VER. 3-6, originally thus:—Chaste Goddess of the woods,Nymphs of the vales, and Naïads of the floods,Lead me through arching bowers, and glimmering glades.Unlock your springs, &c.VER. 25-28. Originally thus:—Why should I sing our better suns or air,Whose vital draughts prevent the leech's care,While through fresh fields the enlivening odours breathe,Or spread with vernal blooms the purple heath?VER. 49, 50. Originally thus in the MS.—From towns laid waste, to dens and caves they ran(For who first stoop'd to be a slave was man.)VER. 57, 58:—No wonder savages or subjects slain—But subjects starved while savages were fed.VER. 91-94:—Oh may no more a foreign master's rage,With wrongs yet legal, curse a future age!Still spread, fair Liberty! thy heavenly wings,Breathe plenty on the fields, and fragrance on the springs.VER. 97-100:—When yellow autumn summer's heat succeeds,And into wine the purple harvest bleeds,The partridge feeding in the new-shorn fields,Both morning sports and evening pleasures yields.VER. 107-110. It stood thus in the first editions:—Pleased, in the General's sight, the host lie downSudden before some unsuspecting town;The young, the old, one instant makes our prize,And o'er their captive heads Britannia's standard flies.VER. 126—O'er rustling leaves around the naked groves.VER. 129—The fowler lifts his levell'd tube on high.VER. 233-236—Happy the man, who to the shades retires,But doubly happy, if the Muse inspires!Blest whom the sweets of home-felt quiet please;But far more blest, who study joins with ease.VER. 231, 232. It stood thus in the MS.—And force great Jove, if Jove's a lover still,To change Olympus, &c.VER. 265-268. It stood thus in the MS.—Methinks around your holy scenes I rove,And hear your music echoing through the grove:With transport visit each inspiring shadeBy god-like poets venerable made.VER. 273, 274—What sighs, what murmurs fill'd the vocal shore!His tuneful swans were heard to sing no more.VER. 288. All the lines that follow were not added to the poem till theyear 1710. What immediately followed this, and made the conclusion, werethese:—My humble Muse in unambitious strainsPaints the green forests and the flowery plains;Where I obscurely pass my careless days,Pleased in the silent shade with empty praise,Enough for me that to the listening swainsFirst in these fields I sung the sylvan strains.VER. 305, 306. Originally thus in the MS.—When brass decays, when trophies lie o'erthrown,And mouldering into dust drops the proud stone.VER. 319-322. Originally thus in the MS.—Oh fact accurst! oh sacrilegious brood,Sworn to rebellion, principled in blood!Since that dire morn what tears has Albion shed,Gods! what new wounds, &c.VER. 325, 326. Thus in the MS.—Till Anna rose and bade the Furies cease;'Let there be peace'—she said, and all was peace.Between VER. 328 and 329, originally stood these lines—From shore to shore exulting shouts he heard,O'er all his banks a lambent light appear'd,With sparkling flames heaven's glowing concave shone,Fictitious stars, and glories not her own.He saw, and gently rose above the stream;His shining horns diffuse a golden gleam:With pearl and gold his towery front was dress'd,The tributes of the distant East and West.VER. 361-364. Originally thus in the MS.—Let Venice boast her towers amidst the main,Where the rough Adrian swells and roars in vain;Here not a town, but spacious realm shall haveA sure foundation on the rolling wave.VER. 383-387 were originally thus—Now shall our fleets the bloody cross displayTo the rich regions of the rising day,Or those green isles, where headlong Titan steepsHis hissing axle in the Atlantic deeps:Tempt icy seas, &c.
MDCCVIII.
1 Descend, ye Nine! descend and sing;The breathing instruments inspire,Wake into voice each silent string,And sweep the sounding lyre;In a sadly-pleasing strainLet the warbling lute complain:Let the loud trumpet sound,Till the roofs all aroundThe shrill echoes rebound:While in more lengthen'd notes and slow,The deep, majestic, solemn organs blow.Hark! the numbers soft and clear,Gently steal upon the ear;Now louder, and yet louder rise,And fill with spreading sounds the skies;Exulting in triumph now swell the bold notes,In broken air, trembling, the wild music floats;Till, by degrees, remote and small,The strains decay,And melt away,In a dying, dying fall.2 By Music, minds an equal temper know,Nor swell too high, nor sink too low.If in the breast tumultuous joys arise,Music her soft, assuasive voice applies;Or, when the soul is press'd with cares,Exalts her in enlivening airs.Warriors she fires with animated sounds;Pours balm into the bleeding lover's wounds;Melancholy lifts her head,Morpheus rouses from his bed,Sloth unfolds her arms and wakes,Listening Envy drops her snakes;Intestine war no more our passions wage,And giddy factions hear away their rage.3 But when our country's cause provokes to arms,How martial music every bosom warms!So when the first bold vessel dared the seas,High on the stern the Thracian raised his strain,While Argo saw her kindred treesDescend from Pelion to the main.Transported demigods stood round,And men grew heroes at the sound,Inflamed with glory's charms:Each chief his sevenfold shield display'd,And half unsheath'd the shining blade:And seas, and rocks, and skies rebound,'To arms, to arms, to arms!'4 But when through all the infernal bounds,Which flaming Phlegethon surrounds,Love, strong as death, the poet ledTo the pale nations of the dead,What sounds were heard,What scenes appear'd,O'er all the dreary coasts!Dreadful gleams,Dismal screams,Fires that glow,Shrieks of woe,Sullen moans,Hollow groans,And cries of tortured ghosts!But, hark! he strikes the golden lyre;And see! the tortured ghosts respire,See, shady forms advance!Thy stone, O Sisyphus! stands still,Ixion rests upon his wheel.And the pale spectres dance!The Furies sink upon their iron beds,And snakes uncurl'd hang listening round their heads.5   'By the streams that ever flow,By the fragrant winds that blowO'er the Elysian flowers;By those happy souls who dwellIn yellow meads of asphodel,Or amaranthine bowers;By the hero's armèd shades,Glittering through the gloomy glades;By the youths that died for love,Wandering in the myrtle grove,Restore, restore Eurydice to life:Oh take the husband, or return the wife!'He sung, and hell consentedTo hear the poet's prayer:Stern Proserpine relented,And gave him back the fair.Thus song could prevailO'er death and o'er hell,A conquest how hard and how glorious!Though fate had fast bound herWith Styx nine times round her,Yet Music and Love were victorious.6 But soon, too soon, the lover turns his eyes:Again she falls, again she dies, she dies!How wilt thou now the fatal sisters move?No crime was thine, if 'tis no crime to love.Now under hanging mountains,Beside the falls of fountains,Or where Hebrus wanders,Rolling in meanders,All alone,Unheard, unknown,He makes his moan;And calls her ghost,For ever, ever, ever lost!Now with Furies surrounded,Despairing, confounded,He trembles, he glows,Amidst Rhodope's snows:See, wild as the winds, o'er the desert he flies;Hark! Haemus resounds with the bacchanals' cries—Ah see, he dies!Yet even in death Eurydice he sung,Eurydice still trembled on his tongue,Eurydice the woods,Eurydice the floods,Eurydice the rocks and hollow mountains rung.7    Music the fiercest grief can charm,And Fate's severest rage disarm:Music can soften pain to ease,And make despair and madness please:Our joys below it can improve,And antedate the bliss above.This the divine Cecilia found,And to her Maker's praise confined the sound.When the full organ joins the tuneful choir,The immortal powers incline their ear;Borne on the swelling notes our souls aspire,While solemn airs improve the sacred fire;And angels lean from heaven to hear.Of Orpheus now no more let poets tell,To bright Cecilia greater power is given;His numbers raised a shade from hell,Hers lift the soul to heaven.
CHORUS OF ATHENIANS.STROPHE I.Ye shades, where sacred truth is sought;Groves, where immortal sages taught:Where heavenly visions Plato fired,And Epicurus' lay inspired;In vain your guiltless laurels stoodUnspotted long with human blood.War, horrid war, your thoughtful walks invades,And steel now glitters in the Muses' shades.ANTISTROPHE I.O heaven-born sisters! source of art!Who charm the sense, or mend the heart;Who lead fair Virtue's train along,Moral truth, and mystic song!To what new clime, what distant sky,Forsaken, friendless, shall ye fly?Say, will ye bless the bleak Atlantic shore,Or bid the furious Gaul be rude no more?STROPHE II.When Athens sinks by fates unjust,When wild barbarians spurn her dust;Perhaps even Britain's utmost shoreShall cease to blush with strangers' gore,See Arts her savage sons control,And Athens rising near the pole!Till some new tyrant lifts his purple hand,And civil madness tears them from the land.ANTISTROPHE II.Ye gods! what justice rules the ball?Freedom and Arts together fall;Fools grant whate'er Ambition craves,And men, once ignorant, are slaves.Oh, cursed effects of civil hate,In every age, in every state!Still, when the lust of tyrant power succeeds,Some Athens perishes, some Tully bleeds.CHORUS OF YOUTHS AND VIRGINS.SEMICHORUS.O tyrant Love! hast thou possess'dThe prudent, learn'd, and virtuous breast?Wisdom and wit in vain reclaim,And arts but soften us to feel thy flame.Love, soft intruder, enters here,But entering learns to be sincere.Marcus with blushes owns he loves,And Brutus tenderly reproves.Why, Virtue, dost thou blame desire,Which Nature has impress'dWhy, Nature, dost thou soonest fireThe mild and generous breast?CHORUS.Love's purer flames the gods approve;The gods and Brutus bend to love:Brutus for absent Portia sighs,And sterner Cassius melts at Junia's eyes.What is loose love? a transient gust,Spent in a sudden storm of lust,A vapour fed from wild desire,A wandering, self-consuming fire.But Hymen's kinder flames unite,And burn for ever one;Chaste as cold Cynthia's virgin light,Productive as the sun.SEMICHORUS.Oh source of every social tie,United wish, and mutual joy!What various joys on one attend,As son, as father, brother, husband, friend!Whether his hoary sire he spies,While thousand grateful thoughts arise;Or meets his spouse's fonder eye;Or views his smiling progeny;What tender passions take their turns,What home-felt raptures move?His heart now melts, now leaps, now burns,With reverence, hope, and love.CHORUS.Hence, guilty joys, distastes, surmises,Hence, false tears, deceits, disguises,Dangers, doubts, delays, surprises,Fires that scorch, yet dare not shine!Purest love's unwasting treasure,Constant faith, fair hope, long leisure,Days of ease, and nights of pleasure;Sacred Hymen! these are thine.
Begone, ye critics, and restrain your spite,Codrus writes on, and will for ever write.The heaviest Muse the swiftest course has gone,As clocks run fastest when most lead is on;What though no bees around your cradle flew,Nor on your lips distill'd the golden dew,Yet have we oft discover'd in their steadA swarm of drones that buzz'd about your head.When you, like Orpheus, strike the warbling lyre,Attentive blocks stand round you and admire.Wit pass'd through thee no longer is the same,As meat digested takes a different name,But sense must sure thy safest plunder be,Since no reprisals can be made on thee.Thus thou may'st rise, and in thy daring flight(Though ne'er so weighty) reach a wondrous height.So, forced from engines, lead itself can fly,And ponderous slugs move nimbly through the sky.Sure Bavius copied Maevius to the full,And Chaerilus taught Codrus to be dull;Therefore, dear friend, at my advice give o'erThis needless labour; and contend no moreTo prove adull successionto be true,Since 'tis enough we find it so in you.
1 Happy the man, whose wish and careA few paternal acres bound,Content to breathe his native airIn his own ground.2 Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,Whose flocks supply him with attire,Whose trees in summer yield him shade,In winter fire.3 Blest, who can unconcern'dly findHours, days, and years slide soft away,In health of body, peace of mind,Quiet by day;4 Sound sleep by night; study and ease,Together mix'd; sweet recreation;And innocence, which most does please,With meditation.5 Thus let me live, unseen, unknown,Thus unlamented let me die,Steal from the world, and not a stoneTell where I lie.
1Â Â Vital spark of heavenly flame!Quit, oh quit this mortal frame:Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying,Oh the pain, the bliss of dying!Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife,And let me languish into life!2Â Â Hark! they whisper; angels say,'Sister Spirit, come away!'What is this absorbs me quite?Steals my senses, shuts my sight,Drowns my spirits, draws my breath?Tell me, my soul, can this be Death?3Â Â The world recedes; it disappears!Heaven opens on my eyes! my earsWith sounds seraphic ring!Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!O Grave! where is thy victory?O Death! where is thy sting?
What beckoning ghost, along the moonlight shadeInvites my steps, and points to yonder glade?'Tis she!—but why that bleeding bosom gored,Why dimly gleams the visionary sword?Oh, ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell,Is it, in heaven, a crime to love too well?To bear too tender, or too firm a heart,To act a lover's or a Roman's part?Is there no bright reversion in the sky,For those who greatly think, or bravely die?            10Why bade ye else, ye Powers! her soul aspireAbove the vulgar flight of low desire?Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes;The glorious fault of angels and of gods:Thence to their images on earth it flows,And in the breasts of kings and heroes glows.Most souls, 'tis true, but peep out once an age,Dull, sullen prisoners in the body's cage:Dim lights of life, that burn a length of yearsUseless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres;                20Like Eastern kings a lazy state they keep,And, close confined to their own palace, sleep.From these perhaps (ere Nature bade her die)Fate snatch'd her early to the pitying sky.As into air the purer spirits flow,And separate from their kindred dregs below;So flew the soul to its congenial place,Nor left one virtue to redeem her race.But thou, false guardian of a charge too good,Thou, mean deserter of thy brother's blood!             30See on these ruby lips the trembling breath,These cheeks, now fading at the blast of death;Cold is that breast which warm'd the world before,And those love-darting eyes must roll no more.Thus, if Eternal Justice rules the ball,Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall:On all the line a sudden vengeance waits,And frequent hearses shall besiege your gates.There passengers shall stand, and pointing say,(While the long funerals blacken all the way)           40'Lo, these were they, whose souls the Furies steel'd,And cursed with hearts unknowing how to yield.'Thus unlamented pass the proud away,The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day!So perish all, whose breast ne'er learn'd to glowFor others' good, or melt at others' woe.What can atone (O ever-injured Shade!)Thy fate unpitied, and thy rites unpaid?No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tearPleased thy pale ghost, or graced thy mournful bier,    50By foreign hands thy dying eyes were closed,By foreign hands thy decent limbs composed,By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd,By strangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd!What, though no friends in sable weeds appear,Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year,And bear about the mockery of woeTo midnight dances, and the public show?What, though no weeping loves thy ashes grace,Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face?                   60What, though no sacred earth allow thee room,Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb?Yet shall thy grave with rising flowers be dress'd,And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow,There the first roses of the year shall blow;While angels with their silver wings o'ershadeThe ground, now sacred by thy relics made.So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name,What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame.         70How loved, how honour'd once, avails thee not,To whom related, or by whom begot;A heap of dust alone remains of thee,'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung,Deaf the praised ear, and mute the tuneful tongue.Even he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays,Shall shortly want the generous tear he pays;Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part,And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart;       80Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er,The Muse forgot, and thou beloved no more!
To wake the soul by tender strokes of art,To raise the genius, and to mend the heart;To make mankind, in conscious virtue bold,Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold:For this the tragic Muse first trod the stage,Commanding tears to stream through every age;Tyrants no more their savage nature kept,And foes to virtue wonder'd how they wept.Our author shuns by vulgar springs to moveThe hero's glory, or the virgin's love;                 10In pitying love, we but our weakness show,And wild ambition well deserves its woe.Here tears shall flow from a more generous cause,Such tears as patriots shed for dying laws:He bids your breasts with ancient ardour rise,And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes.Virtue confess'd in human shape he draws,What Plato thought, and godlike Cato was:No common object to your sight displays,But what with pleasure59Heaven itself surveys,        20A brave man struggling in the storms of fate,And greatly falling with a falling state.While Cato gives his little senate laws,What bosom beats not in his country's cause?Who sees him act, but envies every deed?Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed?Even when proud Caesar, 'midst triumphal cars,The spoils of nations, and the pomp of wars,Ignobly vain and impotently great,Show'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in state;           30As her dead father's reverend image pass'd,The pomp was darken'd and the day o'ercast;The triumph ceased, tears gush'd from every eye;The world's great victor pass'd unheeded by;Her last good man dejected Rome adored,And honour'd Caesar's less than Cato's sword.Britons, attend: be worth like this approved,And show you have the virtue to be moved.With honest scorn the first famed Cato view'dRome learning arts from Greece, whom she subdued;       40Your scene precariously subsists too longOn French translation, and Italian song.Dare to have sense yourselves; assert the stage,Be justly warm'd with your own native rage;Such plays alone should win a British ear,As Cato's self had not disdain'd to hear.
Women ben full of ragerie,Yet swinken nat sans secresie.Thilke moral shall ye understond,From schoole-boy's tale of fayre Irelond:Which to the fennes hath him betake,To filche the gray ducke fro the lake.Right then, there passen by the wayHis aunt, and eke her daughters tway.Ducke in his trowses hath he hent,Not to be spied of ladies gent.                         10'But ho! our nephew!' crieth one;'Ho!' quoth another, 'Cozen John;'And stoppen, and lough, and callen out,—This sely clerke full low doth lout:They asken that, and talken this,'Lo here is Coz, and here is Miss.'But, as he glozeth with speeches soote,The ducke sore tickleth his erse roote:Fore-piece and buttons all to-brest,Forth thrust a white neck, and red crest.               20'Te-he,' cried ladies; clerke nought spake:Miss stared; and gray ducke crieth 'Quaake.''O moder, moder!' quoth the daughter,'Be thilke same thing maids longen a'ter?Bette is to pyne on coals and chalke,Then trust on mon, whose yerde can talke.'
THE ALLEY.1 In every town, where Thamis rolls his tyde,A narrow pass there is, with houses low;Where ever and anon the stream is eyed,And many a boat soft sliding to and fro.There oft are heard the notes of infant woe,The short thick sob, loud scream, and shriller squall:How can ye, mothers, vex your children so?Some play, some eat, some cack against the wall,And as they crouchen low, for bread and butter call.2 And on the broken pavement, here and there,Doth many a stinking sprat and herring lie;A brandy and tobacco shop is near,And hens, and dogs, and hogs are feeding by;And here a sailor's jacket hangs to dry.At every door are sunburnt matrons seen,Mending old nets to catch the scaly fry;Now singing shrill, and scolding oft between;Scolds answer foul-mouth'd scolds; bad neighbourhood, I ween.3 The snappish cur (the passenger's annoy)Close at my heel with yelping treble flies;The whimpering girl, and hoarser-screaming boy,Join to the yelping treble shrilling cries;The scolding quean to louder notes doth rise,And her full pipes those shrilling cries confound;To her full pipes the grunting hog replies;The grunting hogs alarm the neighbours round,And curs, girls, boys, and scolds, in the deep base are drown'd.4 Hard by a sty, beneath a roof of thatch,Dwelt Obloquy, who in her early daysBaskets of fish at Billingsgate did watch,Cod, whiting, oyster, mack'rel, sprat, or plaice:There learn'd she speech from tongues that never cease.Slander beside her, like a magpie, chatters,With Envy (spitting cat!), dread foe to peace;Like a cursed cur, Malice before her clatters,And vexing every wight, tears clothes and all to tatters.5 Her dugs were mark'd by every collier's hand,Her mouth was black as bull-dog's at the stall:She scratchèd, bit, and spared ne lace ne band,And 'bitch' and 'rogue' her answer was to all;Nay, even the parts of shame by name would call:Yea, when she passèd by or lane or nook,Would greet the man who turn'd him to the wall,And by his hand obscene the porter took,Nor ever did askance like modest virgin look.6 Such place hath Deptford, navy-building town,Woolwich and Wapping, smelling strong of pitch;Such Lambeth, envy of each band and gown,And Twick'nam such, which fairer scenes enrich,Grots, stutues, urns, and Jo—n's dog and bitch,Ne village is without, on either side,All up the silver Thames, or all adown;Ne Richmond's self, from whose tall front are eyedVales, spires, meandering streams, and Windsor's towery pride.
OF A LADY SINGING TO HER LUTE.Fair charmer, cease! nor make your voice's prize,A heart resign'd, the conquest of your eyes:Well might, alas! that threaten'd vessel fail,Which winds and lightning both at once assail.We were too blest with these enchanting lays,Which must be heavenly when an angel plays:But killing charms your lover's death contrive,Lest heavenly music should be heard alive.Orpheus could charm the trees, but thus a tree,
Taught by your hand, can charm no less than he:A poet made the silent wood pursue,This vocal wood had drawn the poet too.
'Come, gentle Air!' the Aeolian shepherd said,While Procris panted in the secret shade;'Come, gentle Air!' the fairer Delia cries,While at her feet her swain expiring lies.Lo! the glad gales o'er all her beauties stray,Breathe on her lips, and in her bosom play!In Delia's hand this toy is fatal found,Nor could that fabled dart more surely wound:Both gifts destructive to the givers prove;Alike both lovers fall by those they love.Yet guiltless too this bright destroyer lives,At random wounds, nor knows the wound she gives:She views the story with attentive eyes,And pities Procris, while her lover dies.
THE GARDEN.Fain would my Muse the flowery treasures sing,And humble glories of the youthful Spring;Where opening roses breathing sweets diffuse,And soft carnations shower their balmy dews;Where lilies smile in virgin robes of white,The thin undress of superficial light,And varied tulips show so dazzling gay,Blushing in bright diversities of day.Each painted floweret in the lake belowSurveys its beauties, whence its beauties grow;         10And pale Narcissus on the bank, in vainTransformèd, gazes on himself again.Here aged trees cathedral walks compose,And mount the hill in venerable rows:There the green infants in their beds are laid,The garden's hope, and its expected shade.Here orange-trees with blooms and pendants shine,And vernal honours to their autumn join;Exceed their promise in the ripen'd store,              20Yet in the rising blossom promise more.There in bright drops the crystal fountains play,By laurels shielded from the piercing day:Where Daphne, now a tree, as once a maid,Still from Apollo vindicates her shade,Still turns her beauties from the invading beam,Nor seeks in vain for succour to the stream.The stream at once preserves her virgin leaves,At once a shelter from her boughs receives,Where summer's beauty midst of winter stays,And winter's coolness spite of summer's rays.           30