And,' cruel gods,' and ' cruel stars,' she cried : Nor did the shepherds, through the woodlands wide, On that sad day, or to the pensive brook, Nor did the wild goat browse the shrubby rocks: And every lily droop'd its silver head. Sad sympathy! yet sure his rightful meed Oh! make it worthy of the sacred Bard; song; Whether with angel troops, the stars among, Thus the fond swain his Doric oate essay'd, Manhood's prime honours rising on his cheek: Trembling he strove to court the tuneful maid With strippling arts, and dalliance all too weak, IMITATION. Here end we, Goddess! &c.] Hæc sat erit, Divæ, vestrum cecinisse poetam, Dum sedet, et gracili fiscellam texit hibisc, Pierides: vos hæc facietis maxima Galio: Virg. Ecl. 10. Unseen, unheard, beneath a hawthorn shade. But now dun clouds the welkin 'gan to streak: And now down dropp'd the larks, and ceased their strain: [swain. They ceased, and with them ceased the shepherd MASON. EVENING ADDRESS TO A NIGHTIN- SWEET bird! that, kindly perching near, Thanks for thy sorrow-soothing strain:- And with thy piteous notes thus sadden all the grove? Say, dost thou mourn thy ravish'd mate, Bereft thee of thy darling young? Alas, for both I weepIn all the pride of youthful charms, A beauteous bride torn from my circling arms, A lovely babe that should have lived to bless, And fill my doting eyes with frequent tears, At once the source of rapture and distress, The flattering prop of my declining years! In vain from death to rescue I essay'd, By every art that Science could devise; Alas! it languish'd for a mother's aid, And wing'd its flight to seek her in the skies.— Then O! our comforts be the same, At evening's peaceful hour, To shun the noisy paths of wealth and fame, But why, alas! to thee complain! Soon shalt thou cease to mourn thy lot severe, The genial warmth of joy-renewing Spring But O! for me in vain may seasons roll, I count my sorrows by increasing years. Tell me, thou siren Hope, deceiver, say, O what delusion did thy tongue employ! 'That Emma's fatal pledge of love, Her last bequest-with all a mother's care, The bitterness of sorrow should remove, Soften the horrors of despair, And cheer a heart long lost to joy?' How oft, when fondling in mine arms, Gazing enraptured on its angel face, My soul the maze of Fate would vainly trace, And burn with all a father's fond alarms! And O! what flattering scenes had Fancy feign'd! How did I rave of blessings yet in store! Till every aching sense was sweetly pain'd, And my full heart could bear, nor tongue could utter more. 'Just Heaven!' I cried- -with recent hopes elate, 'Yet I will live-will live, though Emma's dead! Will want a father's care. Her looks, her wants my rash resolves recall, Complaint, the only bliss my soul can know; From me my child shall learn the mournful strain, And prattle tales of woe. And O! in that auspicious hour, When Fate resigns her persecuting power, With duteous zeal her hand shall close, No more to weep, my sorrow-streaming eyes, When Death gives Misery repose, And opes a glorious passage to the skies.' Vain thought! it must not be. She too is dead- My hopes for ever-ever fled VOL. IV. FF Crush'd by misfortune-blasted by disease— And none none left to bear a friendly part! To meditate my welfare, health, or ease, Or soothe the anguish of an aching heart! Now all one gloomy scene, till welcome Death, With lenient hand, (O falsely deem'd severe !) Shall kindly stop my grief-exhausted breath, And dry up every tear! Perhaps, obsequious to my will, But ah! from my affections far removed! As if, unconscious of poetic fire, I ne'er had touch'd the trembling lyre ; Yet while this weary life shall last, [strain, While yet my tongue can form the' impassion'd In piteous accents shall the Muse complain, And dwell with fond delay on blessings past; For O! how grateful to a wounded heart The tale of misery to impart! From others' eyes bid artless sorrows flow, And raise esteem upon the base of woe! E'en he*, the noblest of the tuneful throng, Shall deign my lovelorn tale to hear, Shall catch the soft contagion of my song, And pay my pensive Muse the tribute of a tear! SHAW. * Lord Lyttelton, who had highly applauded Shaw's Monody. |