Elegy XIX. - Written in Spring, 1743
Again the labouring hind inverts the soil;
Again the merchant ploughs the tumid wave;
Another spring renews the soldier's toil,
And finds me vacant in the rural cave.
As the soft lyre display'd my wonted loves,
The pensive pleasure and the tender pain,
The sordid Alpheus hurried through my groves,
Yet stopp'd to vent the dictates of disdain.
He glanced contemptuous o'er my ruin'd fold;
He blamed the graces of my favourite bower;
My breast, unsullied by the lust of gold;
My time, unlavish'd in pursuit of power.
Yes, Alpheus! fly the purer paths of Fate;
Abjure these scenes, from venal passions free;
Know, in this grove, I vow'd perpetual hate,
War, endless war, with lucre and with thee.
Here, nobly zealous, in my youthful hours,
I dress'd an altar to Thalia's name:
Here, as I crown'd the verdant shrine with flowers,
Soft on my labours stole the smiling dame.
'Damon,' she cried, 'if, pleased with honest praise,
Thou court success by virtue or by song,
Fly the false dictates of the venal race;
Fly the gross accents of the venal tongue.
'Swear that no lucre shall thy zeal betray;
Swerve not thy foot with fortune's votaries more;
Brand thou their lives, and brand their lifeless day-'
The winning phantom urged me, and I swore.
Forth from the rustic altar swift I stray'd;
'Aid my firm purpose, ye celestial Powers!
Aid me to quell the sordid breast,' I said;
And threw my javelin towards their hostile towers.
Think not regretful I survey the deed,
Or added years no more the zeal allow;
Still, still observant, to the grove I speed,
The shrine embellish, and repeat the vow.
Sworn from his cradle Rome's relentless foe,
Such generous hate the Punic champion bore;
Thy lake, O Thrasimene! beheld it glow,
And Cannae's walls and Trebia's crimson shore.
But let grave annals paint the warrior's fame;
Fair shine his arms in history enroll'd;
Whilst humbler lyres his civil worth proclaim,
His nobler hate of avarice and gold.
Now Punic pride its final eve survey'd;
Its hosts exhausted, and its fleets on fire:
Patient the victor's lucid frown obey'd,
And saw th' unwilling elephants retire.
But when their gold depress'd the yielding scale,
Their gold in pyramidic plenty piled,
He saw the unutterable grief prevail;
He saw their tears, and in his fury smiled.
'Think not,' he cried, 'ye view the smiles of ease,
Or this firm breast disclaims a patriot's pain;
I smile, but from a soul estranged to peace,
Frantic with grief, delirious with disdain.
'But were it cordial, this detested smile,
Seems it less timely than the grief ye show?
O Sons of Carthage! grant me to revile
The sordid source of your indecent woe.
'Why weep ye now? ye saw with tearless eye
When your fleet perish'd on the Punic wave:
Where lurk'd the coward tear, the lazy sigh,
When Tyre's imperial state commenced a slave?
''Tis past-O Carthage! vanquish'd, honour'd shade!
Go, the mean sorrows of thy sons deplore;
Had freedom shared the vow to Fortune paid,
She ne'er, like Fortune, had forsook thy shore.'
He ceased-abash'd the conscious audience hear,
Their pallid cheeks a crimson blush unfold,
Yet o'er that virtuous blush distreams a tear,
And falling, moistens their abandon'd gold.
poem by William Shenstone
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Elegy I. He Arrives at His Retirement in the Country
He Arrives at His Retirement in the Country, and Takes Occasion To Expatiate in Praise of Simplicity.
To a Friend
For rural virtues, and for native skies,
I bade Augusta's venal sons farewell;
Now 'mid the trees I see my smoke arise,
Now hear the fountains bubbling round my cell.
O may that Genius, which secures my rest,
Preserve this villa for a friend that's dear!
Ne'er may my vintage glad the sordid breast,
Ne'er tinge the lip that dares be insincere!
Far from these paths, ye faithless Friends, depart!
Fly my plain board, abhor my hostile name!
Hence the faint verse that flows not from the heart,
But mourns, in labour'd strains, the price of fame!
O loved Simplicity! be thine the prize!
Assiduous Art correct her page in vain!
His be the palm, who, guiltless of disguise,
Contemns the power the dull resource to feign!
Still may the mourner, lavish of his tears
For lucre's venal need, invite my scorn!
Still may the bard, dissembling doubts and fears,
For praise, for flattery sighing, sigh forlorn!
Soft as the line of lovesick Hammond flows,
'Twas his fond heart effused the melting theme;
Ah! never could Aonia's hill disclose
So fair a fountain, or so loved a stream.
Ye loveless Bards! intent with artful pains
To form a sigh, or to contrive a tear!
Forego your Pindus, and on - plains
Survey Camilla's charms, and grow sincere.
But thou, my Friend! while in thy youthful soul
Love's gentle tyrant seats his awful throne,
Write from thy bosom-let not art control
The ready pen, that makes his edicts known.
Pleasing, when youth is long expired, to trace
The forms our pencil or our pen design'd!
'Such was our youthful air, and shape, and face!
Such the soft image of our youthful mind!'
Soft, whilst we sleep beneath the rural bowers,
The Loves and Graces steal unseen away;
And where the turf diffused its pomp of flowers,
We wake to wintry scenes of chill decay!
Curse the sad fortune that detains thy fair;
Praise the soft hours that gave thee to her arms;
Paint thy proud scorn of every vulgar care,
When hope exalts thee, or when doubt alarms.
Where with Oenone thou hast worn the day,
Near fount or stream, in meditation, rove;
If in the grove Oenone loved to stray,
The faithful Muse shall meet thee in the grove.
poem by William Shenstone
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Elegy XXIII. Reflections Suggested By His Situation
Born near the scene for Kenelm's fate renown'd,
I take my plaintive reed, and range the grove,
And raise my lay, and bid the rocks resound
The savage force of empire, and of love.
Fast by the centre of yon various wild,
Where spreading oaks embower a Gothic fane,
Kendria's arts a brother's youth beguiled;
There nature urged her tenderest pleas in vain.
Soft o'er his birth, and o'er his infant hours,
The ambitious maid could every care employ;
Then with assiduous fondness cropt the flowers,
To deck the cradle of the princely boy.
But soon the bosom's pleasing calm is flown;
Love fires her breast; the sultry passions rise;
A favour'd lover seeks the Mercian throne,
And views her Kenelm with a rival's eyes.
How kind were Fortune! ah, how just were Fate!
Would Fate or Fortune Mercia's heir remove!
How sweet to revel on the couch of state!
To crown at once her lover and her love!
See, garnish'd for the chase, the fraudful maid
To these lone hills direct his devious way;
The youth, all prone, the sister-guide obey'd;
Ill-fated youth! himself the destined prey!
But now, nor shaggy hill, nor pathless plain,
Forms the lone refuge of the sylvan game,
Since Lyttleton has crown'd the sweet domain
With softer pleasures, and with fairer fame.
Where the rough bowman urged his headlong steed,
Immortal bards, a polish'd race, retire;
And where hoarse scream'd the strepent horn, succeed
The melting graces of no vulgar lyre.
See Thomson, loitering near some limpid well,
For Britain's friend the verdant wreath prepare!
Or, studious of revolving seasons, tell
How peerless Lucia made all seasons fair!
See -- from civic garlands fly,
And in those groves indulge his tuneful vein!
Or from yon summit, with a guardian's eye,
Observe how Freedom's hand attires the plain!
Here Pope!-ah! never must that towering mind
To his loved haunts, or dearer friend return!
What art, what friendships! oh, what fame resign'd
-In yonder glade I trace his mournful urn.
Where is the breast can rage or hate retain,
And these glad streams and smiling lawns behold?
Where is the breast can hear the woodland strain,
And think fair Freedom well exchanged for gold?
Through these soft shades delighted let me stray,
While o'er my head forgotten suns descend!
Through these dear valleys bend my casual way,
Till setting life a total shade extend!
Here, far from courts, and void of pompous cares,
I'll muse how much I owe mine humbler fate,
Or shrink to find how much Ambition dares,
To shine in anguish, and to grieve in state!
Canst thou, O Sun! that spotless throne disclose,
Where her bold arm has left no sanguine stain?
Where, show me where, the lineal sceptre glows,
Pure as the simple crook that rules the plain!
Tremendous pomp! where hate, distrust, and fear,
In kindred bosoms solve the social tie;
There not the parent's smile is half sincere,
Nor void of art the consort's melting eye.
There, with the friendly wish, the kindly flame,
No face is brighten'd, and no bosoms beat;
Youth, manhood, age, avow one sordid aim,
And even the beardless lip essays deceit.
There coward Rumours walk their murderous round;
The glance, that more than rural blame instils;
Whispers that, tinged with friendship, doubly wound;
Pity that injures, and concern that kills.
There anger whets, but love can ne'er engage;
Caressing brothers part but to revile;
There all men smile, and Prudence warns the wise
To dread the fatal stroke of all that smile.
There all are rivals! sister, son, and sire,
With horrid purpose hug destructive arms;
There soft-eyed maids in murderous plots conspire,
And scorn the gentler mischief of their charms.
Let servile minds one endless watch endure;
Day, night, nor hour, their anxious guard resign;
But lay me, Fate! on flowery banks secure,
Though my whole soul be, like my limbs, supine.
Yes; may my tongue disdain a vassal's care;
My lyre resound no prostituted lay;
More warm to merit, more elate to wear
The cap of Freedom than the crown of bay.
Soothed by the murmurs of my pebbled flood,
I wish it not o'er golden sands to flow;
Cheer'd by the verdure of my spiral wood,
I scorn the quarry, where no shrub can grow.
No midnight pangs the shepherd's peace pursue;
His tongue, his hand, attempts no secret wound;
He sings his Delia, and, if she be true,
His love at once, and his ambition's crown'd.
poem by William Shenstone
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Verses, To William Lyttleton, Esq.
How blithely pass'd the summer's day!
How bright was every flower!
While friends arrived in circles gay,
To visit Damon's bower!
But now, with silent step I range
Along some lonely shore;
And Damon's bower, alas the change!
Is gay with friends no more.
Away to crowds and cities borne,
In quest of joy they steer,
Whilst I, alas! am left forlorn,
To weep the parting year!
O pensive autumn! how I grieve
Thy sorrowing face to see!
When languid suns are taking leave
Of every drooping tree.
Ah! let me not, with heavy eye,
This dying scene survey!
Haste Winter! Haste! usurp the sky;
Complete my bower's decay.
Ill can I bear the motley cast
Yon sickening leaves retain;
That speak at once of pleasure past,
And bode approaching pain.
At home, unblest, I gaze around,
My distant scenes require;
Where, all in murky vapours drown'd,
Are hamlet, hill, and spire.
Though Thomson, sweet descriptive bard!
Inspiring Autumn sung;
Yet how should we the months regard,
That stopt his flowing tongue?
Ah! luckless months, of all the rest,
To whose hard share it fell!
For sure his was the gentlest breast
That ever sung so well.
And see, the swallows now disown
The roofs they loved before,
Each, like his tuneful genius, flown
To glad some happier shore.
The wood-nymph eyes, with pale affright,
The sportsman's frantic deed,
While hounds, and horns, and yells, unite
To drown the Muse's reed.
Ye fields, with blighted herbage brown!
Ye skies, no longer blue!
Too much we feel from Fortune's frown
To bear these frowns from you.
Where is the mead's unsullied green?
The zephyr's balmy gale?
And where sweet friendship's cordial mien,
That brighten'd every vale?
What though the vine disclose her dyes,
And boast her purple store?
Not all the vineyard's rich supplies
Can soothe our sorrows more.
He! he is gone, whose moral strain
Could wit and mirth refine;
He! he is gone, whose social vein
Surpass'd the power of wine.
Fast by the streams he deign'd to praise,
In yon sequester'd grove,
To him a votive urn I raise,
To him, and friendly Love.
Yes, there, my friend! forlorn and sad
I grave your Thomson's name,
And there, his lyre; which Fate forbade
To sound your growing fame.
There shall my plaintive song recount
Dark themes of hopeless woe,
And faster than the drooping fount
I'll teach mine eyes to flow.
There leaves, in spite of Autumn green,
Shall shade the hallow'd ground,
And Spring will there again be seen
To call forth flowers around.
But no kind suns will bid me share,
Once more, his social hour;
Ah! Spring! thou never canst repair
This loss to Damon's bower.
poem by William Shenstone
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Love and Honor
Sed neque Medorum silvae, ditissima terra
Nec pulcher Ganges, atque auro turbidus Haemus,
Laudibus Angligenum certent; non Bactra, nec Indi,
Totaque thuriferis Panchaia pinguis arenis.
Imitation.
Yet let not Median woods, (abundant track!)
Nor Ganges fair, nor Haemus, miser-like,
Proud of his hoarded gold, presume to vie
With Britain's boast and praise; nor Persian Bactra,
Nor India's coasts, nor all Panchaia's sands,
Rich, and exulting in their lofty towers.
____
Let the green olive glad Hesperian shores;
Her tawny citron, and her orange groves,
These let Iberia boast; but if in vain,
To win the stranger plant's diffusive smile,
The Briton labours, yet our native minds,
Our constant bosoms, these the dazzled world
May view with envy; these Iberian dames
Survey with fix'd esteem and fond desire.
Hapless Elvira! thy disastrous fate
May well this truth explain, nor ill adorn
The British lyre; then chiefly, if the Muse,
Nor vain, nor partial, from the simple guise
Of ancient record catch the pensive lay,
And in less grovelling accents give to Fame.
Elvira! loveliest maid! the Iberian realm
Could boast no purer breast, no sprightlier mind,
No race more splendent, and no form so fair.
Such was the chance of war, this peerless maid,
In life's luxuriant bloom, enrich'd the spoil
Of British victors, victory's noblest pride!
She, she alone, amid the wailful train
Of captive maids, assign'd to Henry's care,
Lord of her life, her fortune, and her fame!
He, generous youth! with no penurious hand,
The tedious moments, that unjoyous roll
Where Freedom's cheerful radiance shines no more,
Essay'd to soften; conscious of the pang
That Beauty feels, to waste its fleeting hours
In some dim fort, by foreign rule restrain'd,
Far from the haunts of men, or eye of day!
Sometimes, to cheat her bosom of its cares,
Her kind protector number'd o'er the toils
Himself had worn; the frowns of angry seas,
Or hostile rage, or faithless friend, more fell
Than storm or foe; if haply she might find
Her cares diminish'd; fruitless, fond essay!
Now to her lovely hand, with modest awe
The tender lute he gave; she, not averse,
Nor destitute of skill, with willing hand
Call'd forth angelic strains; the sacred debt
Of gratitude, she said, whose just commands
Still might her hand with equal pride obey!
Nor to the melting sounds the nymph refused
Her vocal art; harmonious as the strain
Of some imprison'd lark, who, daily cheer'd
By guardian cares, repays them with a song;
Nor droops, nor deems sweet liberty resign'd.
The song, not artless had she framed to paint
Disastrous passion; how, by tyrant laws
Of idiot custom sway'd, some soft-eyed fair
Loved only one, nor dared that love reveal!
How the soft anguish banish'd from her cheek
The damask rose full-blown; a fever came,
And from her bosom forced the plaintive tale;
Then, swift as light, he sought the love-lorn maid,
But vainly sought her; torn by swifter fate
To join the tenants of the myrtle shade,
Love's mournful victims on the plains below.
Sometimes, as Fancy spoke the pleasing task,
She taught her artful needle to display
The various pride of spring; then swift upsprung
Thickets of myrtle, eglantine, and rose:
There might you see, on gentle toils intent,
A train of busy Loves; some pluck the flower,
Some twine the garland, some with grave grimace
Around a vacant warrior cast the wreath.
'Twas paint, 'twas life! and sure to piercing eyes
The warrior's face depictured Henry's mien.
Now had the generous chief with joy perused
The royal scroll, which to their native home,
Their ancient rights, uninjured, unredeem'd,
Restored the captives. Forth with rapid haste
To glad his fair Elvira's ear, he sprung,
Fired by the bliss he panted to convey;
But fired in vain! Ah! what was his amaze,
His fond distress, when o'er her pallid face
Dejection reign'd, and from her lifeless hand
Down dropt the myrtle's fair unfinish'd flower!
Speechless she stood; at length, with accents faint,
'Well may my native shore,' she said, 'resound
Thy monarch's praise; and here Elvira prove
Of thine forgetful; flowers shall cease to feel
The fostering breeze, and Nature change her laws!'
And now the grateful edict wide alarm'd
The British host. Around the smiling youths,
Call'd to their native scenes, with willing haste
Their fleet unmoor; impatient of the love
That weds each bosom to its native soil.
The patriot passion! strong in every clime,
How justly theirs who find no foreign sweets
To dissipate their loves, or match their own.
Not so Elvira! she, disastrous maid!
Was doubly captive; power nor chance could loose
The subtle bands; she loved her generous foe;
She, where her Henry dwelt, her Henry smiled,
Could term her native shore; her native shore,
By him deserted, some unfriendly strand,
Strange, bleak, forlorn! a desert waste and wild.
The fleet careen'd, the wind propitious fill'd
The swelling sails, the glittering transports waved
Their pennants gay, and halcyons' azure wing,
With flight auspicious, skimm'd the placid main.
On her lone couch in tears Elvira lay,
And chid the officious wind, the tempting sea,
And wish'd a storm as merciless as tore
Her labouring bosom. Fondly now she strove
To banish passion; now the vassal days,
The captive moments, that so smoothly past,
By many an art recall'd; now from her lute
With trembling fingers call'd the favourite sounds
Which Henry deign'd to praise; and now essay'd,
With mimic chains of silken fillets wove,
To paint her captive state; if any fraud
Might to her love the pleasing scenes prolong,
And with the dear idea feast the soul.
But now the chief return'd, prepared to launch
On Ocean's willing breast, and bid adieu
To his fair prisoner. She, soon as she heard
His hated errand, now no more conceal'd
The raging flame; but with a spreading blush
And rising sigh, the latent pang disclosed.
'Yes, generous youth! I see thy bosom glow
With virtuous transport, that the task is thine
To solve my chains, and to my weeping friends,
And every longing relative, restore
A soft-eyed maid, a mild offenceless prey!
But know, my Soldier! never youthful mind,
Torn from the lavish joys of wild expense
By him he loathed, and in a dungeon bound
To languish out his bloom, could match the pains
This ill-starr'd freedom gives my tortured mind.
'What call I freedom? is it that these limbs,
From rigid bolts secure, may wander far
From him I love? Alas! ere I may boast
That sacred blessing, some superior power
To mortal kings, to sublunary thrones,
Must loose my passion, must unchain my soul:
Even that I loathe: all liberty I loathe!
But most the joyless privilege to gaze
With cold indifference, where desert is love.
'True, I was born an alien to those eyes
I ask alone to please; my fortune's crime!
And ah! this flatter'd form, by dress endear'd
To Spanish eyes, by dress may thine offend,
Whilst I, ill-fated maid! ordain'd to strive
With custom's load, beneath its weight expire.
'Yet Henry's beauties knew in foreign garb
To vanquish me; his form, howe'er disguised,
To me were fatal! no fantastic robe
That e'er Caprice invented, Custom wore,
Or Folly smiled on, could eclipse thy charms.
'Perhaps by birth decreed, by Fortune placed
Thy country's foe, Elvira's warmest plea
Seems but the subtler accent fraud inspires;
My tenderest glances but the specious flowers,
That shade the viper while she plots her wound.
And can the trembling candidate of love
Awake thy fears? and can a female breast,
By ties of grateful duty bound, ensnare?
Is there no brighter mien, no softer smile
For love to wear, to dark Deceit unknown?
Heaven search my soul! and if through all its cells
Lurk the pernicious drop of poisonous guile,
Full on my fenceless head its viall'd wrath
May Fate exhaust, and for my happiest hour
Exalt the vengeance I prepare for thee!
'Ah me! nor Henry's nor his country's foe,
On thee I gazed, and Reason soon dispell'd
Dim Error's gloom, and to thy favour'd isle
Assign'd its total merit, unrestrain'd.
Oh! lovely region to the candid eye!
'Twas there my fancy saw the Virtues dwell,
The Loves, the Graces, play, and bless'd the soil
That nurtured thee! for sure the Virtues form'd
Thy generous breast; the Loves, the Graces plann'd
Thy shapely limbs. Relation, birth, essay'd
Their partial power in vain; again I gazed,
And Albion's isle appear'd, amidst a tract
Of savage wastes, the darling of the skies!
And thou, by Nature form'd, by Fate assign'd,
To paint the genius of thy native shore.
''Tis true, with flowers, with many a dazzling scene
Of burnish'd plants, to lure a female eye,
Iberia glows; but, ah! the genial sun,
That gilds the lemon's fruit, or scents the flower,
On Spanish minds, a nation's nobler boast,
Beams forth ungentle influences. There
Sits Jealousy enthroned, and at each ray
Exultant lights his slow consuming fires.
Not such thy charming region; long before
My sweet experience taught me to decide
Of English worth, the sound had pleased mine ear.
Is there that savage coast, that rude sojourn,
Stranger to British worth? the worth which forms
The kindest friends, the most tremendous foes;
First, best supports of liberty and love!
No, let subjected India, while she throws
O'er Spanish deeds the veil, your praise resound.
Long as I heard, or ere in story read
Of English fame, my biass'd partial breast
Wish'd them success: and happiest she, I cried,
Of women happiest she, who shares the love,
The fame, the virtues, of an English lord.
And now, what shall I say? Blest be the hour
Your fair-built vessels touch'd the Iberian shores:
Blest, did I say, the time? if I may bless
That loved event, let Henry's smiles declare.
Our hearts and cities won, will Henry's youth
Forego its nobler conquest? will he slight
The soft endearments of the lovelier spoil?
And yet Iberia's sons, with every vow
Of lasting faith, have sworn these humble charms
Were not excell'd; the source of all their pains,
And love her just desert, who sues for love,
But sues to thee, while natives sigh in vain.
'Perhaps in Henry's eye (for vulgar minds
Dissent from his) it spreads a hateful stain
On honest Fame, amid his train to bear
A female friend. Then learn, my gentle youth!
Not Love himself, with all the pointed pains
That store his quiver, shall seduce my soul
From honour's laws. Elvira once denied
A consort's name, more swift than lightning flies
When elements discordant vex the sky,
Shall, blushing, from the form she loves retire.
Yet if the specious wish the vulgar voice
Has titled Prudence, sways a soul like thine,
In gems or gold what proud Iberian dame
Eclipses me? Nor paint the dreary storms
Or hair-breadth 'scapes that haunt the boundless deep,
And force from tender eyes the silent tear;
When Memory to the pensive maid suggests,
In full contrast, the safe domestic scene
For these resign'd. Beyond the frantic rage
Of conquering heroes brave, the female mind,
When steel'd by love, in Love's most horrid way
Beholds not danger, or, beholding, scorns.
Heaven take my life, but let it crown my love!'
She ceased; and ere his words her fate decreed,
Impatient, watch'd the language of his eye:
There Pity dwelt, and from its tender sphere
Sent looks of love, and faithless hopes inspired.
'Forgive me, generous maid!' the youth return'd,
'If by thy accents charm'd, thus long I bore
To let such sweetness plead, alas! in vain.
Thy virtue merits more than crowns can yield
Of solid bliss, or happiest love bestow
But ere from native shores I plough'd the main,
To one dear maid, by virtue, and by charms
Alone endear'd, my plighted vows I gave;
To guard my faith, whatever chance should wait
My warring sword: if conquest, fame, and spoil,
Graced my return, before her feet to pour
The glittering treasure, and the laurel wreath,
Enjoying conquest then, and fame and spoil:
If Fortune frown'd adverse, and Death forbade
The blissful union, with my latest breath
To dwell on Medway's and Maria's name.
This ardent vow deep-rooted, from my soul
No dangers tore; this vow my bosom fired
To conquer danger, and the spoil enjoy.
Her shall I leave, with fair events elate,
Who crown'd mine humblest fortune with her love?
Her shall I leave, who now, perchance, alone
Climbs the proud cliff, and chides my slow return?
And shall that vessel, whose approaching sails
Shall swell her breast with extasies, convey
Death to her hopes, and anguish to her soul?
No! may the deep my villain corse devour,
If all the wealth Iberian mines conceal,
If all the charms Iberian maids disclose,
If thine, Elvira, thine, uniting all,
Thus far prevail-nor can thy virtuous breast
Demand what honour, faith, and love, denies.'
'Oh! happy she,' rejoin'd the pensive maid,
'Who shares thy fame, thy virtue, and thy love!
And be she happy! thy distinguish'd choice
Declares her worth, and vindicates her claim.
Farewell my luckless hopes! my flattering dreams
Of rapturous days! my guilty suit, farewell!
Yet fond howe'er my plea, or deep the wound
That waits my fame, let not the random shaft
Of Censure pierce with me the Iberian dames;
They love with caution, and with happier stars.
And, oh! by pity moved, restrain the taunts
Of levity, nor brand Elvira's flame;
By merit raised, by gratitude approved,
By hope confirm'd, with artless truth reveal'd,
Let, let me say, but for one matchless maid
Of happier birth, with mutual ardour crown'd.
'These radiant gems, which burnish Happiness,
But mock Misfortune, to thy favourite's hand
With care convey; and well may such adorn
Her cheerful front, who finds in thee alone
The source of every transport, but disgrace
My pensive breast, which, doom'd to lasting woe,
In thee the source of every bliss resign.
'And now, farewell, thou darling youth! the gem
Of English merit! Peace, content, and joy,
And tender hopes, and young desires, farewell!
Attend, ye smiling Train! this gallant mind
Back to his native shores; there sweetly smooth
His evening pillow, dance around his groves,
And, where he treads, with violets paint his way:
But leave Elvira! leave her, now no more
Your frail companion! in the sacred cells
Of some lone cloister let me shroud my shame
There to the matin bell, obsequious, pour
My constant orisons. The wanton Loves
And gay Desires, shall spy the glimmering towers,
And wing their flight aloof: but rest confirm'd,
That never shall Elvira's tongue conclude
Her shortest prayer, ere Henry's dear success
The warmest accent of her zeal employ.'
Thus spoke the weeping fair, whose artless mind
Impartial scorn'd to model her esteem
By native customs; dress, and face, and air,
And manners, less; nor yet resolved in vain.
He, bound by prior love, the solemn vow
Given and received, to soft compassion gave
A tender tear; then with that kind adieu
Esteem could warrant, wearied Heaven with prayers
To shield that tender breast he left forlorn.
He ceased; and to the cloister's pensive scene
Elvira shaped her solitary way.
poem by William Shenstone
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On Another's Sorrow
Can I see another’s woe,
And not be in sorrow too?
Can I see another’s grief,
And not seek for kind relief?
Can I see a falling tear,
And not feel my sorrow’s share?
Can a father see his child
Weep, nor be with sorrow fill'd?
Can a mother sit and hear
An infant groan, an infant fear?
No, no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!
And can He who smiles on all
Hear the wren with sorrows small,
Hear the small bird’s grief and care,
Hear the woes that infants bear,
And not sit beside the nest,
Pouring pity in their breast;
And not sit the cradle near,
Weeping tear on infant’s tear;
And not sit both night and day,
Wiping all our tears away?
O, no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!
He doth give His joy to all;
He becomes an infant small;
He becomes a man of woe;
He doth feel the sorrow too.
Think not thou canst sigh a sigh,
And thy Maker is not by:
Think not thou canst weep a tear,
And thy Maker is not near.
O! He gives to us His joy
That our grief he may destroy;
Till our grief is fled & gone
He doth sit by us and moan.
poem by William Blake from Songs of Innocence (1789)
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They Shall Not Know
When thou art happy, thou dear heart of pleasure,
Because men love thee and the feasts are spread,
And Fortune in thy lap has poured her treasure,
And Spring is there and roses crown thy head,
Then think of one who loved thee for his woe,
And, if thou sigh
With others by,
They shall not know.
When thou art silent in thy day of trouble,
Because fools vex and thou hast rivals found
And love has played thee falser than a bubble
And memory stings and grief is as a wound,
Then think of one whose hand first soothed thy brow,
And, if a smile
Thy tears beguile,
These shall not know.
When all is ended, thou pale ghost of sorrow,
And time's last flower is gathered from the grove,
And yesterday to thee is as to--morrow
And there is none to speak to thee of love,
Then sing these songs one made thee long ago,
And men shall swear
Thou still art fair--
Yet shall not know.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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The Irish Peasant to his Mistress
Through grief and through danger thy smile hath cheer'd my way,
Till hope seem'd to bud from each thorn that round me lay;
The darker our fortune, the brighter our pure love burn'd,
Till shame into glory, till fear into zeal was turn'd;
Yes, slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free,
And bless'd even the sorrows that made me more dear to thee.
Thy rival was honour'd, while thou wert wrong'd and scorn'd,
Thy crown was of briers, while gold her brows adorn'd;
She woo'd me to temples, while thou lay'st hid in caves,
Her friends were all masters, while thine, alas! were slaves;
Yet cold in the earth, at thy feet, I would rather be,
Then wed what I loved not, or turn one thought from thee.
They slander thee sorely, who say thy vows are frail --
Hadst thou been a false one, thy cheek had look'd less pale.
They say, too, so long thou hast worn those lingering chains --
That deep in thy heart they have printed their servile stains --
Oh! foul is the slander -- no chain could that soul subdue --
Where shineth thy spirit, there liberty shineth too!
poem by Thomas Moore
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Epitaph on Sir Thomas Hanmer, Bart.
Thou who survey'st these walls with curious eye,
Pause at this tomb where Hanmer's ashes lie;
His various worth through varied life attend,
And learn his virtues while thou mourn'st his end.
His force of genius burn'd in early youth,
With thirst of knowledge, and with love of truth;
His learning, joined with each endearing art,
Charm'd every ear, and gain'd every heart.
Thus early wise, the endanger'd real to aid,
His country call'd him from the studious shade;
In life's first bloom his public toils began,
At once commenced the senator and man.
In business dexterous, weighty in debate,
Thrice ten long years he labour'd for the state;
In every speech persuasive wisdom flow'd,
In every act refulgent virtue glow'd;
Suspended faction ceased from rage and strife,
To hear his eloquence, and praise his life.
Resistless merit fix'd the senate's choice,
Who hail'd him Speaker with united voice.
Illustrious age! how bright thy glories shone,
When Hanmer fill'd the chair - and Anne the throne.
Then when dark art obscured each fierce debate,
When mutual frauds perplex'd the maze of state,
The Moderator firmly mild appear'd -
Beheld with love - with veneration heard.
This task perform'd - he sought no gainful post
Nor wish'd to glitter at his country's cost;
Strict on the right he fix'd his stedfast eye,
With temperate zeal, and wise anxiety;
Nor e'er from Virtue's paths was lured aside,
To pluck the flowers of pleasure or of pride.
Her gifts despis'd, Corruption blush'd and fled,
And Fame pursued him where Conviction led.
Age call'd, at length, his active mind to rest,
With honour sated, and with cares oppress'd;
To letter'd ease retired and honest mirth,
To rural grandeur, and domestic worth:
Delighted still to please mankind, or mend,
The patriot's fire yet sparkled in the friend.
Calm Conscience then, his former life survey'd,
And recollected toils endeared the shade,
Till Nature call'd him to the general doom,
And Virtue's sorrow dignified his tomb.
poem by Samuel Johnson
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Ode XI: To The Country Gentlemen Of England
I.
Whither is Europe's ancient spirit fled?
Where are those valiant tenants of her shore,
Who from the warrior bow the strong dart sped,
Or with firm hand the rapid pole-ax bore?
Freeman and soldier was their common name.
Who late with reapers to the furrow came,
Now in the front of battle charg'd the foe:
Who taught the steer the wintry plough to indure,
Now in full councils check'd incroaching power,
And gave the guardian laws their majesty to know.
II.
But who are ye? from Ebro's loitering sons
To Tiber's pageants, to the sports of Seine;
From Rhine's frail palaces to Danube's thrones
And cities looking on the Cimbric main,
Ye lost, ye self-deserted? whose proud lords
Have baffled your tame hands, and given your swords
To slavish ruffians, hir'd for their command:
These, at some greedy monk's or harlot's nod,
See rifled nations crouch beneath their rod:
These are the public will, the reason of the land.
III.
Thou, heedless Albion, what, alas, the while
Dost thou presume? O inexpert in arms,
Yet vain of freedom, how dost thou beguile,
With dreams of hope, these near and loud alarms?
Thy splendid home, thy plan of laws renown'd,
The praise and envy of the nations round,
What care hast thou to guard from fortune's sway?
Amid the storms of war, how soon may all
The lofty pile from its foundations fall,
Of ages the proud toil, the ruin of a day!
IV.
No: thou art rich, thy streams and fertile vales
Add industry's wise gifts to nature's store:
And every port is crouded with thy sails,
And every wave throws treasure on thy shore.
What boots it? If luxurious plenty charm
Thy selfish heart from glory, if thy arm
Shrink at the frowns of danger and of pain,
Those gifts, that treasure is no longer thine.
Oh rather far be poor. Thy gold will shine
Tempting the eye of force, and deck thee to thy bane.
V.
But what hath force or war to do with thee?
Girt by the azure tide and thron'd sublime
Amid thy floating bulwarks, thou canst see,
With scorn, the fury of each hostile clime
Dash'd ere it reach thee. Sacred from the foe
Are thy fair fields. athwart thy guardian prow
No bold invader's foot shall tempt the strand—
Yet say, my country, will the waves and wind
Obey thee? Hast thou all thy hopes resign'd
To the sky's fickle faith? the pilot's wavering hand?
VI.
For oh may neither fear nor stronger love
(Love, by thy virtuous princes nobly won)
Thee, last of many wretched nations, move,
With mighty armies station'd round the throne
To trust thy safety. Then, farewell the claims
Of freedom! Her proud records to the flames
Then bear, an offering at ambition's shrine;
Whate'er thy ancient patriots dar'd demand
From furious John's, or faithless Charles's hand,
Or what great William seal'd for his adopted line.
VII.
But if thy sons be worthy of their name,
If liberal laws with liberal hearts they prize,
Let them from conquest, and from servile shame
In war's glad school their own protectors rise.
Ye chiefly, heirs of Albion's cultur'd plains,
Ye leaders of her bold and faithful swains,
Now not unequal to your birth be found:
The public voice bids arm your rural state,
Paternal hamlets for your ensigns wait,
And grange and fold prepare to pour their youth around.
VIII.
Why are ye tardy? what inglorious care
Detains you from their head, your native post?
Who most their country's fame and fortune share,
'Tis theirs to share her toils, her perils most.
Each man his task in social life sustains.
With partial labours, with domestic gains
Let others dwell: to you indulgent heaven
By counsel and by arms the public cause
To serve for public love and love's applause,
The first imployment far, the noblest hire, hath given.
IX.
Have ye not heard of Lacedæmon's fame?
Of Attic chiefs in freedom's war divine?
Of Rome's dread generals? the Valerian name?
The Fabian sons? the Scipios, matchless line?
Your lot was theirs. the farmer and the swain
Met his lov'd patron's summons from the plain;
The legions gather'd; the bright eagles flew:
Barbarian monarchs in the triumph mourn'd;
The conquerors to their houshold gods return'd,
And fed Calabrian flocks, and steer'd the Sabine plough.
X.
Shall then this glory of the antique age,
This pride of men, be lost among mankind?
Shall war's heroic arts no more ingage
The unbought hand, the unsubjected mind?
Doth valour to the race no more belong?
No more with scorn of violence and wrong
Doth forming nature now her sons inspire,
That, like some mystery to few reveal'd,
The skill of arms abash'd and aw'd they yield,
And from their own defence with hopeless hearts retire?
XI.
O shame to human life, to human laws!
The loose adventurer, hireling of a day,
Who his fell sword without affection draws,
Whose God, whose country, is a tyrant's pay,
This man the lessons of the field can learn;
Can every palm, which decks a warrior, earn,
And every pledge of conquest: while in vain,
To guard your altars, your paternal lands,
Are social arms held out to your free hands:
Too arduous is the lore; too irksome were the pain.
XII.
Meantime by pleasure's lying tales allur'd,
From the bright sun and living breeze ye stray;
And deep in London's gloomy haunts immur'd,
Brood o'er your fortune's, freedom's, health's decay.
O blind of choice and to yourselves untrue!
The young grove shoots, their bloom the fields renew,
The mansion asks its lord, the swains their friend;
While he doth riot's orgies haply share,
Or tempt the gamester's dark, destroying snare,
Or at some courtly shrine with slavish incense bend.
XIII.
And yet full oft your anxious tongues complain
That lawless tumult prompts the rustic throng;
That the rude village-inmates now disdain
Those homely ties which rul'd their fathers long.
Alas, your fathers did by other arts
Draw those kind ties around their simple hearts,
And led in other paths their ductile will;
By succour, faithful counsel, courteous cheer,
Won them the ancient manners to revere,
To prize their country's peace and heaven's due rites fulfill.
XIV.
But mark rhe judgement of experienc'd Time,
Tutor of nations. Doth light discord tear
A state? and impotent sedition's crime?
The powers of warlike prudence dwell not there;
The powers who to command and to obey,
Instruct the valiant. There would civil sway
The rising race to manly concord tame?
Oft let the marshal'd field their steps unite,
And in glad splendor bring before their sight
One common cause and one hereditary fame.
XV.
Nor yet be aw'd, nor yet your task disown,
Though war's proud votaries look on severe;
Though secrets, taught erewhile to them alone,
They deem profan'd by your intruding ear.
Let them in vain, your martial hope to quell,
Of new refinements, fiercer weapons tell,
And mock the old simplicity, in vain:
To the time's warfare, simple or refin'd,
The time itself adapts the warrior's mind;
And equal prowess still shall equal palms obtain.
XVI.
Say then; if England's youth, in earlier days,
On glory's field with well-train'd armies vy'd,
Why shall they now renounce that generous praise?
Why dread the foreign mercenary's pride?
Though Valois brav'd young Edward's gentle hand,
And Albret rush'd on Henry's way-worn band,
With Europe's chosen sons in arms renown'd,
Yet not on Vere's bold archers long they look'd,
Nor Audley's squires nor Mowbray's yeomen brook'd:
They saw their standard fall, and left their monarch bound.
XVII.
Such were the laurels which your fathers won;
Such glory's dictates in their dauntless breast:
—Is there no voice that speaks to every son?
No nobler, holier call to You address'd?
O! by majestic freedom, righteous laws,
By heavenly truth's, by manly reason's cause,
Awake; attend; be indolent no more:
By friendship, social peace, domestic love,
Rise; arm; your country's living safety prove;
And train her valiant youth, and watch around her shore.
poem by Mark Akenside
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Elegy IX. He Describes His Disinterestedness to a Friend
I ne'er must tinge my lip with Celtic wines;
The pomp of India must I ne'er display;
Nor boast the produce of Peruvian mines;
Nor with Italian sounds deceive the day.
Down yonder brook my crystal beverage flows;
My grateful sheep their annual fleeces bring;
Fair in my garden buds the damask rose,
And from my grove I hear the throstle sing.
My fellow swains! avert your dazzled eyes;
In vain allured by glittering spoils they rove;
The Fates ne'er meant them for the shepherd's prize,
Yet gave them ample recompence in love.
They gave you vigour from your parents' veins;
They gave you toils, but toils your sinews brace;
They gave you nymphs, that own their amorous pains;
And shades, the refuge of the gentle race.
To carve your loves, to paint your mutual flames,
See, polish'd fair, the beech's friendly rind!
To sing soft carols to your lovely dames,
See vocal grots and echoing vales assign'd!
Wouldst thou, my Strephon, Love's delighted slave!
Though sure the wreaths of chivalry to share,
Forego the riband thy Matilda gave,
And, giving, bade thee in remembrance wear?
Ill fare my peace, but every idle toy,
If to my mind my Delia's form it brings,
Has truer worth, imparts sincerer joy,
Than all that bears the radiant stamp of kings.
O my soul weeps, my breast with anguish bleeds,
When Love deplores the tyrant power of Gain!
Disdaining riches as the futile weeds,
I rise superior, and the rich disdain.
Oft from the stream, slow-wandering down the glade,
Pensive I hear the nuptial peal rebound:
'Some miser weds,' I cry, 'the captive maid,
And some fond lover sickens at the sound.'
Not Somerville, the Muse's friend of old,
Though now exalted to yon ambient sky,
So shunn'd a soul distain'd with earth and gold,
So loved the pure, the generous breast, as I.
Scorn'd be the wretch that quits his genial bowl,
His loves, his friendships, even his self resigns;
Perverts the sacred instinct of his soul,
And to a ducat's dirty sphere confines.
But come, my Friend! with taste, with science blest,
Ere age impair me, and ere gold allure:
Restore thy dear idea to my breast,
The rich deposit shall the shrine secure.
Let others toil to gain the sordid ore,
The charms of independence let us sing:
Bless'd with thy friendship, can I wish for more?
I'll spurn the boasted wealth of Lydia's king.
poem by William Shenstone
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The Statue Of The Dying Gladiator
COMMANDING pow'r! whose hand with plastic art
Bids the rude stone to grace and being start;
Swell to the waving line the polish'd form,
And only want Promethean fire to warm ;—
Sculpture, exult! thy triumph proudly see,
The Roman slave immortalized by thee!
No suppliant sighs, no terrors round him wait,
But vanquish'd valor soars above his fate!
In that fix'd eye still proud defiance low'rs,
In that stern look indignant grandeur tow'rs!
He sees e'en death, with javelin barb'd in pain,
A foe but worthy of sublime disdain!
Too firm, too lofty, for one parting tear,
A quiv'ring pulse, a struggle, or a fear!
Oh! fire of soul! by servitude disgrac'd,
Perverted courage! energy debas'd!
Lost Rome! thy slave, expiring in the dust,
Tow'rs far above Patrician rank, august!
While that proud rank, insatiate, could survey
Pageants that stain'd with blood each festal day!
Oh! had that arm, which grac'd thy deathful show,
With many a daring feat and nervous blow,
Wav'd the keen sword and rear'd the patriot-shield,
Firm in thy cause, on Glory's laureate field;
Then, like the marble form, from age to age,
His name had liv'd in history's brightest page;
While death had but secur'd the victor's crown,
And seal'd the suffrage of deserv'd renown!
That gen'rous pride, that spirit unsubdu'd,
That soul, with honor's high-wrought sense imbu'd,
Had shone, recorded in the song of fame,
A beam, as now, a blemish, on thy name!
Yet here, so well has art majestic wrought,
Sublimed expression, and ennobled thought;
A dying Hero we behold, alone,
And Mind's bright grandeur animates the stone!
'Tis not th' Arena's venal champion bleeds,
No! 'tis some warrior, fam'd for matchless deeds!
Admiring rapture kindles into flame,
Nature and art the palm divided claim!
Nature (exulting in her spirit's pow'r,
To rise victorious in the dreaded hour,)
Triumphs, that death and all his shadowy train,
Assail a mortal's constancy—in vain!
And Art, rejoicing in the work sublime,
Unhurt by all the sacrilege of time,
Smiles o'er the marble, her divine control
Moulded to symmetry, and fir'd with soul!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Ode to The Country Gentlemen Of England
Thou, heedless Albion, what, alas, the while
Dost thou presume? O inexpert in arms,
Yet vain of freedom, how dost thou beguile,
With dreams of hope, these near and loud alarms?
Thy splendid home, thy plan of laws renown'd,
The praise and envy of the nations round,
What care hast thou to guard from fortune's sway?
Amid the storms of war, how soon may all
The lofty pile from its foundations fall,
Of ages the proud toil, the ruin of a day!
No: thou art rich, thy streams and fertile vales
Add industry's wise gifts to nature's store:
And every port is crowded with thy sails,
And every wave throws treasure on thy shore.
What boots it? If luxurious plenty charm
Thy selfish heart from glory, if thy arm
Shrink at the frowns of danger and of pain,
Those gifts, that treasure is no longer thine.
Oh rather far be poor. Thy gold will shine
Tempting the eye of force, and deck thee to thy bane.
But what hath force or war to do with thee?
Girt by the azure tide and thron'd sublime
Amid thy floating bulwarks, thou canst see,
With scorn, the fury of each hostile clime
Dash'd ere it reach thee. Sacred from the foe
Art thy fair fields: athwart thy guardian prow
No bold invader's foot shall tempt the strand--
Yet say my country, will the waves and wind
Obey thee? Hast thou all thy hopes resign'd
To the sky's fickle faith? the pilot's wavering hand?
Nor yet be aw'd, nor yet your task disown,
Though war's proud votaries look on severe;
Though secrets, taught erewhile to them alone,
They deem profan'd by your intruding ear.
Let them in vain, your martial hope to quell,
Of new refinements, fiercer weapons tell,
And mock the old simplicity, in vain:
To the time's warfare, simple or refin'd,
The time itself adapts the warrior's mind;
And equal prowess still shall equal palms obtain.
poem by Mark Akenside
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Ode to Health, 1730
O Health! capricious maid!
Why dost thou shun my peaceful bower,
Where I had hope to share thy power,
And bless thy lasting aid?
Since thou, alas! art flown,
It 'vails not whether Muse or Grace,
With tempting smile, frequent the place;
I sigh for thee alone.
Age not forbids thy stay:
Thou yet mightst act the friendly part;
Thou yet mightst raise this languid heart;
Why speed so swift away?
Thou scorn'st the city air;
I breathe fresh gales o'er furrow'd ground,
Yet hast not thou my wishes crown'd,
O false! O partial Fair!
I plunge into the wave;
And though with purest hands I raise
A rural altar to thy praise,
Thou wilt not deign to save.
Amid my well-known grove,
Where mineral fountains vainly bear
Thy boasted name, and titles fair,
Why scorns thy foot to rove?
Thou hear'st the sportsman's claim;
Enabling him, with idle noise,
To drown the Muse's melting voice,
And fright the timorous game.
Is thought thy foe? Adieu,
Ye midnight lamps! ye curious tomes!
Mine eye o'er hills and valleys roams,
And deals no more with you.
Is it the clime you flee?
Yet midst his unremitting snows
The poor Laponian's bosom glows,
And shares bright rays from thee.
There was, there was a time,
When, though I scorn'd thy guardian care,
Nor made a vow, nor said a prayer,
I did not rue the crime.
Who then more blest than
When the glad schoolboy's task was done,
And forth, with jocund spirit, I run
To freedom and to joy?
How jovial then the day!
What since have all my labours found,
Thus climbing life, to gaze around,
That can thy loss repay?
Wert thou, alas! but kind,
Methinks no frown that Fortune wears,
Nor lessen'd hopes, nor growing cares,
Could sink my cheerful mind.
Whate'er my stars include,
What other breasts convert to pain,
My towering mind should soon disdain,
Should scorn-Ingratitude!
Repair this mouldering cell,
And, blest with objects found at home,
And envying none their fairer dome,
How pleased my soul should dwell!
Temperance should guard the doors;
From room to room should Memory stray,
And, ranging all in neat array,
Enjoy her pleasing stores--
There let them rest unknown,
The types of many a pleasing scene;
But to preserve them bright or clean,
Is thine, Fair Queen! alone.
poem by William Shenstone
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Ode XVIII: To The Right Honourable Francis Earl Of Huntington
I. 1.
The wise and great of every clime,
Through all the spacious walks of Time,
Where'er the Muse her power display'd,
With joy have listen'd and obey'd.
For taught of heaven, the sacred Nine
Persuasive numbers, forms divine,
To mortal sense impart:
They best the soul with glory fire;
They noblest counsels, boldest deeds inspire;
And high o'er Fortune's rage inthrone the fixed heart.
I. 2.
Nor less prevailing is their charm
The vengeful bosom to disarm;
To melt the proud with human woe,
And prompt unwilling tears to flow.
Can wealth a power like this afford?
Can Cromwell's arts, or Marlborough's sword,
An equal empire claim?
No, Hastings. Thou my words wilt own:
Thy breast the gifts of every Muse hath known;
Nor shall the giver's love disgrace thy noble name.
I. 3.
The Muse's awful art,
And the blest function of the poet's tongue,
Ne'er shalt thou blush to honour; to assert
From all that scorned vice or slavish fear hath sung.
Nor shall the blandishment of Tuscan strings
Warbling at will in pleasure's myrtle bower;
Nor shall the servile notes to Celtic kings
By flattering minstrels paid in evil hour,
Move thee to spurn the heavenly Muse's reign.
A different strain,
And other themes
From her prophetic shades and hallow'd streams
(Thou well can'st witness) meet the purged ear:
Such, as when Greece to her immortal shell
Rejoicing listen'd, godlike sounds to hear;
To hear the sweet instructress tell
(While men and heroes throng'd around)
How life its noblest use may find,
How well for freedom be resign'd;
And how, by glory, virtue shall be crown'd.
II. 1.
Such was the Chian father's strain
To many a kind domestic train,
Whose pious hearth and genial bowl
Had chear'd the reverend pilgrim's soul:
When, every hospitable rite
With equal bounty to requite,
He struck his magic strings;
And pour'd spontaneous numbers forth,
And seiz'd their ears with tales of ancient worth,
And fill'd their musing hearts with vast heroic things.
II. 2.
Now oft, where happy spirits dwell,
Where yet he tunes his charming shell,
Oft near him, with applauding hands,
The genius of his country stands.
To listening gods he makes him known,
That man divine, by whom were sown
The seeds of Grecian fame:
Who first the race with freedom fir'd;
From whom Lycurgus Sparta's sons inspir'd;
From whom Platæan palms and Cyprian trophies came.
II. 3.
O noblest, happiest age!
When Aristides rul'd, and Cimon fought;
When all the generous fruits of Homer's page
Exulting Pindar saw to full perfection bought.
O Pindar, oft shalt thou be hail'd of me:
Not that Apollo fed thee from his shrine;
Not that thy lips drank sweetness from the bee;
Nor yet that, studious of thy notes divine,
Pan danc'd their measure with the sylvan throng:
But that thy song
Was proud to unfold
What thy base rulers trembled to behold;
Amid corrupted Thebes was proud to tell
The deeds of Athens and the Persian shame:
Hence on thy head their impious vengeance fell.
But thou, o faithful to thy fame,
The Muse's law did'st rightly know;
That who would animate his lays,
And other minds to virtue raise,
Must feel his own with all her spirit glow.
III. 1.
Are there, approv'd of later times,
Whose verse adorn'd a tyrant's crimes?
Who saw majestic Rome betray'd,
And lent the imperial ruffian aid?
Alas! not one polluted bard,
No, not the strains that Mincius heard,
Or Tibur's hills reply'd,
Dare to the Muse's ear aspire;
Save that, instructed by the Grecian lyre,
With freedom's ancient notes their shameful task they hide.
III. 2.
Mark, how the dread Pantheon stands,
Amid the domes of modern hands:
Amid the toys of idle state,
How simply, how severely great!
Then turn, and, while each western clime
Presents her tuneful sons to Time,
So mark thou Milton's name;
And add, “Thus differs from the throng
'The spirit which inform'd thy awful song,
Which bade thy potent voice protect thy country's fame.'
III. 3.
Yet hence barbaric zeal
His memory with unholy rage pursues;
While from these arduous cares of public weal
She bids each bard begone, and rest him with his Muse.
O fool! to think the man, whose ample mind
Must grasp at all that yonder stars survey;
Must join the noblest forms of every kind,
The world's most perfect image to display,
Can e'er his country's majesty behold,
Unmov'd or cold!
O fool! to deem
That he, whose thought must visit every theme,
Whose heart must every strong emotion know
Inspir'd by nature, or by fortune taught;
That he, if haply some presumptuous foe,
With false ignoble science fraught,
Shall spurn at freedom's faithful band;
That he their dear defence will shun,
Or hide their glories from the sun,
Or deal their vengeance with a woman's hand!
IV. 1.
I care not that in Arno's plain,
Or on the sportive banks of Seine,
From public themes the Muse's quire
Content with polish'd ease retire.
Where priests the studious head command,
Where tyrants bow the warlike hand
To vile ambition's aim,
Say, what can public themes afford,
Save venal honors to an hateful lord,
Reserv'd for angry heaven and scorn'd of honest fame?
IV. 2.
But here, where freedom's equal throne
To all her valiant sons is known;
Where all are conscious of her cares,
And each the power, that rules him, shares;
Here let the bard, whose dastard tongue
Leaves public arguments unsung,
Bid public praise farewell:
Let him to fitter climes remove,
Far from the hero's and the patriot's love,
And lull mysterious monks to slumber in their cell.
IV. 3.
O Hastings, not to all
Can ruling heaven the same endowments lend:
Yet still doth nature to her offspring call,
That to one general weal their different powers they bend,
Unenvious. Thus alone, though strains divine
Inform the bosom of the Muse's son;
Though with new honors the patrician's line
Advance from age to age; yet thus alone
They win the suffrage of impartial fame.
The poet's name
He best shall prove,
Whose lays the soul with noblest passions move.
But thee, o progeny of heroes old,
Thee to severer toils thy fate requires:
The fate which form'd thee in a chosen mould,
The grateful country of thy sires,
Thee to sublimer paths demand;
Sublimer than thy sires could trace,
Or thy own Edward teach his race,
Though Gaul's proud genius sank beneath his hand.
V. 1.
From rich domains and subject farms,
They led the rustic youth to arms;
And kings their stern atchievements fear'd;
While private strife their banners rear'd.
But loftier scenes to thee are shown,
Where empire's wide-establish'd throne
No private master fills:
Where, long foretold, the People reigns:
Where each a vassal's humble heart disdains;
And judgeth what he sees; and, as he judgeth, wills.
V. 2.
Here be it thine to calm and guide
The swelling democratic tide;
To watch the state's uncertain frame,
And baffle faction's partial aim:
But chiefly, with determin'd zeal,
To quell that servile band, who kneel
To freedom's banish'd foes;
That monster, which is daily found
Expert and bold thy country's peace to wound;
Yet dreads to handle arms, nor manly counsel knows.
V. 3.
'Tis highest heaven's command,
That guilty aims should sordid paths pursue;
That what ensnares the heart should maim the hand,
And virtue's worthless foes be false to glory too.
But look on freedom. see, through every age,
What labours, perils, griefs, hath she disdain'd!
What arms, what regal pride, what priestly rage,
Have her dread offspring conquer'd or sustain'd!
For Albion well have conquer'd. Let the strains
Of happy swains,
Which now resound
Where Scarsdale's cliffs the swelling pastures bound,
Bear witness. there, oft let the farmer hail
The sacred orchard which imbowers his gate,
And shew to strangers passing down the vale,
Where Candish, Booth, and Osborne sate;
When bursting from their country's chain,
Even in the midst of deadly harms,
Of papal snares and lawless arms,
They plann'd for freedom this her noblest reign.
VI. 1.
This reign, these laws, this public care,
Which Nassau gave us all to share,
Had ne'er adorn'd the English name,
Could fear have silenc'd freedom's claim.
But fear in vain attempts to bind
Those lofty efforts of the mind
Which social good inspires;
Where men, for this, assault a throne,
Each adds the common welfare to his own;
And each unconquer'd heart the strength of all acquires.
VI. 2.
Say, was it thus, when late we view'd
Our fields in civil blood imbru'd?
When fortune crown'd the barbarous host,
And half the astonish'd isle was lost?
Did one of all that vaunting train,
Who dare affront a peaceful reign,
Durst one in arms appear?
Durst one in counsels pledge his life?
Stake his luxurious fortunes in the strife?
Or lend his boasted name his vagrant friends to chear?
VI. 3.
Yet, Hastings, these are they
Who challenge to themselves thy country's love;
The true; the constant: who alone can weigh,
What glory should demand, or liberty approve!
But let their works declare them. Thy free powers,
The generous powers of thy prevailing mind,
Not for the tasks of their confederate hours,
Lewd brawls and lurking slander, were design'd.
Be thou thy own approver. Honest praise
Oft nobly sways
Ingenuous youth:
But, sought from cowards and the lying mouth,
Praise is reproach. Eternal God alone
For mortals fixeth that sublime award.
He, from the faithful records of his throne,
Bids the historian and the bard
Dispose of honor and of scorn;
Discern the patriot from the slave;
And write the good, the wise, the brave,
For lessons to the multitude unborn.
poem by Mark Akenside
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Elegy XXI. Taking a View of the Country From His Retirement
Thus Damon sung-What though unknown to praise,
Umbrageous coverts hide my Muse and me,
Or mid the rural shepherds flow my days?
Amid the rural shepherds, I am free.
To view sleek vassals crowd a stately hall,
Say, should I grow myself a solemn slave?
To find thy tints, O Titian! grace my wall,
Forego the flowery fields my fortune gave?
Lord of my time, my devious path I bend
Through fringy woodland, or smooth-shaven lawn,
Or pensile grove, or airy cliff ascend,
And hail the scene by Nature's pencil drawn.
Thanks be to Fate-though nor the racy vine,
Nor fattening olive, clothe the fields I rove,
Sequester'd shades and gurgling founts are mine,
And every sylvan grot the Muses love.
Here if my vista point the mouldering pile,
Where hood and cowl Devotion's aspect wore,
I trace the tottering relics with a smile,
To think the mental bondage is no more.
Pleased if the glowing landscape wave with corn,
Or the tall oaks, my country's bulwark, rise;
Pleased if mine eye, o'er thousand valleys borne,
Discern the Cambrian hills support the skies.
And see Plinlimmon! even the youthful sight
Scales the proud hill's ethereal cliffs with pain!
Such, Caer-Caradoc! thy stupendous height,
Whose ample shade obscures th' Iernian main.
Bleak, joyless regions! where, by Science fired,
Some prying sage his lonely step may bend;
There, by the love of novel plants inspired,
Invidious view the clambering goats ascend.
Yet for those mountains, clad with lasting snow,
The freeborn Briton left his greenest mead,
Receding sullen from his mightier foe,
For here he saw fair Liberty recede.
Then if a chief perform'd a patriot's part,
Sustain'd her drooping sons, repell'd her foes,
Above all Persian luxe or Attic art
The rude majestic monument arose.
Progressive ages caroll'd forth his fame,
Sires, to his praise, attuned their children's tongue;
The hoary Druid fed the generous flame,
While in such strains the reverend wizard sung:
'Go forth, my Sons!-for what is vital breath,
Your gods expell'd, your liberty resign'd?
Go forth, my Sons!-for what is instant death
To souls secure perennial joys to find?
'For scenes there are, unknown to war or pain,
Where drops the balm that heals a tyrant's wound;
Where patriots, bless'd with boundless freedom, reign,
With misletoe's mysterious garlands crown'd.
'Such are the names that grace your mystic songs;
Your solemn woods resound their martial fire;
To you, my Sons, the ritual meed belongs,
If in the cause you vanquish or expire.
'Hark! from the sacred oak, that crowns the groves,
What awful voice my raptured bosom warms!
This is the favour'd moment Heaven approves,
Sound the shrill trump; this instant sound, to arms.'
Theirs was the science of a martial race,
To shape the lance, or decorate the shield
Even the fair virgin stain'd her native grace
To give new horrors to the tented field.
Now, for some cheek where guilty blushes glow,
For some false Florimel's impure disguise,
The listed youth nor War's loud signal know,
Nor Virtue's call, nor Fame's imperial prize.
Then, if soft concord lull'd their fears to sleep,
Inert and silent slept the manly car,
But rush'd horrific o'er the fearful steep,
If Freedom's awful clarion breathed to war.
Now the sleek courtier, indolent and vain,
Throned in the splendid carriage, glides supine,
To taint his virtue with a foreign stain,
Or at a favourite board his faith resign.
Leave then, O Luxury! this happy soil;
Chase her, Britannia! to some hostile shore
Or fleece the baneful pest with annual spoil,
And let thy virtuous offspring weep no more.
poem by William Shenstone
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A Pastoral Ode. To the Hon. Sir Richard Lyttleton
The morn dispensed a dubious light,
A sudden mist had stolen from sight
Each pleasing vale and hill;
When Damon left his humble bowers,
To guard his flocks, to fence his flowers,
Or check his wandering rill.
Though school'd from Fortune's paths to fly,
The swain beneath each lowering sky
Would oft his fate bemoan,
That he, in sylvan shades forlorn,
Must waste his cheerless even and morn,
Nor praised, nor loved, nor known.
No friend to Fame's obstreperous noise,
Yet to the whispers of her voice,
Soft murmuring, not a foe:
The pleasures he through choice declined,
When gloomy fogs depress'd his mind,
It grieved him to forego.
Grieved him to lurk the lakes beside,
Where coots in rushy dingles hide,
And moorcocks shun the day;
While caitiff bitterns, undismay'd,
Remark the swain's familiar shade,
And scorn to quit their prey.
But see the radiant sun once more,
The brightening face of heaven restore,
And raise the doubtful dawn;
And, more to gild his rural sphere,
At once the brightest train appear
That ever trod the lawn.
Amazement chill'd the shepherd's frame,
To think Bridgewater's honour'd name
Should grace his rustic cell;
That she, on all whose motions wait
Distinction, titles, rank, and state,
Should rove where shepherds dwell.
But true it is, the generous mind,
By candour sway'd, by taste refined,
Will nought but vice disdain;
Nor will the breast where fancy glows,
Deem every flower a weed that blows
Amid the desert plain.
Beseems it such, with honour crown'd,
To deal its lucid beams around,
Nor equal meed receive;
At most such garlands from the field,
As cowslips, pinks, and pansies, yield,
And rural hands can weave.
Yet strive, ye shepherds! strive to find,
And weave the fairest of the kind,
The prime of all the spring;
If haply thus you lovely fair
May, round her temples, deign to wear
The trivial wreaths you bring.
O how the peaceful halcyons play'd,
Where'er the conscious lake betray'd
Athena's placid mien!
How did the sprightlier linnets throng,
Where Paphia's charms required the song,
'Mid hazel copses green!
Lo, Dartmouth on those banks reclined,
While busy Fancy calls to mind
The glories of his line!
Methinks my cottage rears its head,
The ruin'd walls of yonder shed,
As through enchantment, shine.
But who the nymph that guides their way?
Could ever nymph descend to stray
From Hagley's famed retreat?
Else, by the blooming features fair,
The faultless make, the matchless air,
'Twere Cynthia's form complete.
So would some tuberose delight,
That struck the pilgrim's wondering sight
'Mid lonely deserts drear;
All as at eve, the sovereign flower
Dispenses round its balmy power,
And crowns the fragrant year.
Ah! now no more, the shepherd cried,
Must I Ambition's charms deride,
Her subtle force disown;
No more of Fauns or Fairies dream,
While Fancy, near each crystal stream,
Shall paint these forms alone.
By low-brow'd rock or pathless mead,
I deem'd that splendour ne'er should lead
My dazzled eyes astray;
But who, alas! will dare contend,
If beauty add, or merit blend,
Its more illustrious ray?
Nor is it long, O plaintive swain!
Since Guernsey saw, without disdain,
Where, hid in woodlands green,
The partner of his early days,
And once the rival of his praise,
Had stolen through life unseen.
Scarce faded is the vernal flower,
Since Stamford left his honour'd bower
To smile familiar here:
O form'd by Nature to disclose,
How fair that courtesy which flows
From social warmth sincere!
Nor yet have many moons decay'd,
Since Pollio sought this lonely shade,
Admired this rural maze:
The noblest breast that Virtue fires,
The Graces love, the Muse inspires,
Might pant for Pollio's praise.
Say, Thomson here was known to rest;
For him you vernal seat I drest,
Ah, never to return!
In place of wit and melting strains,
And social mirth, it now remains
To weep beside his urn.
Come then, my Lelius! come once more,
And fringe the melancholy shore
With roses and with bays,
While I each wayward Fate accuse,
That envied his impartial Muse,
To sing your early praise.
While Philo, to whose favour'd sight
Antiquity, with full delight,
Her inmost wealth displays;
Beneath yon ruin's moulder'd wall
Shall muse, and with his friends recall
The pomp of ancient days.
Here, too, shall Conway's name appear;
He praised the stream so lovely clear,
That shone the reeds among;
Yet clearness could it not disclose,
To match the rhetoric that flows
From Conway's polish'd tongue.
Even Pitt, whose fervent periods roll
Resistless through the kindling soul
Of senates, councils, kings-
Though form'd for courts, vouchsafed to rove,
Inglorious, through the shepherd's grove,
And ope his bashful springs.
But what can courts discover more
Than these rude haunts have seen before,
Each fount and shady tree?
Have not these trees and fountains seen
The pride of courts, the winning mien
Of peerless Aylesbury?
And Grenville, she whose radiant eyes
Have mark'd by slow gradation rise
The princely piles of Stowe;
Yet praised these unembellish'd woods,
And smiled to see the babbling floods
Through self-worn mazes flow.
Say, Dartmouth, who your banks admired,
Again beneath your caves retired,
Shall grace the pensive shade;
With all the bloom, with all the truth,
With all the sprightliness of youth,
By cool reflection sway'd?
Brave, yet humane, shall Smith appear;
Ye sailors! though his name be dear,
Think him not yours alone:
Grant him in other spheres to charm;
The shepherds' breasts though mild are warm,
And ours are all his own.
O Lyttleton! my honour'd guest,
Could I describe thy generous breast,
Thy firm yet polish'd mind;
How public love adorns thy name,
How Fortune, too, conspires with Fame;
The song should please mankind.
poem by William Shenstone
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Ode On Lord Hay's BirthDay
A Muse, unskill'd in venal praise,
Unstain'd with flattery's art;
Who loves simplicity of lays
Breathed ardent from the heart;
While gratitude and joy inspire,
Resumes the long-unpractised lyre,
To hail, O H*, thy Natal Morn:
No gaudy wreathe of flowers she weaves,
But twines with oak the laurel leaves,
Thy cradle to adorn.
For not on beds of gaudy flowers
Thine ancestors reclined,
Where Sloth dissolves, and Spleen devours
All energy of mind.
To hurl the dart, to ride the car,
To stem the deluges of war,
And snatch from fate a sinking land:
Tremble th' Invader's lofty crest,
And from his grasp the dagger wrest,
And desolating brand:
'Twas this, that raised th' illustrious Line
To match the first in Fame!
A thousand years have seen it shine
With unabated flame.
Have seen thy mighty Sires appear
Foremost in Glory's high career,
The pride and pattern of the Brave.
Yet, pure from lust of blood their sire,
And from Ambition's wild desire,
They triumph'd but to save.
The Muse with joy attends their way,
The vale of Peace along;
There to its Lord the village gay
Renews the grateful song.
Yon castle's glittering towers contain
No pit of wo, nor clanking chain,
Nor to the suppliant's wail resound:
The open doors the needy bless,
Th' unfriended hail their calm recess,
And gladness smiles around.
There, to the sympathetic heart,
Life's best delights belong,
To mitigate the mourner's smart,
To guard the weak from wrong.
Ye Sons of Luxury, be wise:
Know, happiness for ever flies
The cold and solitary breast;
Then let the social instinct glow
And learn to feel another's wo,
And in his joy be bless'd.
O yet, ere Pleasure plant her snare
For unsuspecting youth;
Ere Flattery her song prepare
To check the voice of Truth;
O may his country's guardian Power
Attend the slumbering Infant's bower,
And bright, inspiring dreams impart;
To rouse th' hereditary fire,
To kindle each sublime desire,
Exalt, and warm the heart.
Swift to reward a Parent's fears,
A Parent's hopes to crown,
Roll on in peace, ye blooming years,
That rear him to renown;
When in his finish'd form and face
Admiring multitudes shall trace
Each patrimonial charm combined,
The courteous yet majestic mien,
The liberal smile, the look serene,
The great and gentle mind.
Yet, though thou draw a nation's eyes,
And win a nation's love,
Let not thy towering mind despise
The village and the grove.
No slander there shall wound thy fame,
No ruffian take his deadly aim.
No rival weave the secret snare;
For Innocence with angel smile
Simplicity that knows no guile,
And Love and Peace are there.
When winds the mountain oak assail,
And lay its glories waste,
Content may slumber in the vale,
Unconscious of the blast.
Through scenes of tumult while we roam,
The heart, alas! is ne'er at home,
It hopes in time to roam no more;
The mariner, not vainly brave,
Combats the storm, and rides the wave,
To rest at last on shore.
Ye proud, ye selfish, ye severe,
How vain your mask of state!
The good alone have joy sincere,
The good alone are great:
Great, when, amid the vale of peace,
They bid the plaint of sorrow cease,
And hear the voice of artless praise;
As when along the trophied plain
Sublime they lead the victor train,
While shouting nations gaze.
poem by James Beattie
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To Delia
Me to whatever state the gods assign,
Believe, my love, whatever state be mine,
Ne'er shall my breast one anxious sorrow know,
Ne'er shall my heart confess a real woe,
If to thy share heaven's choicest blessings fall,
As thou hast virtue to deserve them all.
Yet vain, alas! that idle hope would be
That builds on happiness remote from thee.
Oh! may thy charms, whate'er our fate decrees,
Please, as they must, but let them only please--
Not like the sun with equal influence shine,
Nor warm with transport any heart but mine.
Ye who from wealth the ill-grounded title boast
To claim whatever beauty charms you most;
Ye sons of fortune, who consult alone
Her parents' will, regardless of her own,
Know that a love like ours, a generous flame,
No wealth can purchase, and no power reclaim.
The soul's affection can be only given
Free, unextorted, as the grace of heaven.
Is there whose faithful bosom can endure
Pangs fierce as mine, nor ever hope a cure?
Who sighs in absence of the dear-loved maid?
Nor summons once indifference to his aid?
Who can, like me, the nice resentment prove,
The thousand soft disquietudes of love;
The trivial strifes that cause a real pain;
The real bliss when reconciled again?
Let him alone dispute the real prize,
And read his sentence in my Delia's eyes;
There shall he read all gentleness and truth,
But not himself, the dear distinguished youth;
Pity for him perhaps they may express--
Pity, that will but heighten his distress.
But, wretched rival! he must sigh to see
The sprightlier rays of love directed all to me.
And thou, dear antidote of every pain
Which fortune can inflict, or love ordain,
Since early love has taught thee to despise
What the world's worthless votaries only prize,
Believe, my love! no less the generous god
Rules in my breast, his ever blest abode;
There has he driven each gross desire away,
Directing every wish and every thought to thee!
Then can I ever leave my Delia's arms,
A slave, devoted to inferior charms?
Can e'er my soul her reason so disgrace?
For what blest minister of heavenly race
Would quit that heaven to find a happier place?
poem by William Cowper
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Ode III: To The Cuckow
I.
O rustic herald of the spring,
At length in yonder woody vale
Fast by the brook I hear thee sing;
And, studious of thy homely tale,
Amid the vespers of the grove,
Amid the chaunting choir of love,
Thy sage responses hail.
II.
The time has been when I have frown'd
To hear thy voice the woods invade;
And while thy solemn accent drown'd
Some sweeter poet of the shade,
Thus, thought I, thus the sons of care
Some constant youth or generous fair
With dull advice upbraid.
III.
I said, 'While Philomela's song
'Proclaims the passion of the grove,
'It ill beseems a cuckow's tongue
'Her charming language to reprove'—
Alas, how much a lover's ear
Hates all the sober truth to hear,
The sober truth of love!
IV.
When hearts are in each other bless'd,
When nought but lofty faith can rule
The nymph's and swain's consenting breast,
How cuckow-like in Cupid's school,
With store of grave prudential saws
On fortune's power and custom's laws,
Appears each friendly fool!
V.
Yet think betimes, ye gentle train
Whom love and hope and fancy sway,
Who every harsher care disdain,
Who by the morning judge the day,
Think that, in April's fairest hours,
To warbling shades and painted flowers
The cuckow joins his lay.
poem by Mark Akenside
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Saturday, the Small-Pox
FLAVIA.
The wretched FLAVIA on her couch reclin'd,
Thus breath'd the anguish of a wounded mind ;
A glass revers'd in her right hand she bore,
For now she shun'd the face she sought before.
'How am I chang'd ! alas ! how am I grown
'A frightful spectre, to myself unknown !
'Where's my Complexion ? where the radiant Bloom,
'That promis'd happiness for Years to come ?
'Then with what pleasure I this face survey'd !
'To look once more, my visits oft delay'd !
'Charm'd with the view, a fresher red would rise,
'And a new life shot sparkling from my eyes !
'Ah ! faithless glass, my wonted bloom restore;
'Alas ! I rave, that bloom is now no more !
'The greatest good the GODS on men bestow,
'Ev'n youth itself, to me is useless now.
'There was a time, (oh ! that I could forget !)
'When opera-tickets pour'd before my feet ;
'And at the ring, where brightest beauties shine,
'The earliest cherries of the spring were mine.
'Witness, O Lilly ; and thou, Motteux, tell
'How much Japan these eyes have made ye sell.
'With what contempt ye you saw me oft despise
'The humble offer of the raffled prize ;
'For at the raffle still the prize I bore,
'With scorn rejected, or with triumph wore !
' Now beauty's fled, and presents are no more !
'For me the Patriot has the house forsook,
'And left debates to catch a passing look :
'For me the Soldier has soft verses writ ;
'For me the Beau has aim'd to be a Wit.
'For me the Wit to nonsense was betray'd ;
'The Gamester has for me his dun delay'd,
'And overseen the card, I would have play'd.
'The bold and haughty by success made vain,
'Aw'd by my eyes has trembled to complain:
'The bashful 'squire touch'd by a wish unknown,
'Has dar'd to speak with spirit not his own ;
'Fir'd by one wish, all did alike adore ;
'Now beauty's fled, and lovers are no more!
'As round the room I turn my weeping eyes,
'New unaffected scenes of sorrow rise !
'Far from my sight that killing picture bear,
'The face disfigure, and the canvas tear !
'That picture which with pride I us'd to show,
'The lost resemblance but upbraids me now.
'And thou, my toilette! where I oft have sat,
'While hours unheeded pass'd in deep debate,
'How curls should fall, or where a patch to place :
'If blue or scarlet best became my face;
'Now on some happier nymph thy aid bestow ;
'On fairer heads, ye useless jewels glow !
'No borrow'd lustre can my charms restore ;
'Beauty is fled, and dress is now no more !
'Ye meaner beauties, I permit ye shine ;
'Go, triumph in the hearts that once were mine ;
'But midst your triumphs with confusion know,
''Tis to my ruin all your arms ye owe.
'Would pitying Heav'n restore my wonted mien,
'Ye still might move unthought-of and unseen.
'But oh ! how vain, how wretched is the boast
'Of beauty faded, and of empire lost !
'What now is left but weeping, to deplore
'My beauty fled, and empire now no more !
'Ye, cruel Chymists, what with-held your aid !
'Could no pomatums save a trembling maid ?
'How false and trifling is that art you boast ;
'No art can give me back my beauty lost.
'In tears, surrounded by my friends I lay,
'Mask'd o'er and trembled at the sight of day;
'MIRMILLO came my fortune to deplore,
'(A golden headed cane, well carv'd he bore)
'Cordials, he cried, my spirits must restore :
'Beauty is fled, and spirit is no more !
'GALEN, the grave ; officious SQUIRT was there,
'With fruitless grief and unavailing care :
'MACHAON too, the great MACHAON, known
'By his red cloak and his superior frown ;
'And why, he cry'd, this grief and this despair ?
'You shall again be well, again be fair ;
'Believe my oath; (with that an oath he swore)
'False was his oath; my beauty is no more!
'Cease, hapless maid, no more thy tale pursue,
'Forsake mankind, and bid the world adieu !
'Monarchs and beauties rule with equal sway ;
'All strive to serve, and glory to obey :
'Alike unpitied when depos'd they grow ;
'Men mock the idol of their former vow.
'Adieu ! ye parks ! -- in some obscure recess,
'Where gentle streams will weep at my distress,
'Where no false friend will in my grief take part,
'And mourn my ruin with a joyful heart ;
'There let me live in some deserted place,
'There hide in shades this lost inglorious face.
'Ye, operas, circles, I no more must view !
'My toilette, patches, all the world adieu!
poem by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu
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