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Scarce had he spoke, when through the lawn below On all her days let health and peace attend;
May she ne'er want, nor ever lose, a friend!
May some new pleasure every hour employ : (Such perjuries the laughing gods allow!)
But let her Damon be her highest joy! Down the steep hills with ardent haste he flew; “ With thee, my love, for ever will I stay, He found her kind, and soon believ'd her true. All night caress thee, and admire all day;
In the same field our mingled Alocks we 'll feed, POSSESSION.
To the same spring our thirsty heifers lead,
| Together will we share the larvest toils, Eclogue IV.
i Together press the vine's autumnal spoils.
¡ Delightful state, where Peace and Love combine, TO LORD COBHAM.
i To bid our tranquil days unclouded shine!
Here limpid fountains roll through flowery meads; COBHAM, to thee this rural lay I bring,
| Here rising forests lift their verdant heads; Whose guiding judgment gives me skill to sing : Here let me wear my careless life away, Though far unequal to those polish'd strains, | And in thy arms insensibly decay. With which thy Congreve charm’d the listening “ When late old age our heads shall silver o'er, plains :
| And our slow pulses dance with joy no more; Yet shall its music please thy partial ear, (dear; / When Time no longer will thy beauties spare, And soothe thy breast with thoughts that once were And only Damon's eye shall think thee fair; Recall those years which Time has thrown behind, Then may the gentle hand of welcome Death, When smiling Love with Honour shar'd thy mind : At one soft stroke, deprive us both of breath! When all thy glorious days of prosperous fight May we beneath one common stone be laid, Delighted less than one successful night.
| And the same cypress both our ashes shade! The sweet remembrance shall thy youth restore | Perhaps some friendly Muse, in tender verse, Fancy again shall run past pleasures o'er;
Shall deign our faithful passion to rehearse ;
Beneath the covert of a myrtle wood,
AT OXFORD. Lurk'd sick Disgust, or late-repenting Pain, Nor Force, nor Interest, join'd unwilling hands, Say, dearest friend, how roll thy hours away? But Love consenting tied the blissful bands. What pleasing study cheats the tedious day? Thither, with glad devotion, Damon came,'; Dost thou the sacred volumes oft explore To thank the powers who bless'd his faithful flame: / Of wise Antiquity's immortal lore, Two milk-white doves he on their altar laid, Where virtue, by the charms of wit refin’d, And thus to both his grateful homage paid :
At once exalts and polishes the mind ? « Hail, bounteous god! before whose hallow'd shrine How different from our modern guilty art, My Delia vow'd to be for ever mine,
Which pleases only to corrupt the heart; While, glowing in her cheeks, with tender love, Whose curst refinements odious vice adorn, Sweet virgin-modesty reluctant strove !
And teach to honour what we ought to scorn! And hail to thee, fair queen of young desires !
Dost thou in sage historians joy to see Long shall my heart preserve thy pleasing fires, How Roman greatness rose with liberty : Since Delia now can all its warmth return,
How the same hands that tyrants durst control As fondly languish, and as fiercely burn.
Their empire stretched from Atlas to the Pole ; “O the dear bloom of last propitious night! Till wealth and conquest into slaves refin'd O shade more charming than the fairest light! The proud luxurious masters of mankind ? Then in my arms I clasp'd the melting maid, Dost thou in letter'd Greece each charm admire, Then all my pains one moment overpaid;
Each grace, each virtue, Freedom could inspire;
The slave and tutoress of protecting Rome?
To guide the passions, and to mend the heart ? “ What are ye now, my once most valued joys? Taught by her precepts, hast thou learnt the end Insipid trifies all, and childish toys
To which alone the wise their studies bend;
“ Ye Muses, skill'd in every winning art, Not, like a cloister'd drone, to read and doze,
Dispel the mists of errour, and unbind
Where ev'n mute walls are taught to flatter state, Those pedant chains that clog the free-born mind. And painted triumphs style Ambition GREAT. Happy who thus his leisure can employ!
With more delight those pleasing shades I viex, He knows the purest hours of tranquil joy; Where Condé from an envious court withdrew ti Nor vext with pangs that busier bosoms tear, Where, sick of glory, faction, power, and pride, Nor lost to social virtue's pleasing care ;
(Sure judge how empty all, who all had tried!) Safe in the port, yet labouring to sustain
Beneath his palms the weary chief repos’d, Those who still float on the tempestuous main. And life's great scene in quiet virtue clos'd. So Locke the days of studious quiet spent;
With shame that other fam'd retreat I see, So Boyle in wisdom found divine content;
Adorn'd by art, disgrac'd by luxury : So Cambray, worthy of a happier doom,
Where Orleans wasted every vacant hour, The virtuous slave of Louis and of Rome.
In the wild riot of unbounded power ; Good Wor'ster * thus supports his drooping age, | Where feverish debauch and impious love Far from court-flattery, far from party-rage;
Stain’d the mad table and the guilty grove. He, who in youth a tyrant's frown defy'd,
With these amusements is thy friend detain'd, Firm and intrepid on his country's side, [guide! Pleas'd and instructed in a foreign land; Her boldest champion then, and now her mildest Yet oft a tender wish recalls my mind O generous warmth! O sanctity divine !
From present joys to dearer left behind. To emulate his worth, my friend, be thine :
O native isle, fair Freedom's happiest seat! Learn from his life the duties of the gown; | At thought of thee, my bounding pulses beat ; Learn, not to flatter, nor insult the crown;
At thought of thee, my heart impatient burns, Nor, basely servile, court the guilty great,
And all my country on my soul returns. Nor raise the church a rival to the state :
When shall I see thy fields, whose plenteous grain To errour mild, to vice alone severe,
No power can ravish from th' industrious swain ? Seek not to spread the law of love by fear.
When kiss, with pious love, the sacred earth The priest who plagues the world can never mend : That gave a Burleigh or a Russell birth? No foe to man was e'er to God a friend.
When, in the shade of laws, that long have stool, Let reason and let virtue faith maintain ;
Propt by their care, or strengthen’d by their blood, All force but theirs is impious, weak, and vain. | Of fearless independence wisely vain, Me other cares in other climes engage,
The proudest slave of Bourbon's race disdain ? Cares that become my birth, and suit my age;
Yet, oh! what doubt, what sad presaging voice, In various knowledge to improve my youth,
Whispers within, and bids me not rejoice; And conquer prejudice, worst foe to truth; Bids me contemplate every state around, By foreign arts domestic faults to mend,
From sultry Spain to Norway's icy bound; Enlarge my notions, and my views extend ; Bids their lost rights, their ruin'd glory see: The useful science of the world to know,
And tells me, “ These, like England, once were Which books can never teach, or pedants show.
WHEN Delia on the plain appears, From each low tool of power, content receive
Aw'd by a thousand tender fears, Those laws, their dreaded arms to Europe give.
I would approach, but dare not move : Whose people (vain in want, in bondage blest;
Tell me, my heart, if this be love ? Though plunder'd, gay; industrious, though opprest)
Whene'er she speaks, my ravish'd ear With happy follies rise above their fate,
No other voice but hers can hear, The jest and envy of each wiser state.
No other wit but hers approve :
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
Though I was once his fondest friend,
His instant enemy I prove :
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
When she is absent, I do more
Delight in all that pleas'd before, With morals mirth uniting, strength with ease.
The clearest spring, or shadiest grove :
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
Her nets she spread for every swain,
I strove to hate, but vainly strove :
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
* The victories of Louis the Fourteenth, painted
in the galleries of Versailles. • Bishop Hough.
| I now may give my burden'd heart relief, SONG,
And pour forth all my stores of grief;
Of grief surpassing every other woe,
Far as the purest bliss, the happiest love
Can on th' ennobled mind bestow,
Exceeds the vulgar joys that move
Our gross desires, inelegant and low.
Ye tufted groves, ye gently-falling rills,
Ye high o'ershadowing hills,
Ye lawns gay-smiling with eternal green,
Oft have you my Lucy seen !
But never shall you now behold her more:
Nor will she now with fond delight
And taste refin'd your rural charms explore.
Clos'd are those beauteous eyes in endless night, Our fears in absence frame ?
Those beauteous eyes where beaming us'd to shine
Reason's pure light and Virtue's spark divine. Thus, Delia, thus I paint the scene, When shortly we shall meet ;
Oft would the Dryads of these woods rejoice And try what yet remains between
To hear her heavenly voice;
For her despising, when she deign'd to sing,
The sweetest songsters of the spring : But, if the dream that soothes my mind
The woodlark and the linnet pleas'd no more ; Shall false and groundless prove;
The nightingale was mute,
And every shepherd's flute
Was cast in silent scorn away,
While all attended to her sweeter lay. All I of Venus ask, is this ;
Ye larks and linnets, now resume your song, No more to let us join :
And thou, melodious Philomel,
Again thy plaintive story tell ;
For Death has stopt that tuneful tongue,
In vain I look around
O'er all the well-known ground,
My Lucy's wonted footsteps to descry;
Where oft we us'd to walk,
Where oft in tender talk
We saw the summer Sun go down the sky;
Nor by yon fountain's side,
Nor where its waters glide
Along the valley, can she now be found :
In all the wide-stretch'd prospect's ample bound
No more my mournful eye
Can aught of her espy,
But the sad sacred earth where her dear relics lie.
O shades of Hagley, where is now your boast ?
Your bright inhabitant is lost.
You she preferr'd to all the gay resorts
Her modest beauties shunn'd the public eye:
To your sequester'd dales
From an admiring world she chose to fly:
With Nature there retir’d, and Nature's God,
The silent paths of wisdom trod, Ipse cavà solans ægrum testudine amorem, And banish'd every passion from her breast, Te dulcis conjux, te solo in littore secum, | But those, the gentlest and the best, Te veniente die, te decedente canebat.
Whose holy flames with energy divine
The virtuous heart enliven and improve, Ar length escap'd from every human eye,
The conjugal and the maternal love. From every duty, every care, That in my mournful thoughts might claim a share, Sweet babes, who, like the little playful fawns, Or force my tears their flowing stream to dry; Were wont to trip along these verdant lawns Beneath the gloor of this embowering shade,
By your delighted mother's side, This lone retreat, for tender sorrow made,
Who now your infant steps shall guide ?
Ah! where is now the hand whose tender care ! At least, ye Nine, her spotless name
With golden characters her worth engrave,
Come then, ye virgin-sisters, come, O wretched father! left alone,
And strew with choicest flowers her hallow'd tomb: To weep their dire misfortune, and thy own! But foremost thou, in sable vestment clad, How shall thy weaken'd mind, oppress'd with woe, With accents sweet and sad, And drooping o'er thy Lucy's grave,
Thou, plaintive Muse, whom o'er his Laura's urn Perform the duties that you doubly owe !
Unhappy Petrarch call'd to mourn;
O come, and to this fairer Laura pay
Where were ye, Muses, when relentless Fate
From these fond arms, that vainly strove
For whom so oft in these inspiring shades, Or under Camden's moss-clad mountains hoar,
You open'd all your sacred store,
Whate'er your ancient sages taught, * Your ancient bards sublimely thought, And bade her raptur'd breast with all your spirit
Tell how each beauty of her mind and face Was brighten'd by some sweet peculiar grace!
How eloquent in every look
Tell how her manners, by the world refin'd,
She join'd the softening influence
Of more than female tenderness :
Her kindly-melting heart,
The balm of pity would impart,
Beneath the bloody knife,
Her gentle tears would fall, Tears from sweet Virtue's source, benevolent to all.
Nor then did Pindus or Castalia's plain,
Nor then on Mincio's bank **
Beset with osiers dank,
Ill does it now beseem,
That, of your guardian care bereft, To dire disease and death your darling should be left.
Now what avails it that in early bloom,
When light fantastic toys
[Rome; With you she scarch'd the wit of Greece and
And all that in her latter days
To emulate her ancient praise
Bright sparkling could inspire,
Most favour'd with your smile,
Ah! what is now the use
• The Mincio runs by Mantua, the birth-place of Virgil.
+ The Clitumnus is a river of Umbria, the residence of Propertius.
† The Anio runs through Tibur or Tivoli, where Horace had a villa.
$ The Meles is a river of Ionia, from whence Homer, supposed to be born on its banks, is called Melisigenes.
The Ilissus is a river at Athens,
· Not only good and kind,
A spirit that with noble pride
On Fortune's smile or frown;
All pleasing shone; nor ever past
In life's and glory's freshest bloom, tomb Death came remorseless on, and sunk her to the
So, where the silent streams of Liris glide, - In the soft bosom of Campania's vale,
When now the wintry tempests all are fled, And genial Summer breathes her gentle gale, The verdant orange lifts its beauteous head: From every branch the balmy flowerets rise, On every bough the golden fruits are seen;
With odours sweet it fills the smiling skies, I To bear the weight of this oppressive woe.
That none has any comfort to bestow.
(dies. My books, the best relief The tender blighted plant shrinks up its leaves, and In every other grief,
Are now with your idea sadden'd all : Arise, O Petrarch, from th' Elysian bowers,
Each favourite author we together read With never-fading myrtles twin'd,
My tortur'd memory wounds, and speaks of Lucy And fragrant with ambrosial flowers,
dead. Where to thy Laura thou again art join'd; Arise, and hither bring the silver lyre,
We were the happiest pair of human kind : Tun'd by thy skilful hand,
The rolling year its varying course perform'd, . To the soft notes of elegant desire,
And back return'd again;
Another and another smiling came,
And saw our happiness unchang'd remain:
Still in her golden chain
Harmonious Concord did our wishes bind :
Our studies, pleasures, taste, the same. As may ev'n things inanimate,
O fatal, fatal stroke, Rough mountain oaks, and desert rocks, to pity move. That all this pleasing fabric Love had rais'd
Of rare felicity, What were, alas! thy woes compar'd to mine? On which ev'n wanton Vice with envy gaz'd, To thee thy mistress in the blissful band
And every scheme of bliss our hearts had form’d, Of Hymen never gave her hand;
With soothing hope, for many a future day, The joys of wedded love were never thine:
In one sad moment broke ! -
Yet, O my soul, thy rising murmurs stay;
Nor dare the all-wise Disposer to arraign,
Or against his supreme decree
With impious grief complain.
That all thy full-blown joys at once should fade, Nor did her fond affection on the bed | Was his most righteous will — and be that will Of sickness watch thee, and thy languid head
obey'd. Whole nights on her unwearied arm sustain, And charm away the sense of pain :
Would thy fond love his grace to her control, Nor did she crown your mutual flame
And in these low abodes of sin and pain With pledges dear, and with a father's tender name. Her pure exalted soul
Unjustly for thy partial good detain ? O best of wives! O dearer far to me
No – rather strive thy grovelling mind to raise
Up to that unclouded blaze,
That heavenly radiance of eternal light,
In which enthron'd she now with pity sees How in the world, to me a desert grown,
How frail, how insecure, how slight,
Is every mortal bliss;
Ev'n love itself, if rising by degrees
Beyond the bounds of this imperfect state, The dear reward of every virtuous toil,
Whose fleeting joys so soon must end, What pleasures now can pallid Ambition give ? It does not to its sovereign good ascend.
Ev'n the delightful sense of well-earn'd praise, Rise then, my soul, with hope elate, Unshar'd by thee, no more my lifeless thoughts
And seek those regions of serene delight, could raise.
Whose peaceful path and ever-open gate
No feet but those of harden'd Guilt shall miss. For my distracted mind
There death himself thy Lucy shall restore, What succour can I find ?
There yield up all his power ne'er to divide you more. On whom for consolation shall I call ?
Support me, every friend ;