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(The source of children's and of courtiers' pride!) By turns, astonied, every twig survey, Redress'd affronts, for vile affronts there pass'd; And, from their fellow's 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 them 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 hie 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 form, and chair;
Forewarn’d, if little bird their pranks behold, (This hand in mouth y-fix'd, that rends his hair ;) "Twill 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 ; Efisoons 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 door, 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 askance is sent, O ruthful scene! when from a nook obscure, Which for his dame's annoyance he designs ; His litile 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 havior 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 ber so that all for pity she could die. Ah! better far than all the Muses' lyres,
All coward arts, is Valor'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
build, Ne hopeth aught of sweet reprieve to gain ; Or when from high she levels well her aim,
Shall Dennis be! if rigid Fate incline, And, through the thatch, his cries each falling stroke
And many an epic to his rage shall yield; 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 thrillid Attend, and con their tasks with mickle care :
Surveys mine work; and levels many a sneer,
And furls his wrinkly front, and cries, “What stuff * Spenser.
is here ?"
But now Dan Phæbus gains the middle skie,
Describing the sorrow of an ingenuous mind, on the With boisterous revel-rout and wild uproar;
melancholy event of a licentious amour. A thousind ways in wanton rings they run, Heaven shield their short-liv'd pastime, I im- Willy 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 shine! Appear to British elf more gladsome than the Sun. Thy cheerful meads reprove that swelling sigh;
Spring ne'er enamel'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 !
· Damon," said he, “thy partial praise restrain ; But most in courts where proud Ambition towers; Deluded wight! who weens fair Peace can spring Alas! his very praise awakes my pain,
Not Damon's friendship can my peace restore ; Beneath the pompous dome of kesar or of king.
And my poor wounded bosom bleeds the more. See in each sprite some various bent appear! “For oh! that Nature on my birth had frown'd, These rudely carol most incondite lay;
Or Fortune fix'd me to some lowly cell; Those sauntering on the green, with jocund leer Then had my bosom 'scap'd this fatal wound, Salute the stranger passing on his way;
Nor had I bid these vernal sweets farewell. Some builden fragile tenements of clay; Some to the standing lake their courses bend,
But led by Fortune's hand, her darling child, With pebbles smooth at duck and drake to play ;
My youth her vain licentious bliss admir'd : Thilk to the huxter's savory cottage tend,
In Fortune's train the syren Flattery smild, In pastry kings and queens th' allotted mite to And rashly hallow'd all her queen inspir’d. spend.
“Of folly studious, e'en of vices vain,
Ah vices! gilded by the rich and gay! Here, as each season yields a different store,
I chas'd the guileless daughters of the plain, Each season's stores in order ranged been ;
Nor dropp'd the chase, till Jessy was my prey. Apples with cabbage-net y-cover'd o'er, Galling full sore th’unmoney'd wight, are seen ; « Poor artless maid! to stain thy spotless name, And goose-b'rie clad in livery red or green; Expense, and art, and toil, united strove; And here of lovely dye, the catharine pear, To lure a breast that felt the purest flame, Fine pear! as lovely for thy juice, I ween: Sustain'd by virtue, but betray'd by love.
O may no wight e'er penniless come there, Lest smit with ardent love he pine with hopeless" School'd in the science of love's mazy wiles,
I cloth'd each feature with affected scorn; care!
I spoke of jealous doubts, and fickle smiles, See! cherries here, ere cherries yet abound,
And, feigning, left her anxious and forlorn. With thread so white in tempting posies tied,
“Then, while the fancied rage alarm'd her care, Scattering like blooming maid their glances round,
Warm to deny, and zealous to disprove; With pamper'd look draw little eyes aside;
I bade my words their wonted sofiness wear,
And seiz'd the minute of returning love.
Whose honor'd names* th'inventive city own, Will yet thy love a candid ear incline? Rendering through Britain's isle Salopia's praises Assur’d that virtue, by misfortune prest, known;
Feels not the sharpness of a pang like mine. Admir'd Salopia! that with venial pride
“Nine envious moons matur'd her growing shame, Eyes her bright form in Severn's ambient wave,
Erewhile to flaunt it in the face of day ; Fam'd for her loyal cares in perils tried,
When, scorn'd of virtue, stigmatiz'd by fame, Her daughters lovely, and her striplings brave:
Low at my feet desponding Jessy lay. Ah! 'midst the rest, may flowers adorn his grave “Henry,' she said, .by thy dear form subdu’d, Whose heart did first these dulcet cates display!
See the sad relics of a nymph undone ! A motive fair to Learning's imps he gave, I find, I find this rising sob renew'd:
Who cheerless o'er her darkling region stray; I sigh in shades, and sicken at the Sun. Till Reason's morn arise, and light them on their way.
Amid the dreary gloom of night, I cry,
When will the morn's once pleasing scenes return?
Yet what can morn's returning ray supply, * Shrewsbury cakes.
But foes that triumph, or but friends that mourn
A PASTORAL BALLAD,
· Alas! no more that joyous morn appears
That led the tranquil hours of spotless fame; For I have steep'd a father's couch in tears,
And ting'd a mother's glowing cheek with shame.
IN FOUR PARTS. 1743.
Arbusta humilesque myricæ.–Virg.
"The vocal birds that raise their matin strain,
The sportive lambs, increase my pensive moan; All seem to chase me from the cheerful plain,
And talk of truth and innocence alone.
*• If through the garden's Rowery tribes I stray,
Where bloom the jasmines that could once allure, Hope not to find delight in us, they say,
For we are spotless, Jessy; we are pure.
a • Ye flowers! that well reproach a nymph so frail;
Say, could ye with my virgin fame compare? The brighiest bud that scents the vernal gale
Was not so fragrant, and was not so fair.
Now the grave old alarm the gentler young ;
And all my fame's abhorr'd contagion flee: Trembles each lip, and falters every tongue,
That bids the morn propitious smile on me.
". Thus for your sake I shun each human eye ;
I bid the sweets of blooming youth adieu ; To die I languish, but I dread to die,
Lest my sad fate should nourish pangs for you.
6* Raise me from earth ; the pains of want remove,
And let me silent seek some friendly shore: There only, banish'd from the form I love,
My weeping virtue shall relapse no more.
Whose flocks never carelessly roam ;
Oh! call the poor wanderers home. Allow me to muse and to sigh,
Nor talk of the change that ye find; None once was so watchful as I ;
I have left my dear Phyllis behind. Now I know what it is, to have strove
With the torture of doubt and desire ; What it is to admire and to love,
And to leave her we love and admire. Ah! lead forth my flock in the morn,
And the damps of each evening repel; Alas! I am faint and forlorn :
-I have bade my dear Phyllis farewell. Since Phyllis vouchsaf'd me a look,
I never once dreamt of my vine: May I lose both my pipe and my crook,
If I knew of a kid that was mine! I priz'd ev'ry hour that went by,
Beyond all that had pleas'd me before ; But now they are past, and I sigh ;
And I grieve that I priz'd them no more. But why do I languish in vain ;
Why wander thus pensively here? Oh! why did I come from the plain,
Where I sed on the smiles of my dear? They tell me, my favorite maid,
The pride of that valley, is flown; Alas! where with her I have stray'd,
I could wander with pleasure, alone. When forc'd the fair nymph to forego,
What anguish I felt at my heart ! Yet I thought—but it might not be so
'Twas with pain that she saw me depart. She gaz'd, as I slowly withdrew;
My paih I could hardly discern; So sweetly she bade me adieu,
I thought that she bade me return. The pilgrim that journeys all day
To visit some far-distant shrine, If he bear but a relic away,
Is happy, nor heard to repine. Thus widely remov'd from the fair,
Where my vows, my devotion, I owe, Soft Hope is the relic I bear,
And my solace wherever I go.
“* Be but my friend ; I ask no dearer name;
Be such the meed of some more artful fair; Nor could it heal my peace, or chase my shame,
That pity gave, what love refus'd to share.
: Force not my tongue to ask its scanty bread;
Nor hurl thy Jessy to the vulgar crew; Not such the parent's board at which I sed!
Not such the precept from his lips I drew!
"Haply, when Age has silver'd o'er my hair,
Malice may learn to scorn so mean a spoil; Envy may slight a face no longer fair ;
And pity, welcome, to my native soil.'
- She spoke-nor was I born of savage race ;
Nor could these hands a niggard boon assign; Grateful she clasp'd me in a last embrace,
And vow'd to waste her life in prayers for mine.
“I saw her foot the lofty bark ascend ;
I saw her breast with every passion heave; I left her-torn from every earthly friend ;
Oh! my hard bosom, which could bear to leave!
" —Brief let me be ; the fatal storm arose ;
The billows rag'd, the pilot's art was vain; O'er the tall mast the circling surges close;
My Jessy-floats upon the watery plain!
" And see my youth's impetuous fires decay ;
Seek not to stop Reflection's bitter tear; But warn the frolic, and instruct the gay, From Jessy floating on her watery bier!"
My banks they are furnish'd with bees,
Whose murmur invites one to sleep; My grottoes are shaded with trees,
And my hills are white over with sheep. I seldom have met with a loss.
Such health do my fountains bestow : My fountains all border'd with moss, Where the hare-bells and violets grow.
Not a pine in my grove is there seen,
But with tendrils of wood bine is bound : Not a beech's more beautiful green,
But a sweet-brier entwines it around. Not my fields, in the prime of the year,
More charms than my cattle unfold ; Not a brook that is limpid and clear,
But it glitters with fishes of gold.
With her mien she enamours the brave;
With her wit she engages the free; With her modesty pleases the grave;
She is every way pleasing to me.
Come and join in my amorous lays;
That will sing but a song in her praise. When he sings, may the nymphs of the town
Come trooping, and listen the while; Nay on him let not Phyllida frown;
-But I cannot allow her to smile.
One would think she might like to retire
To the bower I have labor'd to rear; Not a shrub that I heard her admire,
But I hasted and planted it there. O how sudden the jessamine strove
With the lilac to render it gay! Already it calls for my love,
To prune the wild branches away.
From the plains, from the woodlands and groves,
What strains of wild melody flow! How the nightingales warble their loves
From thickets of roses that blow! And when her bright form shall appear,
Each bird shall harmoniously join In a concert so soft and so clear,
As—she may not be found to resign.
For when Paridel tries in the dance
Any favor with Phyllis to find, O how, with one trivial glance,
Might she ruin the peace of my mind! In ringlets he dresses his hair,
And his crook is bestudded around; And his pipe-oh my Phyllis, beware
Of a magic there is in the sound.
I have found out a gift for my fair ;
I have found where the wood-pigeons breed : But let me that plunder forbear,
She will say 'twas a barbarous deed. For he ne'er could be true, she averrid,
Who would rob poor bird of its young: And I lov'd her the more when I heard
Such tenderness fall from her tongue.
"Tis his with mock passion to glow,
"Tis his in smooth tales to unfold, How her face is as bright as the snow,
And her bosom, be sure, is as cold. How the nightingales labor the strain,
With the notes of his charmer to vie ; How they vary their accents in vain,
Repine at her triumphs, and die.
I have heard her with sweetness unfold
How that pity was due toma dove : That it ever attended the bold ;
And she call'd it the sister of love. But her words such a pleasure convey,
So much I her accents adore,
Methinks I should love her the more.
To the grove or the garden he strays,
And pillages every sweet;
He throws it at Phyllis's feet.
More sweet than the jessamine's flower. What are pinks in a morn to compare ?
What is eglantine after a shower?
Can a bosom so gentle remain
Unmov'd when her Corydon sighs ? Will a nymph that is fond of the plain,
These plains and this valley despise ? Dear regions of silence and shade!
Soft scenes of contentment and ease ? Where I could have pleasingly stray'd,
If aught, in her abgence, could please.
“Then the lily no longer is white;
The rose is depriv'd of its bloom; Then the violets die with despite,
And the woodbines give up their perfume Thus glide the soft numbers along,
And he fancies no shepherd his peer; -Yet I never should envy the song,
Were not Phyllis to lend it an ear.
But where does my Phyllida stray ?
And where are her grots and her bowers ? Are the groves and the valleys as gay,
And the shepherds as gentle as ours ? The groves may perhaps be as fair,
And the face of the valleys as fine ; The swains may in manners eompare,
But their love is not equal to mine.
Let his crook be with hyacinths bound,
So Phyllis the trophy despise : Let his forehead with laurels be crown'd,
So they shine not in Phyllis's eyes. The language that flows from the heart,
Is a stranger to Paridel's tongue; - Yet may she beware of his art,
Or sure I must envy the song.
IV. DISAPPOINTMENT. Ye shepherds, give ear to my lay,
And take no more heed of my sheep; They have nothing to do but to stray;
I have nothing to do but to weep. Yet do not my folly reprove;
She was fair—and my passion begun; She smilid--and I could not but love;
She is faithless—and I am undone.
Why will you my passion reprove ?
Why term it a folly to grieve ? Ere I show you the charms of my love,
She's fairer than you can believe.
Erewhile, in sportive circles round
Pleas'd on his various freaks to dwell,
She tells with what delight he stood To trace his features in the flood; Then skipp'd aloof with quaint amaze, And then drew near again to gaze.
She tells me how with eager speed
Perhaps I was void of all thought :
Perhaps it was plain to foresee, That a nymph so complete would be sought
By a swain more engaging than me.
It banishes wisdom the while ;
Seems for ever adorn'd with a smile.
Ye that witness the woes I endure, Let reason instruct you to shun
What it cannot instruct you to cure. Beware how you loiler in vain
Amid nymphs of a higher degree : It is not for me to explain
How fair, and how fickle, they be. Alas! from the day that we met,
What hope of an end to my woes? When I cannot endure to forget
The glance that undid my repose. Yet time may diminish the pain :
The flower, and the shrub, and the tree, Which I rear'd for her pleasure in vain,
In time may have comfort for me. The sweets of a dew-sprinkled rose,
The sound of a murmuring stream, The peace which from solitude flows,
Henceforth shall be Corydon's theme. High transports are shown to the sight,
But we're not to find them our own;
As I with my Phyllis had known.
To your deepest recesses I ny;
I would vanish from every eye. Yet my reed shall resound through the grove
With the same sad complaint it begun; How she smil'd-and I could not but love;
Was faithless—and I am undone!
His every frolic, light as air,
But knows my Delia, timely wise, How soon this blameless era fies? While violence and craft succeed ; Unfair design, and ruthless deed!
Soon would the vine his wounds deplore,
No more those bowers might Strephon see,
Each wayward passion soon would tear
Then mourn not the decrees of Fate, That gave his life so short a date ; And I will join thy tenderest sighs, To think that youth so swiftly flies!