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But you 'll permit me to disclose 'em,
Am daily torn with wounds and flashes, And lodge them in your leafy bosom.
And see my oaks, my elms, my ashes, When gods came down the woods among, With rhiming labels round them set, As sweetly chants poetic song,
As every tree were to be let. * And fauns and sylvans sporting there
And, when one pants for consolation, Attun'd the reed, or chas'd the fair,
Am put in mind of contemplation. My quiv'ring branches lightly fann'd
O friend, instruct me to endure: The movements of the master's hand;
These mighty ills, or hint a cure. Or half conceal'd, and half betray'd,
Say, might not marriage, well apply'd, The blushing, Aying, yielding maid;
Improve his taste, correct his pride, Did even the bliss of Heav'n improve,
Inform him books but make folks muddy, And solac'd gods with earthly love!
Confine his morals to his study, But now the world is grown so chaste,
Teach him, like other mortals, here Or else my master has no taste,
To toy and prattle with his dear; That, I 'll be sworn, the live-long year
Avert that fate my fear foresees, We scarcely see a woman here.
And, for his children, save his trees? And what, alas, are woodland quires
Right trusty Wood, if you approve To those who want your fierce desires ?
The remedy express'd above, Can philosophic bosoms know
Write by the next fair wind that blows, Why myrtles spring, or roses blow,
And kindly recommend a spouse.
Dear Grove, I ask ten thousand pardons, And then he talks your dull morality
Sure I'm the most absurd of gardens ! Like some old heathen man of quality,
Such correspondence to neglect(Plato, or what's his pame who fled
Lord, how must all grove-kind reflect ! So nobly at his army's head,)
Your human loiterers, they say, For Christian lords have better breeding :
Can put ye off from day to day Than by their talk to show their reading;
With post gone out—the careless maid And what their sentiment in fact is,
Forgot—the letter was mislaid-
To hide the coldness of the heart.
But vegetables from their youth Toss bigh our heads above his voice,
Were always taught to speak the truth, Or stop the babbling echo's noise;
In Dodonn's vales, on Mona's mountains, But he, I tell you, has such freaks,
In Jotham's fables, or in Fontaine's, He thinks and acts whate'er he speaks.
They talk like any judge or bishop, Or, if he needs must preach and reason,
Quite from the cedar down to hyssop. Why let him choose a proper season;
I therefore for my past offence Such musty morals we might hear
May own, with sylvan innocence, When whistling winds have stript us bare,
I've nought but negligence to plead; As, after sixty, pious folks
Which you 'll excuse, and I'll proceed. Will on wet Sundays read good books.
You groves who stand remote from towns And I must own, dear sister Haling,
(Though we are apt to call ye clowns) 'Tis mine, like many a lady's failing,
Have really something in your natures (Whom worried spouse to town conveys
Which makes ye most diverting creatures, From ease, and exercise, and air,
And then, I vow, I like to see To sleepless nights, and raking days,
'That primitive simplicity; And joys-too exquisite to bear)
To think of marriage as a means To feel December's piercing harms,
T" improve his taste, and save your greens And every winter lose my charms.
It looks so like that good old grove While you still nourish fresh and fair
Where Adam ouce to Eve made love, Like your young ladies all the year.
That any soul alive would swear O happy groves, who never feel
Your trees were educated there. The stroke of winter, or of steel;
Why, child, the only hope thou hast Nor find, but in the poet's 2 lay,
Lies in thy master's want of taste; The race of leaves like men decay.
For shou'd his ling'ring stay in London Nor hear th' imperious woodınau's call,
Improve bis taste, you must be undone ; Nor see your sylvan daughters fall,
Your trees would presently lie flat, With head declin'd attend their moan,
And the high mode of one green plat And echo to the dying groan.
Run through his worship’s whole estate. While I, attack'd by foes to rest,
Besides, you rustics fill your fancies New vistas opening through my breast,
With Ovid, and his strange romances.
Why now you think, in days like ours, 1 A great many of the trees at Haling are exotics That love must still inhabit bowers, and evergreens.
And goddesses, as just rewards 2 Homer.
For hymns of praise, grow fond of bards,
And Aly to over-arching woods
And faster plants substantial joy, And flowery banks, and crystal floods,
Than axe or hatchet can destroy. Because such things, forsooth were wanted 0, gain but that, and you 'll perceive When your great grandmothers were planted. Your fears all fade, your hopes revive. The case, my dear, is alter'd quite,
In winter calm contentment's voice Not that we 're chaste, but more polite;
Shall make, like mine, your trees rejoice; Your shepherdesses sought such places,
Across dead boughs a verdure fling,
And bless you with eternal spring.
But I forget, you 've just got down
Once, I remember well the day,
'Twas ere the blooming sweets of May They say, but she's as yet a bride;
Had lost their freshest hues, One can't trust every report
When every flower on every hill, Not we I mean who live near court;
In every vale, had drank its fill
Of sun-shine, and of dews.
'Twas that sweet season's loveliest prime Are vastly full of commendations;
When Spring gives up the reins of time As for Miss's part, she swears,
To Summer's glowing hand, -I ask her pardon-she avers
And doubting mortals hardly know That never in her life time yet
By whose command the breeze: blow
Which fan the smiling land.
'Twas then beside a green-wood shade So might or you or I remove,
Which cloth'd a lawn's aspiring head And Romely join to Haling grove.
I wove my devious way, O could her wish but alter fate
With loitering steps, regardless where, And kindly place as téte à téte,
So soft, so genial was the air,
So wond'rous bright the day.
And now my eyes with transport rove
O'er all the blue expanse above, We're bound from gadding, tree by tree,
Unbroken by a cloud ! Both us and our posterity,
And now beneath delighted pass, Let each, content with her own county,
Where winding through the deep-green grass E'en make the best of Nature's bounty.
A full-brim'd river flow'd.
I stop, I gaze; in accents rude
To thee, serenest Solitude, We're happy, if we knew the blessing,
Bursts forth th' unbidden lay; Our masters, all the world allow,
Begone, vile world; the learn'd, the wise, Are honest men as times go now;
The great, the busy, I despise;
And pity ev'n the gay.
These, these, are joys alone, I cry;
'Tis here, divine Philosophy, Will probably increase, and we
Thou deign'st to fix thy throne ! Shall stand another century.
Here Contemplation points the road Then never mind a tree or two
Through Nature's charms to Nature's God! Cut down perhaps to ope a view,
These, these, are joys alone!
Adien, ye vain low-thoughted cares,
Ye human hopes, and human fears, The temples, or the shades of Stow;
Ye pleasures, and ye pains !-Nor Java's groves, whose arms display
While thus / spake, o'er all my soul Their blossoins to the rising day;
A philosophic calmness stole,
A Stoic stillness reigns.
The tyrant passions all subside,
Fear, anger, pity, shame, and pride, Nor all that has been sung or said
No inore my bosom move; Of Pindus, or of Windsor shade.
Yet still I felt, or seem'd to feel Contentment is the chemic power
A kind of visionary zeal Which makes trees bloom in half an hour,
Of universal love,
When lo! a voice! a voice I hear!
The idiot wonder they expressid 'T'was reason whisper'd in my ear
Was praise and transport to his breast. These monitory strains :
At length, quite vain, he needs would shew “ What mean'st thou, man? would'st thou unbind His master what his art could do ; The ties which constitute thy kind,
And bade his slaves the chariot lead The pleasures and the pains ?
To Academus' sacred shade.
The treinbling grove confess'd its fright, " The same Almighty Power unseen,
The Wood-nymphs startled at the sight, Who spreads the gay or solemn scene
The Muses drop the learned lyre, To contemplation's eye,
And to their inmost shades retire ! Fix'd every movement of the soul,
Howe'er, the youth with forward air Taught every wish its destin'd goal,
Bows to the sage, and mounts the car. And quicken'd every joy.
The lash resounds, the coursers spring,
The chariot marks the rolling ring, “ He bids the tyrant passions rage,
And gath'ring crowds, with eager eyes, He bids them war eternal wage,
And shouts, pursue him as he flies. And combat each his foe:
Triumphant to the goal returu'd, Till from dissentions concords rise,
With nobler thirst his bosom burn'd; And beauties from deformities,
And now along th' indented plain, And happiness from woe.
The self-same track he marks again;
Pursues with care the nice design, “ Art thou not man? and dar'st thou find
Nor ever deviates from the line. A bliss which leans not to mankind ?
Amazement seiz'd the circling crowd; Presumptuous thought, and vain!
The youths with emulation glow'd, Each bliss unshar'd is unenjoy'd,
Ev'n bearded sages hail'd the boy, Each power is weak, unless employ'd
And all, but Plato, gaz'd with joy. Some social gou to gain,
For he, deep-judging sage, beheld
With pain the triumphs of the field; “ Shall light, and shade, and warmth, and air, And when the charioteer drow nigh, With those exalted joys compare
And, flushed with hope, had caught his eye: Which active virtue feels,
“ Alas! unhappy youth,” he cry'd, When on she drags, as lawful prize,
“ Expect no praise from me;" (and sigh’d) Contempt, and indolence, and vice,
“ With indignation i survey At her triumphant wheels.
Such skill and judgınent thrown away.
The time profusely squander'd there “ As rest to labour still succeeds,
On vulgar arts beneath thy care, To man, while virtue's glorious deeds
If well employ'd, at less expense, Employ his toilsome day,
Had taught thee honour, virtue, sense, This fair variety of things
And rais'd thee from a coachman's fate Are merely life's refreshing springs
To govern men, and guide the state." To soothe him on his way,
“ Enthusiast, go, unstring the lyre;
How sweet soe'er the strain.
Benevolent in vain?
TO A GENTLEMAN,
ON HIS PITCHING A TENT IN HIS GARDEX.
“ Enthusiast, go; try every sense :
Thou yet hast learn’d to scan.
That man was made for man."
Ah! friend, forbear, nor fright the fields
With hostile scenes of imag'd war;
And fearless ease attends her there :
THE YOUTH AND THE PHILOSOPHER.
A Grecian Youth, of talents rare,
Are there not bowers, and sylvan scenes,
By Nature's kind luxuriance wove?
Which erst adorn'd her artless grove?
Shall wait th' inspiring Muse's call;
Thy choice devotes the woven wall,
THE LARK...TO THE HONOURABLE CHARLES TOWNSEND. 221 Tis true, of old the patriarch spread
This you observ'd, and ask'd from me,
Instead of one the following two.
And see him first fro fields arise
And pastoral scenes, to Cælia's eyes. Ev'n he, cut off from human kind,
From thence the bold adventurer springs (Thy neighbouring wretch) the child of care, To vaulted roofs, and courts, and kings. Who, to his native mines confin'd,
Till having crown'd his soaring lays
He reads the news, he takes the air,
Or slumbers in his elbow chair. Ev'n he, should some indulgent chance
Or lay aside for once grimace, Transport him to thy sylvan reign,
And make it, yours, the parson's case; Would eye the floating veil askance,
Who, leaving curate's humble roof,
Looks down on crape, and sits aloof.
But pure contentment seated there,
Nor finds a want, nor feels a care, And, donbt not, thy polluted taste
Yet are there not to stain the cloth A sudden vengeance shall pursue;
(O may'st thou live secure from both!) Each fairy form we whilom trac'd
A city pride, or country sloth ?
And may not man, if touch'd with these,
Such likenings suit with other men.
For never can my humble verse Keen frosts, and noisome vapours drear, The cautious ear of patron pierce; Already, from the bleak north-east,
Nor ever can thy breast admit The Genins of the wood appear!
Degrading sloth, or self-conceit. -Par other office once his prime delight,
Ther let the birds or sing or fly, To nurse thy saplings tall, and heal the harms of As Hector says, and what care 1? night.
They hurt not me, nor eke my friend;
Since, whatsoe'er the Fates intend,
Nor he can sink, nor I ascend.
O wherefore then provoke his ire?
HONOURABLE CHARLES TOWNSEND.
Too late thou 'lt weep, when blights deform O Charles, in absence hear a friend complain, The fairest produce of the year ;
Who knows thou lov’st him wheresoe'er he goes, Too late thou ’lt weep, when every storm
Yet feels uneasy starts of idle pain, Shall loudly thunder in thy ear,
And often would be told the thing he knows. “ Thus, thus the green-haird deities maintain Why then, thou loiterer, fleets the silent year, Their own eternal rights, and Nature's injurd How dar'st thou give a friend unnecessary fear? reign.”
We are not now beside that osier'd stream,
Where erst we wander'd, thoughtless of the
We do not now of distant ages dream, [way; THE LARK.
And cheat in converse half the lingøring day; A SIMILE.
No fancied heroes rise at our command,
And no Timoleon weeps, and bleeds no Theban band. TO THE REVEREND MR.
Yet why complain? thou feel'st no want like See how the Lark, the bird of day,
these, Springs from the earth, and wings her way!
From me, 'tis true, but me alone debard, To Heav'n's bigh vault ber course she bends, Thou still in Granta's shades enjoy'st at ease And sweetly sings as she ascends.
The books we reverenc'd, and the friends we But when, contented with her height,
shar'd; She sbuts her wings, and checks her flight,
Nor see'st without such aids the day decline, No more she chants the melting strain,
Nor think how much their loss has added weight to But sinks in silence to the plain.
Truth's genuine voice, the freely-opening mind, Bade us bedew with tears the kindred urti,
Are thine, are friendship's and retirement's lot; And for a brother lost like sad Maria mourn. To conversation is the world confiu'd,
Friends of an hour, who please and are forgot; He bids thee too, in whispers felt within, And interest stains, and vanity controls,
For sure he finely tun'd thy social soul, The pure unsullied thoughts, and sallies of our souls. Haste to the lovely mourner, and restrain
Grief's swelling tides which in her bosom roll, O I remember, and with pride repeat,
Not by obstructing the tumultuous course, The rapid progress which our friendship knew! But stealing by degrees, and yielding to its force. Even at the first with willing minds we met;
And ere the root was tix'd, the branches grew. As the kind parent treats the wounded child In vain had fortune plac'd her weak barrier : With open smiles, and only weeps by stealth; Clear was thy breast from pride, and mine from Its wayward pain with condescension mild servile fear.
She charms to rest, and cheats it into health:
So must we lightly urge th' afflicted fair, (bear. I saw thee gen'rous, and with joy can say Probe the self-tortur'd breast, and teach it how to
My education rose above my birth, Thanks to those parent shades, on whose cold clay Improve each moment when th' elastic mind,
Fall fast my tears, and lightly lie the earth! Tir'd with its plaints, resumes the bent of mirth; To them I owe whate'er I dare pretend [friend. Lead it to joys, not boistrous, but refin'd, (birth, Thou saw'st with partial eyes, and bade me call thee Far from those scenes which gave its sorrows
Thro' the smooth paths of fancy's flowery vale, Let others meanly heap the treasur'd store, And the long devious tracks of some well-woveu tale.
And awkward fondness cares on cares employ To leave a race more exquisitely poor,
Tho' oft I've known a sorrow like to theirs, Possess'd of riches which they ne'er enjoy ; In well-devised story painted strong, He's only kind who takes the nobler way
Cheat the fond mourners of their real cares, Tunbind the springs of thought, and give them And draw perforce the list’ning ear along; power to play.
Till powerful fiction taught the tears to flow,
And more than half their grief bewail'd another's His heirs shall bless him, and look down with
On all that titles, birth, or wealth afford; But she, alas, unfortunately wise, Lords of themselves, thank Heaven that they Will see thro' every scheme thy art can frame, were born
Reject with honest scorn each mean disguise, Above the sordid miser's glitt'ring hoard,
And her full share of genuine angaish claim; Above the servile grandeur of a throne, [own. Wild as the winds which ocean's face deform, For they are Nature's heirs, and all her works their or silent as the deep ere rolls th’impetuous storm.
Why had she talents given beyond her sex,
Or why those talents did her care improve ? TO THE SAME.
Free from the follies which weak minds perplex,
But most expos'd to all which most can move. ON THE DEATH OF A RELATION.
Great souls alone are curs'd with grief's excess,
That quicker finer sense of exquisite distress. O Charles, 'tis now the tender, trying time,
The hour of friendship, the sad moment, when Yet shall that power beyond her sex, at last, You must awhile indulge a virtuous crime,
Not givin in vain, o'er grief itself prevail, And hide your own to ease another's pain, Stop those heart-bursting groans which heare so The mournful tribute Nature claims forego,
fast, To calm a softer breast, and win it from its woe. And reason triumph where thy counsels fail;
Save when some well-known object ever dear Yet think not consolation, vainly drest
Recalls th' untutord sigh, or sudden-starting tear. In Tully's language, and the learned pride Of wordy eloquence, can sooth the breast
Such tender tribute to departed friends Of real grief, or bid the tear subside,
Thro' life alas must sad remembrance pay; The heartfelt tear, which streams from virtue's And such, O Charles, when kinder fate extends For virtue's noblest proof is soft humanity. [eye; Thy stronger thread beyond my fatal day,
Such shall I hope from thee, till thou resign Let dull unfeeling pedants talk by rote That last sure pledge of love to some poor friend Of Cato's soul, which could itself subdue;
of thine. Or idle scraps of Stoic fustian quote,
And bravely bear the pangs they never knew :
TO MR. GARRICK.
But he, whose mercy melts in vernal skies,
Whose attribute is universal love,
And bade us social joys and sorrows prove;
l'On old Parnassus, t'other day,