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(The source of children's and of courtiers' pride !) By turns, astony'd, every twig survey, Redress'd affronts, for vile affronts there pass'd; And, from their fellows' hateful wounds, beware;
And warn'd them not the fretful to deride, Knowing, I wist, how each the same may share ; But love each other dear, whatever them betide. Till fear has taught them a performance meet,
And to the well-known chest the dame repair ; Right well she knew each temper to descry; Whence oft with sugar'd cates she doth thein greet, To thwart the proud, and the submiss to raise ; And ginger-bread y-rare ; now certes, doubly sweet! Some with vile copper-prize exalt on high, And some entice with pittance small of praise, See to their seats they hye with merry glee, And other some with baleful sprig she 'frays : And in beseemly order sitten there ; E'en absent, she the reins of power doth hold, All but the wight of bum y-galled, he While with quaint arts the giddy crowd she sways: Abhorreth bench, and stool, and fourm, and chair; Forewarn’d, if little bird their pranks behold, (This hand in mouth y-fix'd, that rends his hair ;) 'T will whisper in her ear, and all the scene unfold. And eke with snubs profound, and heaving breast,
Convulsions intermitting ! does declare Lo now with state she utters the command ! His grievous wrong ; his dame's unjust behest ; Eftsoons the urchins to their tasks repair ; And scorns her offer'd love and shuns to be caress'd. Their books of stature small they take in hand, Which with pellucid horn secured are,
His face besprent with liquid crystal shines, To save from finger wet the letters fair:
His blooming face that seems a purple flower, The work so gay
that on their back is seen, Which low to earth its drooping head declines, St. George's high achievements does declare ; All smear'd and sullied by a vernal shower. On which thilk wight that has y-gazing been,
O the hard bosoms of despotic power! Kens the forth-coming rod, unpleasing sight, I ween! All, all, but she, the author of his shame,
All, all, but she, regret this mournful hour : Ah luckless he, and born beneath the beam Yet hence the youth, and hence the flower shall Of evil star! it irks me whilst I write :
claim, As erst the bard • by Mulla's silver stream, If so I deem aright, transcending worth and fame. Oft, as he told of deadly dolorous plight, Sigh'd as he sung, and did in tears indite. Behind some döör, in melancholy thought, For brandishing the rod, she doth begin
Mindless of food, he, dreary caitiff! pines, To loose the brogues, the stripling's late delight! Ne for his fellows' joyaunce careth aught,
And down they drop; appears his dainty skin, But to the wind all merriment resigns; Fair as the furry-coat of whitest ermilin.
And deems it shame, if he to peace inclines :
And many a sullen look ascance is sent, O ruthful scene! when from a nook obscure, Which for his dame's annoyance he designs ; His little sister doth his peril see :
And still the more to pleasure him she's bent, All playful as she sate, she grows demure ; The more doth he, perverse, her haviour past resent. She finds full soon her wonted spirits flee; She meditates a prayer to set him free:
Ah me! how much I fear lest pride it be! Nor gentle pardon could this dame deny
But if that pride it be, which thus inspires, (If gentle pardon could with dames agree) Beware, ye dames, with nice discernment see,
To her sad grief that swells in either eye, Ye quench not too the sparks of nobler fires : And wings her so that all for pity she could dye. Ah! better far than all the Muses' lyres,
All coward arts, is Valour's generous heat; No longer can she now her shrieks command; The firm fixt breast which fit and right requires, And hardly she forbears, through awful fear, Like Vernon's patriot soul! more justly great To rushen forth, and, with presumptuous hand, Than Craft that pimps for ill, or flowery false Deceit. To stay harsh Justice in its mid career. On thee she calls, on thee her parent dear! Yet nurs'd with skill, what dazzling fruits appear ! (Ah! too remote to ward the shameful blow!) E'en now sagacious Foresight points to show She sees no kind domestic visage near,
A little bench of heedless bishops here, And soon a flood of tears begins to flow;
And there a chancellor in embryo, And gives a loose at last to unavailing woe.
Or bard sublime, if bard may e'er be so,
As Milton, Shakspeare, names that ne'er shall die! But ah! what pen his piteous plight may trace ? Though now he crawl along the ground so low, Or what device his loud laments explain?
Nor weeting how the Muse should soar on high, The form uncouth of his disguised face? Wisheth, poor starveling elf! his paper kite may fly. The pallid hue that dyes his looks amain ? The plenteous shower that does his cheek distain ? And this perhaps, who, censuring the design, When he, in abject wise, implores the dame, Low lays the house which that of cards doth Ne hopeth aught of sweet reprieve to gain ;
build, Or when from high she levels well her aim, Shall Dennis be! if rigid Fate incline, And, through the thatch, his cries each falling And many an epic to his rage shall yield; stroke proclaim.
And many a poet quit th' Aonian field;
And, sour'd by age, profound he shall appear, The other tribe, aghast, with sore dismay, As he who now with 'sdainful fury thrill'd Attend, and conn their tasks with mickle care: Surveys mine work ; and levels many a sneer,
And furls his wrinkly front, and cries, “ What • Spenser.
stuff is here ?"
But now Dan Phæbus gains the middle skie,
melancholy event of a licentious amour. A thousand ways in wanton rings they run, Heaven shield their short-liv'd pastimes, I im- Way mourns my friend? why weeps his downcast plore !
eye, For well may Freedom erst so dearly won, That eye where mirth, where fancy us’d to sl.ine? Appear to British elf more gladsome than the Sun. Thy cheerful meads reprove that swelling sigh;
Spring ne'er enameli'd fairer meads than thine. Enjoy, poor imps ! enjoy your sportive trade, And chase gay flies, and cull the fairest flowers ; Art thou not lodg’d in Fortune's warm embrace ? For when my bones in grass-green sods are laid, Wert thou not form’d by Nature's partial care? For never may ye taste more careless hours Blest in thy song, and blest in every grace In knightly castles, or in ladies' bowers.
That wins the friend, or that enchants the fair? O vain to seek delight in earthly thing ! But most in courts where proud Ambition towers; “ Damon,” said he, “ thy partial praise restrain;
Deluded wight! who weens fair Peace can spring Not Damon's friendship can my peace restore ; Beneath the pompous dome of kesar or of king. Alas ! his very praise awakes my pain,
And my poor wounded bosom bleeds the more See in each sprite some various bent appear ! These rudely carol most incondite lay;
“ For oh! that Nature on my birth had frown'd, Those sauntering on the green, with jocund leer Or Fortune fix'd me to some lowly cell; Salute the stranger passing on his way;
Then had my bosom 'scap'd this fatal wound, Some builden fragile tenements of clay ;
Nor had I bid these vernal sweets farewell. Some to the standing lake their courses bend, With pebbles smooth at duck and drake to play ; “ But led by Fortune's hand, her darling child, Thilk to the huxter's savory cottage tend,
My youth her vain licentious bliss admir'd; In pastry kings and queens th' allotted mite to In Fortune's train the syren Flattery smil'd, spend.
And rashly hallow'd all her queen inspir’d. Here, as each season yields a different store, “ Of folly studious, e'en of vices vain, Each season's stores in order ranged been; Ah vices ! gilded by the rich and gay! Apples with cabbage-net y-cover'd o'er, I chas'd the guileless daughters of the plain, Galling full sore th’ unmoney'd wight, are seen; Nor dropp'd the chase, till Jessy was my prey. And goose-b'rie clad in livery red or green ; And here of lovely dye, the catharine pear, “ Poor artless maid ! to stain thy spotless name, Fine pear! as lovely for thy juice, I ween: Expense, and art, and toil, united strove;
O may no wight e'er pennyless come there, To lure a breast that felt the purest flame, Lest smit with ardent love he pine with hopeless Sustain'd by virtue, but betray'd by lore. care!
“ School'd in the science of love's mazy wiles, See! cherries here, ere cherries yet abound,
I cloth'd each feature with affected scorn ; With thread so white in tempting posies ty'd, I spoke of jealous doubts, and fickle smiles, Scattering like blooming maid their glances round, And, feigning, left her anxious and forlorn. With pamper'd look draw little eyes aside; And must be bought, though penury betide. “ Then, while the fancy'd rage alarm'd her care, The plum all azure and the nut all brown, Warm to deny, and zealous to disprove; And here each season do those cakes abide, I bade my words their wonted softness wear,
Whose honour'd names * th' inventive city own, And seiz’d the minute of returning love. Rendering through Britain's isle Salopia's praises known;
“ To thee, my Damon, dare I paint the rest?
Will yet thy love a candid ear incline? Admir'd Salopia ! that with venial pride
Assur'd that virtue, by misfortune prest, Eyes her bright form in Severn's ambient wave, Feels not the sharpness of a pang like mine. Fam'd for her loyal cares in perils try'd, Her daughters lovely, and her striplings brave : “ Nine envious moons matur'd her growing shame; Ah! midst the rest, may flowers adorn his grave Ere-while to flaunt it in the face of day; Whose heart did first these dulcet cates display! When, scorn'd of virtue, stigmatiz'd by fame, A motive fair to Learning's imps he gave, Low at my feet desponding Jessy lay.
Who cheerless o'er her darkling region stray ; Till Reason's morn arise, and light them on their “ “ Henry,' she said, by thy dear form subdu'd way.
See the sad reliques of a nymph undone !
I find, I find this rising sob renew'd :
I sigh in shades, and sicken at the Sun.
When will the morn's once pleasing scenes return?
But foes that triumpb, or but friends that mouru!
u s Alas! no more that joyous morn appears
A PASTORAL BALLAD, That led the tranquil hours of spotless fame; For I have steep'd a father's couch in tears,
IN FOUR PARTS. 1743. And ting'd a mother's glowing cheek with shame. Arbusta humilesque myricæ. Virg. « • The vocal birds that raise their matin strain,
1. ABSENCE. The sportive lambs, increase my pensive moan; All seem to chase me from the cheerful plain,
Ye shepherds so cheerful and gay,
Whose flocks never carelessly roam; And talk of truth and innocence alone.
Should Corydon's happen to stray, «« If through the garden's flowery tribes I stray,
Oh! call the poor wanderers home. Where bloom the jasmines that could once allure,
Allow me to muse and to sigh, Hope not to find delight in us, they say,
Nor talk of the change that yo find; For we are spotless, Jessy; we are pure.
None once was so watchful as I;
I have left my dear Phyllis behind. " • Ye flowers! that well reproach a nymph so frail ; Say, could ye with my virgin fame compare ?
Now I know what it is, to have strove The brightest bud that scents the vernal gale
With the torture of doubt and desire; Was not so fragrant, and was not so fair.
What it is to admire and to love,
And to leave her we love and admire, u . Now the grave old alarm the gentler young;
Ah! lead forth my flock in the morn, And all my fame's abhorr'd contagion flee :
And the damps of each evening repel ; Trembles each lip, and faulters every tongue,
Alas! I am faint and forlorn : That bids the morn propitious smile on me.
– I have bade my dear Phyllis farewell. "• Thus for your sake I shun each human eye ;
Since Phyllis vouchsaf'd me a look, I bid the sweets of blooming youth adieu ;
I never once dreamt of my vine: To die I languish, but I dread to die,
May I lose both my pipe and my crook,
If I knew of a kid that was mine! Lest my sad fate should nourish pangs for you.
I priz'd ev'ry hour that went by, " " Raise me from earth; the pains of want remove,
Beyond all that had pleas'd me before ; And let me silent seek some friendly shore :
But now they are past, and I sigh ; There only, banish'd from the form I love,
And I grieve that I priz'd them no more. My weeping virtue shall relapse no more.
But why do I languish in vain; u • Be but my friend ; I ask no dearer name;
Why wander thus pensively here? Be such the meed of some more artful fair ;
Oh! why did I come from the plain, Nor could it heal my peace, or chase my shame,
Where I fed on the smiles of my dear? That pity gave, what love refus'd to share.
They tell me, my favourite maid,
The pride of that valley, is flown; « • Force not my tongue to ask its scanty bread;
Alas! where with her I have stray'd, Nor hurl thy Jessy to the vulgar crew;
I could wander with pleasure, alone. Not such the parent's board at which I fed ! Not such the precept from his lips I drew!
When forc'd the fair nymph to forego,
What anguish I felt at my heart ! « Haply, when Age has silver'd o'er my hair,
Yet I thought - but it might not be soMalice may learn to scorn so mean a spoil ;
’T was with pain that she saw me depart. Envy may slight a face no longer fair ;
She gaz'd, as I slowly withdrew;
My path I could hardly discern; And pity, welcome, to my native soil.'
So sweetly she bade me adieu, * She spoke - nor was I born of savage race ;
I thought that she bade me return.
The pilgrim that journeys all day
To visit some far distant shrine,
If he bear but a relique away, " I saw her foot the lofty bark ascend;
Is happy, nor heard to repine. I saw her breast with every passion heave;
Thus widely remov'd from the fair, I left her - torn from every earthly friend;
Where my vows, my devotion, I owe, Oh! my hard bosom, which could bear to leave!
Soft Hope is the relique I bear,
And my solace wherever I go.
My banks they are furnish'd with bees, My Jessy— floats upon the watery plain!
Whose murmur invites one to sleep;
My grottoes are shaded with trees, * And see my youth's impetuous fires decay ;
And my hills are white over with sheep. Seek not to stop Reflection's bitter tear;
I seldom have met with a loss, But warn the frolic, and instruct the gay,
Such health do my fountains bestow : From Jessy floating on her watery bier !”
My fountains all border'd with moss,
Where the hare-bells and violets grow.
Not a pine in my grove is there seen,
With her mien she enamours the brave; But with tendrils of woodbine is bound :
With her wit she engages the free; Not a beech's more beautiful green,
With her modesty pleases the grave;
She is every way pleasing to me.
O you that have been of her train,
Come and join in my amorous lays; But it glitters with fishes of gold.
I could lay down my life for the swain,
That will sing but a song in her praise. One would think she might like to retire
When he sings, may the nymphs of the town To the bower I have labour'd to rear;
Come trooping, and listen the while ; Not a shrub that I heard her admire,
Nay on him let not Phyllida frown; But I hasted and planted it there.
- But I cannot allow her to smile. O how sudden the jessamine strove With the lilac to render it gay!
For when Paridel tries in the dance Already it calls for my love,
Any favour with Phyllis to find, To prune the wild branches away.
O how, with one trivial glance,
Might she ruin the peace of my mind! From the plains, from the woodlands and groves, In ringlets he dresses his hair, What strains of wild melody flow!
And his crook is bestudded around; How the nightingales warble their loves
And his pipe - oh my Phyllis, beware From thickets of roses that blow!
Of a magic there is in the sound.
'T is his with mock passion to glow, In a concert so soft and so clear,
'Tis his in sinooth tales to unfold, As— she may not be fond to resign.
How her face is as bright as the snow,
And her bosom, be sure, is as cold. I have found out a gift for my fair ;
How the nightingales labour the strain, I have found where the wood-pigeons breed : With the notes of his charmer to vie ; But let me that plunder forbear,
How they vary their accents in vain, She will say 't was a barbarous deed.
Repine at her triumphs, and die. For he ne'er could be true, she averr’d,
Who would rob a poor bird of its young : To the grove or the garden he strays, And I lov'd her the more when I heard
And pillages every sweet; Such tenderness fall from her tongue.
Then, suiting the wreath to his lays,
He throws it at Phyllis's feet. I have heard her with sweetness unfold
“O Phyllis,” he whispers, “ more fair, How that pity was due to-a dove:
More sweet than the jessamine's flower! That it ever attended the bold;
What are pinks in a morn to compare ? And she call'd it the sister of love,
What is eglantine after a shower ?
“ Then the lily no longer is white ; Let her speak, and whatever she say,
The rose is depriv'd of its bloom ; Methinks I should love her the more.
Then the violets die with despite,
And the woodbines give up their perfume. Can a bosom so gentle remain
Thus glide the soft numbers along, Unmov'd when her Corydon sighs ?
And he fancies no shepherd his peer; Will a nymph that is fond of the plain,
- Yet I never should envy the song, These plains and this valley despise ?
Were not Phyllis to lend it an ear. Dear regions of silence and shade! Soft scenes of contentment and ease ?
Let his crook be with hyacinths bound, Where I could have pleasingly stray'd,
So Phyllis the trophy despise: If aught, in her absence, could please.
Let his forehead with laurels be crown'd,
So they shine not in Phyllis's eyes. But where does my Phyllida stray ?.
The language that flows from the heart, And where are her grots and her bowers ?
Is a stranger to Paridel's tongue ; Are the groves and the valleys as gay,
- Yet may she beware of his art, And the shepherds as gentle as ours?
Or sure I must envy the song. The groves may perhaps be as fair,
And the face of the valleys as fine; The swains may in manners compare,
IV. DISAPPOINTMENT. But their love is not equal to mine.
Ye shepherds, give ear to my lay,
And take no more heed of my sheep; III. SOLICITUDE.
They have nothing to do but to stray;
I have nothing to do but to weep. War will you my passion reprove ?
Yet do not my folly reprove; Why terin it a folly to grieve?
She was fair - and my passion begun ; Ere I show you the charms of my love,
She smil'd- and I could not but love; She 's fairer than you can believe.
She is faithless -- and I am undone.
Perhaps I was void of all thought :
Erewhile, in sportive circles round Perhaps it was plain to foresee,
She saw him wheel, and frisk, and bound; That a nymph so complete would be sought, From rock to rock pursue his
way, By a swain more engaging than me.
And on the fearful margin play.
Pleas'd on his various freaks to dwell, And the lip of the nymph we admire
She saw him climb my rustic cell; Seems for ever adorn'd with a smile.
Thence eye my lawns with verdure bright,
And seem all ravish'd at the sight.
She tells with what delight he stood
To trace his features in the flood; What it cannot instruct you to cure.
Then skipp'd aloof with quaint amaze, Beware how you loiter in vain
And then drew near again to gaze.
She tells me how with eager speed
He flew to hear my vocal reed;
And how with critic face profound, Alas! from the day that we met,
And stedfast ear, devour'd the sound. What hope of an end to my woes ? When I cannot endure to forget
His every frolic, light as air, The glance that undid my repose.
Deserves the gentle Delia's care ; Yet time may diminish the pain :
And tears bedew her tender eye,
To think the playful kid must die.
But knows my Delia, timely wise,
How soon this blameless era flies ? The sweets of a dew-sprinkled rose,
While violence and craft succeed;
Unfair design, and ruthless deed!
Soon would the vine his wounds deplore, High transports are shown to the sight,
And yield her purple gifts no more ; But we 're not to find them our own;
Ah! soon, eras'd from every grove Fate never bestow'd such delight,
Were Delia's name, and Strephon's love, As I with my Phyllis had known.
No more those bowers might Strephon see, O ye woods, spread your branches apace;
Where first he fondly gaz'd on thee; To your deepest recesses I fly;
No more those beds of flowerets find, I would hide with the beasts of the chase ;
Which for thy charming brows he twin'd. I would vanish from every eye. Yet my reed shall resound through the grove Each wayward passion soon would tear With the same sad complaint it begun;
His bosom, now so void of care ; How she smil'd — and I could not but love; And, when they left his ebbing vein, Was faithless — and I am undone !
What, but insipid age, remain ?
THE DYING KID.
Then mourn not the decrees of Fate,
Optima quæque dies miseris mortalibus ævi