As amber boxes made a show
For heads of canes an age ago.
His vest, for day and night, was pied;
A bending sickle arm'd his side;
And Spring's new months his trade adorn;
The other Seasons were unborn.
Known by the gods, as near he draws, They make him umpire of the cause. O'er a low trunk his arm he laid, Where since his hours a dial made; Then, leaning, heard the nice debate, And thus pronounc'd the words of Fate: Since body, from the parent Earth, And soul from Jove receiv'd a birth, Return they where they first began; But, since their union makes the man, Till Jove and Earth shall part these two, To Care, who join'd them, man is due.
He said, and sprung with swift career To trace a circle for the year; Where ever since the Seasons wheel, And tread on one another's heel. "Tis well, said Jove; and, for consent, Thund'ring he shook the firmament. Our umpire Time shall have his way; With Care I let the creature stay: Let bus'ness vex him, av'rice blind, Let doubt and knowledge rack his mind, Let error act, opinion speak, And want afflict, and sickness break, And anger burn, dejection chill, And joy distract, and sorrow kill; Till, arm'd by Care, and taught to mow, Time draws the long distracted blow; And wasted man, whose quick decay Comes hurrying on before his day, Shall only find by this decree, The soul flies sooner back to me.
§ 39. The Book-Worm. Parnell,
COME hither, boy, we'll hunt to-day
The Book-worm, rav'ning beast of prey!
Produc'd by parent Earth, at odds,
As Fame reports it, with the gods.
Him frantic hunger wildly drives
Against a thousand author's lives:
Through all the fields of wit he flies;
Dreadful his head with clust'ring eyes,
With horns without, and tusks within,
And scales to serve him for a skin.
Observe him nearly, lest he climb
To wound the bards of ancient time,.
Or down the vale of Fancy go,
To tear some modern wretch below.
On ev'ry corner fix thine eye,
Or ten to one he slips thee by.
See where his teeth a passage eat:
We'll rouse him from the deep retreat.
But who the shelter's forc'd to give?
'Tis sacred Virgil, as I live;
From leaf to leaf, from song to song,
He draws the tadpole form along ;
He mounts the gilded edge before;
He's up, he scuds the cover o'er;
He turns, he doubles, there he pass'd;
And here we have him, caught at last.
Insatiate brute, whose teeth abuse
The sweetest servants of the Muse!
(Nay, never offer to deny,
I took thee in the fact to fly.)
His roses nipt in ev'ry page,
My poor Anacreon mourns thy rage;
by thee my Ovid wounded lies;
By thee my Lesbia's sparrow dies;
Thy rabid teeth have half destroy'd
The work of love in Biddy Floyd;
They rent Belinda's locks away,
And spoil'd the Blouzelind of Gay,
For all, for ev'ry single deed,
Relentless justice bids thee bleed.
Then fall a victim to the Nine,
Myself the priest, my desk the shrine.
Bring Homer, Virgil, Tasso near,
To pile a sacred altar here:
Hold, boy, thy hand outruns thy wit,
You've reach'd the plays that Dennis writ:
You've reach'd me Philips' rustic strain;
Pray take your mortal bards again.
Come, bind the victim-there he lies,
And here between his num'rous eyes
This venerable dust I lay,
From manuscripts just swept away.
The goblet in my hand I take
(For the libation's yet to make)
A health to poets all their days,
May they have bread, as well as praise;
Sense may they seek, and less engage
In papers fill'd with party rage:
But, if their riches spoil their vein,
Ye Muses, make them poor again.
Now bring the weapon, yonder blade,
With which my tuneful pens are made.
I strike the scales that arin thee round,
And twice and thrice I print the wound;
The sacred altar floats with red,
And now he dies, and now he's dead.
How like the son of Jove I stand, This Hydra stretch'd beneath my hand! Lay bare the monster's entrails here, To see what dangers threat the year; Ye gods! what sonnets on a wench! What lean translations out of French! 'Tis plain this lobe is so unsound, Sprints before the months go round. But hold-before I close the scene, The sacred altar should be clean. Oh, had I Shadwell's second bays, Or, Tate, thy pert and humble lays! (Ye pair, forgive me, when I vow I never miss'd your works till now,) I'd tear the leaves to wipe the shrine (That only way you please the Nine); But since I chance to want these two, I'll make the songs of Durfey do.
Rent from the corpse, on yonder pin I hang the scales that brac'd it in;
I hang my studious morning gown, And write my own inscription down: "This trophy from the Python won, "This robe in which the deed was done, "These, Parnell, glorying in the feat, "Hang on these shelves, the Muses' seat. "Here ignorance and hunger found "Large realins of wit to ravage round: "Here ignorance and hunger fell, "Two foes in one I sent to hell. "Ye poets, who my labors see, "Come share the triumph all with me! "Ye critics! born to vex the Muse, "To mourn the grand ally you lose.” R. West.
Yes, happy youths, on Camus' sedgy side,
You feel each joy that friendship can divide;
Each realm of science and of art explore,
And with the ancient blend the modern lore.
Studious alone to learn whate'er may tend
To raise the genius, or the heart to mend;
Now pleas'd along the cloister'd walk you rove,
And trace the verdant mazes of the grove,
Where social oft, and oft alone, you choose
To catch the zephyr, and to court the Muse.
Meantime at me (while all devoid of art
These lines give back the image of my heart)-
At me the pow'r, that comes or soon or late,
Or aims, or seems to aim, the dart of fate;
From you, remote, methinks, alone I stand,
Like some sad exile in a desart land:
Around no friends their lenient care to join
In mutual warmth, and mix their heart with
mine.
Or real pains, or those which fancy raise,
For ever blot the sunshine of my days;
To sickness still, and still to grief a prey,
Health turns from me her rosy face away.
Just Heav'n! what sin, ere life begins to
bloom,
Devotes my head untimely to the tomb?
Did ere this hand against a brother's life
Drug the dire bowl, or point the murd'rous
knife?
[claim,
Did e'er this tongue the slanderer's tale pro-
Or madly violate my Maker's name?
Did e'er this heart betray a friend or foe,
Or know a thought but all the world might
know?
As yet, just started from the lists of time,
My growing years have scarcely told their prime;
Useless, as yet, through life I've idly run,
No pleasures tasted, and few duties done.
Ah who, ere autumn's mellowing suns appear,
Would pluck the promise of the vernal year;
Or, ere the grapes their purple hue betray,
Tear the crude cluster from the morning spray?
Stern power of Fate, whose ebon sceptre rules
The Stygian desarts and Cimmerian pools,
Forbear, nor rashly smite my youthful heart,
A victim yet unworthy of thy dart;
Ah, stay till age shall blast my withering face,
Shake in my head, and falter in my pace;
Then aim the shaft, then meditate the blow,
And to the dead my willing shade shall go.
How weak is Man to Reason's judging eye!
Born in this moment, in the next we die;
Part mortal clay, and part ethereal fire,
Too proud to creep, too humble to aspire,
In vain our plans of happiness we raise,
Pain is our lot, and patience is our praise;
Wealth, lineage, honors, conquest, or a throne,
Are what the wise would fear to call their own.
Health is at best a vain precarious thing,
And fair-fac'd youth is ever on the wing;
'Tis like the stream beside whose wat'ry bed
Some blooming plant exalts his flow'ry head;
Nurs'd by the wave the spreading branches rise,
Shade all the ground, and flourish to the skies;
The waves the while beneath in secret flow,
And undermine the hollow bank below:
Wide and more wide the waters urge their way,
Bare all the roots, and on their fibres prey;
Too late the plant bewails his foolish pride,
And sinks, untimely, in the whelming tide.
But why repine? Does life deserve my sigh? Few will fament my loss whene'er I die. For those, the wretches I despise or hate, I neither envy nor regard their fate. For me, whene'er all-conqu'ring Death shall spread
His wings around my unrepining head,
I care not: though this face be seen no more,
The world will pass as cheerful as before;
Bright as before the day-star will appear,
The fields as verdant, and the skies as clear;
Nor storms nor comets will my doom declare,
Nor signs on earth, nor portents in the air;
Unknown and silent will depart my breath,
Nor nature e'er take notice of my death.
Yet some there are (ere spent my vital days)
Within whose breasts my tomb I wish to raise.
Lov'd in my life, lamented in my end,
Their praise would crown me, as their precepts
mend:
To them may these fond lines my name endear;
Not from the poet, but the friend sincere.
§ 41. An Address to Winter. Cowper. OH Winter! ruler of th' inverted year, Thy scatter'd hair with sleet like ashes fill'd, Thy breath congeal'd upon thy lips, thy cheeks Fring'd with a beard made white with other
Than those of age; thy forehead wrapt in clouds;
A leafless branch thy sceptre; and thy throne
A sliding car indebted to no wheels,
But urg'd by storms along its slippery way;
* Almost all Tibullus's Elegy is imitated in this little Piece, from whence his transition to Mr. Pope's letter is very artfully contriv'd, and bespeaks a degree of judgement much beyond Mr. West's years.
I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st,
And dreaded as thou art. Thou hold'st the sun
A pris'ner in the yet undawning east,
Short'ning his journey between morn and noon,
And hurrying him, impatient of his stay,
Down to the rosy west: but kindly still
Compensating his loss with added hours
Of social converse and instructive ease,
And gathering at short notice in one group
The family dispers'd, and fixing thought,
Not less dispers'd by day-light and its cares.
I crown thee king of intimate delightŝ,
Fire-side enjoyments, home-born happiness,
And all the comforts that the lowly roof
Of undisturb'd retirement, and the hours
Of long uninterrupted evening know.
No rattling wheels stop short before these gates;
No powder'd pert, proficient in the art
Of sounding an alarm, assaults these doors
Till the street rings. No stationary steeds,
Cough their own knell, while heedless of the
The silent circle fan themselves, and quake;
But here the needle plies its busy task,
The pattern grows, the well-depicted flow'r,
Wrought patiently into the snowy lawn,
Unfolds its bosom, buds, and leaves, and sprigs,
And curling tendrils, gracefully dispos'd,
Follow the nimble finger of the fair,
A wreath that cannot fade, of flowers that blow
With most success when all besides decay.
The poet's or historian's page, by one
Made vocal for th' amusement of the rest:
The sprightly lyre, whose treasure of sweet
[out;
The touch from many a trembling chord shakes
And the clear voice symphonious, yet distinct,
And in the charming strife triumphant still,
Beguile the night, and set a keener edge
On female industry; the threaded steel
Flies swiftly, and unfelt the task proceeds.
The little volume clos'd, the customary rites
Of the last meal commence. A Roman meal,
Such as the mistress of the world once found
Delicious, when her patriots of high note,
Perhaps by moon-light, at their humble doors,
And under an old oak's domestic shade,
Enjoy'd, spare feast! a radish and an egg.
Discourse ensues, not trivial, yet not dull,
Nor such as with a frown forbids the play
Of fancy, or proscribes the sound of mirth.
Nor do we madly, like an impious world,
Who deem religion phrenzy, and the God
That made them an intruder on their joys,
Start at his awful name, or deem his praise
A jarring note. Themes of a graver tone
Exciting oft our gratitude and love,
While we retrace with memory's pointing
wand,
That calls the past to our exact review,
The dangers we have 'scap'd, the broken snare,
The disappointed foe, deliv'rance found
Unlook'd for, life preserv'd and peace restor❜d,
Fruits of omnipotent eternal love.
Oh evenings worthy of the gods! exclaim'd
The Sabine bard. Oh, evenings! I reply,
More to be priz'd and coveted than yours,
As more illumin'd and with nobler truths,
That I, and mine, and those we love, enjoy.
$42. Liberty renders England preferable to
other Nations, notwithstanding Taxes, &c.
Cowper.
'TIS Liberty alone that gives the flow'r
Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume,
And we are weeds without it. All constraint,
Except what wisdoin lays on evil men,
Is evil, hurts the faculties, impedes
Their progress in the road of science, blinds
In those that suffer it a sordid mind
The eye-sight of discovery, and begets
Bestial, a meagre intellect, unfit
To be the tenant of man's noble form.
With all thy loss of empire, and though squeez'd
Thee therefore, still, blame-worthy as thou art,
By public exigence till annual food
Fails for the craving hunger of the state,
Thee I account still happy, and the chief
Among the nations, seeing thou art free!
Replete with vapors, and disposes much
My native nook of earth! thy clime is rude,
All hearts to sadness, and none more than mine;
Thine unadult'rate manners are less soft
And plausible than social life requires,
And thou hast need of discipline and art
To give thee what politer France receives
And sweetness, without which no pleasure is
From Nature's bounty-that humane address
In converse, either starv'd by cold reserve,
Or flush'd with fierce dispute, a senseless brawl;
Yet, being free, I love thee: for the sake
Of that one feature, can be well content,
Disgrac'd as thou hast been, poor as thou art,
To seek no sublunary rest beside.
But, once enslav'd, farewell! I could endure
Where I am free by birthright, not at all.
Chains no where patiently; and chains at home,
Then what were left of roughness in the grain
Of British natures, wanting its excuse
That it belongs to freemen, would disgust
And shock me. I should then with double
pain
Feel all the rigor of thy fickle clime;
And if I must bewail the blessing lost
For which our Hampdens and our Sidneys bled,
I would at least bewail it under skies
Milder, among a people less austere,
In scenes which having never known me free,
Would not reproach me with the loss I felt.
$43. Description of a Poet. Cowper.
I KNOW the mind that feels indeed the fire
The Muse imparts, and can command the lyre,
Acts with a force and kindles with a zeal,
Whate'er the theme, that others never feel.
If human woes her soft attention claim,
A tender sympathy pervades the frame;
She pours a sensibility divine
Along the nerve of ev'ry feeling line.
But if a deed not tamely to be borne
Fire indignation and a sense of scorn,
The strings are swept with such a pow'r, so
loud,
The storm of music shakes the astonish'd crowd.
So when remote futurity is brought
Before the keen inquiry of her thought,
A terrible sagacity informs
The poet's heart; he looks to distant storms,
He hears the thunder ere the tempest low'rs,
And, arm'd with strength surpassing human
pow'rs,
Seises events as yet unknown to man,
And darts his soul into the dawning plan.
Hence, in a Roman mouth, the graceful name
Of Prophet and of Poet was the same;
Hence British poets too the priesthood shar'd,
And ev'ry hallow'd Druid was a bard.
'Tis night, dead night; and o'er the plain Darkness extends her ebon ray, While wide along the gloomy scene
Deep silence holds her solemn sway. Throughout the earth no cheerful beam The melancholic eye surveys, Save where the worm's fantastic gleam The 'nighted traveller betrays. The savage race (so Heaven decrees)
No longer through the forest rove; All nature rests, and not a brecze
Disturbs the stillness of the grove. All nature rests; in Sleep's soft arms The village-swain forgets his care: Sleep, that the stings of sorrow charms, And heals all sadness but despair. Despair alone her pow'r denies;
And, when the sun withdraws his rays, To the wild beach distracted flies,
Or cheerless through the desart strays; Or, to the church-yard's horrors led,
While fearful echoes burst around, On some cold stone he leans his head, Or throws his body on the ground: To some such drear and solemn scene,
Some friendly pow'r direct my way, Where pale misfortune's haggard train, Sad luxury delight to stray. Wrapp'd in the solitary gloom,
Retir'd from life's fantastic crew, Resign'd I'll wait my final doom, And bid the busy world adieu. The world has now no joy for me, Nor can life now one pleasure boast; Since all my eyes desir'd to see,
My wish, my hope, my all, is lost;
Since she, so form'd to please and bless,
So wise, so innocent, so fair, Whose converse sweet made sorrow less, And brighten'd all the gloom of care— Since she is lost!-Ye pow'rs divine, What have I done, or thought, or said? O say, what horrid act of mine
Has drawn this vengeance on my head! Why should Heaven favor Lycon's claim? Why are my heart's best wishes cross'd? What fairer deeds adorn his name?
What nobler merit can he boast? What higher worth in him was found My true heart's service to outweigh? A senseless fop, a dull compound Of scarcely animated clay : He dress'd indeed, he danc'd with ease, And charm'd her by repeating o'er Unmeaning raptures in her praise, That twenty fools had told before: But I, alas! who thought all art My passion's force would meanly prove, Could only boast an honest heart, And claim'd no merit but my love. Have I not sat-ye conscious hours,
Be witness while my Stella sung From morn to eve, with all my pow'rs Rapt in th' enchantment of her tongue! Ye conscious hours that saw me stand Entranc'd in wonder and surprise, In silent rapture press her hand,
With passion bursting from my eyes— Have I not lov'd? O earth and heaven! Where now is all my youthful boast; The dear exchange I hop'd was given
For slighted fame and fortune lost? Where now the joys that once were mine? Where all my hopes of future bliss? Must I those joys, those hopes, resign? Is all her friendship come to this? Must then each woman faithless prove, And each fond lover be undone? Are vows no more? Almighty love,
The sad remembrance let me shun! It will not be my honest heart
The dear sad iinage still retains; And, spite of reason, spite of art,
The dreadful memory remains.
Ye Pow'rs divine! whose wond'rous skill Deep in the womb of time can see, Behold, I bend me to your will,
Nor dare arraign your high decree.
Let her be blest with health, with case,
With all your bounty has in store;
Let sorrow cloud my future days;
Be Stella blest; I ask no more.
But, lo! where high in yonder east
The star of morning mounts apace!
Hence! let me fly the unwelcome guest, And bid the Muse's labor cease.
WHEN, young, life's journey I began,
The glittering prospect charm'd my eyes,
I saw along the extended plan
Joy after joy successive rise ;
And Fame her golden trumpet blew ;
And Pow'r display'd her gorgeous charms;
And Wealth engag'd my wand'ring view;
And Pleasure woo'd me to her arms;
To each by turns my vows I paid,
As Folly led me to admire; While Fancy magnified each shade,
And Hope increas'd each fond desire.
But soon I found 't was all a dream;
And learn'd the fond pursuit to shun,
Where few can reach their purpos'd aim,
And thousands daily are undone :
And Fame, I found, was empty air;
And Wealth had Terror for her guest;
And Pleasure's path was strewn with care;
And Pow'r was vanity at best.
Tir'd of the chace, I gave it o'er;
And, in a far sequester'd shade,
To Contemplation's sober pow'r
My youth's next services I paid. There Health and Peace adorn'd the scene; And oft, indulgent to my pray'r, With mirthful eye and frolic mien,
The Muse would deign to visit there.
There would she oft delighted rove
The flow'r-enamell'd vale along;
Or wander with me through the grove,
And listen to the woodlark's song:
Or 'mid the forest's awful gloom,
Whilst wild amazement fill'd my eyes,
Recal past ages from the tomb,
And bid ideal worlds arise.
Thus in the Muse's favor blest,
One wish alone my soul could frame,
And Heaven bestow'd, to crown the rest,
A friend, and Thyrsis was his name:
For manly constancy, and truth,
And worth unconscious of a stain,
He bloom'd the flow'r of Britain's youth;
The boast and wonder of the plain.'
Still with our years our friendship grew ;
No cares did then my peace destroy;
Time brought new blessings as he flew,
And ev'ry hour was wing'd with joy.
But soon the blissful scene was lost,
Soon did the sad reverse appear:
Love came, like an untimely frost,
To blast the promise of my year. I saw young Daphne's angel form,
(Fool that I was! I blest the smart,)
And while I gaz'd, nor thought of harm,
The dear infection seiz'd my heart.
She was, at least in Damon's eyes,
Made up of loveliness and grace;
Her heart a stranger to disguise,
Her mind as perfect as her face.
To hear her speak, to see her move
(Unhappy 1, alas! the while),
Her voice was joy, her look was love,
And heaven was open'd in her smile!
She heard me breathe my amorous prayers,
She listen'd to the tender strain,
She heard my sighs, she saw my tears,
And seem'd at length to share my pain.
She said she lov'd-and I, poor youth!
(How soon, alas! can Hope persuade)
Thought all she said no more than truth;
And all my love was well repaid.
In joys unknown to courts or kings,
With her I sat the livelong day,
And said and look'd such tender things
As none beside can look or say!
How soon can Fortune shift the scene,
And all our earthly bliss destroy !
Care hovers round, and Grief's fell train
Still treads upon the heels of Joy.
My age's hope, my youth's best boast,
My soul's chief blessing and my pride,
In one sad moment all were lost,
And Daphne chang'd, and Thyrsis died! Oh! who that heard her vows erewhile,
Could dream those vows were insincere! Or who could think, that saw her smile,
That fraud could find admittance there! Yet she was false-my heart will break!
Her fraud, her perjuries were suchSome other tongue than mine must speakI have not power to say how much! Ye swains, hence warn'd, avoid the bait; O shun her paths, the trait'ress shun! Her voice is death, her smile is fate;
Who hears or sees her is undone. And when Death's hand shall close my eye, (For soon, I know, the day will come,) O cheer my spirit with a sigh,
And grave these lines upon my toinb:
CONSIGN'D to dust, beneath this stone,
In manhood's prime, is Damon laid;
Joyless he liv'd, and died unknown,
In bleak misfortune's barren shade.
Lov'd by the Muse, but lov'd in vain,
'Twas beauty drew his ruin on;
He saw young Daphne on the plain;
He lov'd, believ'd, and was undone ! His heart then sunk beneath the storm (Sad meed of unexampled truth!)
|