THE DRYADS; OR WOOD-NYMPHS.
A PHILOSOPHICAL POEM.
[17]BY MR. DIAPER.
Bacchum in remotis carmina rupibus
Vidi docentem (credite poſteri)
Nymphaſque diſcentes, et aures
Capripedum Satyrorum acutas.
Evae! recenti mens trepidat metu.
HOR.
FOrgive, ye Nereids, if I ſing no more
The uncertain ſea, but chooſe the ſafer ſhore,
And leave the reſtleſs waves for ſteady hills,
To ſit on graſſy plots, or dream by rills.
The wanton muſe the meaner thorn prefers
To coral twigs, and amber's coſtly tears;
Again I may, when tir'd of leavy woods,
Haſte to the ſea, and court the rolling floods.
No lov'd amuſement's here, but ſoon will cloy,
The deareſt bliſs becomes a worthleſs toy,
And we muſt ſhift our pleaſures to enjoy.
Sick of the town, I left the buſy place,
Where deep concern broods on the thoughtful face;
Where factious cits, with nods, and roguiſh leer,
Are whiſpering nothing in attentive ear;
[18]Where knaves ſtrange lies invent, and fools retail,
And home-made treaſon find in every mail:
Falſhoods their credit gain, tho' ill-contriv'd,
And ſcandals, oft diſprov'd, are ſtill reviv'd;
Imagin'd ills in frightful ſhapes appear,
While preſent evils we with patience bear;
Phantoms, and empty forms, are fear'd the moſt,
As thoſe who ſcorn'd the man, yet dread the ghoſt.
No longer plagued with faction, ſpleen and noiſe,
How was I bleſs'd, when firſt my raviſh'd eyes
Suck'd in the purer day, and ſaw unclouded ſkies?
How happy, when I view'd the calm retreat,
And groves o'erlook'd by Winchcomb's antient ſeat?
Here the ſmooth
*Kennet takes his doubtful way,
In wanton rounds the lingering waters play,
And by their circling ſtreams prolong the grate⯑ful ſtay.
Here good old Chaucer whilom cheer'd the vale,
And ſootely ſung, and told the jocund tale.
Bright was the moon, and her reflected beams
Spangled the dewy leaves with trembling gleams;
While ſtars, by conſcious twinklings, ſeem'd to know
What waking lovers acted here below.
Careleſs I walk'd, where prowling beaſts had made
A path, that led thro' a lone ſilent glade.
[19]The moon, with doubtful rays, deceiv'd the ſight,
And waving boughs gave an uncertain light.
When my chill'd ſpirits ſunk with ſudden fear,
And trembling horror bid the ſearch forbear;
My heedleſs ſteps had touch'd the hallow'd ground,
Where airy demons dance the wanton round;
Where fairy elves, and midnight Dryads meet,
And to the moon the ſylvan ſong repeat.
Tall rifted oaks, and circling elms had made
A central void amidſt ſurrounding ſhade,
With hollow vaulted cells, and riſing heaps,
In which by day the wearied badger ſleeps.
Thick thorny brakes grew round the loneſome place,
And twining boughs enclos'd the middle ſpace.
Here Dryads in nocturnal revels join,
While ſtars thro' ſhaking leaves obſcurely ſhine:
And here I ſaw (bleſs'd with a kinder fate)
Where in a beauteous ring the nymphs were ſate:
Well-pleas'd the Elfins ſmil'd, but ſhe, who guards
Pomaceous fruits, and orchard-cares rewards,
Down penſive lean'd her head; no ruddy ſtreaks
Mixt with the languid paleneſs of her cheeks:
Caſt on the ground her wither'd garland lay,
Whoſe ſhrivell'd leaves ſeem'd conſcious of decay.
Thyrſis, that much-lov'd youth, the goddeſs mourn'd,
Thyrſis, who once Silurian plains adorn'd;
The rural powers confeſs'd their meaner lays,
When Thyrſis ſung, and own'd his juſter praiſe;
[20]He Ariconian ſwains induſtrious taught
To ſtrain rich muſt, and preſs the racy draught;
Since he is gone, the trees are all decay'd,
With moſs bedight, and bloſſoms ill-array'd.
The penſive owner mourns the tedious weeks,
And wants the generous bowl, that paints the fluſhing cheeks.
Men led by ſenſe, and partial to themſelves,
Nor roving demons own, nor wandering elves:
But who can know th' intelligible race,
Or gueſs the powers that fill th' aerial ſpace!
Oft the tir'd horſe is forc'd to ſcour the plain,
When Fairies ride, fix'd in his twiſted mane:
And I, ye Gods! have wondrous circles ſeen,
Where wanton ſprites in midnight dance have been,
And preſs'd their rounding ſteps on every new-mow'd green.
Ye demons, who in lonely foreſts rove,
And friendly powers, that human arts improve,
Ye careful Genii, that o'er men preſide,
Direct their counſels, and their actions guide;
The grateful Muſe ſhall your aſſiſtance own,
And tell of heavenly forms, as yet unknown;
(Bleſs'd beings, whom no earthy fetters bind,
Nor to the preſſing weight of clay confin'd!
Of unmixt ether form'd, their beauty fears
No pale diſeaſe, nor change of coming years.)
[21]Be kind, ye powers, and tune my artleſs tongue,
While I repeat the Dryads pleaſing ſong.
Napé began; a nymph with careleſs mien,
Clad like autumnal leaves in yellowiſh green:
Her round plump cheeks a deeper purple dy'd,
Such as ripe fruits boaſt on their ſunny ſide:
A wreath of platted moſs curl'd round her head,
Cheerful ſhe ſmil'd, and thus the Elfin ſaid:
" Tall ſycamores, the noiſy inſects love,
And buzzing round the leaves inceſſant move;
While the day laſts, the worthleſs creatures play,
And mourn the evening duſk, and wing their ſilent way.
But foreſt nymphs prefer the peaceful night,
When ſolemn gloom, and dewy ſeats invite.
While drowzy man in ſleep unactive reſts,
Not half ſo happy as the watchful beaſts,
Who ſilent leave their dens, and ſecret home,
And, on the prey intent, thro' all the foreſt roam.
The raging ſun, with his too ſcorching beams,
Burns up the herbs, and leſſens all the ſtreams;
But the kind moon reflects a milder ray,
And makes a night more lovely than the day;
Nor darts fierce flame, but innocently bright
Leaves all the fire, and gives the purer light;
No noiſome vapour, or dark cloud exhales,
But gentle drops, freſh dews, and pleaſing gales.
[22]So woman is but rougher man refin'd,
Has nought of him that's fierce, but all that's kind.
Now falling drops like ſhining pearls are ſeen,
And dewy ſpangles hang on every green:
Refreſhing moiſture cools the thirſty mead,
Extends the ſtalk, and ſwells th'unfolded ſeed;
Reſtores the verdure of the tarniſh'd leaves,
And every herb the ripening juice receives.
Day always is the ſame, but wanton night
Boaſts a more grateful change of harmleſs light.
Below, the glow-worms, wondrous orbs, are ſeen,
That ſtud with burniſh'd gold the ſhaded green:
Theſe little wandering comets never ſhed
Or baneful ill, or dire contagion ſpread;
Their ſhining tails foretel no falling ſtate,
Nor future dearth, nor ſad diſeaſe create.
Bright lambent flames, and kindled vapours riſe,
Sweep glaring thro' the duſk, and ſtrike the won⯑dering eyes.
In oblique tracks the meteors blaze around,
And ſkim the ſurface of the marſhy ground,
Unſeen by day, when, tyrant-like, the ſun,
Envious, admits no ſplendor but his own.
The liquid drops, that ooze from weeping trees,
And ſparkling ſtones with ſtar-like luſtre pleaſe;
Even ſapleſs wood, improv'd by age, grows bright,
And, what it wants in moiſture, gains in light.
[23]While ripen'd fruits, and milder ſeaſons laſt,
And only empty clouds the ſkies o'ercaſt,
Nymphs in lone deſerts chant the rural lay,
'Till the wing'd Hours bring on returning day.
But when fierce wintery ſtorms the foreſt rend,
And rattling hail, or fleecy ſnows deſcend;
When conſcious birds, who know ſucceeding times,
Haſte from the cold, and ſeek for milder climes;
The Elfin powers (who can at pleaſure leave
Aerial bodies, and new forms receive)
Caſt off their vehicles, and freed from ſenſe,
Nor dread the ſtorms, nor cold, when too intenſe.
The earthy Gnomes, and Fairy Elves are ſeen
Digging in loweſt mines with buſy men;
There labour, on the fruitleſs work intent,
While deeper ſnows the wonted dance prevent:
But fooliſh ſwains the blooming Spring prefer,
The infant glory of the budding year;
Nature, as yet, is but imperfect ſeen,
And her weak products ſhow a rawiſh green:
The flowers look gay, but lovely Autumn treats
With ripen'd beauties, and ſubſtantial ſweets;
Nor wants its flowers, while poppies grace the corn,
And azure cups the waving fields adorn.
Fruits lov'd by ruſtic taſtes, of pleaſing ſhow,
On the wild hedge, and ſcented briar grow;
And yellow leaves, the fairy Elfin's bed,
Fly with the wind, and on the ground are ſpread.
[24]The friſking Satyrs ſqueeze the cluſter'd grape,
And the chaſte Dryad fears the coming rape:
Ripe mellow heaps from every tree are ſhook,
And bending corn expects the ſharpen'd hook;
Soon will the nodding ſheaves be borne away,
And the drawn net incloſe th' unguarded prey.
The friendly powers, who labouring peaſants aid,
Nymphs, and lightfawns, frequent the woody ſhade;
But oft curs'd fiends quit their infernal home,
And (hated gueſts) in gloomy foreſts roam,
With glaring eyes affright the howling beaſts,
And little birds ſhrink cloſer in their neſts.
Earth would be heaven, if we might here enjoy
Pleaſure unmixt, and leave the baſe alloy.
The greateſt good has its attending ill,
And doubtful bliſs diſtracts th' uncertain will.
So teeming Autumn boaſts her luſcious fruits,
And plants of grateful taſte, and healing roots;
But ripens with like care the growing ſeeds
Of baneful aconite, and noxious weeds.
The deadly nightſhade wanton youth deceives
With ſhining berries, and with ſpreading leaves;
Th' accurſed fruit invites with pleaſing ſhow,
Fair as the damſen, or the ſky-dy'd ſloe;
But ah! not raſhly truſt the tempting ills;
Too well you know, that beauty often kills:
[25]Swift thro' the bones the ſpreading venom flies,
A deadly ſleep hangs on his cloſing eyes,
And the loſt wretch in raging frenzy dies.
Now round its pole the ſpiral hop entwiſts,
Like Thyrſi, borne by Bacchus' antient prieſts.
The huſband elm ſupports th' embracing vines,
And round its oak the ivy cloſer twines.
To Bacchus ſacred all, and prone to love,
They ſhow what fuel muſt the flame improve;
Love, blind himſelf, the mark would hardly know,
But Bacchus takes the aim, and ſets the bow.
Autumnal days a conſtant medium boaſt,
Nor chap the ground with heat, nor dry with froſt.
Nature on all her finiſh'd labour ſmiles,
And the glad peaſant reaps the grateful ſpoils;
Winds ſhake the ripen'd ſeeds on parent earth,
And thus impregnate for ſucceeding birth.
The tufted cod with future harveſt ſwells,
While weighty ſeeds fall from their native cells,
And near their mother-ſtem: but ſmaller kinds,
Far from their homes, are borne by ſweeping winds;
The atoms fly, wafted on every breeze,
Hence moſſy threads enwrap the talleſt trees;
Herbs of ſtrange forms on higheſt rocks are found,
And ſpreading fern runs o'er the barren ground.
But, Goddeſs, you neglect your wonted care,
(While blighted orchards mourn, the nymphs de⯑ſpair;)
[26]Nor love (as once) to ſee the handed bowls,
When tipling ruſtics cheer their droughty ſouls,
And tread with faltring ſteps th' unequal ground,
While humble cots with wayward mirth reſound.
Succeeding bards, in rural ſecrets ſkill'd,
Shall teach the ſwain t' enrich the barren field;
The prophet's inſpiration never ends,
But with a double portion ſtill deſcends.
Poets, like rightful kings, can never die,
Heaven's ſacred ointment will the throne ſupply,
And Tityrus, when he draws his lateſt breath,
Will to ſome darling youth the valued pipe bequeath.
So tuneful inſects, fed by morning dew,
Who in warm meads the daily ſong renew;
(True poets they) laugh at approaching want,
And careleſs ſing, and mock the labouring ant;
But ſoon bleak colds the wanton throng ſurprize,
And the whole race (ah! too unpitied) dies:
And yet returning heat, and ſultry days,
Reſtore the ſpecies, and new ſongſters raiſe.
The Goddeſs will not long forget her care,
But loſs of fruit with future crops repair.
No more ſhall blaſting winds the harveſt grieve,
Or blighted buds autumnal hopes deceive.
The youth, well-pleas'd, will daily thanks repeat,
While loaden branches groan beneath their weight.
As from ſalt waves are drawn the ſweeter rains,
And cheerful ſtreams, that ſwell the fatten'd plains,
[27]So from our griefs ſucceeding pleaſures flow;
Grafted on crabs the faireſt apples grow.
Bitters and ſweets in the ſame cup are thrown,
And prickly thiſtles have the ſofteſt down."
Thus ſaid the nymph, and Pſecas thus replied,
Pſecas, who gives the herbs their various pride:
She Nature aids, and is the ſylvan power,
That ſhapes the leaf, and paints the woody flower:
She blanches lillies to their lovelieſt white,
Whoſe ſkin-like beauty pleaſes human ſight:
Hence the blue vervains grace the humble ſhade,
And drowzy poppies are in ſcarlet clad:
Unerring forms the growing plant receives,
She rounds the ſtem, and points th' indented leaves.
" Who (ſaid the nymph) would ſing of bleating flocks,
Or hanging goats that browze on craggy rocks?
When antient bards have rifled all the ſtore,
And the drain'd ſubject can afford no more.
Nor Cuddy now, nor Colin would engage;
Eclogue but ill becomes a warlike age.
In antient times the ſhepherd's ſong would pleaſe,
When pious kings enjoy'd the ſhepherd's eaſe,
And monarchs ſat beneath the ſhadowing trees.
When thoſe firſt happier ages were no more,
But curſt ambition ſtill increas'd with power;
When crouded towns fill'd the deſerted plain,
And craving paſſions a new life began,
[28]The peaceful woods were not ſo ſoon forgot,
Th' uneaſy ſoul her wonted pleaſure ſought:
Reaſon, when free and undiſturb'd, approves
The pleaſing penſiveneſs of thoughtful groves:
Hence twiſted bowers, and cooling grots were made
To imitate, at leaſt, the rural ſhade.
But men, by furies urg'd, and curſt by fate,
All that is calm and inoffenſive hate;
Guilt muſt prevail, and bloodſhed never ceaſe;
Nations are ſaid to be undone by peace.
Too well you know, who oft, unſeen, repair
To whiſpering courts, enwrapp'd in fineſt air;
In cloſets ſit, and unſuſpected hear
What the great vulgar feign, the little fear.
By night, while ſwains dream of ſucceſsful loves,
The Foreſt-Genii wanton in their groves,
And o'er the platted heath the Fairy-Demon roves:
But, when grey dawn awakes from pleaſing reſt
The yawning peaſant, and diſturbs the beaſt,
Thro' ſtreets, and noiſy crowds, they range unknown,
And mark the conduct of the factious town.
Britannia's ſons, like thoſe of monſtrous birth,
When ſerpents teeth were ſown in furrow'd earth;
Enflam'd with rage, and prone to mutual hate,
With baneful ſtrife diſtract th' endanger'd ſtate.
War is now thought the panaceal good;
Quacks know no other cure but letting blood,
[29]Even when th' expiring wretch already faints,
And not a lancet, but a cordial wants.
Thoſe who could wiſh all temples ſhut beſide,
Ne'er think the gates of Janus ſet too wide;
For endleſs ſlaughter, as a bleſſing pray;
Farewell the humble muſe, and ſhepherd's peaceful lay!"
She ſaid, and all the nymphs with ſorrow heard,
When, clad in white, an heavenly form appear'd;
A leavy crown adorn'd her radiant head,
Majeſtic were her looks, and thus ſhe ſaid:
" Unbodied powers are not confin'd to floods,
To purling rivulets, or to ſhady woods.
Kind demons on ungrateful man attend,
Obſerve his ſteps, and watch the hated fiend.
The ſame good Genii guard the harmleſs ſheep,
When wearied Damon lies in thoughtleſs ſleep;
The ſame, whoſe influence aids th' unſettled ſtate,
And gladly haſtens on the work of fate.
Rome's ſecond king enjoy'd a fairy dame,
To lonely woods the royal pupil came;
To Numa's leſſons, and the Elfin-Bride,
Rome all her grandeur ow'd, and future pride.
Bleſs'd powers, and beings of the higheſt rank,
Nor love the flowing ſtream, nor flowery bank.
Clad in etherial light, the purer mind
Scorns the baſe earth, and was for heaven deſign'd.
Inferior orders have a meaner home,
And here in wilds, and woody mazes roam.
[30]To learned Magi we ſtrange ſpells impart,
Myſteries diſcloſe, and tell the ſecret art.
With ſacred miſletoe the Druids crown'd,
Sung with the nymphs, and danc'd the pleaſing round,
But vulgar thoughts confound celeſtial forms
With envious fiends, who raiſe deſtructive ſtorms;
And harmleſs elves, that ſcuttle o'er the plain,
Are rank'd with furies doom'd to endleſs pain.
Mortals, to earth and mean delights inclin'd,
No pleaſure in abſtracted notions find:
Unus'd to higher truths will not believe
Aught can exiſt, but what their eyes perceive;
Tho' to good demons they their ſafety owe,
Few are thoſe happy, who their guardians know.
But hear, ye nymphs; indulge no cauſeleſs fears,
I know the laſting joys of coming years.
I, Britain's kind Egeria, will protect
The loyal patriot, and his ſchemes direct.
All do not hate the plain, nor fly the woods;
Fields have their lovers, and the groves their gods.
If Bolingbroke and Oxford, with a ſmile,
Reward the ſong, nor ſcorn the meaner ſtyle;
Each bleeding tree ſhall tell the ſhepherd's flame,
And in its wounds preſerve the growing name.
Swains to tranſmitted pipes ſhall long ſucceed,
And ſort with artful hand th' unequal reed.
The birds on every bough will liſtening throng,
And noiſy, ſtrive to drown the envied ſong.
[31]Echo to diſtant rocks ſhall waft the tale,
And reach with borrow'd ſounds the loweſt vale;
While the glad lambs purſue the circling round,
Friſk wanton, and o'er graſſy ridges bound.
Would
*he again the better choice approve,
Who once of Henry ſung, and Emma's love;
Would he (a grateful gueſt) to woods repair,
And private eaſe prefer to public care,
The nymphs would learn his ſong, their own forget,
And little fawns the moving tale repeat.
Peace from neglected pipes will wipe the duſt,
When uſeleſs arms are doom'd to cankering ruſt.
No dreaded ſounds ſhall ſcare the finny race,
Or fright the Triton from his lov'd embrace.
The buſy Naiads cleanſe polluted floods,
And nymphs frequent the long-deſerted woods.
The river-gods hug the declining urn;
All to their ſtreams, or to their ſhades return.
When civil wars diſturb'd the Roman ſtate,
And Brutus haſten'd on his juſter fate;
While falſe-nam'd liberty, and doubtful claim,
Madded the world, and fann'd Alecto's flame;
The ſwain was injur'd, and his ſong forgot,
And Tityrus only by his flocks was ſought.
But when Octavius had the nations freed,
And every realm its rightful lord obey'd;
[32]The God look'd down on the neglected groves,
And deign'd to hear of peace, and ſofter loves;
Fields and their owners were with leiſure bleſs'd,
And Mantua's ſhepherd had his wrongs redreſs'd.
So firſt the mountain tops are touch'd with light,
And from the gloomy vales the ſwain invite;
While miſts below, and intervening clouds,
Caſt a deep duſk on all the frowning woods.
The ſhaded meadows view, with envy, round
The diſtant ſplendor of the riſing ground;
But ſoon the ſpreading rays, expanded, move,
And, ſtreaming like a deluge from above,
Sweep o'er the gladſome field, and dart thro' every grove.
By foreign wars inteſtine factions thrive,
The dam deſtroy'd, the imps not long ſurvive;
Tumultuous hurry an advantage gives
Both to the little, and the greater thieves.
A guilty act is in confuſion hid,
When buſy times a nicer ſearch forbid;
So crafty fiſh, of clearer ſtreams afraid,
Lie hid in eddies, which themſelves have made.
Touch'd with the roſe, the jetty beetle dies,
And from the ſpicy hills the vultur flies;
So baſer ſouls abhor the ſweets of peace,
Whoſe private gains by public loſs increaſe.
When noiſy ſtorms deluge the dropping leaves,
The penſive lark retires, and ſilent grieves;
[33]But chattering birds joy at th' expected flood,
And with mixt clamours watch the teeming cloud;
For then (a grateful prey) the horned ſnail,
And worms, o'er moiſten'd clouds, their folding bodies trail.
Deſigning men the public welfare hate,
Who cannot riſe but on a ruin'd ſtate.
Baſe ſouls will always keep their native ſtain,
And rooted paſſions will th' aſcendant gain.
The worm, when once become a ſpotted fly,
And, borne on gaudy wings, it mounts on high,
Unchang'd admires the ordure, whence it ſprung,
And feeds with pleaſure on its native dung.
But ſteady patriots will juſt ſchemes purſue,
Nor fear the rage of the diſcarded few,
Who, prone to cauſeleſs change, unwearied ſtrive,
Old crimes repeat, and baffled plots revive.
Eternal infamy rewards their pains,
And, tho' the flame is out, the ſtench remains.
What ſpecious-colour'd fraud, or ſecret ſnare,
Can St. John's prudence 'ſcape, or Oxford's care?
Diſeaſes oft prove fatal, when conceal'd,
But ripen'd ſores, if lanc'd, are ſooneſt heal'd.
Slow Lentulus, and raſh Cethegus join,
And with ambitious Catiline combine;
Wretches who, only in deſtruction ſkill'd,
Try to pull down, what they could never build;
[34]But, when intent to ſpring the ſudden mine,
One Cicero can blaſt the baſe deſign.
So when black ſtorms caſt up the boiling deep,
And envious winds diſturb the Triton's ſleep;
The ſhepherd, who the watry conflict hears,
Shuddering at diſtance, for his paſture fears;
Thinks with himſelf, when will the tumult ceaſe,
Or what kind power can warring floods appeaſe?
But th' ocean-gods, rous'd from their oozy beds,
The trident graſp, and nod their reedy heads;
The waves rebuk'd, fear to approach the ſhore,
And all is huſh'd, and winds are heard no more.
Peace guides her ſteps, as St. John leads the way,
And all her little Loves around him play:
When he arriv'd, France (the firſt time) confeſs'd
Her court eclips'd by a politer gueſt;
Unwilling own'd Britannia has her charms,
And is as ſtrong in eloquence, as arms.
When St. John ſpeaks, who would refuſe to hear?
Mars ſmooths his brow, and Pallas drops her ſpear:
A thouſand graces on his lips are hung,
And Suada ſips her nectar from his tongue.
When wild ſuſpicions cauſe diſtracting hate,
And party-clamours ſway the warm debate;
Such eloquence the tumult over-rules,
Like falling drops, it ſoftens, and it cools;
It calms th'enrag'd, and draws the ſtubborn minds,
And to th' unwilling breaſt a paſſage finds;
[35]Nervous, yet ſmooth, the heart it gently ſteals,
Like wine it ſparkles, but like oil it heals.
He with his country ſhares one common fate,
All St. John love, but who Britannia hate.
Kennet of late neglects his broken urn,
And St. John's abſence all the Dryads mourn.
Not Gallus once in woods was ſo belov'd,
Whoſe luckleſs flame the nymphs to pity mov'd.
Heaven has its choſen favourites, and on thoſe,
With partial hand, its doubled gift beſtows:
While common ſouls, like coarſer ſtuffs laid by,
Are not prepar'd to take the brighter dye.
The kingly oaks engroſs the honey'd dews,
Whoſe viſcous ſweets the meaner ſhrubs refuſe;
And every neighbouring tree neglected grieves,
But willing ſpreads in vain its taſteleſs leaves.
St. John the woods, and breezy foreſt loves.
Where Nature's pride preſuming art reproves.
New beauties ſhow themſelves to nearer views,
And themes untouch'd expect the ſkilful muſe;
The vegetable worlds neglected lie,
And flowers ungather'd fall, and nameleſs die.
Thouſands eſcape, hid in the preſſing throng,
Unknown to Macer's, or to Cowley's ſong.
You, Pſecas, know, in ſeedy labour ſkill'd,
What various herbage fatten'd paſtures yield,
And what unnumber'd kinds adorn the field,
[36]Whoſe fading beauties paſs without regard,
While every drooping herb upbraids the bard.
What learned ſong will Nature's care impart,
By what kind inſtinct, and unſtudied art,
The numerous natives of the ſheltering wood
Avoid their dangers, or procure their food?
What verſe has told, how ſmaller rivals wage
Unequal war, and with the toad engage?
They, Argus-like, are ſet around with eyes,
And, hung on ſilken threads, the foe ſurprize;
Spit on the poiſonous wretch more deadly bane,
Who, deeply-wounded, feels the raging pain.
Swift up her pendent womb Arachne climbs,
While he ſcarce trails along his tortur'd limbs;
But careful will the healing plantain find,
(Plantain to undeſerving creatures kind)
Whoſe ſovereign herb the venom'd juice expels,
And now the bloated wretch with innate poiſon ſwells.
Or how the ſpeckled ſnakes their prey ſurprize,
And with hot fennel rub their weaker eyes;
They, when the bloom of warmer ſpring begins,
Caſt off, as worn-out cloaths, their ſloughy ſkins;
With early youth, returning vigour bleſt,
Brandiſh the tongue, and raiſe the azure creſt.
Ants prudent bite the ends of hoarded wheat,
Leſt growing ſeeds their future hopes defeat;
[37]And when they conſcious ſcent the gathering rains,
Draw down their windy eggs, and pilfer'd grains;
With ſummer's toil, and ready viands fill
The deepeſt caverns of their puny hill;
There lie ſecure, and hug their treaſur'd goods,
And, ſafe in labour'd cells, they mock the coming floods.
A thouſand kinds unknown in foreſts breed,
And bite the leaves, and notch the growing weed;
Have each their ſeveral laws, and ſettled ſtates,
And conſtant ſympathies, and conſtant hates;
Their changing forms no artful verſe deſcribes,
Or how fierce war deſtroys the wandering tribes.
How prudent Nature feeds her various young,
Has been, if not untold, at leaſt unſung.
To th' inſect-race the Muſe her aid denies,
While prouder men the little ant deſpiſe.
But tho' the bulky kinds are eaſy known,
Yet Nature's ſkill is moſt in little ſhown;
Beſide that man, by ſome kind demon taught,
Has ſecrets found, that were of old unſought.
Labourious wights have wonderous optics made,
Whoſe borrow'd ſight the curious ſearcher aid,
And ſhow, what heaven to common view denies,
Strange puny ſhapes, unknown to vulgar eyes.
So ſhadowy forms, and ſportive demons fly.
Wafted on winds, and not perceiv'd when nigh;
[38]Unſeen they ſweep along the graſſy plains,
And ſcud unſeen before the whiſtling ſwains.
But to thoſe ſeers, in northern iſles confin'd,
Inur'd to cold, and harden'd by the wind,
Th' indulgent powers have given a ſecond fight,
That kens the airy ſylph, and wandering ſprite.
No flitting elf the ſubtle eye eſcapes,
When wanton genii ſport in antic ſhapes.
Men Nature, in her ſecret work, behold,
Untwiſt her fibres, and her coats unfold;
With pleaſure trace the threads of ſtringy roots,
The various textures of the ripening fruits;
And animals, that careleſs live at eaſe,
To whom the leaves are worlds, the drops are ſeas.
If to the finiſh'd whole ſo little goes,
How ſmall the parts that muſt the whole compoſe!
Matter is infinite, and ſtill deſcends:
Man cannot know where leſſening Nature ends.
The azure dye, which plums in autumn boaſt,
That handled fades, and at a touch is loſt,
Of faireſt ſhow, is all a living heap;
And round their little world, the monſters creep.
Who would on colour dote, or pleaſing forms,
If beauty, when diſcover'd, is but worms?
When the warm ſpring puts forth the opening bud,
The waken'd inſects find their ready food;
But when the ſummer-days dilate the gem,
Stretch out the leaves, and fix the growing ſtem,
[39]They die unknown, and numerous kinds ſucceed,
That baſk in flowers, or eat the ranker weed;
Wanton in ſultry heat, and keep their place,
'Till autumn-fruits produce a different race.
But tho' a thouſand themes invite the Muſe,
Yet greater ſubjects will from mean excuſe;
They claim the grateful ſong, whoſe prudent care
Has quench'd the waſting flames of endleſs war.
Late civil rage alarm'd the trembling woods,
And burſting ſulphur ſcar'd the ſylvan-gods.
War fell'd the trees, and ſpreading havock made,
The nymphs could hardly find a ſheltering ſhade.
Now, with leſs frightful ſounds the fields are bleſt,
The ſwains have leiſure, and the land has reſt.
Faction, that Hydra, is no longer fear'd,
Her heads are lopp'd, and all the wounds are ſear'd:
When innovating ſchemes ſucceſsleſs prove,
They do but faſten, what they would remove.
So reſtleſs winds would fly without reſtraint,
Sweep down the corn, and bend the growing plant;
But taller trees withſtand their giddy haſte,
And break the fury of the coming blaſt;
They angry tear the leaves, and blight the fruit,
But ſtrengthen while they ſhake, and fix the ſpreading root.
Be ſtill, ye aſpin-boughs, nor reſtleſs ſcare,
With buſy trembling leaves, the liſtening hare;
And ceaſe, ye inſects, who, to plants unkind,
Or gnaw the root, or bite the ſofter rind;
[40]Silent attend, while I Britannia bleſs,
And ſing the future joys of laſting peace.
Victoria long her fruitleſs labour mourn'd;
Without effect her annual work return'd.
One blow to Caeſar gave the deſtin'd throne;
Philippi made the Roman power his own.
Swift as a ray, ſhot from the riſing ſun,
Pella's immortal youth his Perſia won.
But conqueſt now is ſtopp'd by every fort;
Bloodſhed is cheap, and war becomes a ſport;
In vain the captains fall, the heroes bleed;
Freſh victims to the ſacrifice ſucceed.
So doubtful hills the wearied pilgrim ſees,
And flattering proſpects give a fancied eaſe;
Deluſive hopes compel his fainting feet
To climb th' aſcent, and paſs the ſteepy height:
That ſummit gain'd, far diſtant mountains riſe,
Whoſe towering ridges meet the ſorrowing eyes,
And, pain renew'd, the wiſh'd-for reſt denies.
Ten years could Hector coming fate retard,
And from th' inſulting Greek his Ilium guard.
Yet waving heaps, as antient ballads tell,
The doubtful ruins of old Troy conceal;
Now ten campaigns, and battles yearly won,
Transfer no kingdom, and no king dethrone.
But pitying Anna ends the fruitleſs toil,
Blood ſhall no more enrich Flanderian ſoil.
[41]From her the injur'd States expect redreſs;
She, who maintain'd the war, muſt make the peace.
She gives the power, whatever ſide prevails,
Where-e'er the balance is, ſhe holds the ſcales.
To her they all commit their common cauſe,
She ſets their limits, and confirms their laws;
Portions divides, and gives to each his ſhare,
The right of birth, or the reward of war.
All muſt the juſt impartial hand acquit,
And thoſe who cauſeleſs murmur—will ſubmit.
So when th' Almighty, with an awful nod,
Made the rude Chaos own a greater God,
The blended elements, that long had ſtrove,
Would not ſo ready join in mutual love:
But, firſt, the purer parts their places took,
And ſubtle fire the meaner maſs forſook:
The war continued with the baſer kind,
While ſeas were loth to be by ſhores confin'd,
Or earth to have the loweſt place aſſign'd.
Anna has long enrich'd the powers allied,
Their want of treaſure, and of troops ſupplied;
Yet they, as wrong'd, with awkward ſtate complain,
Inſatiate thirſt! and would new empires gain.
So wanton children ſport in careleſs play,
And ſlumbering lie, or toy the hours away;
Heedleſs they live, nor ſweat for daily bread,
Yet cry, and murmur, if they are not fed.
[42]The Belgic ſtates forget their former moan,
But, ſwoln with bloated pride, and mighty grown,
New conqueſts ſeek, and deem the world their own.
Nor raviſh'd ſeas, nor India's ſpicy plants,
Content their wiſhes, or ſuffice their wants.
So when fierce rains waſh down the leſſen'd hills,
And redden'd floods increaſe the ſwelling rills;
The ſwift united ſtreams haſte to the plain,
And ſwampy meads the gathering waters drain.
Each neighbouring hill, and every riſing mound,
Barrens itſelf t' enrich the lower ground:
No moiſture can ſuffice th' inſatiate weeds,
Creſſes, and filmy ruſh, and flaggy reeds.
Sunk in their ſlime, the marſhy vales below
Scorn thoſe, to whom their herbs ſuch rankneſs owe;
Their ſubject ſtate they confident deny,
And loweſt fens will call themſelves the High;
Ceaſe, ye unthinking hills, and ſtrive no more
To ſwell th' ungrateful bogs with a too laviſh ſtore.
The foreign realms, whom Anna's arms ſuſtain'd,
Now boaſt of power, as they before complain'd,
So he, who baſely tempts the virtuous dame,
In ſofter words conceals the guilty flame;
The trembling ſuppliant her reſentment fears,
And adds to moving words more moving tears:
But if the fair refuſe with juſter pride,
And prudent ſcorn, what ought to be denied;
[43]The raviſher confeſs'd reſumes the ſword,
And rudely threatens, whom he once ador'd.
But none will long the offer'd peace refuſe,
Leſt what was conquer'd, they as certain loſe.
In vain the hireling troops their courage boaſt,
Victoria ſees not there her favourite hoſt.
The German chief retir'd, nor could purſue
The well-laid ſchemes his warlike fancy drew.
Men cannot gueſs th' events of future time,
Ambition is the growth of every clime;
None can the riſe or fall of empires know,
Where power now ebbs, it may as ſudden flow.
Gallia has oft, and oft has haughty Spain,
Indulg'd their hopes of univerſal reign,
And in revolving years may oft again.
The Gods awhile ſeem to deſerve no leſs,
And, ſmiling, flatter princes with ſucceſs.
By wondrous turns the heavenly powers are known,
And baffled ſchemes ſuperior guidance own.
Heaven has ſet bounds to every riſing ſtate,
And kingdoms have their barriers fix'd by fate.
An infant will the Gallic prince ſucceed,
The ſword is ſheath'd; no more the nations bleed.
That kingdom hardly can itſelf defend,
Where children reign, and factious lords contend.
Once Gallia's ſhore to Albion's cliffs was join'd,
'Till ſeas grew rough, and Nereus was unkind;
[44]Tho' lengthen'd wars may ſome diſtruſt create,
And ſow the ſpreading ſeeds of vulgar hate;
Again they may a ſtricter union prove,
And join in mutual aid, and mutual love.
Nor ſhall the Britiſh line enſurance need,
Or Belgic powers determine, who ſucceed.
For monarchy is heaven's peculiar care,
But foreign aid is worſe than civil war.
The promis'd ſuccour is an handle made,
And a pretended reaſon to invade;
When crafty Hengiſt with his Saxons came
To aid the iſle, and fix the doubtful claim;
The eaſy Britains the falſe friend believ'd,
And with fond joy the hoſtile troops receiv'd:
But Druids, taught by Nymphs, repining ſate,
And ſaw the coming ills, and knew Britannia's fate.
And now the Britiſh fleets in ſouthern ſeas,
With ſpreading ſails the wondering Nereids pleaſe:
In havens, erſt unknown, they proudly ride,
While the glad Tritons force the lazy tide:
Toſs'd with freſh gales the wanton ſtreamers flow,
Nor dread the ſtorms above, nor rocks below:
The powers protect, who rule the reſtleſs ſea,
And winds themſelves their ſteerage will obey.
The Nymphs ſhall hide no more from human ſight
But with their lovelieſt forms the bard invite:
Swift Fawns in open view ſhall ſcour the plains,
And be, as once, familiar with the ſwains:
[45]The harmleſs elves, in every meadow ſeen,
Will dance at mid-day on the public green:
Pan, and the ſhepherd-youth ſhall loving ſit
Beneath one tree, and ſport in ruſtic wit;
In the ſame ſhade alternate ſongs repeat,
While Aegle helps the maid to preſs the ſtreaming tear.
But now the huntſman takes his uſual round,
While liſtening foxes hear th' unwelcome ſound;
And early peaſants, who prevent the day,
May hither chance unweening guide their way;
For ſee—the grayiſh edge of dawn appears,
Night her departure mourns in dewy tears.
The goblins vaniſh, and the Elfin queen
Foregoes the pleaſures of the trampled green.
Nature's unwilling to be rouz'd ſo ſoon,
And earth looks pale on the declining moon;
The nimble hours dreſs out th' impatient ſun,
While riſing fogs, and whiſpering gales fore-run.
The bats, a doubtful kind, begin their ſleep,
And to their cells the darken'd glow-worms creep;
The coming day, the conſcious inſects grieve,
And with ſlow haſte the grateful herbage leave,
Wreathe o'er the graſs, and the moiſt path purſue,
Streaking with viſcous ſlime the ſhining dew;
In ſome cloſe ſhade a friendly covert find,
And parent earth receives the reptile kind.
Guilt, and the day diſturb the wily ſnakes,
And urchins hide their theft in thorny brakes.
[46]All fly the ſun, and ſeek a cool retreat,
Nor envy ſwarms, who joy in ſcorching heat."
She ſaid, and ſudden all the Elfin Fair
Vaniſh'd unſeen, and mixt with trackleſs air.
But thou, O Wyndham, who didſt ne'er diſdain
The ſhepherd's gift, nor ſcorn the rural ſtrain;
(Tho' to no pompous ſound the ear inclines,
While the mean ſenſe is propt by ſtronger lines)
Accept the ſylvan ſong—
With pleaſing look the fearful bard receive;
You bad him firſt the humble cottage leave;
Ready to praiſe, and willing to excuſe,
You gave aſſurance to the baſhful Muſe.
How would I now deſcribe a generous mind,
Improv'd by ſtudy, and by courts refin'd?
But you (ah! too reſolv'd) will not allow
The verſe to tell, what men already know;
Envy itſelf their conduct muſt approve,
Whom the prince honours, and the people love.
Tho' you, in this, unkind deny the bard
The only ſubject can his pains reward,
You cannot make the tuneful Dryads ceaſe,
For Goddeſſes will ſing of whom they pleaſe;
Long will the grateful woods your name repeat,
And Wyndham be the theme, when next the Dryads meet.
1713.
THE THEORY OF TEARS;
A FRAGMENT.
[51]BY WILLIAM STEVENSON, ESQ.
TEars, which the bar-rang'd orators command,
Are tears of pleaſure for the fee in hand;
The greater this, the more abundant thoſe,
Rated by price, as wine by meaſure flows.
But wines a due hilarity impart,
Their tears add gladneſs to the heavy heart.
Grief, when ſincere, by no vain proof appears,
Too vaſt for the parade of formal tears.
So, in the ſkies when deep-charg'd thunders brew,
No clouds deſcend in rain, or melt in dew.
On Tully's words when liſtening ſenates hung,
Charm'd by the living magic of his tongue,
Few tears ſuffic'd; for tears then learn'd to flow
Leſs at the call of lucre than of woe.
Once from the offer'd hand your fee withdraw,
That key which opes the cabinet of law;
Tears then no more ſhall their full ſluices break,
Nor eyes amid the dew of rhetoric—ſpeak:
[52]Thus, when the ſky a gloom of vapours ſhrouds,
Thunders would mutter words thro' watery clouds.
Alike ſo far, each here the verſe confines,
That both are empty marks, and paſſive ſigns;
Theſe, from the touch of flames etherial roll'd,
Thoſe, from the no leſs ſubtile touch of gold.
This maxim then how much the truth beyond,
" Hearts muſt with eyes for ever correſpond:"
Reverſe the adage, and behold it true,
If you mankind thro' no falſe optics view.
The doctor's tears, if doctors weep at all,
That ſoon his patient will recover, fall.
Each ſalient vein, that vibrates ſtill to health,
Beats in repugnance to the pulſe of wealth.
Each ſign, that to a happy criſis tends,
A tear reſiſtleſs to its orbit ſends.
But here the pointed ſatire fain would ſtop,
Joy too, like ſorrow, boaſts her pearly drop.
From fleecy clouds, on which the ſun-beam plays,
Oft falls the dew-ſhower interſpers'd with rays:
Let Candor then, who ſcorns the partial plan,
Sometimes miſtake the doctor for a man.
" All hope is gone! ſee how the doctor cries,
" His tears, ah! ſpeak in ſilence from his eyes!
" Good, tender man!—But ſay, dear doctor, ſay,
" Is it too certain what your looks betray?
" Has Phyſic now no laſt reſource to try?
" And muſt the ſweet, the lovely patient—die?
[53]" But ſure the dire diſeaſe, in luckleſs hour,
" O'er youth and ſtrength can ſcarcely boaſt the power;
" Not yet attain'd the fever's wonted height,
" To make our noon-day hopes all ſet in night."
" No! heaven be prais'd!" with fervor-lifted eyes,
" My tears are tears of joy," the doctor cries;
" No more the fever's heats internal burn,
" No more deliriums, big with fate, return.
" Mix thoſe few cordials, and your fears abate,
" Our patient's in a convaleſcent ſtate."
Short triumph! his lank purſe ſo empty felt,
Each eye would fain from other motives melt.
Now certain hopes health's kind prognoſtics give;
So ſoon cur'd patients, how ſhall doctors live?
Men muſt debauch, take fevers, faint and rave,
Few hopes attend them, and late periods ſave;
Their fatal ſnares muſt wine and women ſpread,
Or doctors go a begging for their bread.
But uſeleſs is the hint, if meant as ſuch,
Mankind are ſure too complaiſant by much,
To ſuffer thoſe, who kindly them preſerve
From fell diſeaſe, and death itſelf, to ſtarve.
Now to the pulpit turns the muſe's eye,
There, haply, tears from proper fonts to ſpy;
For ſure, if ſuch us any where o'ertake,
Altho' with-held for friendſhip's preſſing ſake,
Tho' rarely found in roſtrums; it muſt be
Where God deſcends, and mortals bend the knee.
[54]Where tears ſincere, in heaven's pure eye, diſcloſe
A finer twinkle than the diamond ſhows.
Where all confeſs, a tale that ſtill begins,
How much Religion ſuffers by their ſins.
Religion! that ſublime and gracious plan,
By which for angel we exchange the man.
But hold—all honour to the ſacred gown,
Tho' leſs rever'd the gem-encircled crown.
A ſcoff contemptuous here, or laugh of ſcorn,
Were Virtue to decry, celeſtial-born;
Were to defame the volume of the ſkies,
Which, penn'd by hand divine, expanded lies:
Far more, for devils act leſs monſtrous parts,
Were to eraze God's image from our hearts:
Degrade the gown, religion, and the text,
You muſt, dread thought! dethrone Jehovah next.
The perſon from the office we divide,
To ſhun the ſtigma, or of guilt or pride;
Pride, that betrays a littleneſs of mind,
And guilt, indeed, of an enormous kind.
Tears, guſhing forth, the parſon's ſight bedim,
His eyes, like ſtars in miſts, uncertain ſwim;
Nor wonder tears his cautious lids beguile,
For oh! the melting pathos of his ſtile!
Who can behold him, and refrain from tears,
None, but the marble-hearted wretch who—hears.
His head, his heart, his eyes, all correſpond,
Like mutual friends, of one another fond.
[55]But, had he been from ſelf-complacence freed,
His head, his heart, his eyes, had diſagreed.
Not joy, but grief, in tears had then indulg'd,
Expreſs'd her feelings, and her doubts divulg'd.
This vain parade of partial tears is ſhown,
Becauſe the preacher's to himſelf unknown.
In big effuſive conſciouſneſs they run,
For what his pen, not wicked heart, has done.
His pen's the ſinner; nor leſs oddly true,
His pen's the generous expiator too.
Yet, ſtranger ſtill! dry eyes had ſhown his ſenſe,
Had he ſurpriz'd his pen in one offence.
What could he, all awake to feeling, more,
Had he himſelf been faulty o'er and o'er?
For acting ill (who can in all excel?)
Sure heaven will pardon him for writing well.
His ſins, indeed, are multiplied he owns,
As are his flock's, which hourly he bemoans;
But ſay, ye adepts, how things fit to call,
Has not his quill all-potent cancell'd all?
But this, not nature's, but the preacher's law,
No tears can once but ſacerdotal draw:
Hence, tho' the rapt ſelf-conſcious parſon weeps,
No ſocial tear a well-bred cadence keeps;
Or, if a courteous drop with his conſents,
The cheek alone, but not the heart, relents:
They weep, becauſe they ſee, but liſten not,
Or, if they heard, the ſubſtance all forgot.
[56]Thus womens eyes abundant uſe to flow,
Aſk them the reaſon why?—they do not know.
But ſhall coarſe ſatire quite engroſs the page,
And thro' the numbers ſpend its gloomy rage?
No; let ſome gentle ſubject cloſe the ſong,
To the ſoft paſſions ſofter ſtrains belong.
The muſe increaſing ardors too may feel,
And kindle onward like a chariot-wheel.
But not, as chariots raiſe the duſt around,
Truth to obſcure, or reaſon to confound.
Tears are the eye's pellucid dews, that fall
At Pity's ſummons, or at Mercy's call;
Tho' ruthleſs eyes oft-times affect them too,
As ſtones themſelves diſtil a breathing dew.
As ſprings to earth, all-gently they impart
A kindly genial ſoftneſs to the heart.
Tears, when the mind enjoys unruffled eaſe,
For form-ſake ſhed, or from deſire to pleaſe,
Are like thoſe rains thro' ſunſhine oft ſent down
From partial clouds, when nature wears no frown.
Tears are the ſpecial meſſengers akin
To oracles, on errands from within;
To tell mankind, beyond conjectures vain,
Thoſe ſecrets friendſhip only can explain;
What active paſſions riſe in tender ſtrife,
What ſoft affections touch the ſprings of life.
Tears are the ſilent language of the heart,
That more, far more, than empty ſounds impart:
[57]By which it loves, o'erburden'd, to complain,
When words would but offend, or prove in vain.
Tears eaſe the ſoul in anguiſh and deſpair,
Leaving a ſadly-pleaſing languor there.
Thus cloſe-pent clouds diſſolve in haſty ſhowers,
By which the thunder loſes all its powers;
By which the ſky, far as the view unfolds,
A temperature ſerene and ſoften'd holds.
Tears are the gentle ſtreams that off convey
Thoſe floods that would o'erwhelm us by delay;
The heart's big ſwell, much by misfortunes griev'd,
That heaving ſoon would burſt if not reliev'd.
Tears are the tender proofs of love ſincere,
In ſilence ſhed, whence no reports take air:
Shed, as the tribute of congenial minds,
While each a more than vulgar tranſport finds.
Falſe eyes, indeed, may weep, if fame divulge,
But true affection only can indulge.
Tears are the debt in pearly drops convey'd,
But more than pearls in price, to merit paid;
In which none act the baſe inſolvent's part,
But thoſe whom Nature form'd without a heart.
Tears wait on vice, and oft on virtue too,
As winter-clouds diſſolve in ſummer-dew.
Tears, tho' the cheek a partial mark retain,
Waſh out, if ſhed aright, a fouler ſtain;
Which, as it fainter and more faint appears,
Makes angels envy human-kind their tears.
[58]Tears are the ſilent arguments to tell
That man's immortal, tho' at firſt he fell.
Immortal—for he weeps for joy oft-times,
Free from the ſting of recollected crimes.
And what can Nature's law thus counteract?
What thus ſenſation's ſprings revers'd affect?
O! thought ſublime! ſtrong proofs inculcate hence,
How much inferior to the mind the ſenſe;
Diſſolv'd in tears, that feebly it reflects
Back to the ſoul what rapturous ſhe expects.
As Cynthia, tho' in full-orb'd glory bright,
But faintly repreſents her parent light:
Thus men infer, the ſoul ſuperior muſt
Exiſt apart, when duſt returns to duſt.
For if the body impotent withſtands
Thoſe tranſports ſhe to infinite demands,
Reaſon dare promiſe her deſires immenſe,
As virtue's long-expected recompence;
But when, or where, 'tis not for man to know,
That full enjoyment ſenſe can ne'er beſtow;
When matter lives in various forms no more,
And all the farce of human life is o'er.
A DIALOGUE IN THE SENATE HOUSE AT CAMBRIDGE.
[92]BY THE LATE NICH. HARDINGE, ESQ.
STRANGER.
WHoſe is this image?
BEADLE.
Academic Glory.
S.
Is ſhe a maid or matron, Whig or Tory?
What quarry could produce ſo huge a block?
What engines heave her from her native rock?
What vehicle the ponderous marble bear?
Who bought her, who transform'd, who plac'd her there?
B.
Who plac'd her there! A maſon.
S.
Whoſe deſign
Contriv'd her ſtatue's architecture?
B.
Mine.
S.
Who thus her pedeſtal with Latin grac'd?
Who taught her thus to ſpeak in words unchaſte?
" Come all, come all, partake my ample treaſure,
" Who beſt deſerve the palm!"
* Is that her pleaſure?
Her youths invites ſhe thus?
B.
The line, they ſay,
Is borrow'd, word for word, from Virgil's lay.
Poems I ſtudy not; I ſeek, I own,
Vitruvian art, Vitruvian ſtyle alone;
[93]But to my Johnian friends I give due credit,
And they in Virgil or in Maro read it:
Virgil unchaſte! Is your's a true tranſlation?
You differ ſurely from the congregation!
S.
The congregation, Sir! Did Alma Mater
A deity by ſolemn grace create her?
And place her oppoſite to George's view,
Fix'd in the place to George the ſecond due?
B.
Some myſteries, from curious eyes conceal'd,
To clerks alone and churchmen are reveal'd.
Tho' Whigs and Wits her origin ſuſpected,
And ſtill enquire by whom ſhe ſtands erected,
Faction to ſhake her baſe conſpires in vain;
A Deity ſhe is, and ſhall remain.
What tho' her brawny limbs, and ſtately ſize,
Taſte, and virtù, and elegance deſpiſe,
To us her ſhape unzon'd, unclasp'd by boddice,
And more than virgin ſtride, declare the Goddeſs.
S.
To Dian's image thus, with pomp array'd,
Their ardent vows Epheſian zealots paid;
Tho' conſcious whence the fuſile ore was brought,
What craftſman's ſkill the ductile figure wrought,
The work divine, with tranſport they commended,
Which, as they feign'd, from Jove himſelf deſcended.
B.
What Glory was, why ſeek her ſons to know?
See what alluring gifts ſhe proffers now!
Caps to the learn'd, a mitre to the ſleek
And white-glov'd chaplain, who forgets his Greek;
[94]To heads, repoſe; to bards, Parnaſſian bays;
To all, or worthy or unworthy, praiſe.
S.
What mean thoſe types that lurk beneath her feet,
Emblems ill-hid by ignorant deceit?
What means that civic crown? Are theſe rewards
For ſage divines, philoſophers, and bards?
B.
Nor ſmiles on theſe alone the Goddeſs; ſhe,
Propitious queen! ſome boon reſerves for me.
If Anneſley's friend,
* who learning's giant ſlew,
A convert deem'd, preferr'd to honours new,
Laughs in his ſleeves of lawn, and ſhakes his ſides,
Eats, drinks, and marries, age and care derides,
Why may not I, by her careſs inſpir'd,
By jovial port, and juſt ambition fir'd,
Claim from her patroneſs an equal grace,
And for a Headſhip change the Beadle's mace?
S.
Her gifts I envy not; but wonder more
So partially ſhe deals her bounty's ſtore;
Hardinge, whoſe merit friends and foes confeſs'd,
By her repulſe defeated, ſinks oppreſs'd.
†B.
So periſh all, who inſolently dare,
Snatch'd from our champion's creſt, a plume to wear!
[95]Our frantic foes, who, late with towering pride,
The Church, the Prince, and Rutherforth defied,
Now in luxurious eaſe ſupinely ſleep,
Nor diſcipline retain, nor vigils keep:
We, in firm phalanx join'd, a choſen few,
With ſcatter'd troops ſucceſsful war renew;
Riſe by defeat, and, from the victor's brow,
Steal the freſh garland of his Delphic bough,
Triumphal wreaths around our temples twine,
And conſecrate our ſpoils at Glory's ſhrine.
S.
But what if Granta, rous'd by honeſt ſhame,
Should haply wake, and vindicate her fame;
Precipitate this Demon from her throne,
And vengefully eject this load of ſtone!
B.
Urg'd by unjuſt reproof, I ſhall unfold
A tale, perhaps not lawful to be told.
Her from the ſolid ſubſtance, vaſt and rude,
Firſt into Fame a painful ſculptor hew'd;
Her head a trumpet, wings her ſhoulders bore,
This wrinkled robe thus channel'd then ſhe wore;
Deck'd with fit attributes in front and rear,
Expos'd to view, ſhe charm'd a gazing
*peer;
Who only diſapprov'd her wings and trump,
And made ſome ſmall objections to her rump.
Theſe faults corrected, ſtrait at C—s rear'd,
Mix'd in a grove of ſtatues ſhe appear'd;
[96]There Marlborough's form ſhe lovingly beheld,
And, wreath'd for him, a civic chaplet held:
But when, invok'd by Cock's enchanting tone,
As at Amphion's call, each ſculptur'd ſtone
Obſequious trembled at his hammer's ſound,
And fled, ſo ſummon'd, that unhappy ground,
A youth,
* to Phoebus and the Muſes dear,
To Granta's voice, who lent a filial ear;
For her a deſtin'd gift this idol bought,
And, pleas'd, to her his votive image brought:
Doubtful at firſt what Nymph's, what Heroine's
What Queen's was beſt adapted to the dame;
At length, by vote unanimous, we made her name,
A ſovereign Goddeſs, and as ſuch diſplay'd her:
But fearing leſt the Senate ſhould diſown,
As George's friends, his adverſary's ſtone,
Inſcrib'd with bits of verſe, and ſcraps of proſe,
(The verſe at leaſt is claſſical) we choſe
To make and call her Academic Glory,
Still in diſguiſe a queen, and ſtill a Tory.
S.
Approv'd the Senate this transfiguration,
Or licens'd by decree the conſecration?
B.
Not by decree; but when malignant
†W—,
Eager in hope, impatient of delay,
[97]A dapper, pert, loquacious, buſy elf,
More active for the public than himſelf,
Ran to and fro with anxious looks, and prated,
And mov'd that hence ſhe might be ſoon tranſlated,
Diſſenting from their friends, a wiſe majority
Supported us, and her, by their authority:
And who ſhall now remove her from the ſcene,
Or dare to drive her from the Muſes?
S.
So when the father of his country fled,
By fear of tribunitial rage miſled,
On exil'd Cicero's devoted floor
Clodius uprais'd his Tanagraean whore:
Th' indignant Senate ſaw, with patriot eyes,
A harlot cloath'd in Liberty's diſguiſe:
But, when again to Latian ſkies reſtor'd,
Her joy and guardian grateful Rome ador'd,
Their antient ſeat, by her abode profan'd,
His houſhold gods with dignity regain'd.
A JOURNEY TO DONCASTER, OR A CURIOUS JOURNAL OF FIVE DAYS, WROTE WITH A PENCIL IN A CHAISE.
[105]IN proſe I've wrote you many a journal
Of travels, which I hope you'll burn all,
And now for once I write in rhyme
To tell you how I ſpend my time,
And what adventures may enſue
While I am haſting down to you.
On Sep. the ſecond day I went
To London from my houſe in Kent;
And, as good luck would have it, found
A friend for ſhire of Ebor bound:
It proving temperate, pleaſant weather,
We ſoon agreed to go together,
And for our eaſe, o'er turnpike-ways,
To travel down in my poſt-chaiſe.
By learned men it is agreed,
Poets ſhould ride the winged ſteed;
And therefore, thus ſays Betty Martin,
" Thou art no poet, that's moſt certain."
[106]Thro' Kentiſh-town, up Highgate-hill,
Our horſes move—againſt their will;
And, while they ſnuff the wholeſome wind,
We caſt a parting look behind,
Pleas'd t' have left yon ſable cloud,
That buries millions in its ſhroud;
Alas! they toil, the ſons of care!
And never breathe the purer air.
Thy common, Finchley, next we meaſure,
Whoſe woodland views would give us pleaſure,
But that they many a wretch exhibit,
Too near the high road, on a gibbet;
Hence men may gueſs, without much ſkill,
Here have been rogues—and may be ſtill.
High-Barnet paſs'd, we reach the plain,
Where Warwick, haughty earl, was ſlain:
So periſh all, as Warwick fell,
Who 'gainſt their lawful liege rebel!
Ah! paſſing ſtrange, that one ſweet flower
Should kindle all the rage of power!
Yet England oft has wail'd her woes,
And wept the colours of the roſe.
With hungry appetites we hie on,
Where Hatfield ſhows the Silver Lion;
But, lo! nice ſteaks from rump of beef
Will ſoon afford us kind relief;
Of good old Port we drink a quart,
Diſcharge our reckoning, and depart.
Thro' ſandy lanes, and deep defiles,
Where ray of Phoebus never ſmiles,
[107](Save on that beam-illumin'd dwelling,
Where Young delights the Muſe at Welling)
We march as gently as we can,
And reach at Stevenage the Swan:
A well-fed pullet, roaſted nice,
And of high-ſeaſon'd ham a ſlice,
Of ſuppers could not prove the worſt—
Warm negus gratified our thirſt:
At ten the welcome down we preſt,
And wooed the kindly Power of reſt.—
With early dawn we mount the chaiſe,
And Phoebus ſmiles in friendly rays:
O'er fineſt turnpike-road we bowl,
The wheels, the numbers gently roll,
Speed ſwift to Baldock down the hill,
Where liv'd ſweet Polly of the Mill,
But now the lovely Polly's gone,
Rival of Venus!—ſo drive on.
Thro' villages, o'er plains we ride,
Where Ouze conducts his ſilver tide;
So ſlow his winding waters ſtray,
He ſeems to linger on his way,
As loth to leave the pleaſing ſcene
Of woods, corn-fields, and paſtures green:
Thus man, low-grovelling, like the river,
Would loiter in this life for ever;
So beautiful theſe ſcenes appear,
He thinks it better to be here,
[108]Than try that country, from whoſe bourn
No pale-eyed travellers return.
At Eaton next, by twelve a clock,
We bait our horſes at the Cock:
Then leave awhile the public road,
To take with friends a night's abode:
This viſit comes in due ſucceſſion,
And therefore deem it no digreſſion.
Thence croſs corn-fields our way explore,
Where chariots never went before;
Thro' ruſhy ſwamps, and bogs we paſt,
And came to
*Beggary at laſt:
Even then we did not know our doom,
For worſe misfortunes were to come:
Fain would we thro' the paſtures ride;
Our entrance gates and locks denied:
Thro' that deep lane, where many a ſlough
Would ſpoil a horſe, or hide a cow,
Paſs on we muſt, if we intend
To pay our viſit to a friend:
True friendſhip has a bias ſtrong,
It drove us thro' the mire along,
O'er banks and ridges, till, at laſt,
It fairly ſet the carriage faſt—
What's to be done?—with might and main
We haul'd it on the land again:
[109]At length, with fear and wild amaze,
We crawl'd thro' ſafely with the chaiſe;
Now on the precipice's edge,
Now bounc'd againſt a quickſet hedge,
And, by a wondrous kind of fate,
By four arriv'd at P—'s gate;
Whoſe entertainment, neat and kind,
Soon put theſe dangers out of mind:
With ſocial friends we paſt the day,
And gaily laugh'd our cares away—
At ſix we march, but firſt provide,
To ſhun bad roads, a faithful guide;
And ſhortly, o'er the riſing ſteep,
We ſaw the ſpire of Bugden peep:
At breakfaſt near an hour we waſte,
'Twas coffee, grateful to the taſte,
With dulcet cream, and nut-brown toaſt;
Then bid a Valeas to our hoſt.
O'er level roads we drive amain,
Roads as the well-roll'd terrace plain,
And ſoon reach'd Stilton ſafe and well—
We choſe the inn that bears the Bell.
On mutton, charming food! we dine,
And cheer our hearts with generous wine;
But long, alas! we muſt not ſtay—
Life flies with rapid wing away;
'Tis but a march that we muſt make;
'Tis but a journey we muſt take:
[110]Here we can fix no firm abode,
Nor loiter long upon the road;
But muſt, with vigilance, attend
Still to our journey, and its end.
At Stamford next, with ſpirits light,
The Bull receives us for the night;
Smelts and a rabbet was our food;
The bill was cheap, the wine was good.
Our wheels next morning early ſound
O'er rough, thro' truly Roman ground;
Th' immenſe Veſtigia, ſtill compleat,
Prove that the Romans once were great:
By ten, at Grantham we admire
The noble church, the lofty ſpire;
Sarum's alone is two feet higher.
Here, what before I ne'er had ſeen,
I ſaw fair Venus, Beauty's Queen;
Sweetly ſhe ſmil'd with graceful look,
In ſhape of Lady Mary C—.
Our breakfaſt done, in haſte we went
To Newark on the banks of Trent;
There ſtaid a little to regale
On cold roaſt-beef and humming ale.
Thence thro' a tedious, ſandy way
We labour'd, and at Carlton lay:
With friends we drain'd the cheerful bowl,
And ſupt on mutton and broil'd fowl,
[111]And eels that gave us much content,
Delicious eels—the eels of Trent.
Next morn thro' wretched roads we ſteer,
Yet pay at turnpikes deviliſh dear:
The purple heath we travers'd o'er,
And ſtopt at Barnby on the Moor;
Thence into honeſt Yorkſhire ventur'd,
Which firſt we at fair Bawtry enter'd:
By three to Doncaſter we came,
A town polite, of antient fame;
There will the Muſe awhile unbend,
And there this tedious journal end,
Wrote, deareſt Anne, at your commands,
And now it flies to kiſs your hands.
Sep. 6, 1759.
END OF VOL. IX.