Simplicity. By the same. 19

- Ode to Peace. By the same. 22

- Ode to Mercy. By the same. 23

- Ode to Liberty. By the same. 24

- Ode to Fear. By the same. 31

- Ode on the Poetical Character. By the same. 34

- The Manners, an Ode. By the same. 38

- The Passions, an Ode. By the same. 41

- Written on a Paper which contained a Piece of Bride-Cake. By Mr. Collins. Page 46

- London, or the Progress of Commerce. By Mr. Glover. 48

- Modern Virtue, a Satire. 72

- A Monody to the Memory of Mrs. Woffington. By Mr. Hoole. 85

- Spring, a Pastoral Ballad. By Mr. Brerewood. 94

- Summer. By the same. 97

- Autumn. By the same. 99

- Winter. By the same. 102

- The Cure of Saul, a sacred Ode. By Dr. Brown. 104

- An Inscription at a favourite Retirement, in May, 1758. 115

- An Elegy written among the Ruins of an Abbey. By Mr. Jerningham. 117

- Il Latte, an Elegy. By the same. 123

- The Transformation of Lycon and Euphormius. By William Melcomb, Esq. 128

- A Tale. By the same. 135

- Epistle to Sappho. By the same. 137

- Verses written in London at the Approach of Spring. 139

- Woodstock, an Elegy, written in the Year 1759. 151

- Ode on the Rebellion in the Year 1745. By Dr. Schomberg. 164

- Heaven, a Poem. By the Rev. Mr. Scott. 177

- Ode on Sleep. By the same. 189

- Ode on Pleasure. By the same. 193

- Ode on Despair. By the same. 198

- Ode to the Muse. By the same. Page 203

- The Wish, an Elegy to Urania. By Dr. Blacklock. 207

- An Hymn to Fortitude. By the same. 211

- Ode against Ill-Nature. By C. Smart, M.A. 219

- Ode on St. Cecilia's Day. By the same. 222

- The Seasons, in Imitation of Spenser. By Moses Mendez, Esq.

- Spring. 230

- Summer. 233

- Autumn. 237

- Winter. 240

- Ode to Liberty. By Doctor Jos. Warton. 243

- Ode to Health, written on a Recovery from the Small Pox. By the same. 246

- Ode to Superstition. By the same. 248

- Ode to a Gentleman upon his Travels through Italy. By the same. 250

- Ode against Despair. By the same. 253

- Ode to the Nightingale. By the same. 255

- Ode to a Lady who hates the Country. By the same. 256

- Ode to Solitude. By the same. 258

- Holkham, a Poem. By Mr. Potter. 259

- The Poor Man's Prayer, written in 1766, addressed to the Earl of Chatham. By —. 267

- Five Pastoral Eclogues.

- Eclogue I. 272

- Eclogue II. 277

- Eclogue III. 281

- Eclogue IV. Page 285

- Eclogue V. 290

- On the Peace of Aix-la-Chapelle, 1748. By Mr. Hurd. 295

- Laura, or the Complaint, an Elegy. By Dr. Marriot. 298

- Rinaldo and Armida, to a Lady singing. By the same. 307

- Sacred Ode. By the same. 309

- Inscription upon an Hermitage. By the same. 312

- Cansonetta. By the same. 313

- The Lover and the Friend. By — 314

- The Enthusiast, an Ode. By William Whitehead, Esq. 316

Information about this book

Title statement

A collection of poems in four volumes. By several hands: [pt.2]

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http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/4985

ID [isbn10]

1106019849

ID [isbn13]

9781106019844

ID [TCP]

K093079.002

ID [BIBNO]

CW3311995422

ID [ECLL]

0376600102

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Source

— A collection of poems in four volumes. By several hands, Pearch, G.. [The second edition].. 4v. ; 8⁰. London :: printed for G. Pearch,. 1770.. [Edited by George Pearch; a supplement to the collection edited by Robert Dodsley under the same title, first published in 1748.] [Edition statement from the half-titles of vols.1 and 2.] [Horizontal chain lines.] [Reproduction of original from the British Library.] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT116245.] [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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