THE SCENE IS SUPPOSED TO LIE ON THE THAMES NEAR RICHMOND.

In yonder grave a Druid lies, Where slowly winds the stealing wave; The year’s best sweets shall duteous rise To deck its poet’s sylvan grave. In yon deep bed of whispering reeds 5 His airy harp[37] shall now be laid, That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds, May love through life the soothing shade. Then maids and youths shall linger here, And while its sounds at distance swell, 10 Shall sadly seem in pity’s ear To hear the woodland pilgrim’s knell. Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore When Thames in summer wreaths is drest, And oft suspend the dashing oar, 15 To bid his gentle spirit rest! And oft, as ease and health retire To breezy lawn, or forest deep, The friend shall view yon whitening[38] spire And ’mid the varied landscape weep. 20 But thou who own’st that earthly bed, But thou, who own’st that earthy bed, Ah! what will every dirge avail; Or tears, which love and pity shed, That mourn beneath the gliding sail? Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye 25 Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering near? With him, sweet bard, may fancy die, And joy desert the blooming year. But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide No sedge-crown’d sisters now attend, 30 Now waft me from the green hill’s side, Whose cold turf hides the buried friend! And see, the fairy valleys fade; Dun night has veil’d the solemn view! Yet once again, dear parted shade, 35 Meek Nature’s Child, again adieu! The genial meads,[39] assign’d to bless Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom; Their hinds and shepherd-girls shall dress, With simple hands, thy rural tomb. 40 Long, long, thy stone and pointed clay Shall melt the musing Briton’s eyes: O! vales and wild woods, shall he say, In yonder grave your Druid lies!

ODE ON THE POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS OF THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND;

CONSIDERED AS THE SUBJECT OF POETRY; INSCRIBED TO MR. JOHN HOME.

I. Home, thou return’st from Thames, whose Naiads long Have seen thee lingering with a fond delay, ’Mid those soft friends, whose hearts, some future day, Shall melt, perhaps, to hear thy tragic song.[40] Go, not unmindful of that cordial youth[41] 5 Whom, long endear’d, thou leavest by Levant’s side; Together let us wish him lasting truth, And joy untainted with his destined bride. Go! nor regardless, while these numbers boast My short-lived bliss, forget my social name; 10 But think, far off, how, on the southern coast, I met thy friendship with an equal flame! Fresh to that soil thou turn’st, where every vale Shall prompt the poet, and his song demand: To thee thy copious subjects ne’er shall fail; 15 Thou need’st but take thy pencil to thy hand, And paint what all believe, who own thy genial land. II. There must thou wake perforce thy Doric quill; ’Tis Fancy’s land to which thou sett’st thy feet; Where still, ’tis said, the fairy people meet, 20 Beneath each birken shade, on mead or hill; There, each trim lass, that skims the milky store, To the swart tribes their creamy bowls allots; By night they sip it round the cottage door, While airy minstrels warble jocund notes. 25 There, every herd, by sad experience, knows How, wing’d with fate, their elf-shot arrows fly, When the sick ewe her summer food foregoes, Or, stretch’d on earth, the heart-smit heifers lie. Such airy beings awe the untutor’d swain: 30 Nor thou, though learn’d, his homelier thoughts neglect; Let thy sweet muse the rural faith sustain; These are the themes of simple, sure effect, That add new conquests to her boundless reign, And fill, with double force, her heart-commanding strain. 35 III. E’en yet preserved, how often mayst thou hear, Where to the pole the Boreal mountains run, Taught by the father, to his listening son, Strange lays, whose power had charm’d a Spenser’s ear. At every pause, before thy mind possest, 40 Old Runic bards shall seem to rise around, With uncouth lyres, in many-colour’d vest, Their matted hair with boughs fantastic crown’d: Whether thou bidst the well taught hind relate Whether thou bidst the well taught hind repeat The choral dirge, that mourns some chieftain brave, 45 When every shrieking maid her bosom beat, And strew’d with choicest herbs his scented grave! Or whether, sitting in the shepherd’s shiel,[42] Thou hear’st some sounding tale of war’s alarms; When at the bugle’s call, with fire and steel, 50 The sturdy clans pour’d forth their bony swarms, The sturdy clans pour’d forth their brawny swarms, And hostile brothers met, to prove each other’s arms. IV. ’Tis thine to sing, how, framing hideous spells, In Sky’s lone isle, the gifted wizard seer, Lodged in the wintry cave with Fate’s fell spear, 55 Or in the gloom of Uist’s dark forest dwells: Or in the depth of Uist’s dark forest dwells: How they, whose sight such dreary dreams engross, With their own visions oft afflicted droop, With their own visions oft astonish’d droop, When, o’er the watery strath, or quaggy moss, They see the gliding ghosts unbodied troop. 60 Or, if in sports, or on the festive green, Their destined glance some fated youth descry, Who now, perhaps, in lusty vigour seen, And rosy health, shall soon lamented die. For them the viewless forms of air obey; 65 Their bidding mark, and at their beck repair: Their bidding heed, and at their beck repair: They know what spirit brews the stormful day, And heartless, oft like moody madness, stare To see the phantom train their secret work prepare. V. To monarchs dear, some hundred miles astray, 70 Oft have they seen Fate give the fatal blow! The seer, in Sky, shriek’d as the blood did flow, When headless Charles warm on the scaffold lay! As Boreas threw his young Aurora[43] forth, In the first year of the first George’s reign, 75 And battles raged in welkin of the North, They mourn’d in air, fell, fell Rebellion slain! And as, of late, they joy’d in Preston’s fight, Saw, at sad Falkirk, all their hopes near crown’d! They raved! divining, through their second sight,[44] 80 Pale, red Culloden, where these hopes were drown’d! Illustrious William![45] Britain’s guardian name! One William saved us from a tyrant’s stroke; He, for a sceptre, gain’d heroic fame, But thou, more glorious, Slavery’s chain hast broke, 85 To reign a private man, and bow to Freedom’s yoke! VI. These, too, thou’lt sing! for well thy magic muse Can to the topmost heaven of grandeur soar; Or stoop to wail the swain that is no more! Ah, homely swains! your homeward steps ne’er lose; 90 Let not dank Will[46] mislead you to the heath; Dancing in mirky night, o’er fen and lake, He glows, to draw you downward to your death, In his bewitch’d, low, marshy, willow brake! What though far off, from some dark dell espied, 95 His glimmering mazes cheer the excursive sight, Yet turn, ye wanderers, turn your steps aside, Nor trust the guidance of that faithless light; For watchful, lurking, ’mid the unrustling reed, At those sad hours the wily monster lies; At those mirk hours the wily monster lies, 100 And listens oft to hear the passing steed, And frequent round him rolls his sullen eyes, If chance his savage wrath may some weak wretch surprise. VII. Ah, luckless swain, o’er all unblest, indeed! Whom late bewilder’d in the dank, dark fen, 105 Far from his flocks, and smoking hamlet, then! To that sad spot where hums the sedgy weed: On him, enraged, the fiend, in angry mood, Shall never look with pity’s kind concern, But instant, furious, raise the whelming flood 110 O’er its drowned bank, forbidding all return! O’er its drown’d banks, forbidding all return! Or, if he meditate his wish’d escape, To some dim hill, that seems uprising near, To his faint eye the grim and grisly shape, In all its terrors clad, shall wild appear. 115 Meantime the watery surge shall round him rise, Pour’d sudden forth from every swelling source! What now remains but tears and hopeless sighs? His fear-shook limbs have lost their youthly force, And down the waves he floats, a pale and breathless corse! 120 VIII. For him in vain his anxious wife shall wait, Or wander forth to meet him on his way; For him in vain at to-fall of the day, His babes shall linger at the cottage gate! His babes shall linger at the unclosing gate! Ah, ne’er shall he return! Alone, if night 125 Her travel’d limbs in broken slumbers steep, With dropping willows drest, his mournful sprite With drooping willows drest, his mournful sprite Shall visit sad, perchance, her silent sleep: Then he, perhaps, with moist and watery hand, Shall seem to press her cold and shuddering cheek, Shall fondly seem to press her shuddering cheek, 130 And with his blue swoln face before her stand, And, shivering cold, these piteous accents speak: Proceed, dear wife, thy daily toils pursue, “Pursue, dear wife, thy daily toils pursue, At dawn or dusk, industrious as before; Nor e’er of me one hapless thought renew, Nor e’er of me one helpless thought renew, 135 While I lie weltering on the osier’d shore, Drown’d by the Kelpie’s[47] wrath, nor e’er shall aid thee more!” IX. Unbounded is thy range; with varied stile Unbounded is thy range; with varied skill Thy muse may, like those feathery tribes which spring From their rude rocks, extend her skirting wing 140 Round the moist marge of each cold Hebrid isle, To that hoar pile[48] which still its ruins shows: In whose small vaults a pigmy folk is found, Whose bones the delver with his spade upthrows, And culls them, wondering, from the hallow’d ground! 145 Or thither,[49] where, beneath the showery west, The mighty kings of three fair realms are laid; Once foes, perhaps, together now they rest, No slaves revere them, and no wars invade: Yet frequent now, at midnight’s solemn hour, 150 The rifted mounds their yawning cells unfold, And forth the monarchs stalk with sovereign power, In pageant robes, and wreath’d with sheeny gold, And on their twilight tombs aërial council hold. X. But, oh, o’er all, forget not Kilda’s race, 155 On whose bleak rocks, which brave the wasting tides, Fair Nature’s daughter, Virtue, yet abides. Go! just, as they, their blameless manners trace! Then to my ear transmit some gentle song, Of those whose lives are yet sincere and plain, 160 Their bounded walks the rugged cliffs along, And all their prospect but the wintry main. With sparing temperance, at the needful time, They drain the sainted spring; or, hunger-prest, They drain the scented spring; or, hunger-prest, Along the Atlantic rock, undreading climb, 165 And of its eggs despoil the solan’s[50] nest. Thus, blest in primal innocence, they live Sufficed, and happy with that frugal fare Which tasteful toil and hourly danger give. Hard is their shallow soil, and bleak and bare; 170 Nor ever vernal bee was heard to murmur there! XI. Nor need’st thou blush that such false themes engage Thy gentle mind, of fairer stores possest; For not alone they touch the village breast, But fill’d, in elder time, the historic page. 175 There, Shakespeare’s self, with every garland crown’d, Flew to those fairy climes his fancy sheen, In musing hour; his wayward sisters found, And with their terrors drest the magic scene. From them he sung, when, ’mid his bold design, 180 Before the Scot, afflicted, and aghast! The shadowy kings of Banquo’s fated line Through the dark cave in gleamy pageant pass’d. Proceed! nor quit the tales which, simply told, Could once so well my answering bosom pierce; 185 Proceed, in forceful sounds, and colours bold, The native legends of thy land rehearse; To such adapt thy lyre, and suit thy powerful verse. XII. In scenes like these, which, daring to depart From sober truth, are still to nature true, 190 And call forth fresh delight to Fancy’s view, The heroic muse employ’d her Tasso’s art! How have I trembled, when, at Tancred’s side, Like him I stalk’d, and all his passions felt; When charm’d by Ismen, through the forest wide, Bark’d in each plant a talking spirit dwelt! How have I trembled, when, at Tancred’s stroke, Its gushing blood the gaping cypress pour’d! When each live plant with mortal accents spoke, 195 And the wild blast upheaved the vanish’d sword! How have I sat, when piped the pensive wind, To hear his harp by British Fairfax strung! Prevailing poet! whose undoubting mind Believed the magic wonders which he sung! 200 Hence, sure to charm, his early numbers flow, Though strong, yet sweet––– Though faithful, sweet; though strong, of simple kind. Hence, with each theme, he bids the bosom glow, While his warm lays an easy passage find, Pour’d through each inmost nerve, and lull the harmonious ear. Hence, at each sound, imagination glows! Hence, at each picture, vivid life starts here! Hence his warm lay with softest sweetness flows! Melting it flows, pure, numerous, strong, and clear, Melting it flows, pure, murmuring, strong, and clear, And fills the impassion’d heart, and wins the harmonious ear! 205 XIII. All hail, ye scenes that o’er my soul prevail! Ye splendid friths and lakes, which, far away, Are by smooth Annan[51] fill’d or pastoral Tay,[51] Or Don’s[51] romantic springs at distance hail! The time shall come, when I, perhaps, may tread 210 Your lowly glens, o’erhung with spreading broom; Or, o’er your stretching heaths, by Fancy led; Or, o’er your mountains creep, in awful gloom! Then will I dress once more the faded bower, Where Jonson[52] sat in Drummond’s classic shade; 215 Or crop from Tiviot’s dale each–– Or crop, from Tiviotdale, each lyric flower, And mourn, on Yarrow’s banks, where Willy’s laid! Meantime, ye powers that on the plains which bore The cordial youth, on Lothian’s plains,[53] attend!–– Where’er he dwell, on hill, or lowly muir, Where’er Home dwells, on hill, or lowly moor, 220 To him I lose, your kind protection lend, And, touch’d with love like mine, preserve my absent friend!

AN EPISTLE,

ADDRESSED TO SIR THOMAS HANMER, ON HIS EDITION OF SHAKESPEARE’S WORKS.

Sir, While, own’d by you, with smiles the Muse surveys The expected triumph of her sweetest lays: While, stretch’d at ease, she boasts your guardian aid, Secure, and happy in her sylvan shade: Excuse her fears, who scarce a verse bestows, In just remembrance of the debt she owes; With conscious, &c. While, born to bring the Muse’s happier days A patriot’s hand protects a poet’s lays, While nursed by you she sees her myrtles bloom, Green and unwither’d o’er his honour’d tomb; Excuse her doubts, if yet she fears to tell 5 What secret transports in her bosom swell: With conscious awe she hears the critic’s fame, And blushing hides her wreath at Shakespeare’s name. Long slighted Fancy with a mother’s care Wept o’er his works, and felt the last despair: Torn from her head, she saw the roses fall, By all deserted, though admired by all: Hard was the lot those injured strains endured, Unown’d by Science, and by years obscured: 10 And “Oh!” she cried, “shall Science still resign Whate’er is Nature’s, and whate’er is mine? Shall Taste and Art but show a cold regard, And scornful Pride reject the unletter’d bard? Ye myrtled nymphs, who own my gentle reign, Tune the sweet lyre, and grace my airy train, If, where ye rove, your searching eyes have known One perfect mind, which judgment calls its own; There every breast its fondest hopes must bend, And every Muse with tears await her friend.” ’Twas then fair Isis from her stream arose, In kind compassion of her sister’s woes. ’Twas then she promised to the mourning maid The immortal honours which thy hands have paid: “My best loved son,” she said, “shall yet restore Thy ruin’d sweets, and Fancy weep no more.” Each rising art by slow gradation moves; Toil builds, &c. Fair Fancy wept; and echoing sighs confess’d A fix’d despair in every tuneful breast. Not with more grief the afflicted swains appear, When wintry winds deform the plenteous year; When lingering frosts the ruin’d seats invade 15 Where Peace resorted, and the Graces play’d. Each rising art by just gradation moves, Toil builds on toil, and age on age improves: The Muse alone unequal dealt her rage, And graced with noblest pomp her earliest stage. 20 Preserved through time, the speaking scenes impart Each changeful wish of Phædra’s tortured heart; Or paint the curse that mark’d the Theban’s[54] reign, A bed incestuous, and a father slain. Line after line our pitying eyes o’erflow, With kind concern our pitying eyes o’erflow, 25 Trace the sad tale, and own another’s woe. To Rome removed, with equal power to please, To Rome removed, with wit secure to please, The comic Sisters kept their native ease: With jealous fear, declining Greece beheld Her own Menander’s art almost excell’d; 30 But every Muse essay’d to raise in vain Some labour’d rival of her tragic strain: Ilissus’ laurels, though transferr’d with toil, Droop’d their fair leaves, nor knew the unfriendly soil. As Arts expired, resistless Dulness rose; 35 When Rome herself, her envied glories dead, No more imperial, stoop’d her conquer’d head; Luxuriant Florence chose a softer theme, While all was peace, by Arno’s silver stream. With sweeter notes the Etrurian vales complain’d, And arts reviving told a Cosmo reign’d. Their wanton lyres the bards of Provence strung, Sweet flow’d the lays, but love was all they sung. The gay, &c. Goths, Priests, or Vandals,––all were Learning’s foes. Till Julius[55] first recall’d each exiled maid, And Cosmo own’d them in the Etrurian shade: Then, deeply skill’d in love’s engaging theme, The soft Provençal pass’d to Arno’s stream: 40 With graceful ease the wanton lyre he strung; Sweet flow’d the lays––but love was all he sung. The gay description could not fail to move, For, led by nature, all are friends to love. But Heaven, still rising in its works, decreed But Heaven, still various in its works, decreed 45 The perfect boast of time should last succeed. The beauteous union must appear at length, Of Tuscan fancy, and Athenian strength: One greater Muse Eliza’s reign adorn, And e’en a Shakespeare to her fame be born! 50 Yet ah! so bright her morning’s opening ray, In vain our Britain hoped an equal day! No second growth the western isle could bear, At once exhausted with too rich a year. Too nicely Jonson knew the critic’s part; 55 Nature in him was almost lost in art. Of softer mould the gentle Fletcher came, The next in order, as the next in name; With pleased attention, ’midst his scenes we find Each glowing thought that warms the female mind; 60 Each melting sigh, and every tender tear; The lover’s wishes, and the virgin’s fear. His every strain the Loves and Graces own; His every strain[56] the Smiles and Graces own; But stronger Shakespeare felt for man alone: Drawn by his pen, our ruder passions stand 65 The unrival’d picture of his early hand. With[57] gradual steps and slow, exacter France Saw Art’s fair empire o’er her shores advance: By length of toil a bright perfection knew, Correctly bold, and just in all she drew: 70 Till late Corneille from epick Lucan brought The full expression, and the Roman thought: Till late Corneille, with Lucan’s[58] spirit fired, Breathed the free strain, as Rome and he inspired: And classic judgment gain’d to sweet Racine The temperate strength of Maro’s chaster line. But wilder far the British laurel spread, 75 And wreaths less artful crown our poet’s head. Yet he alone to every scene could give The historian’s truth, and bid the manners live. Waked at his call I view, with glad surprise, Majestic forms of mighty monarchs rise. 80 There Henry’s trumpets spread their loud alarms, And laurel’d Conquest waits her hero’s arms. Here gentler Edward claims a pitying sigh, Scarce born to honours, and so soon to die! Yet shall thy throne, unhappy infant, bring 85 No beam of comfort to the guilty king: The time[59] shall come when Glo’ster’s heart shall bleed, In life’s last hours, with horror of the deed; When dreary visions shall at last present Thy vengeful image in the midnight tent: 90 Thy hand unseen the secret death shall bear, Blunt the weak sword, and break the oppressive spear! Where’er we turn, by Fancy charm’d, we find Some sweet illusion of the cheated mind. Oft, wild of wing, she calls the soul to rove 95 With humbler nature, in the rural grove; Where swains contented own the quiet scene, And twilight fairies tread the circled green: Dress’d by her hand, the woods and valleys smile, And Spring diffusive decks the enchanted isle. 100 O, blest in all that genius gives to charm, Whose morals mend us, and whose passions warm! Oft let my youth attend thy various page, Where rich invention rules the unbounded stage: There every scene the poet’s warmth may raise, And melting music find the softest lays: O, might the Muse with equal ease persuade Expressive Picture to adopt thine aid! Some powerful Raphael should again appear, And arts consenting fix their empire here. O, more than all in powerful genius blest, Come, take thine empire o’er the willing breast! Whate’er the wounds this youthful heart shall feel, Thy songs support me, and thy morals heal! There every thought the poet’s warmth may raise, 105 There native music dwells in all the lays. O might some verse with happiest skill persuade Expressive Picture to adopt thine aid! What wondrous draughts might rise from every page! What other Raphaels charm a distant age! 110 Methinks e’en now I view some fair design, Where breathing Nature lives in every line; Chaste and subdued, the modest colours lie, In fair proportion to the approving eye: And see where Anthony lamenting stands, In fixt distress, and spreads his pleading hands: O’er the pale corse the warrior seems to bend, Methinks e’en now I view some free design, Where breathing Nature lives in every line: Chaste and subdued the modest lights decay, Steal into shades, and mildly melt away. And see where Anthony,[60] in tears approved, 115 Guards the pale relics of the chief he loved: O’er the cold corse the warrior seems to bend, Deep sunk in grief, and mourns his murder’d friend! Still as they press, he calls on all around, Lifts the torn robe, and points the bleeding wound. 120 But who[61] is he, whose brows exalted bear A rage impatient, and a fiercer air? E’en now his thoughts with eager vengeance doom The last sad ruin of ungrateful Rome. Till, slow advancing o’er the tented plain, In sable weeds, appear the kindred train: The frantic mother leads their wild despair, Beats her swoln breast, and rends her silver hair; And see, he yields! the tears unbidden start, And conscious nature claims the unwilling heart! O’er all the man conflicting passions rise; A wrath impatient, and a fiercer air? Awake to all that injured worth can feel, On his own Rome he turns the avenging steel; Yet shall not war’s insatiate fury fall 125 (So heaven ordains it) on the destined wall. See the fond mother, ’midst the plaintive train, Hung on his knees, and prostrate on the plain! Touch’d to the soul, in vain he strives to hide The son’s affection, in the Roman’s pride: 130 O’er all the man conflicting passions rise; Rage grasps the sword, while Pity melts the eyes. Thus generous Critic, as thy Bard inspires, The sister Arts shall nurse their drooping fires; Each from his scenes her stores alternate bring, 135 Spread the fair tints, or wake the vocal string: Blend the fair tints, or wake the vocal string: Those sibyl leaves, the sport of every wind, (For poets ever were a careless kind,) By thee disposed, no farther toil demand, But, just to Nature, own thy forming hand. 140 So spread o’er Greece, the harmonious whole unknown, E’en Homer’s numbers charm’d by parts alone. Their own Ulysses scarce had wander’d more, By winds and waters cast on every shore: When, raised by fate, some former Hanmer join’d 145 Each beauteous image of the tuneful mind; Each beauteous image of the boundless mind; And bade, like thee, his Athens ever claim A fond alliance with the Poet’s name.

Oxford, Dec. 3, 1743.

DIRGE IN CYMBELINE,

SUNG BY GUIDERUS AND ARVIRAGUS OVER FIDELE, SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD.

To fair Pastora’s grassy tomb To fair Fidele’s grassy tomb Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Each opening sweet of earliest bloom, And rifle all the breathing spring. No wailing ghost shall dare appear 5 To vex with shrieks this quiet grove; But shepherd swains assemble here, But shepherd lads assemble here, And melting virgins own their love. No wither’d witch shall here be seen; No goblins lead their nightly crew: 10 But female fays shall haunt the green, The female fays shall haunt the green, And dress thy bed with pearly dew! And dress thy grave with pearly dew! The redbreast oft, at evening hours, Shall kindly lend his little aid, With hoary moss, and gather’d flowers, 15 To deck the ground where thou art laid. When chiding winds, and beating rain, In tempest shake the sylvan cell; Or ’midst the flocks, on every plain, When howling winds, and beating rain, In tempests shake the sylvan cell; Or ’midst the chase, on every plain, The tender thought on thee shall dwell; 20 Each lovely scene shall thee restore; Each lonely scene shall thee restore; For thee the tear be duly shed; Beloved till life could charm no more, Beloved till life can charm no more, And mourn’d till Pity’s self be dead.

VERSES

WRITTEN ON A PAPER WHICH CONTAINED A PIECE OF BRIDE-CAKE, GIVEN TO THE AUTHOR BY A LADY.

Ye curious hands, that, hid from vulgar eyes, By search profane shall find this hallow’d cake, With virtue’s awe forbear the sacred prize, Nor dare a theft, for love and pity’s sake! This precious relic, form’d by magic power, 5 Beneath her shepherd’s haunted pillow laid, Was meant by love to charm the silent hour, The secret present of a matchless maid. The Cyprian queen, at Hymen’s fond request, Each nice ingredient chose with happiest art; 10 Fears, sighs, and wishes of the enamour’d breast, And pains that please, are mix’d in every part. With rosy hand the spicy fruit she brought, From Paphian hills, and fair Cythera’s isle; And temper’d sweet with these the melting thought, 15 The kiss ambrosial, and the yielding smile. Ambiguous looks, that scorn and yet relent, Denials mild, and firm unalter’d truth; Reluctant pride, and amorous faint consent, And meeting ardours, and exulting youth. 20 Sleep, wayward God! hath sworn, while these remain, With flattering dreams to dry his nightly tear, And cheerful Hope, so oft invoked in vain, With fairy songs shall soothe his pensive ear. If, bound by vows to Friendship’s gentle side, 25 And fond of soul, thou hop’st an equal grace, If youth or maid thy joys and griefs divide, O, much entreated, leave this fatal place! Sweet Peace, who long hath shunn’d my plaintive day, Consents at length to bring me short delight, 30 Thy careless steps may scare her doves away, And Grief with raven note usurp the night.

TO MISS AURELIA C–––R,

ON HER WEEPING AT HER SISTER’S WEDDING.

Cease, fair Aurelia, cease to mourn, Lament not Hannah’s happy state; You may be happy in your turn, And seize the treasure you regret. With Love united Hymen stands, 5 And softly whispers to your charms, “Meet but your lover in my bands, You’ll find your sister in his arms.”

SONNET.

When Phœbe form’d a wanton smile, My soul! it reach’d not here: Strange, that thy peace, thou trembler, flies Before a rising tear! From ’midst the drops, my love is born, 5 That o’er those eyelids rove: Thus issued from a teeming wave The fabled queen of love.

SONG.

THE SENTIMENTS BORROWED FROM SHAKESPEARE.[62]

Young Damon of the vale is dead, Ye lowland hamlets, moan; Ye lowly hamlets, moan; A dewy turf lies o’er his head, And at his feet a stone. His shroud, which Death’s cold damps destroy, 5 Of snow-white threads was made: All mourn’d to see so sweet a boy In earth for ever laid. Pale pansies o’er his corpse were placed, Which, pluck’d before their time, 10 Bestrew’d the boy, like him to waste And wither in their prime. But will he ne’er return, whose tongue Could tune the rural lay? Ah, no! his bell of peace is rung, 15 His lips are cold as clay. They bore him out at twilight hour, The youth who loved so well: Ah, me! how many a true love shower Of kind remembrance fell! 20 Each maid was woe––but Lucy chief, Her grief o’er all was tried; Within his grave she dropp’d in grief, And o’er her loved one died.

ON OUR LATE TASTE IN MUSIC.[63]

–––Quid vocis modulamen inane juvabat Verborum sensusque vacans numerique loquacis? Milton.

Britons! away with the degenerate pack! Waft, western winds! the foreign spoilers back! Enough has been in wild amusements spent, Let British verse and harmony content! No music once could charm you like your own, 5 Then tuneful Robinson,[64] and Tofts were known; Then Purcell touched the strings, while numbers hung Attentive to the sounds––and blest the song! E’en gentle Weldon taught us manly notes, Beyond the enervate thrills of Roman throats! 10 Notes, foreign luxury could ne’er inspire, That animate the soul, and swell the lyre! That mend, and not emasculate our hearts, And teach the love of freedom and of arts. Nor yet, while guardian Phœbus gilds our isle, 15 Does heaven averse await the muses’ toil; Cherish but once our worth of native race, The sister-arts shall soon display their face! Even half discouraged through the gloom they strive, Smile at neglect, and o’er oblivion live. 20 See Handel, careless of a foreign fame, Fix on our shore, and boast a Briton’s name: While, placed marmoric in the vocal grove,[65] He guides the measures listening throngs approve. Mark silence at the voice of Arne confess’d, 25 Soft as the sweet enchantress rules the breast; As when transported Venice lent an ear, Camilla’s charms to view, and accents hear![66] So while she varies the impassion’d song, Alternate motions on the bosom throng! 30 As heavenly Milton[67] guides her magic voice, And virtue thus convey’d allures the choice. Discard soft nonsense in a slavish tongue, The strain insipid, and the thought unknown; From truth and nature form the unerring test; 35 Be what is manly, chaste, and good the best! ’Tis not to ape the songsters of the groves, Through all the quiverings of their wanton loves; ’Tis not the enfeebled thrill, or warbled shake, The heart can strengthen, or the soul awake! 40 But where the force of energy is found When the sense rises on the wings of sound; When reason, with the charms of music twined, Through the enraptured ear informs the mind; Bids generous love or soft compassion glow, 45 And forms a tuneful Paradise below! Oh Britons! if the honour still you boast, No longer purchase follies at such cost! No longer let unmeaning sounds invite To visionary scenes of false delight: 50 When, shame to sense! we see the hero’s rage Lisp’d on the tongue, and danced along the stage! Or hear in eunuch sounds a hero squeak, While kingdoms rise or fall upon a shake! Let them at home to slavery’s painted train, 55 With siren art, repeat the pleasing strain: While we, like wise Ulysses, close our ear To songs which liberty forbids to hear! Keep, guardian gales, the infectious guests away, To charm where priests direct, and slaves obey. 60 Madrid, or wanton Rome, be their delight; There they may warble as their poets write. The temper of our isle, though cold, is clear; And such our genius, noble though severe. Our Shakespeare scorn’d the trifling rules of art, 65 But knew to conquer and surprise the heart! In magic chains the captive thought to bind, And fathom all the depths of human kind! Too long, our shame, the prostituted herd Our sense have bubbled, and our wealth have shared. 70 Too long the favourites of our vulgar great Have bask’d in luxury, and lived in state! In Tuscan wilds now let them villas rear[68] Ennobled by the charity we spare. There let them warble in the tainted breeze, 75 Or sing like widow’d orphans to the trees: There let them chant their incoherent dreams, Where howls Charybdis, and where Scylla screams! Or where Avernus, from his darksome round, May echo to the winds the blasted sound! 80 As fair Alcyone,[69] with anguish press’d, Broods o’er the British main with tuneful breast, Beneath the white-brow’d cliff protected sings, Or skims the azure plain with painted wings! Grateful, like her, to nature, and as just, 85 In our domestic blessings let us trust; Keep for our sons fair learning’s honour’d prize, Till the world own the worth they now despise!