Abbildungen der Seite
PDF
EPUB
[blocks in formation]

No more the morn, with tepid rays,
Unfolds the flow'r of various hue;
Noon spreads no more the genial blaze,
Nor gentle eve distils the dew.
The lingering hours prolong the night,
Usurping darkness shares the day,
Her mists restrain the force of light,
And Phoebus holds a doubtful sway.
By gloomy twilight half reveal'd,

With sighs we view the hoary hill,
The leafless wood, the naked field,

The snow-topt cot, the frozen rill. No music warbles through the grove, No vivid colors paint the plain; No more with devious steps I rove Through verdant paths now sought in vain. Aloud the driving tempest roars,

Congeal'd, impetuous show'rs descend; Haste, close the window, bar the doors, Fate leaves me Stella, and a friend.

In nature's aid let art supply

my

With light and heat little sphere;
Rouse, rouse the fire, and pile it high:
Light up a constellation here.
Let music sound the voice of joy,

Or mirth repeat the jocund tale;
Let Love his wanton wiles employ,
And o'er the season wine prevail.
Yet time life's dreary winter brings,

When mirth's gay tale shall please no more; Nor music charm, though Stella sings;

Nor love, nor wine, the spring restore.
Catch then, O catch, the transient hour;
Improve each moment as it flies.
Life's a short Summer, man a flow'r;
He dies-alas! how soon he dies!

[blocks in formation]

EVENING now from purple wings Sheds the grateful gifts she brings; Brilliant drops bedeck the mead; Cooling breezes shake the reed, Shake the reed, and curl the stream Silver'd o'er with Cynthia's beam; Near the chequer'd lonely grove, Hears and keeps thy secrets Love. Stella, thither let us stray Lightly o'er the dewy way, Phoebus drives his burning car Hence, my lovely Stella, far; In his stead, the queen of night Round us pours a lambent light; Light that seems but just to show Breasts that beat, and cheeks that glow. Let us now, in whisper'd joy, Evening's silent hours employ; Silence best, and conscious shades, Please the hearts that love invades ; Other pleasures give them pain, Lovers all but love disdain."

The Natural Beauty. To Stella.

DR. JOHNSON.

WHETHER Stella's eyes are found Fix'd on earth or glancing round, If her face with pleasure glow, If she sigh at others' woe, If her easy air express Conscious worth or soft distress, Stella's eyes, and air, and face. Charm with undiminish'd grace. If on her we see display'd Pendant gems, and rich brocade; If her chintz with less expense Flows in easy negligence; Still she lights the conscious flame, Still her charms appear the same: If she strikes the vocal strings, If she's silent, speaks, or sings, If she sit, or if she move, Still we love, and still approve.

Vain the casual, transient glance, Which alone can please by chance, Beauty which depends on art, Changing with the changing heart, Which demands the toilet's aid, Pendant gems and rich brocade. I those charms alone can prize Which from constant nature rise, Which nor circumstance nor dress E'er can make or more or less.

The Vanity of Wealth. DR. JOHNSON.
No more thus brooding o'er yon heap,
With Avarice painful vigils keep;
Still unenjoy'd the present store,
Still endless sighs are breath'd for more.
O quit the shadow, catch the prize
Which not all India's treasure buys!
To purchase heaven has gold the pow'r?
Can gold remove the mortal hour?
In life can love be bought with gold?
Are friendship's pleasures to be sold?
No-all that's worth a wish, a thought,
Fair virtue gives unbrib'd, unbought.
Cease then on trash thy hopes to bind,
Let nobler views engage thy mind.
With science tread the wondrous way,
Or learn the Muse's moral lay;
In social hours indulge thy soul,

Where mirth and temperance mix the bowl;
To virtuous love resign thy breast,
And be, by blessing beauty, blest.

Thus taste the feast by nature spread,
Ere youth and all its joys are fled;
Come taste with me the balm of life,
Secure from pomp, and wealth, and strife.
I boast whate'er for man was meant,
In health, and Stella, and content;
And scorn (O let that scorn be thine!)
Mere things of clay that dig the mine.

[blocks in formation]

In vain the varied work would shine
If wrought by any hand but thine;
Thy hand, that knows the subtler art
To weave those nets that catch the heart.
Spread out by me, the roving coin
Thy nets may catch, but not confine;
Nor can I hope the silken chain
The glittering vagrants shall restrain.
Why, Stella, was it then decreed,

The heart once caught should ne'er be freed?

DR. JOHNSON.

To LYCE, an elderly Lady.
Ye nymphs whom starry rays invest,
By flattering poets given,
Who shine by lavish lovers drest

In all the pomp of heaven !
Engross not all the beams on high
Which gild a lover's lays ;
But, as your sister of the sky,
Let Lyce share the praise.
Her silver locks display the moon,
Her brows a cloud do show:
Strip'd rainbows round her eyes are seen,
And show'rs from either flow.

Her teeth the night with darkness dyes,
She's starr'd with pimples o'er;
Her tongue like nimble lightning plies,
And can with thunder roar.
But some Zelinda, while I sing,
Denies my Lyce shines:
And all the pens of Cupid's wing
Attack my gentle lines.
Yet spite of fair Zelinda's eye,
And all her bards express,
My Lyce makes as good a sky,
And I but Alatter less.

[blocks in formation]

eye,

Pause at this tomb where HANMER's ashes lie: His various worth through varied life attend, And learn his virtues while thou mourn'st his end.

His force of genius burn'd in early youth With thirst of knowledge and with love of truth ;

His learning, join'd with each endearing art, Charm'd every ear, and gain'd on every heart.

Thus early wise, th' endanger'd realni to aid, His country call'd him from the studious shade: In life's first bloom his public toils began, At once commenc'd the senator and man.

In business dext'rous, weighty in debate, Thrice ten long years he labor'd for the state. In every speech persuasive wisdom flow'd, In every act refulgent virtue glow'd; Suspended faction ceas'd from rage and strife, To hear his eloquence, and praise his life.

Resistless merit fix'd the Senate's choice, Who hail'd him Speaker with united voice.

Illustrious age! how bright thy glories shone, When HANMER fill'd the chair, and ANNE the throne!

Then when dark arts obscur'd each fierce debate,

When mutual frauds perplex'd the maze of state,
The Moderator firmly mild appear'd,
Beheld with love, with veneration heard.
This task perform'd, he sought no, gainful

post,

Nor wish'd to glitter at his country's cost:
Strict on the right he fix'd his steadfast eye,
Nor e'er from Virtue's paths was lur'd aside,
With temperate zeal, and wise anxiety ;
To pluck the flow'rs of pleasure or of pride.
Her gifts despis'd, Corruption blush'd and fled,
And Fame pursu'd him where Conviction led.
Age call'd at length his active mind to rest,
With honors sated, and with cares opprest:
To letter'd ease retir'd, and honest mirth,
To rural grandeur, and domestic worth,
Delighted still to please mankind, or mend,
The patriot's fire yet sparkled in the friend.
Calm Conscience then his former life sur
vey'd,

And recollected toils endear'd the shade;
Till Nature call'd him to the general doom,
And Virtue's sorrow dignified his tomb.

SONNETS BY WARTON. Written at Wynslade, in Hampshire. WYNSLADE, thy becch-capt hills, with waving grain

Mantled, thy chequer'd views of wood and lawn,

Whilom could charm, or when the gradual dawn

'Gan the grey mist with orient purple stain, Or evening glimmer'd o'er the folded train: Her fairest landscapes whence my Muse has drawn,

Too weak to try the buskin's stately strain. Too free with servile courtly phrase to fawn, Yet now no more thy slopes of beech and corn,

Nor views invite, since he far distant strays With whom I trac'd their sweets at eve and

morn,

From Albion far, to cull Hesperian bays; In this alone they please, howe'er forlorn,

That still they can recall those happier days.

On Bathing.

WHEN late the trees were stript by winter pale,
Young Health, adryad-maid in vesture green,
Or like the forest's silver-quiver'd queen,
On early uplands met the piercing gale;
And, ere its earliest echo shook the vale,

Watching the hunter's joyous horn was seen. But since, gay-thron'd in fiery chariot sheen, Summer has smote each daisy-dappled dale ; She to the cave retires high-arch'd, beneath The fount that laves proud Isis' tow'red brim

[blocks in formation]

THOU noblest monument of Albion's isle! Whether by Merlin's aid, from Scythia's shore To Amber's fatal plain Pendragon bore, Huge frame of giant hands, the mighty pile, T'entomb his Britons slain by Hengist's guile*: Or Druid priests, sprinkled with human gore, Taught 'mid thy massy maze their mystic lore: Or Danish chiefs, enrich'd with savage spoil, To Victory's idol vast, an unhewn shrine,

Rear'd the rude heap; or, in thy hallow'd round,

Repose the kings of Brutus' genuine line:

Ör here those kings in solemn state were crown'd:

Studious to trace thy wondrous origin,
We muse on many an ancient tale renown'd.

Written after seeing Wilton-House. FROM Pembroke's princely dome, where mimic Art

Decks with a magic hand the dazzling bow'rs, Its living hues where the warm pencil pours, And breathing forms from the rude marble start, How to life's humbler scene can I depart?

My breast all glowing from those gorgeous tow'rs,

In my low cell how cheat the sullen hours? Vain the complaint: for Fancy can impart (To Fate superior, and to Fortune's doom)

Whate'er adorns the stately storied hall: She, 'mid the dungeon's solitary gloom,

Can dress the Graces in their Attic pall; Bid the green landscape's vernal beauty gloom; And in bright trophies clothe the twilight wall.

[blocks in formation]

My rustic Muse her votive chaplet brings; Unseen, unheard, O Gray, to thee she sings, While slowly pacing through the church-yard dew,

At curfew-time, beneath the dark green yew, Thy pensive Genius strikes the moral strings; Or, borne sublime on Inspiration's wings, Hears Cambria's bards devote the dreadful clue Of Edward's race, with murders foul defil'd.

Can aught my pipe to reach thine ear essay? No, bard divine! For many a care beguil'd By the sweet magic of thy soothing lay, For many a raptur'd thought, and vision wild, To thee this strain of gratitude I pay.

[blocks in formation]

On King Arthur's Round Table at Winchester. WHERE Venta's Norman castle still uprears

Its rafter'd hall, that o'er the grassy foss
And scatter'd flinty fragrants, clad in moss,
On yonder steep in naked state appears:
High-hung remains, the pride of warlike years,
Old Arthur's Board: on the capacious round
Some British pen has sketch'd the names re-
nown'd,

In marks obscure, of his immortal peers.
Tho' join'd by magic skill, with many a rhyme,
The Druid frame unhonor'd falls a prey
To the slow vengeance of the wizard Time,

And fade the British characters away;
Yet Spenser's page, that chants in verse sublime
Those chiefs, shall live unconscious of decay.

To the River Lodon.

AH! what a weary race my feet have run,
Since first I trod thy banks with alders crown'd,
And thought my way was all through fairy
ground,

One of the bardish traditions about Stonehenge. Beneath the azure sky, and golden sun,

Where first my muse to lisp her notes begun!
While pensive memory traces back the round
Which fills the varied interval between,
Much pleasure, more of sorrow, marks thescene.
Sweet native stream! those skies and sun so

pure

No more return to cheer my evening road!
Yet still one joy remains, that not obscure
Nor useless all my vacant days have flow'd,
From youth's gay dawn to manhood's prime
mature;

Nor with the Muse's laurel unbestow'd.

The Pilgrim and the Peas. A true Story PETER PINDAR.

A BRACE of sinners, for no good,

Were order'd to the Virgin Mary's shrine, Who at Loretto dwelt, in wax, stone, wood, And in a fair white wig look'd wondrous fine.

Fifty long miles had those sad rogues to travel, With something in their shoes much worse than gravel;

In short, their toes so gentle to amuse,
The priest had order'd peas into their shoes :
A nostrum famous in old Popish times
For purifying souls that stunk with crimes;
A sort of apostolic salt,

That Popish parsons for its powers exalt
For keeping souls of sinners sweet,
Just as our kitchen salt keeps meat.

The knaves set off on the same day,
Peas in their shoes, to go and pray;

But very different was their speed, I wot:
One of the sinners gallop'd on
Light as a bullet from a gun;

The other limp'd as if he had been shot. One saw the VIRGIN Soon-peccavi criedHad his soul whitewash'd all so clever; Then home again he nimbly hied,

Made fit with saints above to live for ever. In coming back, however, let me say, He met his brother-rogue about half-way, Hobbling with outstretch'd bum and bending kuces,

Damning the souls and bodies of the peas: His eyes in tears, his cheeks and brows in sweat, Deep sympathizing with his groaning feet.

"How now," the light-toed, whitewash'd pilgrimm broke,

"You lazy lubber?"

"Odds curse it!" cried the other, "'tis no My feet, once hard as any rock, [joke:

"Are now as soft as blubber.

"Excuse me, Virgin Mary, that I swear-
As for Loretto, I shall not get there:
No! to the Devil my sinful soul must go,
For damme if I han't lost ev'ry toe.
But, brother sinner, do explain
How 'tis that you are not in pain;

"What Pow'R hath work'd a wonder for your toes;

Whilst I just like a snail am crawling, Now swearing, now on saints devoutly bawling, Whilst not a rascal comes to ease my woes? How is't that you can like a greyhound go, Merry as if that nought had happen'd, burn ye?".

Why," cried the other, grinning, "you must know,

That, just before I ventur'd on my journey,
To walk a little more at ease,
I took the liberty to boil my peas."

A Country Bumpkin and Razor-seller. PETER PINDAR.

A FELLOW in a market town,
Most musical, cried razors up and down,

And offer'd twelve for eighteen pence;
Which certainly seem'd wondrous cheap,
And for the money quite a heap,

As every man would buy with cash and sense. A country bumpkin the great offer heard,Poor Hodge, who suffer'd by a broad black beard,

That seem'd a shoe-brush stuck beneath his

nose:

With cheerfulness the eighteen pence he paid; And proudly to himself in whispers said,

"This rascal stole the razors, I suppose.

"No matter, if the fellow be a knave: Provided that the razors shave,

It certainly will be a monstrous prize." So home the clown with his good fortune went, Smiling, in heart and soul content,

And quickly soap'd himself to ears and eyes. Being well lather'd from a dish or tub, Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub, Just like a hedger cutting furze; 'Twas a vile razor! then the rest he triedAll were impostors-"Ah!" Hodge sigh'd,

"I wish my eighteen pence within my purse." In vain to chase his beard, and bring the graces, He cut, and dug, and winc'd, and stamp'd, and swore;

Brought blood, and danc'd, blasphem'd, and made wry faces,

And curs'd each razor's body o'er and o'er.

His MUZZLE, form'd of opposition stuff,
Firm as a Foxite, would not lose its ruff:

So kept it-laughing at the steel and suds. Hodge, in a passion, stretch'd his angry jaws, Vowing the direst vengeance, with clench'd claws,

On the vile CHEAT that sold the goods. "Razors!-a damn'd, confounded dog!Not fit to scrape a hog;"

Hodge sought the fellow, found him, and be

gun

"Perhaps, Master Razor-Rogue, to you 'tis fun,

That people flay themselves out of their lives: | But now what rhetoric could assuage
You rascal! for an hour I have been grubbing,
Giving my scoundrel whiskers here a scrubbing,
With razors just like oyster knives.
Sirrah! I tell you you're a knave,
To cry up razors that can't shave."

"Friend," quoth the razor-man, "I'm not a
knave:

As for the razors you have bought, Upon my soul I never thought That they would shave.”

"Not think they'd shave!" quoth Hodge, with wond'ring eyes,

And voice not much unlike an Indian yell; "What were they made for then, you dog?" he cries:

"Made!" quoth the fellow with a smile

"" to sell."

The Bald-pated Welshman and the Fly.
SOMERVILLE.

Qui non moderabitur iræ,
Infectum volet esse, dolor quod suaserit et mens,
Dum pœnas odio per vim festinat inulto." HOR.

A SQUIRE of Wales, whose blood ran higher
Than that of any other squire,
Hasty and hot; whose peevish honor
Reveng'd each slight was put upon her;
Upon a mountain's top one day
Expos'd to Sol's meridian

ray,

He fum'd, he rav'd, he curs'd, he swore,
Exhal'd a sea at ev'ry pore;
At last, such insults to evade,

Sought the next tree's protecting shade;
Where as he lay dissolv'd in sweat,
And wip'd off many a rivulet,
Off in a pet the beaver flies,
And flaxen wig, time's best disguise,
By which folks of maturer ages

Vie with smooth beaux, and ladies' pages:
Though 'twas a secret rarely known,
Ill-natur'd age had cropp'd his crown,
Grubb'd all the covert up, and now
A large smooth plain extends his brow.
Thus as he lay with numskull bare,
And courted the refreshing air,
New persecutions still appear;
A noisy fly offends his ear.
Alas! what man of parts and sense
Could bear such vile impertinence?
Yet, so discourteous is our fate,
Fools always buz about the great.
This insect now, whose active spite
Teas'd him with never-ceasing bite,
With so much judgment play'd his part,
He had him both in tierce and carte:
In vain with open hands he tries
To guard his ears, his nose, his eyes;
For now at last, familiar grown,
He perch'd upon his worship's crown,
With teeth and claws his skin he tore,
And stuff'd himself with human gore:
At last, in manners to excel,
Untruss'd a point, some authors tell.

The furious squire, stark mad with rage?
Impatient at the foul disgrace
From insect of so mean a race,
And plotting vengeance on his foe,
With double fist he aims a blow.
The nimble fly escaped by flight,
And skipp'd from this unequal fight.
Th' impending stroke with all its weight
Fell on his own beloved pate.

Thus much he gain'd by this adventurous deed;
He foul'd his fingers, and he broke his head.

MORAL.

Let senates hence learn to preserve their

state,

And scorn the fool, below their grave debate,
Who by the unequal strife grows popular and

great.

Let him buz on, with senseless rant defy
The wise, the good, yet still 'tis but a fly.
With puny foes the toil's not worth the cost;
Where nothing can be gain'd, much may be
lost:

Let cranes and pigmies in mock-war engage,
A prey beneath the gen'rous eagle's rage,
True honor o'er the clouds sublimely wings;
Young Ammon scorns to run with less than
kings.

[blocks in formation]

AT Jenny Mann's, where heroes meet,
And lay their laurels at her feet;
The modern Pallas, at whose shrine
They bow, and by whose aid they dine;
Colonel Brocade, among the rest,
Was every day a welcome guest.
One night as carelessly he stood,

Cheering his reins before the fire
(So every true-born Briton should)

Like that he chaf'd and fum'd with ire.
"Jenny," said he, " 'tis very hard,
That no man's honor can be spar'd;
If I but sup with Lady Duchess,
Or play a game at ombre, such is
The malice of the world, 'tis said,
Although his Grace lay drunk in bed,
"Twas I that caus'd his aching head.
If Madame Doodle would be witty,
And I am summon'd to the city,
To play at blindman's-buff or so,
What won't such hellish malice do?
If I but catch her in a corner,

Humph! 'tis "Your servant, Colonel Horner."
But rot the sneering fops, if e'er
I prove it, it shall cost them dear;
I swear by this dead-doing blade,
Dreadful examples shall be made.
What, can't they drink bohea and cream,
But (d-n them) I must be their theme?
Other men's business let alone,

Why should not coxcombs mind their own?"

As thus he rav'd with all his might (How insecure from fortune's spite, Alas, is ev'ry mortal wight!)

« ZurückWeiter »