Frogmore Lodge, Windsor.
Printed by E. Harding,
Frogmore Lodge, Windsor.
[ p.iii ]
|The Tear in imitation of Anacreon.||1|
|The Rose and Willows||2|
|Love out of Place||3|
|The flight of Time||5|
|Epitaph on the year 1806||7|
|The two Pugs a true Story||8|
|Cantata from the German,||10|
|Directions to the Porter||15|
|Ode to a Fountain||17|
|The Mansion of Rest||21|
|Good Bye and How d'ye do||28|
|The Mother's Alarm, imitated from the Greek||31|
|The Emigrants Grave||36|
| Ode to Hope in imitation of the Twenty Sixth
Sonnet in the Collection called the Scelta
from Carlo Maggi
On a Young and beautiful poor Girl found dead,
to all appearance starved by Hunger and Cold.
|Sonnet to a group of Violets.||48|
|Verses on the spring called "Jenny Lacey" at New-
|Ode to the memory of William Cowper Esq'r.||54|
| Sonnet addressed to Britannia translated from
the Italion of Marotti
|Creation and Redemption||58|
|Hymn to be sung to Pleyels German Hymn.||60|
|A Prospect of the Fens: taken from Tolethorpe.||65|
|The death of th [lit.] Brave.||68|
|The harp of Sorrow||70|
|Ode on Summer.||77|
|Epitaph written by a Clergyman for himself.||81|
|To a Primrose||82|
|Pour Dire Adieu.||84|
|The Winters day.||87|
|Fragments of a College exercise.||89|
In Imitation of ANACREON.
ON beds of snow the moon beam slept,|
And chilly was the midnight gloom,
When by the damp grave Ellen wept,
Sweet maid ! it was her Linder's tomb!
A warm tear gush'd; the wintry air
An angel, wand'ring from her sphere,
YON lonely rose that climbs the caves,|
How bright its dew drop'd tint appears,
As if Aurora on its leaves,
Had left her blushes with her tears.
And see two dropping willows nigh,
Ah ! wish ye not, pale plants of woe,
Know'st thou two hearts by love subdued?
I'M a boy of all work, a complete little servant,|
But now out of place like a tramper I rove,
Though in waiting so handy, in duty so fervent,
The heart, could you think it? has turn'd away love.
He pretends to require, growing older and older,
He fancies that friendship my puritan brother,
He thinks his new porter, stern featur'd suspicion,
Too late he will own when with famine tormented,|
That my skill at a feast was all praises above;
For the heart though with sweets in profusion pre-
Will starve at a banquet unseason'd by love.
TOO late I staid, forgive the crime;|
Unheeded flew the hours,
How noiseless falls the foot of time
That only treads on flowers!
What eye with clear account remarks
Oh ! who to sober measurement,
'TIS gone with its thorns and its roses,|
With the dust of dead ages to mix,
Time's charnel for ever incloses
The year Eighteen hundred and six.
Though many may question thy merit,
My blame and my blessing thou sharest,
If thine was a gloom the compleatest,
One hand gave the balmy corrector|
Of ills which the other had brew'd;
One draught from thy chalice of nectar
All taste of thy bitters subdued.
Then go, and take with thee thy praises,
A TRUE STORY.
TWO pugs within the same hotel,|
In different lodgings chanc'd to dwell
One serv'd a Briton, one a Gaul,
And to each other thus they call;
"Pray Madam," said the Gallick Pug,
"Say why so cheerful and so snug:
"You seem unconsious of your woe,
"Condemn'd to lick a tyrant's toe,
"Immur'd to serve for sordid gain,
"And doom'd to wear a despot's chain !
"Chain !" cried the British Pug, "my dear,
"You're strangely blind: no chain I fear;
"Free as the winds I sport and play,
"'Tis love alone commands my stay;
"Behold my neck ; how smooth, how sleek !
"Forgive me if the truth I speak,
"Those tinkling bells, those ribbands fair,|
"Proclaim 'tis you the collar wear."
From Dover who to Calais goes,
/ p.10 /
FROM THE GERMAN.
The new born insect, sporting in the sun,|
Is the true semblance of my infant state;
When ev'ry prize for which life's race is run
Was hidden from me by malignant fate.
Instant destruction quench'd each visual ray;
Where am I plung'd, with trembling voice I cried,
Vain are affliction's sobs, or piercing cries,
How should I wander through the bloomy maze,|
Or bear the black monotony of woe,
Did not maternal kindness gild my days,
And guide my devious footsteps to and fro !
"I am the genious of that gentle art
"Which soothes the sorrows of mankind;
"And to my faithful votaries impart
"Extatic joys the most refin'd.
"On earth, each bard sublime my pow'r displays;|
"Divine Cecilia was my own;
"In Heav'n, each saint and seraph breathes my lays
"In praises round th' eternal Throne.
Then, gently leading to the new-made lyre,
He placed my fingers on the speaking keys :
With these," he cries "thou listning crowds shalt fire
And rapture teach on ev'ry heart to seize."
Elastic force my nerves new braced,
Theresa ! great in goodness as in pow'r !|
Whose fav'rite use of boundless sway
Was benefits on all to show'r,
And wipe the tear of wretchedness away !
When first my hand and voice essay'd
But now, alas ! this friend of woe,
How sweet the pity of the good,
How grateful is their praise,
How ev'ry sorrow is subdued
When they applaud my lays !
When midnight o'er the moonless skies|
Her pall of transient death has spread;
When mortals sleep, when spectres rise,
And nought is wakeful but the dead:
No shivering ghost my way pursues,
The shade of youthful hope is there,
What empty shadows glimmer nigh ?
Thou faithful guardian of these peaceful walls,|
Whose zealous care protects thy master's gate,
If any stranger at this mansion calls,
I'll tell thee who shall enter, who shall wait.
If fortune, blindfold goddess, chance to knock,
If sober wisdom hither deigns to roam,
If at my door a beauteous boy be seen;
His gentle smiles admittance ever win,|
Though oft deceiv'd, I prize the fond deluder !
Morn, noon, and night, be sure you let him in,
For love, dear love, is never an intruder.
Sequester'd Fountain ! ever pure,|
Whose smooth, meand'ring rill,
In gentle murmurs glides obscure,
Beneath thy parent hill;
Tired with ambition's fruitless strife,
I quit the stormy scenes of life,
To shape my course by thine,
And pleased, from serious trifles turn,
While thus around thy little urn,
A votive wreath I twine.
Fair fountain ! on thy margin green,
And some soft virtue in thee flow,|
To mitigate the pangs of woe,
And bid the heart be calm.
Fair Fountain ! to thy gelid streams,
For what availas the wretch to bear
Tow'rds the wild waste he casts his eye,|
Nor can that happy port descry,
The bosom of a friend.
How chang'd since that propitious time,
Ah me ! to youth's ingenuous eye,
There no mean cares admission find,|
Love is the business of mankind,
And honor rules the globe.
But if those lights fallacious prove,
I talk'd to my flattering heart,|
And I chid its wild wandering ways;
I charg'd it from folly to part,
And to husband the best of its days;
I bade it no longer admire
The meteors that fancy had drest;
I whisper'd, twas time to retire,
And seek for a mansion of rest.
A charmer was list'ning the while,
But the sweetest of moments will fly;|
Not long was my fancy beguil'd;
For too soon I confess'd, with a sigh,
That the syren deceiv'd while she smil'd;
Deep, deep, did she stab the repose
Of my trusting and innocent breast,
And the door of each avenue close
That led to the mansion of rest.
Then friendship entic'd me to stray
Pleasure's path I determin'd to try,
She cry'd as she shew'd me a grave,|
With nettles and wild flowers drest,
O'er which the dark cypress did wave,
"Behold there the mansion of rest,"
She spoke, and half vanish'd in air,
Play not with young Cupid, ladies|
As with other childish boys,
Subtle, cruel, Cupid made is,
Dangerous, fatal are his toys.
Play not with them tho' they charm ye,
Heedless virgins then be wary
First he with his feather tickles,
Warbling redbreast ! have I found thee|
In thine ivy tree ?
Let the echoing rocks around thee
Send thy notes to me.
Once, I own, with spring delighted,
Whilst her flowers and songs invited,
Once, I own, sweet bird ! I slighted
Thy green bush and thee.
When with wreaths of roses blooming
Now, by wint'ry blasts invaded,|
Rural joys forgot,
Every nectared flower is faded,
Mute each tuneful throat,
But though cold, and wet, and weary,
As ye tread these vallies dreary,
Still the ivy's leaf shall cheer ye,
Still the redbreast's note.
Julia ! to yon sweet musician,
Age's winter soon advances,
Seek some breast sincere ! fair maiden;|
There affection blooms unfading,
There you'll find the ivy shading,
There the Redbreast's song.
|One day good bye met how d'ye do,|
Too close to shun saluting
But soon the rival sisters flew
From kissing to disputing.
Away" says how d'ye do," your mien
Whene'er I give one sunshine hour
Ere how d'ye do has tun'd each tongue
From sorrow past, my chymic skill|
Draws smiles of consolation,
Whilst you from present joys distil
The tears of separation."
Good bye replied" your statement's true
Without my prior influence
How oft, if at the court of love,
|How oft, when Cupid's fires decline,|
As every heart remembers,
One sigh of mine, and only mine
Revives the dying embers.
Go, bid the timid lover choose,
From love and friendship's kindred source
'Tis well the world our merit knows,
IMITATED FROM THE GREEK
With gaudy flowers the cliff was gay,|
A child had thither crept in play,
And o'er the brink was bending:
The mother came ! she saw her boy,
Her love, her pride, her hope, her joy,
One crag his fate suspending.
He stretch'd to reach the flowers below,
As none but mother's feel, she felt !
Then from her breast the gauze removed,|
And softly sang the tune he loved,
Some lullabying ditty.
He knew the song, which oft to rest
The tear I shed must ever fall,|
I mourn not for an absent swain,
For thought may past delight recall,
And parted lovers meet again.
I weep not for the silent dead,
Their toils are past, their sorrows o'er;
And those they lov'd their steps shall tread,
And death shall join to part no more.
Tho' boundless oceans roll'd between,
But bitter, bitter are the tears|
Of her who slighted love bewails,
No hope her dreary prospect chears,
No pleasing melancholy hails :
Her's are the pangs of wounded pride,
Of blasted hope, of wither'd joy,
The flattering veil is rent aside,
The flame of love burns to destroy.
In vain does memory renew
No cold approach, no alter'd mien,
From hope, the wretched's anchor, torn|
Neglected, and neglecting all,
Friendless, forsaken, and forlorn,
The tears I shed must ever fall.
Why mourn ye, why strew ye those flow'rets around,|
To yon new sodded grave, as your slow steps advance?
In yon new sodded grave, (ever dear be the ground!)
Lies the stranger we lov'd, the poor exile of France.
And is the poor exile at rest from his woe,
Oh ! kind was his nature, tho' bitter his fate,
Ever joyless himself, in the joys of the plain
One pleasure he knew, in his straw cover'd shed,|
For the snow beaten beggar his faggot to trim,
One tear of delight he could drop on the bread
Which he shar'd with the poor, the still poorer than
And when round his death bed profusely we cast,
Poor exile adieu ! undisturb'd be thy sleep !
To the church going bride shall thy mem'ry impart,
Soon the tear shall be dry, soon the flow'r shall be sere,|
Which mourners on earth, to these ashes have given,
But Heav'n from thy lips the sad story will hear,
For music like thine, is the language of Heav'n.
Oh ! then shall his turf bed with flow'rs ever crown'd,
IN IMITATION OF THE TWENTY SIXTH SONNET
IN THE COLLECTION CALLED THE SCELTA,
FROM CARLO MAGGI.
IN THE COLLECTION CALLED THE SCELTA,
FROM CARLO MAGGI.
Bright hope ! anticipated flower,|
Whose sweetness marks descriptions power,
Faith's darling progeny,
Parent of comfort, nurse of love,
Benignant present from above
To weak mortality;
By thee impell'd, by thee endued
Already by thy aid benign,|
Methinks I taste those joys divine,
Which, thro' a Saviour's grace,
Tho' passion oft our feet betray
In errors dang'rous paths to stray
Still wait the human race :
Whate'er my faults, whate'er my grief
Protect me still celestial power,
Why should men poor sparrows shoot?|
"Why ! they rob us of our fruit:
"All our cherry trees infest,
"Eat the ripest and the best;
"Who can e'er a table deck
"With the fruit these rascals peck?
Thus the question you decide,
Thus your gun is justified;
One among the pilfering race
Yonder listens to your case,
Cocks aside his cunning eyes,
Chirps, and doubtless thus replies.
"This for doctrine then you give
"Man alone was made to live,
"The rain of Heav'n, the genial ray,
("If sparrow things so fine may say)
"That made your trees and cherries grow,
"God could ne'er for birds bestow.
"Prove me these by right your own|
"Special gifts, to Man alone,
"Then I'll own the race that fly,
"Merely live to starve and die,
"But 'till then excuse my plan
"Still to feast where'er I can.
Reasons sound as these appear,
Strange it is you should not hear.
T'other day your lib'ral hand,
Prompt at charity's command,
One who your assistance crav'd,
From a prison's mis'ry sav'd
With such a deed how great the strife,
To rob these merry rogues of life,
To stop their ever gay vagaries,
For what ? to save a pound of Cherries.
Few the days that life affords,
Very few the life of Birds,
Short and free of grief or care,
Light as is their native air,
Take not then such lives away,|
Let them live while they may.
Sparrows ! were a garden mine,
Thick with Cherry tree or vine,
Freely might you revel there
Seed or berry freely share.
I can see no reason why
Man should bound our charity,
Why like niggards we should spare it,
When so cheaply you may share it.
BY HUNGER AND COLD.
Ill fated daughter of distress and woe,|
Whate'er thy sorrows or whoe'er thou art,
For thee the tear of charity shall flow,
Warm from the purest fountain of the heart.
Perhaps tho' now neglected and unknown,
For thee perhaps they toil'd and watch'd and pray'd,
When dawning reason shed her ray benign,|
And all thy excellence became reveal'd,
How did they see thy op'ning virtues shine,
And hear thy praife with transport ill conceal'd.
For who alas can know thy secret worth,
The lips that knew no friend to bid farewell,
Some base deceiver practis'd to betray,
Poor wanderer, perhaps thou coulds't no find
Insatiate avarice the soul confin'd|
Or timid prudence disbeliev'd thy pray'r.
Then from the world despairing and forlorn,
Mine be a Cot beside the hill,|
A bee hive's hum shall sooth my ear,
A willowy brook that turns a mill,
With many a fall shall linger near.
The swallow oft beneath my thatch
Around my ivy'd porch shall spring
The village Church among the trees,
What tho' I've brought you from your native glade|
Where midst the wildlings of the wood ye grew,
Where 'neath the friendly covert of their shade,
Your azure cups were fill'd with morn's sweet dew;
Droop not, meek flow'rs! 'tis not the school boy's hand
That tears ye, wanton, from your lovely bed;
Nor the rude clown, who weaves you in a band
Of uncouth form, to bind around his head:
No, 'tis a lover bears you to his home,
A fond memorial of his Rosa's charms,
Ye bring to mind th' empurpled veins that roam
O'er the dear surface of her snow-white arms:
And Heav'ns bright beam, that your lov'd tint supplies,
Pourtrays the lustre of her laughing eyes !
One day a fair and blooming Maid,|
In all celestial charms array'd,
With perfect form enchanting smile,
Call'd at a poor man's door awhile.
The house that hour to his surprize,
Became a palace in his eyes.
He woo'd her much to be his own:
She smil'd, but was not to be won;
"For I have many friends to view
"Each day, she said, as well as you"
Yet so indulgent was her care,
She seem'd to be for ever there.
She call'd at morn, she call'd at night,
And all immediately went right;
No fear, no sorrow durst invade
The house where she her visit paid;
'Twas rapture all, the rising sun
Smil'd on the scenes of bliss begun;
The conscious moon, with light serene,|
Beheld the same continued scene.
Some months of this sweet dream had pass'd:
The poor man saw his friend at last,
With wings he never spied before,
Approach but enter not his door.
She spread her wings prepar'd to fly,
"My friend" she said, and seem'd to sigh,
"Adieu, I grieve to check your mirth
"But we must meet no more on earth."
Bent to the Heav'nly vision low,
In vain he wept and told his woe;
"One," she reply'd, "I must obey
"Commands my flight, forbids my stay.
"But lest with unavailing pain,
"You seek to find me out again,
"What yet you have not known I'll tell
"Both who I am and where I dwell."
"Ah, ! cry'd the swain, too well I guess
"Your name bright maid is happiness."
She mil'd assent: "then know my plan|
"I make no fix'd abode with man;
"Invited and ador'd by all
"On some like you I deign to call;
"But if you would not have me roam,
"Tis' you must seek my native home;
"To mortals lent, but never given,
"I visit here, my home is Heaven.
ON THE SPRING
CALLED "JENNY LACEY" AT NEWBURGH.
Who e'er thou art by chance or fancy led|
These wild, romantic, scenes and woods to tread,
Stop; and survey the stream that decks the glade,
A fountain now, but once a beauteous maid.
The silver spring that meets and courts thy view,
Its source from Hildebert de Lacey drew,
His youngest daughter; and sure Father ne'er
Possess'd a child so duteous and so fair;
But by that Father doom'd to yield her charms,
A legal harlot to detested arms,
Hither she fled; alas ! too soon to know
The sad variety of human woe.
Here her De Newbro's form she first survey'd
Here the young Beadsman first address'd the maid,
Here first they sigh'd with nature's soft desires,
Here own'd their loves, and mourn'd their hapless fires.
Blest could sweet marriage rites have join'd their hands,|
But holy Church forbids, and God withstands;
Then tir'd of life, and hopeless of relief,
She Heav'n in mercy pray'd to end her grief,
Heav'n heard, and story tells as here she lay,
Sudden in tears the nymph dissolv'd away.
And still the faithful stream records her pains,
Still Jane de Lacey's well known name retains.
Churchman or soldier, bold, or gentle maid,
Spare one poor sigh, one tear to sooth her shade;
Cold chastity shall smooth her brow severe,
Soft pity bless, and Heav'n forgive the tear.
Solemn without dulness;
Contemplative without melancholy;
Romantic without affectation;
And chearful without noise.
TO THE MEMORY
OF WILLIAM COWPER ESQ'R
"Seraph !" from Heaven's eternal throne
Slow the solemn accents roll,
"Thou, by whose hand on David's favor'd soul
"Through clouds of grief my mercy shone:
"To him, whom now 'tis thine to guard,
"A blessing in affliction's form convey.
"Go, gently on the christian bard
"The wand of sorrow lay."
The obedient spirit flies.
"From the flame's refining power|
"More pure the gold of Ophir flows:
"From affliction's fiery hour
"More bright the christian's virtue glows.
"Bard, lov'd of Heaven ! thy saviour's face
"Though clouds and darkness hide;
"'Tis but a moment, canst thou doubt his grace?
"For thee the saviour died."
Around the unconcious bard with pitying gaze
The heavenly squadrons stand.
With pealing swell and solemn pause
He sings the Great Redeemer's praise.
Nigh the raptur'd seraph draws:
With smiles of love he waves his hand;
And cries, "'tis mercy," while he lays
On Cowper's brow the wand.
With nerves unstrung, and aspect pale
The son of sorrow lies:
And sad and wildering visions sail|
Before his vacant eyes.
"Seraph !" from God's eternal throne,
Hark, the dread behest again!
"The gold is tried: bid cease my servant's pain:
"Go, make the Heaven he sang his own."
"Secure thy truth, untired thy love,
"Parent of good !" angelic hymns reply,
"To saints that live in bliss above,
"To saints, below that die,"
On sorrow's couch reclined
Behold the bard ! mark ye the beamless glance,
Wide wandering slow in dizzy trance,
The sign that speaks the wounded mind ?
Weak his hand ! yet still it strays,
Sweet lyre, athwart thy hallow'd frame:
TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN OF MAROTTI.
Thy claim with justice every land allows,|
Immortal Isle ! Of Ocean Queen confest!
See to thy warrior Thames the haughty West
Submissive bends, subdued Aurora bows !
'Tis thine the drooping virtues now to raise,
But, Oh ! what glories to thy brows impart
Unequal to the theme the poet stands
Lord ! when we Creation scan,|
What thy power has done for man,
Lord ! our conscious hearts agree
How much man must owe to Thee.
Every note that cheers the vale,
Every sweet that scents the gale,
Every blooming flower we see
Tells that Joy we owe to Thee.
Every breath that heaves the breast,
Every sound by voice exprest,
Every thought the mind sets free,
Tells that Life we owe to Thee.
But when we Redemption view,|
Gaze on all thy love could do;
Lord ! Our grateful hearts agree
How much more we owe to thee
When we think what we had been,
Sunk in sorrow, lost in sin;
Sure, from sin and sorrow free,
More than Joy we owe to Thee.
When we hear our Master say
"Death is vanquish'd—Come away
"Heav'n is yonrs" [lit.] —we all must see
More than life we owe to thee
Oh my God, thy servant hear,|
To my prayer incline thine ear;
When ruddy Morning streaks the skies,
To thee I lift mine opening eyes:
When the Sun conceals his head,
When I press the bed of death,
When the righteous Judge thy Son,|
Shall sit upon his Glory's Throne;
And all th' Angelick host shall see,
The dead arise from earth and Sea.
Oh then may I, and mine rejoice
Hail, lovely morn ! the drooping Spring|
Revives to greet the youthful May,
And all his treasur'd charms will bring
To doubly bless this hallow'd day.
The Sun dispels sad April's gloom,
O doubly welcome art thou, May,
And scatter'd by the driving hail—
With tottering steps the new-fall'n lamb|
Seeks shelter from th' inclement sky,
And meekly couches by its dam,
And faintly breathes its plaintive cry,
From yonder bush the blast so rude
All Nature felt the general chill,
But at thy mild approach, fair May ;
There on the primrose bank so fair|
Shall fresher, brighter flow'rets bloom,
And cowslips through the ambient air
Shall shed around their soft perfume.
The meek-eyed lamb on verdant plain
Again the glowing ray inspires,
TAKEN FROM TOLETHORPE [reversed 'E'] OAKS.
From wide extended Lawns, from op'ning Glades,|
From sunny summits, and imbow'ring shades,
From Fields for ever Fann'd by fragrant gales,
From silvr'y currents, and from flow'ry vales;
Turn'd from fair scenes, why hang my aching eyes
On scowling acres, and ungracious skies?
Where joyless seasons undistinguish'd sleep;
The floods all mourn, and all the valleys weep.
Where painted Ceres swells no golden grain;
Where Flora's absence saddens every plain.
With shiv'ring oziers where the Poplar pale
Pants by their side and sighs in every gale.
Where from burnt Turf black clouds incessant rise:|
On loaded wings whence daggled Zephyr flies.
And wafts the poison to remotest skies.
Ungentle sollitudes ! un-bless'd retreats !
Confus'dly mingling with the farthest skies,
O er all the land, through all the equal day,|
Dim twilight holds an uncontested sway.
In mud drench'd vales; which know no purer streams,
Through sullen skies, averse to mildest beams;
O'er one afflicted length of languid plains,
Dark over all transcendent dullness reigns.
How glorious the death for our country to die,|
When vanquish'd, when fallen her foes !
On vict'ry's soft bosom the Hero shall lie,
And sink in her arms to repose.
Tho' low in the dust his proud spirit expires,
Immortal shall bloom each bright wreath of his fame;
With tears shall fond beauty his ashes bedew,|
And breath a soft sigh o'er his breast;
Shall seek the first roses his grave to bestrew,
And guard the lone spot of his rest.
Hence Cowards ! who wake not to freedom's loud call,
I give my Harp to Sorrow's hand,|
And she has ruled the cords so long,
They will not speak at my command,
They warble only to her song.
Of dear departed hours,
Of long, long years of future care
The weeping Minstrel sings;|
And while her numbers flow,
My Spirit trembles thro' the strings,
And every note is full of woe.
Would gladness move a sprightlier strain,
And yet to soothe the mind
Thus o'er the light Æolian lyre,
Till all the air around,|
Mysterious murmurs fill,
—A strange bewildering dream of sound,
Most heavenly sweet,—yet mournful still.
O snatch the harp from Sorrow's hand,
Of vanish'd troubles sing,
Of home, contentment, health, repose,
Of bliss that reigns above,|
Celestial May of Youth,
Unchanging as JEHOVAH'S love,
And everlasting as his truth;—
Sing heavenly Hope—and dart thine hand
Ah ! then this gloom controul,
Bleak blows the wind—fast falls the snow,|
Sol's genial rays are fled;
The flood (frost's fiend forbids to flow,)
Sleeps on its pebbly bed.
Aquarius stern ! of rigid birth,
Domestic birds with ruby'd breast,
Shadeless, the forest monarch rears|
A lofty leafless head;
Whose naked spoils the rustic bears
To cheer his humble shed.
To yonder shiv'ring child of woe,
When seated at the banquet gay,
The favoured few, by Fortune blest,
Offspring of Pity ! at thy shrine,|
O ! let me suppliant bow,
Sweet Charity, bid Winter shine,
In Summer's brightest glow.
Deign, lovely Nymph, my pray'r to hear,
JOY to thee, bright har'd Summer! much I love|
To gaze upon thy full blown beauty's pride,
As thro' Val D'Arno's gloom
I take my lonely way.
What time dun vested Night her deep repose
Now the fierce Sun uprears his flaming shield,
While streams of yore renown'd with clear blue wave,|
Reflect his orient locks, and far away
Fair, but inconstant Spring,
Gathers her sweets and flies !
I see thee triumph o'er th' inactive plain,
'Tis then I seek the thick-wall'd Cloister's shade,
Or hear the light Cicala's ceaseless din.
As the proud day retires, the western hills|
Adorn their varied ridge with shadowy forms;
While fresh'ning Zephyr comes
To fan the cheek of Eve;
And to the wand'ring virgin of the sky,
While warbled measures fill the panting gale,
Or leads the lovers to some secret bow'r,
O, vagrant Insect ! Type of our short life,|
'Tis thus we shine and vanish from the view;
For the cold season comes,
And all our lustre's o'er !
Yet stay awhile, Sweet Summer ! nor too soon
WRITTEN BY A CLERGYMAN FOR HIMSELF.
Here rests one at length who before never rested|
Who laugh'd at all follies but those he detested,
Too rude and unpolish'd a Courtier to make
Too plain for a Beau, and too poor for a Rake.
Thus unfit for the world the ridiculous elf
Attempted amusement to find in himself.
So he fiddled and drew, and he wrote and he read,
Till a thousand odd fancies had half turn'd his head.
For those yet around him affections he had,
Would laugh with the merry and cry with the sad,
By the wise of the world still a fool he was thought,
For he spoke what he felt, and believed what he
Sweet, modest flow'ret, that, beneath the thorn,|
Unfold'st thy beauties in the lonely dell,
I meet thy fragrance in the breeze of morn,
In wilds where solitude and silence dwell.
Tho' garden flowers a richer tint display,
They oft demand the painter's nicest care;
While thou appear'st beneath some shelt'ring spray,
'Mid April's lingering frosts and piercing air.
How like the rustic poet's lot is thine !
Whom Nature taught the simple song to raise,
Doom'd in oblivion's darkest shades to pine,|
He chaunts—but seldom gains the meed of praise.
So, in some pathless desert thou art thrown,
To shed thy sweet perfume, and fade unknown.
When Delia calls pour dire adieu,|
What eye but drops the tear of sorrow !
What heart that half her merits knew,
But heaves a sigh, and dreads to morrow.
To-morrow ! sure no darker day
O Delia ! 'tis a pain to part
Of you adorn'd with ev'ry grace,|
To whom each gentle virtue's given,
Whose temper far trancends [lit.] a face
That symbols all we hope of heaven !
Whose beauty baffles all defence,
Be hush'd, ye winds ! ye seas subside !
My freindship fondly greet her there;
May he to whom her heart is giv'n,|
Still prize the treasure more than life;
Still bow in gratitude to heav'n,
And own the angel in the wife.
Yet think, lov'd Delia, while you stray
And should conjecture e'er suggest
Behold, alas ! Where'er we rove,|
What dreary prospects round us rise.
The naked hill, the leafless grove.
The hoary ground, the frozen skies;
Nor only through the wasted plain,
Still wider spreads thy horrid reign,
I feel thy power usurp my breast.
Enliv'ning hope, and fond desire,
In groundless hope, and causeless fear,|
Unhappy man behold thy doom,
Still changing with the changing year,
The slave of sunshine, and of gloom !
Health, who fan'st with breezy wing|
The genial bosom of the earth,
Who summon'st forth the green-robed spring,
And givest the silken flowr'et birth;
With laughing eye and rosy hue,
And hairs that shed nectareous dew,
Thy flowing garments unconfined.
With bounding step and frolick measures
Thou lead'st the buxom loves and pleasures,
Flinging sorrow to the wind—
With active pace before thee hies
The village swain, rude exercise;
Whose cheek contemns the sunny ray,|
Who early greets approaching day;
While from his waist depends the horn,
The horn,with whose enlivening sound,
He rouses gay the deep mouth'd hound
And cheerly welcomes in the morn.
Chaste temprance adorns thy train,
That loves to diet with the poor,
And cheerfulness with brow serene
That opes the shepherd's lowly door.
To Heav'ns own favourites only sent
With dove-like air comes meek content:
Before her fly disease and strife;
Around unnumber'd blessings spring;
Serene she waves her halcyon wing,
And calms the troubled sea of life.