Hence, iron-scepter'dwinter, hasteTo bleak Siberian waste!Haste to thy polar solitude;Mid cataracts of ice,Whose torrents dumb are stretch'd in fragments rude,From many an airy precipice,Where, ever beat by sleety show'rs,Thy gloomy Gothic castle tow'rs;Amid whose howling iles and halls,Where no gay sunbeam paints the walls,On ebon throne thou lov'st to shroud,Thy brows in many a murky cloud.E'en now, before the vernal heat,Sullen I see thy train retreat:Thy ruthless host sternEurusguides,That on a ravenous tiger rides,Dim-figur'd on whose robe are shewnShipwrecks, and villages o'erthrown:Grimauster, dropping all with dew,In mantle clad of watchet hue:Andcold, like Zemblan savage seen,Still threatening with his arrows keen;And next, in furry coat embostWith icicles, his brotherfrost.Winterfarewell! thy forests hoar,Thy frozen floods delight no more;Farewell the fields, so bare and wild!But come thou rose-cheek'd cherub mild,Sweetestsummer! haste thee here,Once more to crown the gladden'd year.Theeaprilblythe, as long of yore,Bermudas' lawns he frolick'd o'er,With muskie nectar-trickling wing,(In the new world's first dawning spring,)To gather balm of choicest dews,And patterns fair of various hues,With which to paint in changeful dye,The youthful earth's embroidery;To cull the essence of rich smellsIn which to dip his new-born bells;Thee, as he skim'd with pinions fleet,He found an infant, smiling sweet;Where a tall citron's shade imbrown'dThe soft lap of the fragrant ground.There on an amaranthine bed,Thee with rare nectarine fruits he fed;Till soon beneath his forming care,You bloom'd a goddess debonnair;And then he gave the blessed isleAye to be sway'd beneath thy smile:There plac'd thy green and grassy shrine,With myrtle bower'd and jessamine:And to thy care the task assign'dWith quickening hand, and nurture kind,His roseate infant-births to rear,Till Autumn's mellowing reign appear.Haste thee nymph! and hand in hand,With thee lead a buxom band;Bring fantastic-footed Joy,With Sport that yellow-tressed boy.Leisure, that through the balmy sky,Chases a crimson butterfly.Bring Health that loves in early dawnTo meet the milk-maid on the lawn;Bring Pleasure, rural nymph, and Peace,And that sweet stripling, Zephyr, bring,Meek, cottage-loving shepherdess!Light, and for ever on the wing.Bring the dear Muse, that loves to leanOn river-margins, mossy green.But who is she, that bears thy train,Pacing light the velvet plain?The pale pink binds her auburn hair,Her tresses flow with pastoral air;'Tis May the Grace——confest she standsBy branch of hawthorn in her hands:Lo! near her trip the lightsome Dews,Their wings all ting'd in iris-hues;With whom the pow'rs of Flora play,And paint with pansies all the way.Oft when thy season, sweetest Queen,Has drest the groves in liv'ry green;When in each fair and fertile fieldBeauty begins her bow'r to build;While Evening, veil'd in shadows brown,Puts her matron-mantle on,And mists in spreading steams conveyMore fresh the fumes of new-shorn hay;Then, Goddess, guide my pilgrim feetContemplation hoar to meet,As slow he winds in museful mood,Near the rush'd marge ofcherwell'sflood;Or o'er oldavon'smagic edge,Whence Shakespeare cull'd the spiky sedge,All playful yet, in years unripe,To frame a shrill and simple pipe.There thro' the dusk but dimly seen,Sweet ev'ning objects intervene:His wattled cotes the shepherd plants,Beneath her elm the milk-maid chants.The woodman, speeding home, awhileRests him at a shady stile.Nor wants there fragrance to dispenseRefreshment o'er my soothed sense;Nor tangled woodbines balmy bloom,Nor grass besprent, to breathe perfume:Nor lurking wild-thyme's spicy sweetTo bathe in dew my roving feet:Nor wants there note of Philomel,Nor sound of distant-tinkling bell:Nor lowings faint of herds remote,Nor mastiff's bark from bosom'd cott:Rustle the breezes lightly borneOf deep-embattel'd ears of corn:Round ancient elm, with humming noise,Full loud the chaffer-swarms rejoice.Meantime, a thousand dies investThe ruby chambers of the West!That all aslant the village tow'rA mild reflected radiance pour,While, with the level-streaming raysFar seen its arched windows blaze:And the tall grove's green top is dightIn russet tints, and gleams of light;So that the gay scene by degreesBathes my blythe heart in extasies;And Fancy to my ravish'd sightPourtrays her kindred visions bright.At length the parting-light subduesMy soften'd soul to calmer views,And fainter shapes of pensive joy,As twilight dawns, my mind employ,Till from the path I fondly strayIn musings lapt, nor heed the way;Wandering thro' the landscape still,Till Melancholy has her fill;And on each moss-wove border damp,The glow-worm hangs his fairy lamp.But when the Sun, at noon-tide hour,Sits throned in his highest tow'r;Me, heart-rejoicing Goddess, leadTo the tann'd hay-cock in the mead:To mix in rural mood amongThe nymphs and swains, a busy throng;Or, as the tepid odours breathe,The russet piles to lean beneath:There as my listless limbs are thrownOn couch more soft than palace down;I listen to the busy soundOf mirth and toil that hums around;And see the team shrill-tinkling pass,Alternate o'er the furrow'd grass.But ever, after summer show'r,When the bright sun's returning pow'r,With laughing beam has chas'd the storm,And chear'd reviving nature's form;By sweet-brier hedges, bathed in dew,Let me my wholsome path pursue;There issuing forth the frequent snail,Wears the dank way with slimy trail,While as I walk, from pearled bush;The sunny-sparkling drop I brush;And all the landscape fair I viewClad in robe of fresher hue:And so loud the blackbird singe,That far and near the valley rings.From shelter deep of shaggy rockThe shepherd drives his joyful flock;From bowering beech the mower blytheWith new-born vigour grasps the scythe;While o'er the smooth unbounded meadsHis last faint gleam the rainbow spreads.But ever against restless heat,Bear me to the rock-arch'd seat,O'er whose dim mouth an ivy'd oakHangs nodding from the low-brow'd rock;Haunted by that chaste nymph alone,Whose waters cleave the smoothed stone,Which, as they gush upon the ground,Still scatter misty dews around:A rustic, wild, grotesque alcove,Its side with mantling woodbines wove;Cool as the cave where Clio dwells,Whence Helicon's fresh fountain wells;Or noon-tide grott where Sylvan sleepsIn hoar Lycæum's piny steeps.Me, Goddess, in such cavern lay,While all without is scorch'd in day;Sore sighs the weary swain, beneathHis with'ring hawthorn on the heath;The drooping hedger wishes eve,In vain, of labour short reprieve!Meantime, on Afric's glowing sandsSmote with keen heat, the trav'ler stands:Low sinks his heart, while round his eyeMeasures the scenes that boundless lie,Ne'er yet by foot of mortal worn,Where Thirst, wan pilgrim, walks forlorn.How does he with some cooling waveTo slake his lips, or limbs to lave!And thinks, in every whisper low,He hears a bursting fountain flow.Or bear me to yon antique wood,Dim temple of sage Solitude!But still in fancy's mirror seenSome more romantic scene would please,There within a nook most dark,Where none my musing mood may mark;Let me in many a whisper'd riteThe Genius old of Greece invite,With that fair wreath my brows to bind,Which for his chosen imps he twin'd,Well nurtur'd in Pierian lore,On clear Ilissus' laureat shore.——Till high on waving nest reclin'd,The raven wakes my tranced mind!Or to the forest-fringed valeWhere widow'd turtles love to wail,Where cowslips clad in mantle meek,Nod their tall heads to breezes weak:In the midst, with sedges greyCrown'd, a scant riv'let winds its way,And trembling thro' the weedy wreaths,Around an oozy freshness breathes.O'er the solitary green,Nor cott, nor loitering hind is seen:Nor aught alarms the mute repose,Save that by fits an heifer lows:A scene might tempt some peaceful sageTo rear him a lone hermitage;Fit place his pensive eld might chuseOn virtue's holy lore to muse.Yet still the sultry noon t' appeaseSome more romantic scene might please;Or fairy bank, or magic lawn,By Spenser's lavish pencil drawn.Or bow'r in Vallambrosa's shade,By legendary pens pourtray'd.Haste let me shroud from painful light,On that hoar hill's aereal height,In solemn state, where waving wide,Thick pines with darkening umbrage hideThe rugged vaults, and riven tow'rsOf that proud castle's painted bow'rs,Whencehardyknute, a baron bold,In Scotland's martial days of old,Descended from the stately feast,Begirt with many a warrior-guest,To quell the pride of Norway's king,With quiv'ring lance and twanging string.As thro' the caverns dim I wind,Might I that holy legend find,By fairies spelt in mystic rhimes,To teach enquiring later times,What open force, or secret guile,Dash'd into dust the solemn pile.But when mild Morn in saffron stoleFirst issues from her eastern goal;Let not my due feet fail to climbSome breezy summit's brow sublime,Whence nature's universal face,Illumin'd smiles with new-born grace;The misty streams that wind below,With silver-sparkling lustre glow;The groves, and castled cliffs appearInvested all in radiance clear;O! every village-charm beneath!The smoke that mounts in azure wreath!O beauteous, rural interchange!The simple spire, and elmy grange!Content, indulging blissful hours,Whistles o'er the fragrant flow'rs,And cattle rouz'd to pasture new,Shake jocund from their sides the dew.'Tis thou, alone, Osummermild,Canst bid me carol wood-notes wild:Whene'er I view thy genial scenes:Thy waving woods, embroider'd greens;What fires within my bosom wake,How glows my mind the reed to take!What charms like thine the muse can call,With whom 'tis youth and laughter all;With whom each field's a paradise,And all the globe a Bow'r of bliss!With thee conversing, all the day,I meditate my lightsome lay.These pedant cloisters let me leave,To breathe my votive song at eve,In valleys where mild whispers use;Of shade and stream, to court the muse;While wand'ring o'er the brook's dim verge,I hear the stock-dove's dying dirge.But when life's busier scene is o'er,And Age shall give the tresses hoar,I'd fly soft Luxury's marble dome,And make an humble thatch my home,Which sloaping hills around enclose,Where many a beech and brown oak grows;Beneath whose dark and branching bow'rsIt's tides a far-fam'd river pours:By nature's beauties taught to please,Sweet Tusculane of rural ease!Still grot of Peace! in lowly shedWho loves to rest her gentle head.For not the scenes of Attic artCan comfort care, or sooth the heart:Nor burning cheek, nor wakeful eye,For gold, and Tyrian purple fly.Thither, kind heav'n, in pity lent,Send me a little, and content;The faithful friend, and chearful night,The social scene of dear delight:The conscience pure, the temper gay,The musing eve, and idle day.Give me beneath cool shades to sit,Rapt with the charms of classic wit:To catch the bold heroic flame,That built immortal Græcia's fame.Nor let me fail, meantime, to raiseThe solemn song to Britain's praise:To spurn the shepherd's simple reedsAnd paint heroic ancient deeds:To chaunt fam'darthur'smagic tale,Andedward, stern in fable mail.Or wand'ringbrutus'lawless doom,Or bravebonduca, scourge of Rome;O ever to sweet Poesie,Let me live true votary!She shall lead me by the hand,Queen of sweet smiles, and solace bland!She from her precious stores shall shedAmbrosial flow'rets o'er my head:She, from my tender youthful cheek,Can wipe, with lenient finger meek,The secret and unpitied tear,Which still I drop in darkness drear.She shall be my blooming bride,With her, as years successive glide,I'll hold divinest dalliance,For ever held in holy trance.
Hence, iron-scepter'dwinter, hasteTo bleak Siberian waste!Haste to thy polar solitude;Mid cataracts of ice,Whose torrents dumb are stretch'd in fragments rude,From many an airy precipice,Where, ever beat by sleety show'rs,Thy gloomy Gothic castle tow'rs;Amid whose howling iles and halls,Where no gay sunbeam paints the walls,On ebon throne thou lov'st to shroud,Thy brows in many a murky cloud.E'en now, before the vernal heat,Sullen I see thy train retreat:Thy ruthless host sternEurusguides,That on a ravenous tiger rides,Dim-figur'd on whose robe are shewnShipwrecks, and villages o'erthrown:Grimauster, dropping all with dew,In mantle clad of watchet hue:Andcold, like Zemblan savage seen,Still threatening with his arrows keen;And next, in furry coat embostWith icicles, his brotherfrost.Winterfarewell! thy forests hoar,Thy frozen floods delight no more;Farewell the fields, so bare and wild!But come thou rose-cheek'd cherub mild,Sweetestsummer! haste thee here,Once more to crown the gladden'd year.Theeaprilblythe, as long of yore,Bermudas' lawns he frolick'd o'er,With muskie nectar-trickling wing,(In the new world's first dawning spring,)To gather balm of choicest dews,And patterns fair of various hues,With which to paint in changeful dye,The youthful earth's embroidery;To cull the essence of rich smellsIn which to dip his new-born bells;Thee, as he skim'd with pinions fleet,He found an infant, smiling sweet;Where a tall citron's shade imbrown'dThe soft lap of the fragrant ground.There on an amaranthine bed,Thee with rare nectarine fruits he fed;Till soon beneath his forming care,You bloom'd a goddess debonnair;And then he gave the blessed isleAye to be sway'd beneath thy smile:There plac'd thy green and grassy shrine,With myrtle bower'd and jessamine:And to thy care the task assign'dWith quickening hand, and nurture kind,His roseate infant-births to rear,Till Autumn's mellowing reign appear.Haste thee nymph! and hand in hand,With thee lead a buxom band;Bring fantastic-footed Joy,With Sport that yellow-tressed boy.Leisure, that through the balmy sky,Chases a crimson butterfly.Bring Health that loves in early dawnTo meet the milk-maid on the lawn;Bring Pleasure, rural nymph, and Peace,And that sweet stripling, Zephyr, bring,Meek, cottage-loving shepherdess!Light, and for ever on the wing.Bring the dear Muse, that loves to leanOn river-margins, mossy green.But who is she, that bears thy train,Pacing light the velvet plain?The pale pink binds her auburn hair,Her tresses flow with pastoral air;'Tis May the Grace——confest she standsBy branch of hawthorn in her hands:Lo! near her trip the lightsome Dews,Their wings all ting'd in iris-hues;With whom the pow'rs of Flora play,And paint with pansies all the way.Oft when thy season, sweetest Queen,Has drest the groves in liv'ry green;When in each fair and fertile fieldBeauty begins her bow'r to build;While Evening, veil'd in shadows brown,Puts her matron-mantle on,And mists in spreading steams conveyMore fresh the fumes of new-shorn hay;Then, Goddess, guide my pilgrim feetContemplation hoar to meet,As slow he winds in museful mood,Near the rush'd marge ofcherwell'sflood;Or o'er oldavon'smagic edge,Whence Shakespeare cull'd the spiky sedge,All playful yet, in years unripe,To frame a shrill and simple pipe.There thro' the dusk but dimly seen,Sweet ev'ning objects intervene:His wattled cotes the shepherd plants,Beneath her elm the milk-maid chants.The woodman, speeding home, awhileRests him at a shady stile.Nor wants there fragrance to dispenseRefreshment o'er my soothed sense;Nor tangled woodbines balmy bloom,Nor grass besprent, to breathe perfume:Nor lurking wild-thyme's spicy sweetTo bathe in dew my roving feet:Nor wants there note of Philomel,Nor sound of distant-tinkling bell:Nor lowings faint of herds remote,Nor mastiff's bark from bosom'd cott:Rustle the breezes lightly borneOf deep-embattel'd ears of corn:Round ancient elm, with humming noise,Full loud the chaffer-swarms rejoice.Meantime, a thousand dies investThe ruby chambers of the West!That all aslant the village tow'rA mild reflected radiance pour,While, with the level-streaming raysFar seen its arched windows blaze:And the tall grove's green top is dightIn russet tints, and gleams of light;So that the gay scene by degreesBathes my blythe heart in extasies;And Fancy to my ravish'd sightPourtrays her kindred visions bright.At length the parting-light subduesMy soften'd soul to calmer views,And fainter shapes of pensive joy,As twilight dawns, my mind employ,Till from the path I fondly strayIn musings lapt, nor heed the way;Wandering thro' the landscape still,Till Melancholy has her fill;And on each moss-wove border damp,The glow-worm hangs his fairy lamp.But when the Sun, at noon-tide hour,Sits throned in his highest tow'r;Me, heart-rejoicing Goddess, leadTo the tann'd hay-cock in the mead:To mix in rural mood amongThe nymphs and swains, a busy throng;Or, as the tepid odours breathe,The russet piles to lean beneath:There as my listless limbs are thrownOn couch more soft than palace down;I listen to the busy soundOf mirth and toil that hums around;And see the team shrill-tinkling pass,Alternate o'er the furrow'd grass.But ever, after summer show'r,When the bright sun's returning pow'r,With laughing beam has chas'd the storm,And chear'd reviving nature's form;By sweet-brier hedges, bathed in dew,Let me my wholsome path pursue;There issuing forth the frequent snail,Wears the dank way with slimy trail,While as I walk, from pearled bush;The sunny-sparkling drop I brush;And all the landscape fair I viewClad in robe of fresher hue:And so loud the blackbird singe,That far and near the valley rings.From shelter deep of shaggy rockThe shepherd drives his joyful flock;From bowering beech the mower blytheWith new-born vigour grasps the scythe;While o'er the smooth unbounded meadsHis last faint gleam the rainbow spreads.But ever against restless heat,Bear me to the rock-arch'd seat,O'er whose dim mouth an ivy'd oakHangs nodding from the low-brow'd rock;Haunted by that chaste nymph alone,Whose waters cleave the smoothed stone,Which, as they gush upon the ground,Still scatter misty dews around:A rustic, wild, grotesque alcove,Its side with mantling woodbines wove;Cool as the cave where Clio dwells,Whence Helicon's fresh fountain wells;Or noon-tide grott where Sylvan sleepsIn hoar Lycæum's piny steeps.Me, Goddess, in such cavern lay,While all without is scorch'd in day;Sore sighs the weary swain, beneathHis with'ring hawthorn on the heath;The drooping hedger wishes eve,In vain, of labour short reprieve!Meantime, on Afric's glowing sandsSmote with keen heat, the trav'ler stands:Low sinks his heart, while round his eyeMeasures the scenes that boundless lie,Ne'er yet by foot of mortal worn,Where Thirst, wan pilgrim, walks forlorn.How does he with some cooling waveTo slake his lips, or limbs to lave!And thinks, in every whisper low,He hears a bursting fountain flow.Or bear me to yon antique wood,Dim temple of sage Solitude!But still in fancy's mirror seenSome more romantic scene would please,There within a nook most dark,Where none my musing mood may mark;Let me in many a whisper'd riteThe Genius old of Greece invite,With that fair wreath my brows to bind,Which for his chosen imps he twin'd,Well nurtur'd in Pierian lore,On clear Ilissus' laureat shore.——Till high on waving nest reclin'd,The raven wakes my tranced mind!Or to the forest-fringed valeWhere widow'd turtles love to wail,Where cowslips clad in mantle meek,Nod their tall heads to breezes weak:In the midst, with sedges greyCrown'd, a scant riv'let winds its way,And trembling thro' the weedy wreaths,Around an oozy freshness breathes.O'er the solitary green,Nor cott, nor loitering hind is seen:Nor aught alarms the mute repose,Save that by fits an heifer lows:A scene might tempt some peaceful sageTo rear him a lone hermitage;Fit place his pensive eld might chuseOn virtue's holy lore to muse.Yet still the sultry noon t' appeaseSome more romantic scene might please;Or fairy bank, or magic lawn,By Spenser's lavish pencil drawn.Or bow'r in Vallambrosa's shade,By legendary pens pourtray'd.Haste let me shroud from painful light,On that hoar hill's aereal height,In solemn state, where waving wide,Thick pines with darkening umbrage hideThe rugged vaults, and riven tow'rsOf that proud castle's painted bow'rs,Whencehardyknute, a baron bold,In Scotland's martial days of old,Descended from the stately feast,Begirt with many a warrior-guest,To quell the pride of Norway's king,With quiv'ring lance and twanging string.As thro' the caverns dim I wind,Might I that holy legend find,By fairies spelt in mystic rhimes,To teach enquiring later times,What open force, or secret guile,Dash'd into dust the solemn pile.But when mild Morn in saffron stoleFirst issues from her eastern goal;Let not my due feet fail to climbSome breezy summit's brow sublime,Whence nature's universal face,Illumin'd smiles with new-born grace;The misty streams that wind below,With silver-sparkling lustre glow;The groves, and castled cliffs appearInvested all in radiance clear;O! every village-charm beneath!The smoke that mounts in azure wreath!O beauteous, rural interchange!The simple spire, and elmy grange!Content, indulging blissful hours,Whistles o'er the fragrant flow'rs,And cattle rouz'd to pasture new,Shake jocund from their sides the dew.'Tis thou, alone, Osummermild,Canst bid me carol wood-notes wild:Whene'er I view thy genial scenes:Thy waving woods, embroider'd greens;What fires within my bosom wake,How glows my mind the reed to take!What charms like thine the muse can call,With whom 'tis youth and laughter all;With whom each field's a paradise,And all the globe a Bow'r of bliss!With thee conversing, all the day,I meditate my lightsome lay.These pedant cloisters let me leave,To breathe my votive song at eve,In valleys where mild whispers use;Of shade and stream, to court the muse;While wand'ring o'er the brook's dim verge,I hear the stock-dove's dying dirge.But when life's busier scene is o'er,And Age shall give the tresses hoar,I'd fly soft Luxury's marble dome,And make an humble thatch my home,Which sloaping hills around enclose,Where many a beech and brown oak grows;Beneath whose dark and branching bow'rsIt's tides a far-fam'd river pours:By nature's beauties taught to please,Sweet Tusculane of rural ease!Still grot of Peace! in lowly shedWho loves to rest her gentle head.For not the scenes of Attic artCan comfort care, or sooth the heart:Nor burning cheek, nor wakeful eye,For gold, and Tyrian purple fly.Thither, kind heav'n, in pity lent,Send me a little, and content;The faithful friend, and chearful night,The social scene of dear delight:The conscience pure, the temper gay,The musing eve, and idle day.Give me beneath cool shades to sit,Rapt with the charms of classic wit:To catch the bold heroic flame,That built immortal Græcia's fame.Nor let me fail, meantime, to raiseThe solemn song to Britain's praise:To spurn the shepherd's simple reedsAnd paint heroic ancient deeds:To chaunt fam'darthur'smagic tale,Andedward, stern in fable mail.Or wand'ringbrutus'lawless doom,Or bravebonduca, scourge of Rome;
O ever to sweet Poesie,Let me live true votary!She shall lead me by the hand,Queen of sweet smiles, and solace bland!She from her precious stores shall shedAmbrosial flow'rets o'er my head:She, from my tender youthful cheek,Can wipe, with lenient finger meek,The secret and unpitied tear,Which still I drop in darkness drear.She shall be my blooming bride,With her, as years successive glide,I'll hold divinest dalliance,For ever held in holy trance.
A
IN THE
MANNER OF SPENSER.
FROM THEOCRITUS. IDYLL XX.BY THE SAME.
I.
As late I strovelucilla'slip to kiss,She with discurtesee reprov'd my will;Dost thou, she said, affect so pleasaunt bliss,A simple shepherd, and a losell vile?Not Fancy's hand should join my courtly lipTo thine, as I myself were fast asleep.
As late I strovelucilla'slip to kiss,She with discurtesee reprov'd my will;Dost thou, she said, affect so pleasaunt bliss,A simple shepherd, and a losell vile?Not Fancy's hand should join my courtly lipTo thine, as I myself were fast asleep.
II.
As thus she spake, full proud and boasting lasse,And as a peacocke pearke, in dalliance,She bragly turned her ungentle face,And all disdaining ey'd my shape askaunce:But I did blush, with grief and shame yblent,Like morning-rose with hoary dewe besprent.
As thus she spake, full proud and boasting lasse,And as a peacocke pearke, in dalliance,She bragly turned her ungentle face,And all disdaining ey'd my shape askaunce:But I did blush, with grief and shame yblent,Like morning-rose with hoary dewe besprent.
III.
Tell me, my fellows all, am I not fair?Has fell enchantress blasted all her charms?Whilom mine head was sleek with tressed hayre,My laughing eyne did shoot out love's alarms:E'enkatedid deemen me the fairest swain,When erst I won this girdle on the plain.
Tell me, my fellows all, am I not fair?Has fell enchantress blasted all her charms?Whilom mine head was sleek with tressed hayre,My laughing eyne did shoot out love's alarms:E'enkatedid deemen me the fairest swain,When erst I won this girdle on the plain.
IV.
My lip with vermil was embellished,My bagpipes notes loud and delicious were,The milk-white lilly, and the rose so red,Did on my face depeinten lively cheere,My voice as soote as mounting larke did shrill,My look was blythe asmargaret'sat the mill.
My lip with vermil was embellished,My bagpipes notes loud and delicious were,The milk-white lilly, and the rose so red,Did on my face depeinten lively cheere,My voice as soote as mounting larke did shrill,My look was blythe asmargaret'sat the mill.
V.
But she forsooth, more fair thanmadgeorkate,A dainty maid, did deign not shepherd's love;Nor wist whatthenottold us swains of late;Thatvenussought a shepherd in a grove;Nor that a heav'nly god whophoebushight,To tend his flock with shepherds did delight.——
But she forsooth, more fair thanmadgeorkate,A dainty maid, did deign not shepherd's love;Nor wist whatthenottold us swains of late;Thatvenussought a shepherd in a grove;Nor that a heav'nly god whophoebushight,To tend his flock with shepherds did delight.——
VI.
Ah! 'tis thatvenuswith accurst despight,That all my dolour, and my shame has made!Nor does remembrance of her own delight,For me one drop of pity sweet persuade?Aye hence the glowing rapture may she miss,Like me be scorn'd, nor ever taste a kiss.
Ah! 'tis thatvenuswith accurst despight,That all my dolour, and my shame has made!Nor does remembrance of her own delight,For me one drop of pity sweet persuade?Aye hence the glowing rapture may she miss,Like me be scorn'd, nor ever taste a kiss.
ON A BEAUTIFUL
GROTTO NEAR THE WATER.
I.
The Graces sought in yonder stream,To cool the fervid day,When love's malicious godhead came,And stole their robes away.
The Graces sought in yonder stream,To cool the fervid day,When love's malicious godhead came,And stole their robes away.
II.
Proud of the theft, the little godTheir robes badedeliawear;While they, asham'd to stir abroad,Remain all naked here.
Proud of the theft, the little godTheir robes badedeliawear;While they, asham'd to stir abroad,Remain all naked here.
BY MR. SMOLLET.
I.
Where now are all my flatt'ring dreams of joy!Monimia, give my soul her wonted rest;—Since first thy beauty fix'd my roving eye,Heart-gnawing cares corrode my pensive breast.
Where now are all my flatt'ring dreams of joy!Monimia, give my soul her wonted rest;—Since first thy beauty fix'd my roving eye,Heart-gnawing cares corrode my pensive breast.
II.
Let happy lovers fly where pleasures call,With festive songs beguile the fleeting hour;Lead Beauty thro' the mazes of the ball,Or press her wanton in love's roseate bow'r.
Let happy lovers fly where pleasures call,With festive songs beguile the fleeting hour;Lead Beauty thro' the mazes of the ball,Or press her wanton in love's roseate bow'r.
III.
For me, no more I'll range th' empurpled mead,Where shepherds pipe, and virgins dance around;Nor wander thro' the woodbine's fragrant shade,To hear the music of the grove resound.
For me, no more I'll range th' empurpled mead,Where shepherds pipe, and virgins dance around;Nor wander thro' the woodbine's fragrant shade,To hear the music of the grove resound.
IV.
I'll seek some lonely church, or dreary hall,Where fancy paints the glimm'ring taper blue,Where damps hang mould'ring on the ivy'd wall,And sheeted ghosts drink up the midnight dew:
I'll seek some lonely church, or dreary hall,Where fancy paints the glimm'ring taper blue,Where damps hang mould'ring on the ivy'd wall,And sheeted ghosts drink up the midnight dew:
V.
There leagu'd with hopeless anguish and despair,Awhile in silence o'er my fate repine;Then, with a long farewell to love and care,To kindred dust my weary limbs consign.
There leagu'd with hopeless anguish and despair,Awhile in silence o'er my fate repine;Then, with a long farewell to love and care,To kindred dust my weary limbs consign.
VI.
Wilt thou,monimia, shed a gracious tearOn the cold grave where all my sorrows rest?Wilt thou strew flow'rs, applaud my love sincere,And bid the turf lie light upon my breast!
Wilt thou,monimia, shed a gracious tearOn the cold grave where all my sorrows rest?Wilt thou strew flow'rs, applaud my love sincere,And bid the turf lie light upon my breast!
A
ON
OXFORD ALE.
BY A GENTLEMAN OF TRINITY COLL.
——————Mea nec FalernæTemperant vites, neque FormianiPocula colles.Horat.
——————Mea nec FalernæTemperant vites, neque FormianiPocula colles.Horat.
——————Mea nec FalernæTemperant vites, neque FormianiPocula colles.Horat.
Balm of my cares, sweet solace of my toils,HailJuicebenignant! O'er the costly cupsOf riot-stirring wine, unwholsome draught,Let Pride's loose sons prolong the wasteful night;My sober ev'ning let the tankard bless,With toast embrown'd, and fragrant nutmeg fraught,While the rich draught with oft-repeated whiffsTobacco mild improves. Divine repast!Where no crude surfeit, or intemperate joysOf lawless Bacchus reign; but o'er my soulA Calm Lethean creeps; in drowsy tranceEach thought subsides, and sweet oblivion wrapsMy peaceful brain, as if the leaden rodOf magic Morpheus o'er mine eyes had shedIts opiate influence. What tho' sore illsOppress, dire want of chill-dispelling coalsOr chearful candle, (save the make-weight's gleamHaply remaining) heart-rejoicingAleChears the sad scene, and every want supplies.Meantime, not mindless of the daily taskOf Tutor sage, upon the learned leavesOf deepSmigleciusmuch I meditate;WhileAleinspires, and lends its kindred aid,The thought-perplexing labour to pursue,Sweet Helicon of Logic! But if friendsCongenial call me from the toilsome page,To pot-house I repair, the sacred haunt,WhereAle, thy votaries in full resort,Hold rites nocturnal. In capacious chairOf monumental oak and antique mould,That long has stood the rage of conquering yearsInviolate, (nor in more ample chairSmoaks rosy Justice, when th' important cause,Whether of hen-roost, or of mirthful rape,In all the majesty of paunch he tries)Studious of ease, and provident, I placeMy gladsome limbs; while in repeated roundReturns replenish'd, the successive cup,And the brisk fire conspires to genial joy:While haply, to relieve the ling'ring hoursIn innocent delight, amusive PuttOn smooth joint-stool in emblematic playThe vain vicissitudes of fortune shews.Nor reck'ning, name tremendous, me disturbs,Nor, call'd for, chills my breast with sudden fear;While on the wonted door, expressive mark,The frequent penny stands describ'd to view,In snowy characters and graceful row.——Hail,ticking! surest guardian of distress!Beneath thy shelter pennyless I quaffThe chearful cup, nor hear with hopeless heartNew oysters cry'd:—tho' much the poet's friend,Ne'er yet attempted in poetic strain,Accept this tribute of poetic praise!——Nor Proctor thrice with vocal heel alarmsOur joys secure, nor deigns the lowly roofOf pot-house snug to visit: wiser heThe splendid tavern haunts, or coffee-houseOfJamesorJuggins, where the grateful breathOf loath'd tobacco ne'er diffus'd its balm;But the lewd spendthrift, falsely deem'd polite,While steams around the fragrant Indian bowl,Oft damns the vulgar sons of humblerAle:In vain——the Proctor's voice arrests their joys;Just fate of wanton pride and loose excess!Nor less by day delightful is thy draught,All-pow'rfulAle! whose sorrow-soothing sweetsOft I repeat in vacant afternoon,When tatter'd stockings ask my mending handNot unexperienc'd; while the tedious toilSlides unregarded. Let the tender swainEach morn regale on nerve-relaxing tea,Companion meet of languor-loving nymph:Be mine each morn with eager appetiteAnd hunger undissembled, to repairTo friendly buttery; there on smoaking crustAnd foamingAleto banquet unrestrain'd,Material breakfast! Thus in ancient daysOur ancestors robust with liberal cupsUsher'd the morn, unlike the squeamish sonsOf modern times: Nor ever had the mightOf Britons brave decay'd, had thus they fedWith BritishAleimproving British worth.WithAleirriguous, undismay'd I hearThe frequent dun ascend my lofty domeImportunate: whether the plaintive voiceOf laundress shrill awake my startled ear;Or barber spruce with supple look intrude;Or taylor with obsequious bow advance;Or groom invade me with defying frontAnd stern demeanour, whose emaciate steeds(Whene'er or Phœbus shone with kindlier beams,Or luckier chance the borrow'd boots supply'd)Had panted oft beneath my goring steal.In vain they plead or threat: All-powerfulAleExcuses new supplies, and each descendsWith joyless pace, and debt-despairing looks:E'enspaceywith indignant brow retires,Fiercest of duns! and conquer'd quits the field.Why did the gods such various blessings pourOn hapless mortals, from their grateful handsSo soon the short-liv'd bounty to recall?——Thus, while improvident of future ill,I quaff the luscious tankard unrestrain'd,And thoughtless riot in unlicens'd bliss;Sudden (dire fate of all things excellent!)Th' unpitying Bursar's cross-affixing handBlasts all my joys, and stops my glad career.Nor now the friendly pot-house longer yieldsA sure retreat, when night o'ershades the skies;Norsheppardbarbarous matron, longer givesThe wonted trust, andwinterticks no more.Thusadam, exil'd from the beauteous scenesOf Eden griev'd, no more in fragrant bow'rOn fruits divine to feast, fresh shade or vale,No more to visit, or vine-mantled grot;But, all forlorn, the dreary wilderness,And unrejoicing solitudes to trace:Thus too the matchless bard, whole lay resoundsThesplendid shilling'spraise, in nightly gloomOf lonesome garret pin'd for chearfulAle;Whose steps in verse Miltonic I pursue,Mean follower, like him with honest loveOfAledivine inspir'd, and love of song.But long may bounteous heav'n with watchful careAvert his hapless lot! Enough for meThat burning with congenial flame I dar'dHis guiding steps at distance to pursue,And sing his favorite theme in kindred strains.
Balm of my cares, sweet solace of my toils,HailJuicebenignant! O'er the costly cupsOf riot-stirring wine, unwholsome draught,Let Pride's loose sons prolong the wasteful night;My sober ev'ning let the tankard bless,With toast embrown'd, and fragrant nutmeg fraught,While the rich draught with oft-repeated whiffsTobacco mild improves. Divine repast!Where no crude surfeit, or intemperate joysOf lawless Bacchus reign; but o'er my soulA Calm Lethean creeps; in drowsy tranceEach thought subsides, and sweet oblivion wrapsMy peaceful brain, as if the leaden rodOf magic Morpheus o'er mine eyes had shedIts opiate influence. What tho' sore illsOppress, dire want of chill-dispelling coalsOr chearful candle, (save the make-weight's gleamHaply remaining) heart-rejoicingAleChears the sad scene, and every want supplies.Meantime, not mindless of the daily taskOf Tutor sage, upon the learned leavesOf deepSmigleciusmuch I meditate;WhileAleinspires, and lends its kindred aid,The thought-perplexing labour to pursue,Sweet Helicon of Logic! But if friendsCongenial call me from the toilsome page,To pot-house I repair, the sacred haunt,WhereAle, thy votaries in full resort,Hold rites nocturnal. In capacious chairOf monumental oak and antique mould,That long has stood the rage of conquering yearsInviolate, (nor in more ample chairSmoaks rosy Justice, when th' important cause,Whether of hen-roost, or of mirthful rape,In all the majesty of paunch he tries)Studious of ease, and provident, I placeMy gladsome limbs; while in repeated roundReturns replenish'd, the successive cup,And the brisk fire conspires to genial joy:While haply, to relieve the ling'ring hoursIn innocent delight, amusive PuttOn smooth joint-stool in emblematic playThe vain vicissitudes of fortune shews.Nor reck'ning, name tremendous, me disturbs,Nor, call'd for, chills my breast with sudden fear;While on the wonted door, expressive mark,The frequent penny stands describ'd to view,In snowy characters and graceful row.——Hail,ticking! surest guardian of distress!Beneath thy shelter pennyless I quaffThe chearful cup, nor hear with hopeless heartNew oysters cry'd:—tho' much the poet's friend,Ne'er yet attempted in poetic strain,Accept this tribute of poetic praise!——Nor Proctor thrice with vocal heel alarmsOur joys secure, nor deigns the lowly roofOf pot-house snug to visit: wiser heThe splendid tavern haunts, or coffee-houseOfJamesorJuggins, where the grateful breathOf loath'd tobacco ne'er diffus'd its balm;But the lewd spendthrift, falsely deem'd polite,While steams around the fragrant Indian bowl,Oft damns the vulgar sons of humblerAle:In vain——the Proctor's voice arrests their joys;Just fate of wanton pride and loose excess!Nor less by day delightful is thy draught,All-pow'rfulAle! whose sorrow-soothing sweetsOft I repeat in vacant afternoon,When tatter'd stockings ask my mending handNot unexperienc'd; while the tedious toilSlides unregarded. Let the tender swainEach morn regale on nerve-relaxing tea,Companion meet of languor-loving nymph:Be mine each morn with eager appetiteAnd hunger undissembled, to repairTo friendly buttery; there on smoaking crustAnd foamingAleto banquet unrestrain'd,Material breakfast! Thus in ancient daysOur ancestors robust with liberal cupsUsher'd the morn, unlike the squeamish sonsOf modern times: Nor ever had the mightOf Britons brave decay'd, had thus they fedWith BritishAleimproving British worth.WithAleirriguous, undismay'd I hearThe frequent dun ascend my lofty domeImportunate: whether the plaintive voiceOf laundress shrill awake my startled ear;Or barber spruce with supple look intrude;Or taylor with obsequious bow advance;Or groom invade me with defying frontAnd stern demeanour, whose emaciate steeds(Whene'er or Phœbus shone with kindlier beams,Or luckier chance the borrow'd boots supply'd)Had panted oft beneath my goring steal.In vain they plead or threat: All-powerfulAleExcuses new supplies, and each descendsWith joyless pace, and debt-despairing looks:E'enspaceywith indignant brow retires,Fiercest of duns! and conquer'd quits the field.Why did the gods such various blessings pourOn hapless mortals, from their grateful handsSo soon the short-liv'd bounty to recall?——Thus, while improvident of future ill,I quaff the luscious tankard unrestrain'd,And thoughtless riot in unlicens'd bliss;Sudden (dire fate of all things excellent!)Th' unpitying Bursar's cross-affixing handBlasts all my joys, and stops my glad career.Nor now the friendly pot-house longer yieldsA sure retreat, when night o'ershades the skies;Norsheppardbarbarous matron, longer givesThe wonted trust, andwinterticks no more.Thusadam, exil'd from the beauteous scenesOf Eden griev'd, no more in fragrant bow'rOn fruits divine to feast, fresh shade or vale,No more to visit, or vine-mantled grot;But, all forlorn, the dreary wilderness,And unrejoicing solitudes to trace:Thus too the matchless bard, whole lay resoundsThesplendid shilling'spraise, in nightly gloomOf lonesome garret pin'd for chearfulAle;Whose steps in verse Miltonic I pursue,Mean follower, like him with honest loveOfAledivine inspir'd, and love of song.But long may bounteous heav'n with watchful careAvert his hapless lot! Enough for meThat burning with congenial flame I dar'dHis guiding steps at distance to pursue,And sing his favorite theme in kindred strains.
THE
BY THE SAME.
When now, mature in classic knowledge,The joyful youth is sent to college,His father comes, an humble suitor,With bows and speeches to his tutor,"Sir, give me leave to recommend him,"I'm sure you cannot but befriend him;"I'll warrant that his good behav'our"Shall justify your future favour;"And for his parts, to tell the truth,"My son's a very forward youth;"He's young indeed, but has a spirit,"And wants but means, to shew his merit;"HasHoraceall by heart,—you'd wonder,"And mouths outHomer's greek like thunder."If you'd but venture to admit him,"A scholarship would nicely fit him;"That he succeeds 'tis ten to one,"Your vote and interest, Sir,—'tis done."Our candidate at length gets in,A hopeful scholar of Coll. Trin.A scholarship not half maintains,And college-rules are heavy chains;So scorning the late wish'd-for prize,For a fat fellowship he sighs.When, nine full tedious winters past,His utmost wish is crown'd at last;That utmost wish no sooner got,Again he quarrels with his lot.—"These fellowships are pretty things,"We live indeed like petty kings;"But who can bear to spend his whole age"Amid the dullness of a college;"Debarr'd the common joys of life,"And what is worse than all—a wife!"Would some snug benefice but fall,"Ye feasts, and gaudies, farewell all!"To offices I'd bid adieu"Of Dean, Vice-Præs,—nay Bursar too;"Come tithes, come glebe, come fields so pleasant,"Come sports, come partridge, hare and pheasant."Well—after waiting many a year,A living falls,—two hundred clear.With breast elite beyond expression,He hurries down to take possession;With rapture views the sweet retreat,—"What a convenient house! how neat!"The garden how compleatly plann'd!"And is all this at my command!"For fuel here's good store of wood,—"Pray god, the cellars be but good!Continuing this fantastic farce on,He now commences country parson;To make his character entire,He weds a——cousin of the 'squire;Not over-weighty in the purse;But many doctors have done worse.Content at first,—he taps his barrel,Exhorts his neighbours not to quarrel;Finds his church-wardens have discerningBoth in good liquor and good learning;With tythes his barns replete he sees,And chuckles o'er his surplice-fees;Studies to find out latent dues,Smokes with the 'squire,—and clips his yews;Of Oxford pranks, facetious tells,And, but on sundays, hears no bells.But ah! too soon his thoughtless breastBy cares domestic is opprest;Each day some scene of woe commencesBy new and unforeseen expences;And soon the butcher's bill, and brewing,Threaten inevitable ruin;For children more expences yet,And Dickey now for school is fit."Why did I sell my college life(He cries) "for benefice and wife!"Oh could the days once more but come,"When calm I smoak'd in common room,"And din'd with breast untroubled, under"The picture of our pious founder;"When, for amusement, my tyrannic"Sway could put freshmen in a pannic;"When impositions were supplied"To light my pipe—or sooth my pride!"No cares of family oppress'd me,"Nor wife by day—nor night distress'd me."Each day receiv'd successive pleasure,"Or spent in reading, or in leisure;"And every night I went to bed"Without a christ'ning in my head."O trifling head, and fickle heart!—Chagrin'd at whatsoe'er thou art!A dupe to follies yet untry'd,And sick of pleasure's scarce enjoy'd;Each prize obtain'd, thy rapture ceases,And in the search alone it pleases.
When now, mature in classic knowledge,The joyful youth is sent to college,His father comes, an humble suitor,With bows and speeches to his tutor,"Sir, give me leave to recommend him,"I'm sure you cannot but befriend him;"I'll warrant that his good behav'our"Shall justify your future favour;"And for his parts, to tell the truth,"My son's a very forward youth;"He's young indeed, but has a spirit,"And wants but means, to shew his merit;"HasHoraceall by heart,—you'd wonder,"And mouths outHomer's greek like thunder."If you'd but venture to admit him,"A scholarship would nicely fit him;"That he succeeds 'tis ten to one,"Your vote and interest, Sir,—'tis done."Our candidate at length gets in,A hopeful scholar of Coll. Trin.A scholarship not half maintains,And college-rules are heavy chains;So scorning the late wish'd-for prize,For a fat fellowship he sighs.When, nine full tedious winters past,His utmost wish is crown'd at last;That utmost wish no sooner got,Again he quarrels with his lot.—"These fellowships are pretty things,"We live indeed like petty kings;"But who can bear to spend his whole age"Amid the dullness of a college;"Debarr'd the common joys of life,"And what is worse than all—a wife!"Would some snug benefice but fall,"Ye feasts, and gaudies, farewell all!"To offices I'd bid adieu"Of Dean, Vice-Præs,—nay Bursar too;"Come tithes, come glebe, come fields so pleasant,"Come sports, come partridge, hare and pheasant."Well—after waiting many a year,A living falls,—two hundred clear.With breast elite beyond expression,He hurries down to take possession;With rapture views the sweet retreat,—"What a convenient house! how neat!"The garden how compleatly plann'd!"And is all this at my command!"For fuel here's good store of wood,—"Pray god, the cellars be but good!Continuing this fantastic farce on,He now commences country parson;To make his character entire,He weds a——cousin of the 'squire;Not over-weighty in the purse;But many doctors have done worse.Content at first,—he taps his barrel,Exhorts his neighbours not to quarrel;Finds his church-wardens have discerningBoth in good liquor and good learning;With tythes his barns replete he sees,And chuckles o'er his surplice-fees;Studies to find out latent dues,Smokes with the 'squire,—and clips his yews;Of Oxford pranks, facetious tells,And, but on sundays, hears no bells.But ah! too soon his thoughtless breastBy cares domestic is opprest;Each day some scene of woe commencesBy new and unforeseen expences;And soon the butcher's bill, and brewing,Threaten inevitable ruin;For children more expences yet,And Dickey now for school is fit."Why did I sell my college life(He cries) "for benefice and wife!"Oh could the days once more but come,"When calm I smoak'd in common room,"And din'd with breast untroubled, under"The picture of our pious founder;"When, for amusement, my tyrannic"Sway could put freshmen in a pannic;"When impositions were supplied"To light my pipe—or sooth my pride!"No cares of family oppress'd me,"Nor wife by day—nor night distress'd me."Each day receiv'd successive pleasure,"Or spent in reading, or in leisure;"And every night I went to bed"Without a christ'ning in my head."
O trifling head, and fickle heart!—Chagrin'd at whatsoe'er thou art!A dupe to follies yet untry'd,And sick of pleasure's scarce enjoy'd;Each prize obtain'd, thy rapture ceases,And in the search alone it pleases.
TO
ARTHUR ONSLOW, ESQ.
I.