Part 6

Hence, iron-scepter'd WINTER, haste To 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 stern EURUS guides, That on a ravenous tiger rides, Dim-figur'd on whose robe are shewn Shipwrecks, and villages o'erthrown: Grim AUSTER, dropping all with dew, In mantle clad of watchet hue: And COLD, like Zemblan savage seen, Still threatening with his arrows keen; And next, in furry coat embost With icicles, his brother FROST. WINTER farewell! thy forests hoar, Thy frozen floods delight no more; Farewell the fields, so bare and wild! But come thou rose-cheek'd cherub mild, Sweetest SUMMER! haste thee here, Once more to crown the gladden'd year. Thee APRIL blythe, 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 smells In 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'd The 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 isle Aye 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'd With 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 dawn To meet the milk-maid on the lawn; Bring Pleasure, rural nymph, and Peace, Meek, cottage-loving shepherdess! And that sweet stripling, Zephyr, bring, Light, and for ever on the wing. Bring the dear Muse, that loves to lean On 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 stands By 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 field Beauty begins her bow'r to build; While Evening, veil'd in shadows brown, Puts her matron-mantle on, And mists in spreading steams convey More fresh the fumes of new-shorn hay; Then, Goddess, guide my pilgrim feet Contemplation hoar to meet, As slow he winds in museful mood, Near the rush'd marge of CHERWELL'S flood; Or o'er old AVON'S magic 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, awhile Rests him at a shady stile. Nor wants there fragrance to dispense Refreshment o'er my soothed sense; Nor tangled woodbines balmy bloom, Nor grass besprent, to breathe perfume: Nor lurking wild-thyme's spicy sweet To 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 borne Of deep-embattel'd ears of corn: Round ancient elm, with humming noise, Full loud the chaffer-swarms rejoice. Meantime, a thousand dies invest The ruby chambers of the West! That all aslant the village tow'r A mild reflected radiance pour, While, with the level-streaming rays Far seen its arched windows blaze: And the tall grove's green top is dight In russet tints, and gleams of light; So that the gay scene by degrees Bathes my blythe heart in extasies; And Fancy to my ravish'd sight Pourtrays her kindred visions bright. At length the parting-light subdues My soften'd soul to calmer views, And fainter shapes of pensive joy, As twilight dawns, my mind employ, Till from the path I fondly stray In 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, lead To the tann'd hay-cock in the mead: To mix in rural mood among The nymphs and swains, a busy throng; Or, as the tepid odours breathe, The russet piles to lean beneath: There as my listless limbs are thrown On couch more soft than palace down; I listen to the busy sound Of 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 view Clad in robe of fresher hue: And so loud the blackbird singe, That far and near the valley rings. From shelter deep of shaggy rock The shepherd drives his joyful flock; From bowering beech the mower blythe With new-born vigour grasps the scythe; While o'er the smooth unbounded meads His 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 oak Hangs 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 sleeps In hoar Lycæum's piny steeps. Me, Goddess, in such cavern lay, While all without is scorch'd in day; Sore sighs the weary swain, beneath His with'ring hawthorn on the heath; The drooping hedger wishes eve, In vain, of labour short reprieve! Meantime, on Afric's glowing sands Smote with keen heat, the trav'ler stands: Low sinks his heart, while round his eye Measures 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 wave To 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 seen Some 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 rite The 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 vale Where widow'd turtles love to wail, Where cowslips clad in mantle meek, Nod their tall heads to breezes weak: In the midst, with sedges grey Crown'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 sage To rear him a lone hermitage; Fit place his pensive eld might chuse On virtue's holy lore to muse. Yet still the sultry noon t' appease Some 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 hide The rugged vaults, and riven tow'rs Of that proud castle's painted bow'rs, Whence HARDYKNUTE, 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 stole First issues from her eastern goal; Let not my due feet fail to climb Some 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 appear Invested 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, O SUMMER mild, 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'rs It'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 shed Who loves to rest her gentle head. For not the scenes of Attic art Can 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 raise The solemn song to Britain's praise: To spurn the shepherd's simple reeds And paint heroic ancient deeds: To chaunt fam'd ARTHUR'S magic tale, And EDWARD, stern in fable mail. Or wand'ring BRUTUS' lawless doom, Or brave BONDUCA, 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 shed Ambrosial 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

PASTORAL

IN THE

MANNER OF SPENSER.

FROM THEOCRITUS. IDYLL XX.

BY THE SAME.

I.

As late I strove LUCILLA'S lip 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 lip To 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.

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'en KATE did 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 as MARGARET'S at the mill.

V.

But she forsooth, more fair than MADGE or KATE, A dainty maid, did deign not shepherd's love; Nor wist what THENOT told us swains of late; That VENUS sought a shepherd in a grove; Nor that a heav'nly god who PHOEBUS hight, To tend his flock with shepherds did delight.----

VI.

Ah! 'tis that VENUS with 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.

INSCRIBED

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.

II.

Proud of the theft, the little god Their robes bade DELIA wear; While they, asham'd to stir abroad, Remain all naked here.

LOVE ELEGY.

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.

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.

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.

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:

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.

VI.

Wilt thou, MONIMIA, shed a gracious tear On 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

PANEGYRIC

ON

OXFORD ALE.

BY A GENTLEMAN OF TRINITY COLL.

_Mea nec Falernæ Temperant vites, neque Formiani Pocula colles._ HORAT.

Balm of my cares, sweet solace of my toils, Hail JUICE benignant! O'er the costly cups Of 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 whiffs Tobacco mild improves. Divine repast! Where no crude surfeit, or intemperate joys Of lawless Bacchus reign; but o'er my soul A Calm Lethean creeps; in drowsy trance Each thought subsides, and sweet oblivion wraps My peaceful brain, as if the leaden rod Of magic Morpheus o'er mine eyes had shed Its opiate influence. What tho' sore ills Oppress, dire want of chill-dispelling coals Or chearful candle, (save the make-weight's gleam Haply remaining) heart-rejoicing ALE Chears the sad scene, and every want supplies. Meantime, not mindless of the daily task Of Tutor sage, upon the learned leaves Of deep SMIGLECIUS much I meditate; While ALE inspires, and lends its kindred aid, The thought-perplexing labour to pursue, Sweet Helicon of Logic! But if friends Congenial call me from the toilsome page, To pot-house I repair, the sacred haunt, Where ALE, thy votaries in full resort, Hold rites nocturnal. In capacious chair Of monumental oak and antique mould, That long has stood the rage of conquering years Inviolate, (nor in more ample chair Smoaks 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 place My gladsome limbs; while in repeated round Returns replenish'd, the successive cup, And the brisk fire conspires to genial joy: While haply, to relieve the ling'ring hours In innocent delight, amusive Putt On smooth joint-stool in emblematic play The 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 quaff The chearful cup, nor hear with hopeless heart New 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 alarms Our joys secure, nor deigns the lowly roof Of pot-house snug to visit: wiser he The splendid tavern haunts, or coffee-house Of JAMES or JUGGINS, where the grateful breath Of 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 humbler ALE: 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'rful ALE! whose sorrow-soothing sweets Oft I repeat in vacant afternoon, When tatter'd stockings ask my mending hand Not unexperienc'd; while the tedious toil Slides unregarded. Let the tender swain Each morn regale on nerve-relaxing tea, Companion meet of languor-loving nymph: Be mine each morn with eager appetite And hunger undissembled, to repair To friendly buttery; there on smoaking crust And foaming ALE to banquet unrestrain'd, Material breakfast! Thus in ancient days Our ancestors robust with liberal cups Usher'd the morn, unlike the squeamish sons Of modern times: Nor ever had the might Of Britons brave decay'd, had thus they fed With British ALE improving British worth. With ALE irriguous, undismay'd I hear The frequent dun ascend my lofty dome Importunate: whether the plaintive voice Of 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 front And stern demeanour, whose emaciate steeds (Whene'er or Phoebus 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-powerful ALE Excuses new supplies, and each descends With joyless pace, and debt-despairing looks: E'en SPACEY with indignant brow retires, Fiercest of duns! and conquer'd quits the field. Why did the gods such various blessings pour On hapless mortals, from their grateful hands So 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 hand Blasts all my joys, and stops my glad career. Nor now the friendly pot-house longer yields A sure retreat, when night o'ershades the skies; Nor SHEPPARD barbarous matron, longer gives The wonted trust, and WINTER ticks no more. Thus ADAM, exil'd from the beauteous scenes Of Eden griev'd, no more in fragrant bow'r On 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 resounds The SPLENDID SHILLING'S praise, in nightly gloom Of lonesome garret pin'd for chearful ALE; Whose steps in verse Miltonic I pursue, Mean follower, like him with honest love Of ALE divine inspir'd, and love of song. But long may bounteous heav'n with watchful care Avert his hapless lot! Enough for me That burning with congenial flame I dar'd His guiding steps at distance to pursue, And sing his favorite theme in kindred strains.

THE

PROGRESS OF DISCONTENT.

BY THE SAME.