They fill the mind with airy schemes,
And bring the ladies pleasant dreams.
Who knows not Mab, whose chariot glides,
And athwart men's noses rides?
While Oberon, blithe fairy, trips,
And hovers o'er the ladies' lips;
And when he steals ambrosial bliss,
And soft imprints the charming kiss,
In dreams the nymph her swain pursues,
Nor thinks 'tis Oberon that woos.
Yet, sportive youth, and lovely fair,
From hence, my lesson read, beware,
While Innocence and Mirth preside,
We care not where the fairies glide;
And Oberon will never miss
To greet his fav'rites with a kiss;
Nor ever more ambrosia sips,
Than when he visits
When all things else in silence sleep,
The blithesome elfs their vigils keep;
And always hover round about,
To find our worth or frailties out,
Receive with joy these eltin sparks,
Their kisses leave no tell-tale marks,
But breathe fresh beauty o'er the face,
Where all is virtue, all is grace.
Not only elfin fays delight
To hail the sober queen of night,
But that sweet bird, whose gurgling throat
Warbles the thick melodious note,
Duly as evening shades prevail,
Renews her soothing love-lorn tale;
And as the lover pensive goes,
Chants out her symphony of woes,
Which in boon Nature's wilder tone,
Beggar all sounds which Art has known.
But hist―the melancholy bird
Among the groves no more is heard;
And Cynthia pales her silver ray
Before th' approach of golden Day,
Which on yon mountain's misty height,
Stands tiptoe with his gladsome light.
Now the shrill lark in ether floats,
And carols wild her liquid notes;
While Phoebus, in his lusty pride,
His flaring beams flings far and wide,
Cynthia, farewell--the pensive Muse,
No more her feeble flight pursues,
But all unwilling takes her way,
And mixes with the buzz of day.
THE beauty which the gods bestow,
Did they but give it for a show? -
No 'twas lent thee from above,
To shed its lustre o'er thy face,
And with its pure ard native grace
To charm the soul to love.
The flaunting Sun, whose western beams,
This evening drink of Oceans' streams,
To morrow springs to light.
But when thy beauty sets, my fair,
No morrow shall its beam repair,
'Tis all eternal night.
See too, my love, the virgin rose,
How sweet, how bashfully it blows
Beneath the vernal skies!
How soon it blooms in full display,
Its bosom opening to the day,
Then withers, shrinks, and dies.
Of mortal life's declining hour,
Such is the leaf, the bud, the flow'r;
Then crop the rose in time.
Be blest and bless, and kind impart
The just return of heart for heart,
Ere love becomes a crime.
To pleasure then, my charmer, haste, And ere thy youth begins to waste,
Ere beauty dims its ray,
The proffer'd gift of love employ,
Improve each moment into joy,
Be happy, whilst you may.
OF CHURCH-LANGTON, LEICESTERSHIRE, ON HIS
WHILE vain pursuits a trifling race engage,
And Virtue slumbers in a thriftless age,
Thy glorious plan', on deep foundations laid,
Which aiding Nature, Nature's bound to aid,
The wise man's study, though the blockhead's
Shall speak for ages to a world unborn.
Though fools deride, for Censure's still at hand
To damn the work she cannot understand,
Pursue thy project with an ardour fit;
Fools are but whetstones to a man of wit.
Like puling infants seem'd thy rising plan, Now knit in strength, it speaks an active man. So the broad oak, which from thy grand design Shall spread aloft, and tell the world t'was thine, A strip'ling first, just peep'd above the ground, Which, ages hence, shall fling its shade around.
Why not, sometimes, regale admiring friends
With Greek and Latin sprinklings, odds and ends?
Exert your talents; read, and read to write!
As Horace says, mix profit with delight."
'Tis rare advice: but I am slow to mend,
Though ever thankful to my partial friend:
Full of strange fears--for hopes are banish'd all—
I list' no more to Phoebus' sacred call,
Smit with the Muse, 'tis true I sought her charms;
But came no champion, clad in cumb'rous arms,
To pull each rival monarch from his throne,
And swear no lady Clio like my own.
All unambitious of superior praise,
My fond amusement ask'd a sprig of bays,
Some little fame for stringing harmless verse,
And e'en that little fame has prov'd a curse;
Hitch'd into rhyme, and dragg'd through muddy
prose,
By butcher critics, worth's confed'rate foes.
If then the Muse no more shall strive to please, Lull'd in the happy lethargy of ease;
If, unadvent'rous, she forbear to sing,
Nor take one thought to plume her ruffled wing;
'Tis that she hates, howe'er by nature vain,
The scurril nonsense of a venal train.
When desp'rate robbers, issuing from the waste,
Make such rude inroads on the land of Taste,
Genius grows sick beneath the Gothic rage,
Or seeks her laurels from some worthier age.
As for myself, I own the present charge;
Lazy and lounging, I confess at large:
Yet Ease, perhaps, may loose her silken chains,
And the next hour becomes an hour of pains.
We write, we read, we act, we think, by fits,
And follow all things as the humour hits,
For of all pleasures, which the world can bring,
Variety O! dear variety's the thing!
Our learned Coke, from whom we scribblers draw
All the wise dictums of poetic law,
Lays down this truth, from whence my maxim
follows,
(See Horace, Ode Dec. Sext.-the case Apollo's). "The god of verse disclaims the plodding wretch, Nor keeps his bow for ever on the stretch."
However great my thirst of honest fame,
I bow with rev'rence to each letter'd name;
To worth, where'er it be, with joy submit,
But own no curst monopolies of wit.
Nor think, my friend, if I but rarely quote,
And little reading shines through what I've wrote,
That I bid peace to ev'ry learned shelf,
Because I dare form judgments for myself.
-Oh! were it mine, with happy skill to look
Up to the one, the universal book!
Open to all-to him, to me, to you,
-For Nature's open to the general view-
Then would I scorn the ancients' vaunted store,
And boast my thefts, where they but robb'd be-
fore.
Mean while with them, while Grecian sounds
impart
Th' eternal passions of the human heart,
Bursting the bonds of ease and lazy rest,
I feel the flame mount active in my breast;
Or when, with joy, I turn the Roman page,
I live, in fancy, in th' Augustan age!
Till some dull Bavius' or a Mævius' name,
Damn'd by the Muse to everlasting fame,
Forbids the mind in foreign climes to roam,
And brings me back to our own fools at home.
IN THE CAPRICIOUS LOVERS,
WHILE the cool and gentle breeze
| Whispers fragrance through the trees,
Nature walking o'er the scene
Clad in robes of lively green,
From the sweetness of the place
Labour wears a cheerful face.
Sure I taste of joys sincere,
Faithful Colin ever near;
When with ceaseless toil oppress'd,
Wearied Nature sinks to rest.
All my labours to beguile,
Love shall wake me with a smile.
THOUGH my features I'm told
Are grown wrinkled and old,
Dull wisdom I hate and detest,
Not a wrinkle is there
Which is furrow'd by care,
And my heart is as light as the best.
When I look on my boys
They renew all my joys,
Myself in my children I see;
While the comforts I find
In the kingdom my mind,
Pronounce that my kingdom is free,
In the days I was young,
O! I caper'd and sung;
The lasses came flocking apace.
But now turn'd of threescore
1 can do so no more,
-Why then let my boy take my place.
Of our pleasures we crack,
For we still love the smack,
And chuckle o'er what we have been;
Yet why should we repine,
You've yours, I've had mine,
And now let our children begin.
'Tis thus in those toys
Invented for boys
To show how the weather will prove,
The woman and man
On a different plan
Are always directed to move.
One goes out to roam
While t'other keeps home,
Insipid, and dull as a drone,
Though near to each other
As sister and brother,
They both take their airing alone.
WHEN the head of poor Tuinmas was broke
By Roger, who play'd at the wake,
And Kate was alarm'd at the stroke,
And wept for poor Tummas's sake;
When his worship gave noggins of ale,
And the liquor was charming and stout,
O those were the times to regale,
And we footed it rarely about.
Then our partners were buxom as does, And we all were as happy as kings, Each lad in his holyday clothes,
And the lasses in all their best things. What merriment all the day long!
May the feast of our Colin prove such. Odzooks, but I'll join in the song,
And I'll hobble about with my crutch.
WHEN vapours o'er the meadow die,
And Morning streaks the purple sky,
I wake to love with jocund glee
To think on him who doats on me.
When Eve embrowns the verdant grove
And Philomel laments her love,
Each sigh I breathe, my love reveals
And tells the pangs my bosom feels.
With secret pleasure I survey
The frolic birds in amorous play,
While fondest cares my heart employ,
Which flutters, leaps, and beats for joy.
YES that's a magazine of arms
To triumph over Time;
Whence Beauty borrows half her charms
And always keeps her prime.
At that the prude, coquette, and saint,
Industrious sets her face,
While powder, patch, and wash, and paint,
Repair or give a grace.
To arch the brow there lies the brush,
The comb to tinge the hair,
The Spanish wool to give the blush,
The pearl to die them fair.
Hence rise the wrinkled, old, and grey,
In freshest beauty strong,
As Venus fair, as Flora gay,
As Hebe ever young.
Go! seek some nymph of humbler lot,
To share thy board, and deck thy cot,
With joy I fly the simple youth
Who holds me light, or doubts my truth.
Thy breast, for love too wanton grown,
Shall mourn it's peace and pleasure flown,
Nor shall my faith reward a swain,
Who doubts my love, or thinks me vain.
THUS laugh'd at, jilted, and betray'd,
I stamp, I tear, I rave;
Capricious, light, injurious maid,
I'll be no more thy slave,
I'II rend thy image from my heart,
Thy charms no more engage;
My soul shall take the juster part,
And love shall yield to rage.
THANK you, ladies, for your care,
But I pray you both forbear,
Sure I am all over scratches!
That your curious hands must place,
Such odd spots upon my face
With your pencils, paint, and patches.
The toilette.
From a dress of so much weight,
With my robe too dangling after; Could my Colin now but see
What a thing they've made of me,
Oh he'd split his sides with laughter.
THE flowers which grace their native beds,
Awhile put forth their blushing heads,
But ere the close of parting day
They wither, shrink, and die away.
But these which mimic skill hath made,
Nor scorch'd by suns, nor kill'd by shade,
Shall blush with less inconstant hue,
Which art or pleasure can renew.
WHEN late a simple rustic lass,
I rov'd without restraint,
A stream was all my looking-glass,
And health my only paint.
The charms I boast (alas! how few!)
I gave to Nature's care,
As vice ne'er spoilt their native hue, They could not want repair.
How strange the mode which truth neglects,
And rests all beauty in defects!
But we by homely Nature taught,
Though rude in speech are plain in thought.
FOR various purpose serves the fan,
As thus
a decent blind,
Between the sticks to peep at man,
Nor yet betray your mind.
Each action has a meaning plain,
Resentment's in the snap,
A flirt expresses strong disdain,
Consent a gentle tap.
All passions will the fair disclose,
All modes of female art,
And to advantage sweetly shows
The hand, if not the heart.
'Tis Folly's sceptre first design'd
By Love's capricious boy,
Who knows how lightly all mankind
Are govern'd by a toy.
IF tyrant Love with cruel dart
Transfix the maiden's tender heart,
Of easy faith and fond belief,
She hugs the dart, and aids the thief.
Till left, her helpless state to mourn,
Neglected, loving, and forlorn ;'
She finds, while grief her bosom stings,
As well as darts the god has wings.
ALONG your verdant lowly vale
Calm Zephyr breathes a gentle gale,
But rustling through the lofty trees
It swells beyond the peaceful breeze.
Thus free from Envy's poison'd dart,
You boast a pure unruffled heart.
While jarring thoughts our peace deform, And swell our passious to a storın.
Tнo' my dress, as my manners, is simple and
A rascal I hate, and a knave 1 disdain; [plain,
My dealings are just, and my conscience is clear,
And I'm richer than those who have thousands a
year.
Tho' bent down with age and for sporting uncouth,
I feel no remorse from the follies of youth;
I still tell my tale, and rejoice in my song,
And my boys think my life not a moment too long.
Let the courtiers, those dealers in grin and grimace,
Creep under, dance over, for title or place;
Above all the titles that flow from a throne,
That of honest I prize, and that title's my own.
AIR XVII.
FROM flow'r to flow'r the butterfly,
O'er fields or gardens ranging,
Sips sweets from each, and flutters by,
And all his life is changing.
Thus roving man new objects sway,
By various charms delighted,
While she who pleases most to day
To morrow shall be slighted.
AIR XVIII.
WHEN far from fashion's gilded scene
I breath'd my native air,
My thoughts were calm, my mind serene,
No doubtings harbour'd there.
But now no more myself I find,
Distraction rends my breast;
Whilst hopes and fears disturb my mind,
And murder all my rest.
FLATTERING hopes the mind deceiving
Easy faith too often cheat,
Woman, fond and all believing
Loves and hugs the dear deceit.
Noisy show of pomp and riches,
Cupid's trick to catch the fair,
Lowly maids too oft bewitches,
Flattery is the beauty's snare.
AIR XX.
WHAT'S all the pomp of gaudy courts, But vain delights and jingling toys, While pleasure crowns your rural sports With calm content and tranquil joys.
RETURN, Sweet lass, to flocks and swains, Where simple Nature mildly reigns;
Where love is every shepherd's care,
And every nymph is kind as fair.
The court has only tinsel toys,
Insipid mirth and idle noise;
But rural joys are ever new,
While nymphs are kind, and shepherds true.
AIR XXII.
A simple swain, a simple maid,
AGAIN in rustic weeds array'd,
O'er rural scenes with joy we'll rove,
By dimpling brook, or cooling grove.
And warble wild their merry notes;
The birds shall strain their little throats,
Whilst we converse beneath the shade,
A happy swain, and happy maid.
Thy hands shall pluck, 'to grace my bow'r,
The luscious fruit, the fragrant flow'r,
Whilst joys shall bless, for ever new,
Thy Phoebe kind, my Colin true.
WHY should I now, my love, complain,
That toil awaits thy cheerful swain,
Since labour oft a sweet bestows
Which lazy splendour never knows?
Hence springs the purple tide of health,
The rich man's wish, the poor man's wealth,
And spreads those blushes o'er the face,
Which come and go with native grace.
The pride of dress the pomp of show,
Are trappings oft to cover woe;
But we, whose wishes never roam,
Shall taste of real joys at home.
No doubt but your fool's-cap has known
His highness obligingly kind,
-Odzooks I could knock the fool down,
Was e'er such a cuckoldy hind?
To be sure, like a good-natur'd spouse,
You've lent him a part of your bed;
He has fitted the horns to your brows,
And I see them sprout out of your head,
To keep your wife virtuous and chaste
The court is a wonderful school,
-My lord you've an excellent taste.
-And, son, you're a cuckoldy fool.
If your lady should bring you an heir,
The blood will flow rich in his veins, Many thanks to my lord for his care-You dog, I could knock out your brains.
|