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What joy to hear the tempest howl in vain,

And clasp a fearful mistress to my breast Or lulled to slumber by the beating rain,

Secure and happy, sink at last to rest.
Or if the sun in flaming Leo ride,

By shady rivers indolently stray,
And with my Delia, walking side by side,

Hear how they murmur as they glide away. What joy to wind along the cool retreat,

To stop and gaze on Delia as I go!
To mingle sweet discourse with kisses sweet,

And teach my lovely scholar all I know !
Thus pleased at heart, and not with fancy's dream,

In silent happiness I rest unknown; Content with what I am, not what I seem,

I live for Delia and myself alone.

OF MYSELF.

BY COWLEY.

This only grant me, that my means may lie
Too low for envy, for contempt too high.

Some honour I would have,
Not from great deeds, but good alone;
The unknown are better than ill known

Rumour ean ope the grave,

Acquaintance I would have, but when't dcpenda,
Not on the number, but the choice, of friends.

Books should, not business, entertain the light,
And sleep as undisturbed as death, the night.

My house a cottage more
Than palace; and should fitting be
For all my use, no luxury.

My garden painted o'er
With Nature's hand, not Art's; and pleasures yield
Horace might envy in his Sabine field.

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Thus would I double my life's fading space ;
For he, that runs it well, twice runs his race.

And in this true delight,
These unbought sports, this happy state,
I would not fear, nor wish, my fate;

But boldly say each night,
To-morrow let my sun his beams display,
Or in clouds hide them; I have lived to-day.

Cease then, nor order imperfection name:
Our proper bliss depends on what we blame.
Know thy own point; this kind, this due degree
Of blindness, weakness, heav'n bestows on thee.
Submit-in this or any other sphere,
Secure to be as bless'd as thou canst bear.

Pope.

INSCRIPTION IN A HERMITAGE

AT AINSLEY HALL, IN WARWICKSHIRE.

BY WARTON.

BENEATH this stony roof reclined,
I soothe, to peace my pensive mind;
And while, to shade my lowly cave,
Embowering elms their umbrage wave;
And while the aple dish is mine,
T'he beechen cup, unstained with wine;
I scorn the gay licentious crowd,
Nor heed the toys that deck the proud.
Within my limits lone and still
The blackbird pipes in artless trill;
Fast by my couch, congenial guest,
The wren has wove her mossy nest;
From busy scenes, and brighter skies,
To lurk with innocence, she flies;
Here hopes in safe repose to dwell,
Nor aught suspects the sylvan cell.
At morn I take my customed round,
To mark how buds yon shrubby mound,
And every opening primrose count,
That trimly paints my blooming mount;
Or o'er the sculptures, quaint and rude,
That grace my gloomy solitudo,

I teach in winding wreaths to stray Fantastic ivy's gadding spray. At eve within yon studious nook, I ope my brass-embossed book Pourtrayed with many a holy deed Of martyrs, crowned with heavenly meed: Then as my taper waxes dim, Chaunt, ere I sleep my measured hymn; And at the close, the gleams behold Of parting wings bedropt with gold. While such pure joys my bliss create, Who but would smile at guilty state ? Who but would wish his holy lot In calm Oblivion's humble grot? Who but would cast his pomp away, To take my staff, and amice gray ; And to the world's tumultuous stage Prefer the blameless hermitage ?

THE FIRE-SIDE.

BY COTTON.

Dear Cloe, while the busy crowd,
The vain and wealthy, and the proud,

In folly's maze advance;
Though singularity and pride
Be called our choice, we'll step aside,

Nor join the giddy dance.

From the gay world we'll oft retire
To our own family and fire,

Where love our hours employs;
No noisy neighbour enters here,
No intermeddling stranger near,

To spoil our heartfelt joys.
If solid happiness we prize,
Within our breast this jewel lies,

And they are fools who roam ;
The world hath nothing to bestow,
From our own selves our bliss must flow,

And that dear hut, our home.
Of rest was Noah's dove bereft,
When with impatient wings she left

That safe retreat, the ark ;
Giving her vain excursions o'er,
The disappointed bird once more

Explored the sacred bark.
Though fools spurn Hymen's gentle powers,
We, who improve his golden hours,

By sweet experience know
That marriage, rightly understood,
Gives to the tender and the good

A paradise below.
Our babes shall richest comfort bring ,
If tutored right, they'll prove a spring

Whence pleasures ever rise ;

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