The Works of the English Poets, from Chaucer to Cowper

For so fierce is the passion which Stella inspires, | Horrid with gold, and formidably bright
Not the ocean itself could extinguish its fires.

WARM'D with thy verse, which Liberty inspires,
Which Nature forms and sacred Reason fires,
I pour a tributary lay. Receive

The honest praise a friend may dare to give.
Most of our poets choose their early theme
A flow'ry meadow, or a purling stream.
Thy genius took a flight above the groves,
The pipe neglected and the rural loves;
To god-like Newton's praises swell'd thy lyre,
Play'd with the light and grasp'd ethereal fire,
So the young lyric-lark, on trembling wings
O'er meadows warbles, and to shepherds sings,
The youthful eagle, born to nobler sway,
Enjoys the Sun, and boldly faces day.

Next brave Leonidas, with virtue warm'd,
The child of Heav'n and thee! our wonder charm'd:
Our wonder and our silence best can tell
How much he lov'd his Greece, how great he fell.
His arm how dreadful, how compos'd his mien!
Fierce as a god, and as a god serene.

He lightens and he thunders through the fight;
With bleeding hills he heaps the groaning plain,
Aud crimson torrents mingle with the main,
At last, collecting all his patriot-fires,
In the full blaze of liberty expires.

If blest immortals bend their thoughts below,
(And verse like thine may listening angels draw)
What new-felt raptures through the hero roll,
To find his deeds immortal as his soul!
To shine above each patriot's honour'd name,
Thron'd in thy verse, the temple of his fame!
Rich as the pillars which support the skies,
And bright with wit as Heav'n with starry dies:
As Virtue, firm; as Liberty, sublime;
A monument to mock the rage of Time.

Did Homer, say, thy glowing breast inspire
To sing the Spartan with Athenian fire?
Or Homer's self revives again in thee:
For Grecian chiefs and Grecian wit I see.
His mighty spirit all thy genius guides,
And o'er thy bosom roll his golden tides.

Blest is thy fancy which durst first despise
Gods in machines and bullies from the skies.
Nor Ariosto's fables fill thy page,

Nor Tasso's points, but Virgil's sober rage.
Pure-temper'd fires an equal light maintain,
To warm the reason, not to scorch the brain.
How soft, how strong thy varied numbers move,
Or swell'd to glory, or dissolved to love.
Correct with ease, where all the Graces meet,
Nervously plain, majestically sweet.
The Muses well thy sacrifice repay
Attendant warbling in each heavenly lay!

When Ariana grasps th' abhorred dart,
Each lover bleeds and feels it in his heart.
Ah faithful pair! by misery improv'd:
Who wou'd not die to love as you have lov'd?
Like Teribazus gladly I could dic

To draw one tear from dear lanthe's eye.
One sigh of hers wou'd recompense my breath,
Wou'd sweeten pain, and sanctify my death.
O might I, while her eyes inflict the wound,
Or her soft lute dissolves a plaintive sound,
Might I, while she inhales my latest breath,
Sink from her arms into the arms of Death!
Then rise, (so pure a wish may be forgiven)
O sweet transition, from her breast to Heav'n}
Forgive this fond excursion of my woe;
Forgive these tears, that will, rebellious, flow;
Forgive these sighs, that will, unbidden, rise,
Till death for ever close her from my eyes.
But thou, blest youth, may thou for ever know
The chaste endearment, and parental glow:
The still, the sacred, the melodious hour,
The morning-closet, and the ev'ning-bow'r,
There, when thy Muse shall let her eagle fly,
And nobly lift a mortal to the sky,
When all th' inspiring God dilates thy soul,
And quick ideas kindle as they roll,
Let British valour thy brave care engage,
With British valour fire the glorious page.
Bid Henry's honours in thy poem glow,
On Edward immortality bestow.
Let Agincourt, let Cressy's well-fought plain
Run purple in thy lines and bleed again;
Britannia then, no more her sous shall mourn,
Extinct, forgotten in the silent urn:

Born on the wings of verse their names shall rise,
Dear to the earth and grateful to the skies.

་

Hail, Poetry! whose life infusing lays
Bid time roll back and sleeping atoms raise;
Dust into being wake, expand the tomb,
Dead glory quicken, and restore lost bloom:
As God, from mortals heighten to divine,
And give us through eternity to shine!

Glover! thy mind, in various virtue wise,
Each science claims, and makes each art thy prize.
With Newton soars, familiar to the sky,
Looks Nature through, so keen thy mental eye,
Or down descending on the globe below,
Through humbler realms of knowledge loves to flow.
Promiscuous beauties dignify thy breast,
By nature happy, as by study blest,
Thou, wit's Columbus! from the epic throne
New worlds descry'd, and made them all our own:
Thou first through real Nature dar'd explore,
And waft her sacred treasures to our shore.

The merchant thus, by heav'nly wisdom led, (Each kingdon noted, and each law survey'd) On Britain pours whate'er can serve mankind, Adorn the body, or delight the mind. Spices which blow'd in Araby the blest, And breath'd a Paradise around the east. Unclouded sapphires show their azure sky, Em'raids with smiling green refresh the eye: Here bleeds the ruby, diamonds sparkle there, To tremble on the bosoms of our fair. Yet shou'd the Sun with ten-fold lustre shine, Exait with deeper dies the flaming mine, Shou'd softer breezes and more genial skies Bid sweeter spice, in blooming order, rise, Nor gems nor spice cou'd Nature know to name, Bright as thy wit, or fragrant as thy fame.

ODE BRUMALIS:

AD AMICUM OXONIENSEM.

EHEU! sereni mollia tempora Conduntur anni. Fila, puer, lyræ Lascivientis frange: Bruma Fiebilis officium Camoenæ

Pullata poscit; non salis Attici Hæc flore gaudet. Præterit ocyor Equo Maronis, nec scit uno

Stare loco saliens voluptas.

Quò cessit Umbræ gloria frondeæ ? Quò Serta, mixtis viva coloribus, Ornare non indigna Popi

Marmora, sive comas Ianthæ.

Heu Veris ætas occidit aurea, Estatis atque argentea, & ærea Recessit Autumni, severæ

Ferrea sola Hyemis remansit.

Sic vita transit nostra! volantibus Urgetur horis. Quid Sapiens aget, Quid ergo Prudens? Iile, certè, Dona rapit fug entis horæ,

Gratus Deorum cultor. Hyems Virum, Quem lavit Isis, Flumen Apollinis, Quem Suada puro melle fovit, Intrepidum feriet procellis.

Nigrescat æther, pectore candido Pax alba ridet: mugiat Africus, Eurusque; tu, tranquilla Virtus,

Vere tumens, Zephyros reduces.

Tranquilla Virtus, nescia criminis,
Te, Amice, munit, tectum adamantino
Thorace; te non atra bilis

Mente quatit placidâ Novembris.

Nec me November mente hilari quatit,
Tristesque Menses: fallitur improba
Vel Cura Musis, vel Choreis,

Dulcè vices subeunte Baccho.
Horatiani pocula nunc Meri
Grato ore libo, digna labris Jovis!
Nunc intimas & suave Nectar
Ovidii fluit in medullas.

Si grandis inflet Calliope Tubam, Mentem illa semper cantu Heliconio Accendit: Io! me jam aperto Virgilius dedit ire cœlo.

Pompam Theatri visere sæpiùs Garrickus urget, Dramatis Arbiter! Decore, gestu, voce, vultu

Ille oculos capit, ille mentes.

Odi profanos, pace tuâ, jocos, Vanburge, odi: me gravis attrahit Shakespear, Cothurnati per ævum Omne Pater, Columenque Regni,

Heus!-deme Soccos:-alta Tragædia
Jubet:-Cothurnos induit aureos;-
Orchestra, majestate adaucta,
Sub pedibus Gradientis horret.

Quod fulmen aures non imitabile Et corda steroit: Terror amabilis Pervadit intùs nos:-Othello!En rabido tonat ore Othello!

Proh! quantus iræ gurges inæstuat
Spumatque venis! ut tumet in minas!
Quam splendidè bacchatur excors!

Ah! gemit-ah! trepidat-ruensque, Procumbit heros!-Gaudia sunt nimis Hæc sæva, Shakespear! Turbinibus sinus Perflas voluptatis micantes:

Ferre animus timet hos tumultus.

Mutare Scenam jam lubet,-Ibimus, 2uo suavis Otway nos vocat, ibimus, lantha! quamvis, pulchra fletu, Turgidulis redeas ocellis.

Planctus gementum planctibus addere
Est dulce semper. Moninia dolor,
Me teste, guttâ molliore
Sæpè genas, tacitè, fefellit.

O quæ paventum murmura Virginum Questusque mulcent aera Odoribus!--Tu vincis, Otway! corda vincis; Euripidis renovans triumphos.

With Mantua's swan, and range the boundless sky.

With eager joy I oft repair

To the gay crowded theatre,

Where shines the man who treads our stage, Garrick! the Roscius of the age!

His voice, mien, manner, look, a life imparts; 'Tis he who captivates our eyes,―our hearts.

Vanbrugh, your leave,what's lewdly writ
I hate, I hate th' immoral wit.
Immortal Shakspeare I admire,

And kindle at his sacred fire:
O! what a glory breathes his page,
He lives!-he lives thro' ev'ry age
Father of tragedy, he reigns

Sole monarch o'er theatric plains.

Hence with the sock:-the queen commands:Grac'd with the golden buskin stands: The stage in majesty improves, Trembling beneath her, awful as she moves.

What thunder bursts!-it made me start-
Thunder beyond the reach of art!
The claps!-I heard 'em,-how they roll!
The lovely terrour shakes my soul:
Who talks of fiends!-of gaping graves!-
Othello! 't is Othello raves!

What tenderness!-what fierce disdain
He swears!-invokes Hell, Earth, air, skies!
Whirls, boils, and foams through ev'ry vein!
See where the glorious madman flies!

He groans, he trembles,-falls,-the hero dies!

Shakspeare, excessive joys like these (I almost said) are cruelties:

Whirlwinds of pleasure tear the panting breast, And the mind aches, too exquisitely blest.

Chang'd is the scene:-methinks I rove
In some enchanted cypress grove.
Soft Otway calls!-who can refuse
The plaintive voice of Otway's Muse?
We'll go, my fair Ianthe, we will go,
Tho' your fond love-inspiring eyes o'erflow
Like bubbling springs, more beautiful in woe,

Sweet is the sympathy of woe;

Have I not seen (nay felt 'em too)

Down stealing Tears, big, silent, slow, Speak a soft language as they flow, Daughters of tender Grief, express Charming Monimia's deep distress!

Audite, Cœli! num modulaminis Tales triumphos aula refert Jovis Stellata? Sphærarumve tales Lucidus & numerosus ordo?

O lene murmur! cum Venus aurea Inire somnos, strata rosis, parat, Melosque poscit; talis aura Idalias tremit inter umbras,

Quæ flamma venis pasta! potentibus
Succumbo victus blanditiis lyræ:
Succumbo victus voce, vultu,
Crine nigro, niveoque collo,

Sic prata sævis florea solibus
Oppressa languent. Ferte, citò, precor,
Lenimen ægro; ferte rores

Metcafii medicos, sodales!

Frustrà: nec unquàm Metcafii manus Extinguet ignes, docta licèt, meos; Nec flumen, ah! vestri benignis Ingenii recreabit undis.

ODE VERNALIS:

AMICUM OXONIENSEM.

CURAS Lyæus jàm mihi discutit Raptìm; nec aurum (suavitèr insolens) Vocale de myrto recuso

Vellere liberiore dextrâ.

Et quis vetabit quò minùs audeam Lusus amico mittere cum joco! Ridere mens est; terra ridet;

Ipsa Venus negat esse tristes,

Jucunda veris diva. Quid ampliùs Ruga juvabunt? Versicoloribus En Maius alis raptus afflat Lætitiam genialis auræ.

Amice! (blando hoc nomine te vocem, O Woode?) cum quo sæpè per Isidis Errare sylvas, nùncque cantu

Nuncque mero licuit morantes.

Duxisse soles in Thetidis toros,
Amice! quæ te gaudia floreis

Cingunt coronis? Quæquè molles
Nympha caput lepidum remulcet

Inter Lacertos? Nùm charitum chorus,
Chorùsve Pindi tempora dividit?
Sunt ambo grati; mense maii
Quin charites meliùs colantur.

Nunc dulce pictis desipere in toro Herbis tumenti, vivus ubì tremor Splendescit undæ; si poëtæ, Siquè aderint, tua cura, musæ.

Adsit jocorum grata protervitas, Thalia pleno quos tibi depluit Cornu: nec absit Bacchus, uvæ, Evohe! purpureus magister. Handalus omnes tendere barbiti Nervos laboret; nec sileat placens Iantha cantu, dùm jocoso Tangit ebur geniale plęctro.

SPRING;

A TRANSLATION OF ODE VERNALIS.

By the Reverend Mr. Tattersal, late Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge.

CARE flies the raptures of the bowl,

"T is jolly Bacchus fills my soul;

I feel within the genial fire,

And from yon myrtle snatch my golden lyre.

To thee the jocund Muse I send, With sprightly lay to greet my friend: For all things now around look gay, Why mayn't I laugh, as well as they? The fair, the young, my hours beguile, And Cytherea ever wears a smile,

Creative goddess of the Spring! No more of Winter's storms I sing, See May in wanton joy appear

Spread his gay wings, and fan the buxom Year.

My friend (indulge the tender name)
My friend, near Isis' sacred stream,
With whom so oft 1 us'd to rove
Careless, in garden, mead, or grove;
A glass, a song:- thus you and I
Have bid the golden minutes fly,
Seen many a Sun, with sloping ray,
Ling'ring retire, and blest the falling day.

O tell me what soft triumphs now
Wreath blooming garlands round thy brow;
What nymph, for winning beauty known,
Giving you joy, completes her own;
Whether the Graces, or the Nine
Divide thy hours, for both are thine?

'Tis merry May, swains, greet the Graces' shrine.

To frolic on the tufted grass, To view clear waters as they pass,

To mark the shining shivering gleam
That darts, and dances on the stream,
To court the Muse, toy with the fair,
(Pleasures like these, O! may I ever share).

The season bids: a friend or two,
Ingenious, affable, like you;
Happy at sudden repartees,

Whose answers bite, yet biting please,

To kindle mirth: and let me join

Bacchus, the purple sovereign of the vine,

May god-like Handel now inspire The tuneful pow'rs and fill the choir: Janthe, charming as she sings,

Wake with a nimble touch th' harmonious strings.

Listen, ye Heavens, to strains, above
Whate'er the starry court of Jove,
Lost in melodious raptures, hears
Amid the silver-sounding spheres ;
Where orbs on orbs in concert roll,

And music trembles round from pole to pole.

O melting sound! when sleep unseen Just steals upon the Cyprian queen, Indulging in th' Idalian shade,

Stretcht on a couch, of roses made,

The lute soft-warbling, such the air

High-smiling in delight a lady sate,

Young as the dawning Morn, on iv'ry throne;

That undulating plays, and lulls th' immortal fair. Upon her looks the virgin-virtues wait,

The flames that feed within my breast!

I faint, I die, with charms opprest;
Her voice, her face, her sweet spinnet,
The neck of iv'ry, and the hair of jet.

So languishes, and fades away
The flow's beneath the blaze of day;
Quick, my companions, quick apply
Some cooling, sovereign remedy:
Metcalf, to sooth a burning pain,

By Pæan taught, may try, but try in vain.
Not Metcalf's' skill, tho' known to fame,
Can slake the fury of my flame,
Not all his juices quench; nor yet,
Dear friend, the flow of your engaging wit.

The virgin-virtues wait on her alone!
Her sapphire-eyes with gentle spirit shone:
Fair bounty head was open'd in her face,
Of honour and of love the paragon7!

A sweet regard and most auspicious grace
Bespoke her lineage high: she was of David's race.

Upon her lap a lovely infant lay, And ken'd the mother by her smiling grace. His looks were radiant as the bloom of day, And angel-sweetness purpled in his face. Oh! how the mother did the babe embrace With tender blandishment and fondling care! She gaz'd, and gaz'd, ne8 could enough caress His cheeks, as roses red, as lilies fair, [heir! The holy Day-spring hight, Heav'n's everlasting

Near him a goodly pers'nage mildly shone, With looks of love, and shedding peace and joy: Her looks were love, soft streaming from the throne Of Grace, and sweetly melted on the boy:

'Twas morn! the fields were sprinkled o'er with Her tongue dropp'd honey, which wou'd never cloy.

light,

The folds unpent sent out their flocks to feed:
A shepherd boy, (young Thomalin he hight,1)
With flying fingers deftly tun'd his reed;
Where ancient Isis laves the Muses' mead,
(For ever smile the mead and flow the stream!)
He sung the birth of David's holy seed:
Tho' low his voice, full lofty was his theme;
Wightly his senses all were rapt into a dream.

Eftsoons he spy'd a grove, the Season's pride,
All in the centre of a pleasant glade,
Where Nature flourish'd like a virgin-bride;
Mantled with green, with hyacinths inlay'd,
And crystal-rills o'er beds of lilies stray'd;

Dr. T. Metcalf, an eminent physician who died in 1757. C.

! Named or called, 2uickly. Immediately.

Mercy yclep'd 9. All Nature on her hung,
To drink her manna and her smiles enjoy;
Young laughing angels "Mercy, mercy," sung;
Heav'n echo'd "Mercy" back, the spheres with
66 Mercy" rung.

Thus if the clouds, enroll'd with deadly food,
Forget to thunder in the ethereal tow'rs,
But silently dissolve in kindly mood,

In fostering dews, and balm, and honey-show'rs;
Laugh all the fields for joy and all the bow'rs.
The shrubs and herbs fresh odours round them fling,
Pop up their smiling heads the little flow'rs,
Warble the birds, exulting on the wing,
And all the wild-wood notes the genial blessings

4 Humility.

6 I think. 8 Nor.

[sing.

5 Formerly, sometime since.

7 The pattern or model,

9 Called or named.

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The Works of the English Poets, from Chaucer to Cowper: Including ..., Volume 15