Page images
PDF
EPUB

Here the soft patriarch of the Loves,
Honey'd Anacreon, with the doves
Of Venus flutt'ring o'er his head,
(Whilst ivy-crowned Hours around
The laughter-loving Graces lead
In sportive ringlets to the sound
Of Paphian flutes) the Muse invites
To festive days and am'rous nights.
Here tender Moscus loves to rove
Along the meadow's daisied side,
Under a cool and silent grove

Where brooks of dimpling waters glide.
Rapt in celestial ecstasy

Sappho, whom all the Nine inspire,
Varies her am'rous melody,

The chords of whose Idalian lyre,
As changeful passions ebb or flow,

Struck with bold hand now vibrate high,
Now, modulated to a sigh,
Tremble most languishingly low.

Horace, mild sage, refin'd with ease,
Whose precepts whilst they counsel, please,
Without the jargon of the schools
And fur-gown'd pedant's bookish rules,
Here keeps his lov'd academy;
His art so nicely he conceals,
That wisdom on the bosom steals,

And men grow good insensibly.
From cool Valclusa's lilied meads
Soft Petrarch and his Laura come,
And e'en great Tasso sometimes treads
These flow'ry walks, and culls the bloom
Of rural groves, where heretofore

Each Muse, each Grace, beneath the shade
Of myrtle bow'rs, in secret play'd
With an Idalian paramour.

From silver Seine's transparent streams,
With roses and with lilies crown'd,
Breathing the same heart-easing themes,
And tun'd in amicable sound,
Sweet bards, of kindred spirit, blow
Soft Lydian notes on Gallic reeds,
Whose songs instruct us how to know
Truth's flow'rs from affectation's weeds.
Chapelle leads up the festive band;
La Farre and Chaulieu, hand in hand,
Close follow their poetic sire,
Hot with the Teian grape and fire.
But hark! as sweet as western wind
Breathes from the vi'let's fragrant beds,
When balmy dews Aurora sheds,
Gresset's clear pipe, distinct behind,
Symphoniously combines in one
Each former bard's mellifluent tone.
Gresset in whose harmonius verse
The Indian bird shall never die,

Tho' death may perch on Ver-Vert's hearse,
Fame's tongue immortal shall rehearse
His variable loquacity.

Nor wanting are there bards of Thames,
On rural reed young Surry plays,
And Waller wooes the courtly dames
With gay and unaffected lays,
His careless limbs supinely laid
Beneath the plantane's leafy shade.
Prior his easy pipe applies

To sooth his jealous Cloe's breast,
And even Sacharissa's eyes

To brighter Cloe's yield the prize
Of Venus' soul bewitching cest.
VOL. XV.

Than these much greater bards, I ween,
Whenever they will condescend
Th' inferior Muses to attend,
Immortalize this humble scene:
Shakespear's and Drayton's Fairy crews
In midnight revels gambol round,
And Pope's light Sylphids sprinkle dews
Refreshing on the magic ground.
Nor 'sdains the Dryad train of yore,
And green-hair'd Naiads of the flood,
To join with Fancy's younger brood,
Which brood the sweet enchantress bore
To British bards in after-times,

Whose fame shall bloom in deathless rhymes,
When Greece and Britain are no more.

Whilst such the feasts of fancy give,
Careless of what dull sages know,
Amidst their banquets I will live,
And pitying, look on pow'r below.
If still the cynic censor says,
That Aristippus' useless days
Pass in melodious foolery,
This is my last apology:
"Whatever has the pow'r to bless,
By living having learnt to prize,
Since wisdom will afford me less
Than what from harmless follies rise,
I cannot spare from happiness
A single moment to be wise."

THE CALL OF ARISTIPPUS.

EPISTLE IV.

TO MARK AKENSIDE, M. D. ΑΧΑΡΙΣ ΔΕ ΤΙΣ ΠΕΦΥΚΩΣ ΜΕΘΕΤΩ ΠΟΙΗΜΑ

ODE HENR. STEPHANY.

O THOU, for whom the British bays
Bloom in these unpoetic days,
Whose early genius glow'd to follow
The arts thro' Nature's ancient ways,
Twofold disciple of Apollo!
Shall Aristippus' easy lays,
Trifles of philosophic pleasure
Compos'd in literary leisure,
Aspire to gain thy deathless praise?
If thy nice ear attends the strains
This careless bard of Nature breathes
On Cyprian flute in Albion's plains,
By future poets myrtle wreaths
Shall long be scatter'd o'er his urn
In annual solemnity,

And marble Cupids, as they mourn,
Point where his kindred ashes lie.

Whilst thro' the tracks of endless day
Thy Muse shall, like the bird of Jove,
Wing to the source of light her way
And bring from cloudless realms above,
Where Truth's seraphic daughters glow,
Another Promothéan ray

To this benighted globe below,
Mine, like soft Cytherea's dove,
Contented with her native grove,
Shall fondly sooth th' attentive ears
Of life's, way-wearied travellers,

LL

And, from the paths of fancied woes,
Lead 'em to the serene abode
Where real bliss and real good
In sweet security repose;

Or, as the lark with matin notes,
To youth's new voyagers, in spring,
As over head in air she floats,
Attendant on unruffled wing,
Warbles inartificial joy,

My Muse in tender strains shall sing
The feats of Venus' winged boy,
Or how the nimble-footed Hours,
With the three Graces knit in dance,
Follow the goddess Elegance
To Hebe's court in Paphian bow'rs.
Nor let the supercilious wise
And gloomy sons of melancholy
These unaffected lays despise
As day-dreams of melodious folly.
Reason a lovelier aspect wears

The Smiles and Muses when between,
Than in the stoic's rigid mien

With beard philosophiz'd by years;
And Virtue moaps not in the cell
Where cloister'd Pride and Penance dwell,
But, in the chariot of the Loves,
She triumphs innocently gay,
Drawn by the yok'd Idalian doves,
Whilst young Affections lead the way
To the warm regions of the heart,
Whence selfish fiends of Vice depart,
Like spectres at th' approach of day.
Should any infidel demand,
Who sneers at our poetic Heav'n,
Whether from ordination given
By prelates of the Thespian land,
Or inspiration from above,
(As modern methodists derive
Their light from no divine alive)
I hold the great prerogative
T'interpret sage Anacreon's writ,
Or gloss upon Catullus' wit,
Prophets that heretofore were sent,
And finally require to see
Credentials of my embassy,
Before his faith could yield assent,
Convincing reasons I would give
From a short tale scarce credible,
But yet as true and plausible,
As some which catholics believe,
That I was call'd by Jove's behest
A Paphian and a Delphian priest.

Once when by Trent's pellucid streams,
In days of prattling infancy,
Led by young wond'ring Ecstasy,
To view the Sun's refulgent beams
As on the sportive waves they play'd
Too far I negligently stray'd,
The god of day his lamp withdrew,
Evening her dusky mantle spread,
And from her moisten'd tresses shed
Refreshing drops of pearly dew.
Close by the borders of a wood,
Where an old ruin'd abbey stood,
Far from a fondling mother's sight,
With toil of childish sport oppress'd
My tender limbs sunk down to rest
'Midst the dark horrours of the night.
As Horace erst by fabled doves

With spring's first leaves was mantled o'er

A wand'rer from his native groves,

A like regard the British Loves
To me their future poet bore,
Nor left me guardianless alone,
For tho' no Nymph or Faun appear'd,
Nor piping Satyr was there heard,
And here the Dryads are unknown;
Yet, natives true of English ground,
Sweet Elves and Fays in mantles green,
By shepherds oft in moonlight seen,
And dapper Fairies danc'd around.
The nightingale, her love-lorn lay
Neglecting on the neighb'ring spray,
Strew'd with fresh flow'rs my turfy bed,
And, at the first approach of mora,
The red-breast stript the fragrant thorn
On roses wild to lay my head.
Thus, as the wond'ring rustics say,
In smiling sleep they found me laid
Beneath a blossom'd hawthorn's shade,
Whilst sportive bees, in mystic play,
With honey fill'd my little lips
Blent with each sweet that Zephyr sips
From flow'ry cups in balmy May.

From that bless'd hour my bosom glow'd
Ere vanity or fame inspir'd,
With unaffected transports fir'd,
And from my tongue untutor'd flow'd,
In childhood's inattentive days,
The lisping notes of artless lays.

Nor have these dear enchantments ceas'd, For what in innocence began

Still with increasing years increas'd,

And youth's warm joys now charm the man.
Perhaps this fondly-foster'd flame,
E'en when in dust my body's laid,

Will o'er the tomb preserve its fame,
And glow within my future shade.
If thus, as poets have agreed,
The soul, when from the body freed,
In t'other world confines her bliss
To the same joys she lov'd in this,
Thine, when she's pass'd the Stygian flood,
Shall, 'midst the patriot chiefs of old,
The wise, the valiant, and the good,
(Great names in deathless archives roll'd')
Strike with a master's mighty hand
Thy golden lyre's profoundest chords,
And fascinate the kindred band
With magic of poetic words.
Ravish'd with thy mellifluent lay
Plato and Virgil shall entwine
Of olive and the Mantuan bay
A never-fading crown for thee,
And learn'd Lucretius shall resign,
Among the foll'wers of the Nine,
His philosophic dignity.

For tho' his faithful pencil drew
Nature's external symmetry,
Yet to the mind's capacious view,
That unconfig'd expatiates

O'er mighty Nature's wond'rous whole,
Thy nicer stroke delineates

The finer features of the soul.

And, whilst the Theban bard to thee
Shall yield the heart-clating lyre,
Horace shall hear attentively
Thy finger touch his softer wire
To more familiar harmony.
Mean while thy Aristippus' shade

Shall seek where sweet Anacreon plays,
Where Chapelle spends his festive days,
Where lies the vine-impurpled glade
By tuneful Chaulieu vocal made,
Or where our Shenstone's mossy cell,
Or where the fair Deshouliéres strays,
Or Hammond and Pavillon dwell,
And Gresset's gentle spirit roves
Surrounded by a group of Loves
With roses crown'd and asphodel.

Let the furr'd pedants of the schools,
In learning's formidable show,
Full of wise saws and bookish rules,
The meagre dupes of misery grow,
A lovelier doctrine I profess
Than their dull science can avow;
All that belongs to happiness

Their heads are welcome still to know,
My heart's contented to possess.
For in soft elegance and ease,
Secure of living whilst I live,
Each momentary bliss I seize,
Ere these warm faculties decay,
The fleeting moments to deceive
Of human life's allotted day.

And when th' invidious hand of Time
By stealth shall silver o'er my head,
Still Pleasure's 10sy walks I'll tread,
Still with the jocund Muses rhyme,
And haunt the green Idalian bow'rs,
Whilst wanton boys of Paphos' court
In myrtles hide my staff for sport,

And coif me, where I'm bald, with flow'rs.
Thus to each happy habit true,
Preferring happiness to pow'r,
Will Aristippus e'en pursue
Life's comforts to the latest hour,
Till age (the only malady

Which thou and med'cine cannot cure,
Yet what all covet to endure)
This innocent voluptu'ry

Shall, from the Laughs and Graces here,
With late and lenient change remove,
To regions of Elysian air,

Where shades of mortal pleasures rove,
Destin'd, without alloy, to share
Eternal joys of mutual love,
Which transitory were above.

A SONG.

DEAR Chloe what means this disdain,
Which blasts each endeavour to please?
Tho' forty, I'm free from all pain,
Save love, I am free from disease.

No Graces my mansion have fled,
No Muses have broken my lyre;
The Loves frolic still round my bed,
And Laughter is cheer'd at my fire.

To none have I ever been cold,

All beauties in vogue I'm among; I've appetite e'en for the old,

And spirit enough for the young. Believe me, sweet girl, I speak true, Or else put my love to the test;

Some others have doubted like you, Like them do you bless and be blest.

AN EPISTLE

FROM THE KING OF PRUSSIA TO MONSIEUR VOL-
TAIRE. 1775.

CROYEZ que si j'etois, Voltaire,
Particulier aujourdhui,

Me contentant du necessaire,

Je verrois envoler la Fortune legere,

Et m'en mocquerois comme lui.

Je connois l'ennui des grandeurs,

Le fardeau des devoirs, le jargon des flateurs,

Et tout l' amas des petitesses,

Et leurs genres et leurs especes,

Dont il faut s'occuper dans le sein des honneurs. Je meprise la vaine glorie,

Quoique poëte et souverain,

Quand du ciseau fatal retranchant mon destin
Atropos m' aura vu plonge dans la nuit noire,
Que m' importe l'honneur incertain

De vivre apres ma mort au temple de memoire:

Un instant de bonheur vaut inille ans dans l'hisNos destins sont ils donc si beaux?

Le doux plaisir et la mollesse,

La vive et naïve allegresse

[toire.

[sceaux,

Ont toujours fui des grands, la pompe, et les fai-
Nes pour la liberté leurs troupes enchantresses
Preferent l'aimable paresse

Aux austeres devoirs guides de nos travaux.
Aussi la Fortune volage

N'a jamais causé mes ennuis,

Soit qu'elle m' agaçe, ou qu' elle m' outrage,
Je dormirai toutes les nuits

En lui refusant mon hommage.
Mais notre etat nous fait loi,
Il nous oblige, il nous engage
A mesurer notre courage,
Sur ce qu' exige notre emploi.
Voltaire dans son hermitage,
Dans un païs dont l' heritage
Est son antique bonne foi,

Peut 's addoner en paix à la vertu du sage
Dont Platon nous marque la loi ;
Pour moi menacé du naufrage,
Je dois, en affrontant l' orage,
Penser, vivre, et mourir en roi.

THE SAME TRANSLATED. VOLTAIRE, believe me, were I now In private life's calm station plac'd, Let Heav'n for nature's wants allow, With cold indiff'rence would I view Departing Fortune's winged haste, And laugh at her caprice like you. Th' insipid farce of tedious state, Imperial duty's real weight, The faithless courtier's supple bow, The fickle multitude's caress, And the great vulgar's littleness, By long experience well I know; And, tho' a prince and poet born, Vain blandishments of glory scorn. For when the ruthless shears of fate Have cut my life's precarious thread, And rank'd me with th' unconscious dead,

What will't avail that I was great,
Or that th' uncertain tongue of fame
In mem'ry's temple chaunts my name?
One blissful moment whilst we live
Weighs more than ages of renown;
What then do potentates receive
Of good, peculiarly their own?
Sweet ease and unaffected joy,
Domestic peace, and sportive pleasure,
The regal throne and palace fly,
And, born for liberty, prefer
Soft silent scenes of lovely leisure,
To, what we monarchs buy so dear,
The thorny pomp of scepter'd care.
My pain or bliss shall ne'er depend
On fickle Fortune's casual flight,
For, whether she's my foe or friend,
In calm repose I'll pass the night;
And ne'er by watchful homage own
I court her smile, or fear her frown.
But from our stations we derive
Unerring precepts how to live,

And certain deeds each rank calls forth,
By which is measur'd human worth.
Voltaire, within his private cell
In realms where ancient honesty
Is patrimonial property,

And sacred freedom loves to dwell,
May give up all his peaceful mind,
Guided by Plato's deathless page,
In silent solitude resign'd
To the mild virtues of a sage;

But I, 'gainst whom wild whirlwinds wage
Fierce war with wreck-denouncing wing,
Must be, to face the tempest's rage,
In thought, in life, in death, a king.

A HYMN TO HEALTH,

WRITTEN IN SICKNESS.

SWEET as the fragrant breath of genial May,
Come, fair Hygeia, goddess heav'nly born,
More lovely than the Sun's returning ray,

To northern regions, at the half year's morn. Where shall I seek thee? in the wholesome grot, Where Temperance her scanty meal enjoys? Or Peace, contented with her humble lot,

Beneath her thatch th' inclement blast defies? Swept from each flow'r that sips the morning dew, Thy wing besprinkles all the scenes around; Where e'er thou fly'st the blossoms blush anew, And purple vi'lets paint the hallow'd ground.

Thy presence renovated nature shows,

By thee each shrub with varied hue is dy'd, Each tulip with redoubled lustre glows,

And all creation smiles with flow'ry pride.

But in thy absence joy is felt no more,

The landscape wither'd e'en in spring appears, The morn low'rs om'nous o'er the dusky shore, And evening suns set half extinct in tears. Ruthless Disease ascends, when thou art gone From the dark regions of th' abyss below, With Pestilence, the guardian of her throne, Breathing contagion from the realms of woe.

In vain her citron groves Italia boasts,
Or Po the balsam of his weeping trees;
In vain Arabia's aromatic coasts

Perfume the pinions of the passing breeze.
No wholesome scents impregn the western gale,
But noxious steuch exhal'd by scorching heat,
Where gasping swains the pois'nous air inhale
That once diffus'd a medicinal sweet.

Me, abject me, with pale disease oppress'd,
Heal with the balm of thy prolific breath;
Rekindle life within my clay-cold breast, [death.
And shield my youth from canker-worms of
Then on the verdant turf, thy fav'rite shrine,
Restor'd to thee a votary I'll come,
Grateful to offer to thy pow'r divine

Each herb that grows round Æsculapius' tomb.

A SONG.

THE nymph that I lov'd was as cheerful as day,
And as sweet as the blossoming hawthorn in May;
Her temper was smooth as the down on the dove,
And her face was as fair as the mother's of love.

Tho' mild as the pleasantest zephyr that sheds,
And receives gentle odours from violet beds,
Yet warm in affection as Phoebus at noon, [Moon.
And as chaste as the silver-white beams of the
Her mind was unsullied as new-fallen snow,
Yet as lively as tints of young Iris's bow,
As firm as the rock, and as calm as the flood,
Where the peace-loving halcyon depusits her
brood.

The sweets that each virtue or grace had in store,
She cull'd as the bee would the bloom of each

[blocks in formation]
[blocks in formation]

THE GENIUS OF BRITAIN.

As late o'er Britain's chalky coasts
The Genius of the island flew,
The venal swarm of foreign hosts'

Inglorious basking in his view,
Deep in bis breast he felt the new disgrace,
And honest blushes warm'd his godlike face.
Quick flash'd the light'ning of his spear

Which blasted France on Cressy's field,
He wheel'd the blazing sword in air,

And on his shoulders spread the shield,
As when o'er Agincourt's blood-purpled lands,
Pale Terrour stalk'd thro' all the Gallic bands.

Soon as he cast his eyes below,

Deep heav'd the sympathetic sigh, Sudden the tears of anguish flow,

For sore he felt th' indignity;

Discordant passions shook his heavenly frame,
Now horrour's damp, now indignation's flame,
"Ah! what avails," he cry'd, "the blood
Shed by each patriot band of yore,
When Freedom's unpaid legions stood

Protectors of this sea-girt shore,

When ancient wisdom deem'd each British sword From hostile pow'r could guard its valiant lord. "What tho' the Danish raven spread

Awhile his wings o'er English ground,

The bird of prey funereal fled

When Alfred call'd his peers around,

Whose fleets triumphant riding on the flood, Deep stain'd each chalky cliff with Denmark's

blood.

"Alfred on natives could depend,

And scorn'd a foreign force t' employ, He thought, who dar'd not to defend

Were never worthy to enjoy;

The realm's and monarch's int'rest deem'd but one,
And arm'd his subjects to maintain their own.
"What tho' weak John's divided reign
The Gallic legions tempted o'er,

When Henry's barons join'd again,

Those feather'd warriors left the shore;

Learn, Britons, hence, you want no foreign friends, The lion's safety on himself depends.

"Reflect on Edward's glorious name;

On my fifth Henry's martial deeds;

Think on those peers of deathless fame

Who met their king on Thames's meads, When sov'reign might acknowledg'd reason's plea, That Heav'n created man for liberty.

"Tho' Rome's fell star malignant shone,
When great Eliza rul'd this state,
On English hearts she plac'd her throne,
And in their happiness her fate,
While blacker than the tempests of the north,
The papal tyrant sent his curses forth.

"Lo! where my Thames's waters glide
At great Augusta's regal feet,
Bearing on each returning tide

From distant realms a golden fleet, Which homeward wafts the fruits of ev'ry zone, And makes the wealth of all the world your own.

"Shall on his silver waves be borne Of armed slaves a venal crew? Lo! the old god denotes his scorn, And shudders at th' unusual view, Down to his deepest cave retires to mourn, And tears indignant bathe his crystal urn. "O! how can vassals born to bear

The galling weight of slav'ry's chain, A patriot's noble ardour share,

Or freedom's sacred cause maintain? Britons exert your own unconquer'd might, A freeman best defends a freeman's right.

"Look back on every deathless deed For which your sires recorded stand; To battle let your nobles lead

The sons of toil, a hardy band;

The sword on each rough peasant's thigh be worn,
And war's green wreaths the shepherd's front adorn.

"But see, upon his utmost shores
America's sad genius lies,
Each wasted province he deplores,

And casts on me his languid eyes,
Bless'd with Heav'n's fav'rite ordinance I fly,
To raise th' oppress'd, and humble tyranny."

This said, the vision westward fled,

His wrinkled brow denouncing war;
The way fire-mantled Vengeance led,
And Justice drove his airy car;

Behind firm-footed Peace her olive bore,
And Plenty's horn pour'd blessings on the shore.

THEAGENES TO SYLVIA.

First printed in Dodsley's Museum.

ARGUMENT.

Theagenes, son of Hieron, the priest of Pan, having fallen in love, at an annual festival in the temple of that god, with Sylvia, a votress to Diana, finds means to seduce her. After some time, the nymph being struck with horrour at her guilt, in the utmost despair and contrition makes a vow that she would endeavour to expiate her offence by a life of religious solitude: upon which occasion Theagenes writes the following epistle.

N.B. Several hints in the following epistle were taken from the celebrated lord Gray's Love

letters.

1 Six thousand Hessians imported to protect SAY, dearest object of my broken heart, this island!!!!

Must we for e'er, like soul and body, part?

« PreviousContinue »