Which prompts the friendly generous part,
Regardless of each venal art,
Regardless of the world's acclaim,
And courteous with no selfish aim.
Draw freely nigh, and welcome find,
If not the costly, yet the kind.
Oh! he will lead you to the cells
Where every Muse and Virtue dwells,
Where the green Dryads guard his woods,
Where the blue Naïads guide his floods,
Where all the sister Graces gay,
That shap'd his walk's meandering way,
Stark-naked, or but wreath'd with flowers,
Lie slumbering soft beneath his bowers.
Wak'd by the stock-dove's melting strain, Behold them rise! and, with the train Of nymphs that haunt the stream or grove, Or o'er the flowery champaign rove, Join hand in hand-attentive gazeAnd mark the dance's mystic maze.
'Such is the waving line,' they cry, 'For ever dear to Fancy's eye!
Yon stream that wanders down the dale,
The spiral wood, the winding vale,
The path which, wronght with hidden skill,
Slow twining, scales yon distant hill,
With fir invested-all combine
To recommend the waving line.
'The wreathed rod of Bacchus fair,
The ringlets of Apollo's hair,
The wand by Maïa's offspring borne,
The smooth volutes of Ammon's horn,
The structure of the Cyprian dame,
And each fair female's beauteous frame,
Show, to the pupils of Design,
The triumphs of the waving line.'
Then gaze, and mark that union sweet
Where fair convex and concave meet,
And while, quick shifting as you stray,
The vivid scenes on fancy play,
The lawn, of aspect smooth and mild,
The forest ground grotesque and wild,
The shrub that scents the mountain gale,
The stream rough dashing down the dale,
From rock to rock in eddies tost,
The distant lake in which 'tis lost,
Blne hills gay beaming through the glade,
Lone urns that solemnize the shade,
Sweet interchange of all that charms
In groves, meads, dingles, rivulets, farms!
If aught the fair confusion please,
With lasting health and lasting ease,
To him who form'd the blissful bow'r,
And gave thy life one tranquil hour,
Wish peace and freedom-these possest,
His temperate mind secures the rest.
But if thy soul such bliss despise,
Avert thy dull incurious eyes;
Go, fix them there where gems and gold,
Improv'd by art, their pow'r unfold;
Go, try in courtly scenes to trace
A fairer form of Nature's face;
Go, scorn Simplicity-but know
That all our heart-felt joys below,
That all which Virtue loves to name,
Which Art consigns to lasting fame,
Which fixes Wit or Beauty's throne,
Derives its source from her alone.
TO WILLIAM SHENSTONE, ESQ.
BY MR. WOODHOUSE.
YE flowery plains! ye breezy woods!
Ye bowers and gay alcoves!
Ye falling streams! ye silver floods!
Ye grottos, and ye groves!
Alas! my heart feels no delight,
Though I your charms survey, While he consumes in pain the night, In languid sighs the day.
The flowers disclose a thousand blooms,
A thousand scents diffuse,
Yet all in vain they shed perfumes,
In vain display their hues.
Restrain, ye flowers! your thoughtless pride,
Recline your gaudy heads,
And sadly drooping, side by side,
Embrace your humid beds.
Tall oaks! that o'er the woodland shade
Your lofty summits rear,
Ah! why, in wonted charms array'd,
Expand your leaves so fair!
For, lo! the flowers as gaily smile,
As wanton waves the tree,
And though I sadly 'plain the while,
Yet they regard not me.
Ah! should the Fates an arrow send,
And strike the fatal wound;
Who, who shall then your sweets defend, Or fence your beauties round?
But hark! perhaps the plumy throng
Have learn'd my plaintive tale,
And some sad dirge or mournful song
Comes floating in the gale.
Ah, no! they chant a sprightly strain
To soothe an amorous mate,
Unmindful of my anxious pain,
And his uncertain fate.
But see! these little murmuring rills
With fond repinings rove,
And trickle wailing down the hills,
Or weep along the grove.
Oh! mock not if, beside your stream,
You hear me, too, repine,
Or aid with sighs your mournful theme,
And fondly call him mine.
Ye envious winds! the cause display,
In whispers as ye blow,
Why did your treacherous gales convey
The poison'd shafts of woe?
Did he not plant the shady bower,
Where you so blithely meet? The scented shrub, and fragrant flower, To make your breezes sweet?
And must he leave the wood, the field,
The dear Arcadian reign?
Can neither verse nor virtue shield
The guardian of the plain?
Must he his tuneful breath resign,
Whom all the Muses love?
That round his brow their laurels twine,
And all his songs approve.
Preserve him, mild Omnipotence!
Our Father, King, and God!
Who clear'st the paths of life and sense,
Or stopp'st them at thy nod.
Bless'd Power; who calm'st the raging deep,
His valued health restore,
Nor let the sons of genius weep,
Nor let the good deplore.
But if thy boundless wisdom knows
His longer date an ill;
Let not my soul a wish disclose
To contradict thy will.
For happy, happy were the change,
For such a godlike mind,
To go where kindred spirits range,
Nor leave a wish behind.
And though to share his pleasures here
Kings might their state forego,
Yet must he feel such raptures there
As none can taste below.
|