POEMS TO THESPIA.
Oh, true Name of Love,
Tender Affection! Genuine Source of bliss,
Immaculate and pure! The transient blaze
Of passion soon subsides; thy steadier fire
Time but increases. Soft, coercive Band
Connecting Souls! without thee what is Life!
Sweet Halcyon of the breast, whose summer wing
Lulls each tempestuous care! To thee the Wise,
The Good still sacrifice, the Soul refined
From vulgar dross: Nor any but the Dull
Whom Nature niggard of her bounty, cast
In narrow mould, or whom with iron hand
Tyrannic Custom rules, despise thy sway.
EXETER:
PRINTED BY W. GRIGG, BOOKSELLER, IN THE
Fore-Street.
1781.
SCorning with studied art to drag along
The doubled epithet of monstrous length,
Join in the jingling of th' affected song,
Court feeble melody, and banish strength.
No labour'd, no fictitious strains I bring,
But unreserved pour forth my honest heart;
Nature and true Affection bade me sing,
I felt the wound of no pretended dart.
Oh! may my pen fall from my palsied hand,
When I survive to real taste a Pest!
Or place in nice array with Orders' wand
The hasty ebullitions of my breast!
My theme is chosen 'mid the British Fair,
No antique Bards for love-thoughts I explore,
No fabled Gods from Greece and Rome I bear,
No Nymphs, or Dryads from the Classic shore.
Such ornaments may please the shallow mind,
Exotic gewgaws twisted into rhime;
But Elegance delights in chaplet twined
By Nature's hand, and inmates of the Clime.
Nor here hath Love disdain'd his gifts to shed,
The feeling Soul is not unfrequent here;
And genuine Rapture by the Graces led,
Oft tunes the lyre, and thrills the listening ear.
ERRATA.
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POEMS TO THESPIA.
I.
HOW sweet, in Spring, the twilight Dawn!
The woods imbrown'd, and humid lawn;
The crimson streaks which deck the sky,
The wide-stretch'd plain, and mountain high!
But when the Sun unveils his face,
The Landscape glows with heighten'd grace.
Should raging Tempests Heaven deform,
If, final Victor, of the Storm,
The same illustrious Lord of day
Full blazes with triumphant ray,
All Nature owns his influence bright,
And bends before the glorious light.
Nursed by his warmth, the latent grain
With future harvests gilds the plain.
His power pervades the deeper Mine,
And moulds the Embryo Gem to shine.
See Youth, exulting in his May!
What new-born joys before Him play!
His sprightly feet expatiate round,
And all He sees is Fairy ground.
When Love unfolds his pinions nigh,
And wafts his Soul to extasy.
Say, that Adversity should bring
Her livid plagues, her Scorpion sting?
And the collected venom dart
Remorseless, on the Human heart?
Love soothes to rest it's fiercest pain,
And gives it vital strength again.
Each softer energy refined
He kindles in the darken'd Mind;
And from their hidden seat calls forth
The zealous deeds of generous Worth.
Thou pure Enlightener of the breast,
Oh! shine thro' all my life confest!
Nor cease thy gentler warmth to shed
In latest Evening on my head!
There let thy beams still ling'ring fall,
Till Fate's black gloom incloses All!
II.
THE truest Love is most reserved and shy,
No look of confidence, or boldness wears,
Known by the humble brow, and soften'd eye,
And full of wavering doubts, and anxious fears.
When I perceived that THESPIA had o'ercome
My yielding heart, and fix'd her empire there,
That from her voice I must receive my doom,
And all my future weal must flow from her:
How did my bosom fluctuate with the pain
Of native bashfulness, and strong desire!
What varying conflicts did I not sustain!
How struggled soft respect, with passion's fire!
Oft did I wish the secret to have told,
But awe witheld, and modest dread prevail'd,
Her presence all my faculties controul'd,
And every settled resolution fail'd.
At length, with firm intent I sought the Fair,
With firm intent to pour out all my heart,
At once display the story of my care,
And the long misery of consuming smart.
To a sequester'd grove her steps I drew,
She without guile went innocently free;
No ill suspecting, for no ill she knew,
Nor fear'd to trust herself alone with me.
At first my usual converse I assay'd,
Hoping from thence to gain a tranquil air;
And as along the winding paths We stray'd,
With frequent blossoms deck'd her flowing hair.
But still my shorten'd breath fast went and came,
O'er my embarrass'd limbs a stiffness hung,
My heart throbb'd strong, and shook my labouring frame,
And fears, I know not how, unnerved my tongue.
Resolved to speak, some secret power restrain'd,
Ashamed, and angry with myself I grew,
With crimson consciousness my cheeks were stain'd,
And quick again the conscious stains withdrew.
She, whether unobservant all the while,
Or else this strange confusion to relieve,
Talks with her wonted ease, and careless smile,
But brief and vague each answer which I give.
Then changed my fickle will it's first design,
Determined sudden on some future day,
Then would I each perplexity untwine,
And every ardent wish before her lay.
A transient calm succeeded in my breast,
Yet sure, thought I, they were not so conceal'd,
But she th' emotions of my heart hath guess'd,
She too may haply wish they were reveal'd.
Tho' now my faultering tongue its aid denies,
She must have read the language of my soul,
Nor have I mark'd displeasure in her eyes,
When forth from mine the glance of love hath stole.
Then turning round in haste, as if afraid
Lest Diffidence again might intervene;
Not daring to erect my timid head,
My hesitating lips disclosed my pain.
III.
IN nothing was I learn'd, but only how
To pen my flocks, and drive them to the field,
In the strait furrow to direct my plough,
And when my hoe, and pruning-hook to wield.
Uncultivated was my mind, and mean,
My abject thoughts low fasten'd to the earth,
Till Love with hand benign brake Custom's chain,
And bade me soar beyond my humble birth.
With beauty fired, I look'd around, and saw
The charms of nature never seen before.
O Love! a willing Vassal to thy law
I bend, I feel thy blessings, and adore.
Prompted by thee, as yet with trembling tongue,
I call'd the Muses, and desired their aid;
My wood-notes in the hazel copse I sung,
And caught th' attention of the listening Maid.
She listen'd to my strains, She heard my tale,
While deepening blushes o'er her cheeks arise,
The soft consenting sigh my lips inhale,
I see the yielding languor of her eyes.
No, witness Truth! if ever I estrange
This grateful heart, which only beats for thee—
Why utter needless vows? I cannot change;
Fix'd are my bonds, nor will I e'er be free.
Fix'd is thy gentle sway; by thee my Mind
Avarice, and all its sordid acts disdains;
The common vice of Passion unrefined,
The common vice among our country Swains.
Hence stinging cares; hence groveling they behold
The state of riches with an envious eye;
They think not aught beyond the power of gold,
Nor know how Love can lift the soul on high.
Oh, come my Fair One! I have thatch'd above,
And whiten'd all around my little cot,
Shorn are the hedges leading to the grove,
Nor is the seat, and willow bower forgot.
Low is the path of life in which I move,
Yet wilt thou not regret the higher sphere
Of wealth and noisy pride; while faithful Love,
And Innocence, and sweet Content are here.
IV.
AH! whence my Thespia, can that anguish flow?
That silent anguish of expressive woe?
That sigh which from thy struggling bosom stole?
That look which pierces to my inmost soul?
Ah! say my Thespia, I conjure thee say,
To me the hidden cause unblamed display.
Half of thyself, I claim my lawful share;
Yet, would to Heaven, that I the whole might bear!
Unveil thy thoughts in confidence to me;
And trust a bosom fraught with sympathy.
From thee would I my labouring heart confine?
And are not all its deepest secrets thine?
Wretch that I am! am I (who thee from pain,
To shield, would pour out life at every vein)
Am I the cause? and could'st Thou ever spy
A look of coldness glancing from my eye?
To thee a cold, blank look? Oh, too refined,
And subtile error of thy feeling mind!
A delicacy apt too deep to dive,
To each nice touch too tenderly alive!
Tho' I esteem it as a blessing sent,
As the more polish'd Minds' chief ornament,
A sacred spark kindled by Heaven's own ray,
Yet, let not Sensibility betray.
Thou weep'st; where did my tongue profanely rove?
How could I blame thee? 'twas excess of love.
Oh! let me circle thee with strict embrace,
Warm breast to breast, and glowing face to face!
(My fixed lips while speechless rapture ties)
Imbibe the lucid moisture of thine eyes.
Thy melting spirit in each breath inhale!
Gaze on thee till the nerves of vision fail!
And quite o'er-power'd by Love's imperious sway,
Feel all my fainting soul dissolve away!
V.
STILL blooming Health, thy modest graces shed
O'er the clear surface of my Thespia's cheek!
There let thy fresh, thy glowing tints be spread,
Thy smiles enlightening, and complacence meek!
Protect her where she goes, ye gentle Powers,
Pure Denizons of undulating air!
Whether from fervid Noon-tide's sultry hours,
Or Evening's dewy shades, protect the Fair!
'Tis true my Thespia; I indeed confess
That selfish are the prayers and vows I pay;
With no disinterested voice I bless
The Gods, or pour the supplicating lay.
For ah! from thee, and from thy looks I find
Warm to my heart each cordial joy must flow
Sweetening the ills of life; from thee my mind
Must taste it's keenest sense of piercing woe.
Thine is the master-key, each spring to rule,
Each hidden movement of my secret thought;
Sure thou wert bred in some Enchanter's school,
Who all his spells and mystic charms hath taught.
Yet then would Holy Truth with thee reside?
Truth which unbounded confidence my trust?
Yet then would mean Deceit fly far aside?
And wild Caprice confounding false and just?
Would'st Thou have said, as I, struck dumb with fear,
Tremblingly pointed out my humble bower,
Haply Tranquility and Peace are there,
For them I scorn the gaudy farce of Power?
O Thou Sincerest! how shall I repay
The endless debt of gratitude I owe?
Quickly my Fair point out to Me the way,
And shew the path, for Thou alone canst shew.
Tho' silent is thy tongue, thy speaking eye,
The modest blushes o'er thy cheeks which rove,
That deep-drawn breath, that panting breast, reply,
The sole return is tenderness and love.
Will this suffice? and dost Thou ask no more?
What the spontaneous feelings needs must give?
Oh! let Me lavish on thee all my store!
Nor cease to love thee, till I cease to live!
For ever rivetted within my heart
Thy dear unsullied image shall remain;
When from that seat I bid it to depart,
May I by some tremendous stroke be slain!
No common death, I shall deserve to die;
To pine by inches on a barren strand,
Scorch'd by the vengeful Sun's severest eye,
Nor by one sportive wandering Zephyr fann'd.
To freeze on some bleak rock; to glut the rage
Of howling beasts within the dreary waste;
Or live, in youth despised, in helpless age
The extremities of want and woe to taste.
To walk a moving plague among Mankind,
Shunn'd, hated, and refused the alms I crave;
Refused Despair's last, only wish; to find
A still retirement in the peaceful grave.
In that fond hope to be deceived; to hear
With soul yet conscious, in the church-yard way,
The fierce invective cast upon my bier,
And scornful Laughter dancing o'er my clay.
All this, and more I shall deserve to prove,
When led by changeful Fancy's wanton eye,
I turn a faithless Truant to thy love,
And on the wings of vagrant Falshood fly.
VI.
SHALL the fair Form of smiling Love no more
Sport o'er the lawn with Freedom by his side?
Diffusing blessings from his ample store,
On the fond Bridegroom and the happy Bride?
Who led by choice and inclination's fire,
Breathing delicious sympathy of soul,
To the thick, shady, nuptial bower retire,
Attempering rapture warm with chaste controul?
For such of yore, to grace their marriage day,
The flocks exulting danced with nimbler tread,
The tribes aerial tuned their softest lay,
And earth's green lap with fresher flowers was spread.
Then were the laws of Avarice held in scorn,
Now unopposed and absolute her reign,
If haply Two with nobler souls are born,
The gloomy clouds of malice intervene.
O Error fond! to think that wealth bestows
Our only bliss! Say blushing Grandeur, say,
Whether thy breast that heart-felt pleasure knows,
Which gilds the shade of life's sequester'd way?
Say, in the morning dost Thou cheerlier rise?
Or were thy slumbers sweeter in the night?
Doth Nature's noon-tide lustre strike thine eyes,
Or evening's milder beam with more delight?
Art thou not tortured with desire of fame?
Smarts not thy soul with Envy's secret goad?
And do not conscious honour, generous shame,
And tender Love fly thy unblest abode?
Ye purest Virtues! wheresoe'er I rove,
(And Thou, last-named, most valued of the three,
Whom language fails to praise, Celestial Love!)
Ne'er shall your laws be unobserved by me.
And wilt not Thou my Thespia own their power?
Shall not their guardian care on thee attend?
And teach thee in reflection's silent hour,
To cast a thought upon thy more than Friend?
On Him, whose heart with truest ardour beats?
Whose zeal nor time, nor absence shall assuage?
Blooming unsullied by youth's scorching heats,
And undecaying in the frost of age?
Lasting as life? For not the vagrant beams,
Of wanton Fancy raised a sudden fire,
No spark of passion, whose extatic dreams,
Vivid and gay, in quick disgust expire.
Not that with cool and philosophic eye,
Not that with unenraptured mind, I view
Beauty's alluring grace, her vermeil die,
Her winning smiles, and love-inspiring hue.
But bearing Friendship's unsuspected seal,
Into thy presence frequently I stole,
Young artless Innocence removed the veil,
And shew'd in all it's charms thy spotless soul.
I gazed Enamour'd: every Virtue bright
In that pure temple, each Ethereal Form
Stood visible before my mental sight,
And my breast throbb'd, with holy transport warm.
Can I the shrine forsake, while constant Truth,
While filial Piety's engaging deed,
Good-nature, loveliest crown of smiling youth,
And Pity meek, forbid Me to recede?
What feelings then can tempt Me to betray
The rights of Love? what interest not my own?
For Thou to Me art Fortune's prosperous ray,
From thee exiled, how dreadful is her frown!
The Mind which claims our passions to controul,
Why is it not all-knowing, and all-wise?
To pierce the deep recesses of the soul,
And see the bounds where sense and errors lies?
Then would not Beauty e'er be sold and bought,
From thy embrace I should not then be torn,
Condemn'd should'st Thou—(but Treason's in that thought.)
To curse the fatal hour when I was born.
No, far be pale Suspicion! I detest
The haggard Fiend. Hush'd then be every fear!
My hopes I treasure up within thy breast,
And Oh! I charge thee keep them sacred there.
VII.
YES, far my Gentle Maid, from thee,
And every haunt of Joy I stray,
Shall not thy wishes go with me,
To cheer my faint and lonely way?
Shall not within thy faithful breast
Remembrance it's sweet blossoms bear?
Shall not it's plant by thee carest,
Take root, and bloom unfaded there?
Wilt Thou not often steal unseen,
Through dewy field, and trackless plain?
Or utter to the copses green
Thy soft and melancholy strain?
Tho' Fate hath torn the bond of Love,
Wilt Thou not often cast thine eye
To where expell'd and sad I rove,
And breathe a tender pitying sigh?
Be witness conscious Heaven! my soul
Shall ne'er a thought of thee resign,
No power it's fervour can controul,
Unchanged, and stamp'd for ever shine.
Yet tho' by mutual Faith assured,
What racking torment thus to part!
What bleeding woe must be endured!
What anguish must distract the heart!
VIII.
WAS it a dignity of shape, an eye
Or face, instinct with beauty's dazzling ray,
Whose power at once bade vanquish'd reason fly,
And swiftly stole Me from Myself away?
Had that been all, tho' strong had been my grief
Not to have won the object of my care,
Time would with lenient hand have brought relief,
The cure, Another equally as Fair.
But tho' a thousand now I should behold,
And own them fairer than the Maid I love,
My heart to all their beauties would be cold,
No charms my former passion could remove.
For youthful Prepossession knit the tye,
Which our consenting hearts together drew;
With years the pleasing partiality,
And soft attractive impulse, firmer grew.
Fancy meantime unnumber'd visions spread,
In which no seas were rough, no tempests lour'd,
We saw, our hopes with extasy We fed,
And in each other's bosom fondly pour'd.
And can I with these loved ideas part?
Can I this dear, dear sympathy forego?
First from their place the strings of life shall start,
And the warm ruddy drops forget to flow.
Of thee bereft!—Oh! 'twere the worst of ills.—
Deep penetrates the thought with sore annoy
My shuddering heart; my inmost soul it chills;
And blasts each future scene of rising joy.
Of thee bereft!—It shall not, cannot be;—
Spite of the wayward accidents of life,
Yet once again our actions shall be free:
And Oh, my Love! O dearer name, my Wife!
Again shall I infold thee in my arms,
And breathe my soul into thy faithful breast,
The o'erpast evil with fresh transport warms,
The pangs of absence make Us doubly blest.
IX.
I Was not form'd for glory's arduous ways,
The hidden depths of science to explain,
To cloathe me in ambition's golden rays,
Or combat death, and tread the carnaged plain.
In the broad open face of public life
To some Heaven gives conspicuously to move,
Enamour'd of the scenes of noise and strife,
To Me a mind all indolence and love.
Unhappiness and care to Kings I give,
Exposed they stand to every stormy gale;
On yonder hill's green side secure I live,
Or walk with vacant step along the dale.
Enough for Me, to meet my Thespia there,
Arm lock'd in arm along the wood to roam;
Lost but to Love, to stray we know not where,
And wonder how we got so far from home.
For her the hedge-flower garland to intwine,
At her command invoke the artless Muse,
Press close her chaste, her glowing cheek to mine,
Or on her breast, all my whole soul effuse.
My thoughts to more extatic pleasures rise;
Here, sacred Wedlock, bring thy closest veil!
And from the busy ken of prying eyes
Thy holy rites and mysteries conceal.
Such were the strains, which in the jocund prime
Of life, when Fancy takes delight to dream,
I sung, nor spent a thought on future time,
Where rural Alphin winds his scanty stream.
I sung, each object struck Me with delight,
The edying rivulet, the new-shorn flock,
The meads with flowers of various hue bedight,
The verdant hillock, and the barren rock.
Yet, tho'by kindest Nature form'd, to stray
The sweet oblivious path of life along,
Fate's tyrant voice, and unrelenting sway
Impells the Novice mid the bustling throng.
I go; yet once more let me cast my eyes
On you, ye well-known scenes, a parting view;
Tho' I with fondest estimation prize
Your long-frequented haunts; for aye adieu!
But, Oh my Thespia!—there th' imperfect sound
Hangs unpronounced upon my trembling tongue,
Cold damps of dewy sweat my brow surround
And every nerve and sinew is unstrung.
Once more receive Me to thy panting breast;
Would I could rivet Me forever there!
Such agonies no language e'er express'd;
Death cannot bring a torture so severe.
X.
WHAT have I done, what crime in me is found,
What secret evil lurking in my breast,
That while all Nature else is smiling round,
Heaven hath on Me it's heaviest stroke impress'd?
Have I e'er dropp'd a wish of Other's harm?
Or done an ill, tho' ne'er to be reveal'd?
Have I not always breathed th' emotion warm
On the chaste lip of social Virtue seal'd?
Ah! is it not enough, that far away
From my own native, happy fields I rove,
Far from each friendly name condemn'd to stray,
And torn by cruel force from her I love?
But must thro' her the barbed steel be sent,
Which piercing, with severest torture wounds?
Shall She I love convey the punishment,
Which Justice must confess exceeds its bounds?
On Me rain all your woes, Ye righteous Powers!
Tho' hard, I'll strive the misery to bear,
View sickness steal away my lingering hours
On tainted wing, nor drop a pining tear.
But ah! the gentle Virgin's tender Frame—
O Bright-hair'd Chastity! O Angel Truth!
If ye are aught beyond an empty name,
Save, save in pity Innocence and youth!
Shield, shield Me from the racking thought! I spy
From her cold cheek the bland suffusion fled,
Dead is the piercing magic of her eye,
The lustre-darting beam of sense is dead.
She calls on me—Oh! snatch the last embrace!
Woods, rivers, mountains, countries intervene.
Oh curse of curses! ne'er that lovely face
Again shall I behold: e'en the last scene
Some dreary satisfaction might afford,
Some solace to the madness of Despair,
Gloating in secret on his gloomy hoard,
With eye intorted viewing what is there.
XI.
AH! can they be of gentle Woman born,
Are they not rather cast in iron mould,
Who love, as if it were a weakness, scorn,
And place their sum of happiness in gold?
Who nothing of that sweet alliance know,
That tender union of connected hearts,
Whence only transports unalloy'd can flow,
Transports which brave affliction's venom'd darts?
O genuine Offspring of the native soul,
As yet unfashion'd by the hand of Vice!
Ye thoughts, which point the way to Honour's goal!
Ye thoughts, whence every Virtue takes its rise!
Ye warm Inspirers of the breast of Youth!
Ye Handmaids which compose the smiling train
Of Innocence, and unsuspecting Truth!
Say, were ye form'd so wond'rous fair in vain?
Did Nature plant you in the human Mind,
That Tyrant Art might thence her work displace?
That your free limbs might be in chains confined?
That harden'd Interest might your charms deface?
Ah no! far otherwise her equal law,
And kind maternal tenderness decreed;
She will'd her infant scyons there to grow,
To bloom, and ripen into golden seed.
Hence gave She all that more than Eloquence
Which speaks in Virgin Beauty's bashful eye;
Hence left the soul of Youth without defence,
Glowing with warm susceptibility.
Hence panting wishes, undissembled fears
Her ardent Votaries felt; hence fancy wild,
And love sincere and vows unfeign'd were theirs,
And Awe shrunk back, and Hope the Cherub smiled.
O Thespia! We these ardent Votaries were;
Have I not fix'd my fainting sight on thee,
Till trickling down my cheek, the emphatic tear
Hath in mute language told my extasy?
While from thy conscious, but more timid eye
The downcast rays thy secret flame confess'd,
While the quick-varying blush, and struggling sigh,
Disclosed the pure emotions of thy breast?
How roves the Vagrant Mind to future days!
How credulous is Love! with magic wand
What visions cannot soothing error raise!
How thick around the self-delusions stand!
Duped by their flattery; Nature's just design
We saw with Us to it's perfection brought,
Saw each acceding year more firmly twine
The mental wreathe, our younger Fancies wrought.
They painted to our view the lowly Cot,
Where Neatness bland, with meek Contentment play'd,
Look'd up to Heaven, and bless'd their tranquil lot,
Nor envied Guilt in glaring pride array'd.
With treacherous smile the farm retired they shew'd,
It's verdant meads, it's fields, and sylvan bowers,
The grazing lambs, the waving corn, the wood
Of tufted elm, and garden deck'd with flowers.
Obscure, the scenes their pleasing pencil drew;
Obscure, but blest with unaffected joy.
We hated mad Ambition's noisy crew,
Convinced that love with reason could not cloy.
Our rural Neighbours to the friendly feast
We bid, their simple hearts intent to gain:
Where Pride inspires not the fastidious breast,
Envy will seek to wound it's peace in vain.
False! tho' enchanting prospects! yet no fault,
No crime of our's hath rendered them Untrue.
But hide the cause!—Check every murmuring thought!—
To Virtue this sad sacrifice is due.
Yet, let me curse stern Avarice, odious Fiend;
Let Me lament th' unhappiest of their kind,
All other passions dead, compell'd to bend
Beneath this last slow fever of the Mind.
Rather than feel this dire distemper's sway,
Than with this thirst be scorch'd in life's decline,
May I ne'er see again the cheerful day,
Fo. ever doom'd to labour in the Mine!
May every terror fate reserves in store
For wretched Man, assault this drooping head!
May Want, may Famine enter at my door!
May Pain, and restless care surround my bed!
Or should My Thespia, all our trials past,
Should We before the sacred altar stand,
May Heaven, in mercy, with the lightning's blast
Strike Me at once, and tear the destined band!
XII.
WHY was I born in this more polish'd clime
Amid the scenes of artificial Life?
Where Custom rules, long-sanctified by Time,
And Fashion holds with Nature endless strife?
A thousand Wants start up, a thousand Fears,
To shackle Love, or interrupt his course;
He struggles, yet the galling burthen bears,
Sighs with regret, but owns their Sovereign force.
Eager to follow where th' Emotions lead,
Hides every wish, by violence supprest;
Gazes with ardour on the blooming Maid,
But dreads the future anguish of her breast.
Our liberty We boast on Britain's shore,
Yet, Slaves to Gold, it's tyrant power obey;
Our Vices spring from it's creative ore,
And e'en our Virtues feel it's quickening ray.
Perils and crimes We scruple not to dare,
Or act the meanest part, intent on gold:
Yet, may the soul refused it's gifts to share,
With conscious pride, sublimer traits unfold.
Hence generous Youth with riches unendow'd,
The Mistress of his bosom scorns to gain;
Grief may advance, Affliction threaten loud,
Firm He supports th' accumulated pain.
Happy the free-born Hunters of the wild!
Their only art, how best to urge the chace;
No thoughts of wealth their passions e'er beguiled,
No rank they claim, for equal is the Race.
They suffer not the torments of desire,
They are not doom'd to pour the fruitless tear,
To combat with the strong, the tender fire,
And pine from month to month, from year to year.
Happy the Natives of more southern skies!
With softer manners, softer forms endued;
Where all around spontaneous harvests rise,
Where from each tree depends ambrosial food.
Of cruel bonds they utter no complaint;
The gentle Virgin hears his amorous tale,
Smiles on her favour'd Youth without restraint,
And crowns his wishes in the spicy vale.
Just are thy words my Thespia.—what delight
Could passive, brutal Ignorance impart?
Disgust at once would rise before my sight;
My heart would loathe th' unsympathising heart.
Nor could I, to the joys of sense resign'd,
The sportive Wanton to my bosom press;
Forget the pure desire, the will refined,
Th' exalted sentiment, and chaste caress.
A single glance from Virtue's melting eye,
The soul with more extatic pleasure warms;
A blush of Innocence, one pitying sigh,
Transcends all Luxury's prostituted charms.
Still let us cherish hope, whate'er befalls!
And see, where Reason, Wisdom, take their stand!
Drive the fierce passions from their hallow'd walls,
And lead Cherubic Patience by the hand!
Say, that entangled in the social chain,
Wants, fears, and griefs intrude, a numerous crew?
Tho' more dilated flows the stream of pain,
The source of pleasure is augmented too.
Just are thy words.—But when the present Ill
Afflicts, this curious web We idly twine;
Nature and Passion are victorious still,
O'erwhelm'd is my philosophy, and thine.
XIII.
DEAR, Anxious Maid! whose apprehensive love
Hath form'd of tender fears a numerous train;
These looks of fond solicitude remove!
Fled is the gloomy progeny of Pain.
Fled is each sullen image from my mind,
O'er its corporeal yoke-mate brooding dull;
The thoughts of thee alone are left behind,
Of thee in every part, my soul is full.
Warm to my breast the vital spirits flow,
Kindle anew each strong affection there,
The mutual ardour, corresponding glow,
And grateful tumult which I scarce can bear.
Such as I feel, when from thy speaking eye
Dart unrestrain'd the beams of melting love,
While meek Sincerity stands smiling by,
And Innocence displays her wings above.
Such as I feel, when to Myself I vow
The sacred trust inviolably sure;
Guarded by steady Faith, which scorns to bow,
Whose ties the purest energies secure.
Reserve, and distant coyness, tutor'd arts,
Let these be goads to vitiated desire!
Nature's true colours charm untainted hearts,
Love begets love, creates, and feeds the fire.
Ambition's Sons, who climb her airy way!
What feelings can you boast compared with mine!
On you Content ne'er shed her tranquil ray,
Tho' in th' external glare of pomp You shine.
This eve, more real joy my breast inspired,
Than you can in a thousand ages know;
Joy which reflection can behold untired,
Amid whose blooms, no thorns of anguish grow.
Thou too reflect unblamed, my darling Fair,
And pleasure in thy generous heart be found!
Thy confidence, meets confidence sincere,
Thy truth, with undissembled truth is crown'd.
This night may Sleep unfold his gentlest wing!
The softest plume upon thy eye-lids lay!
Delightful be thy dreams as laughing Spring!
Enchanting as the first-born gales of May!
Ye level Meads, ye winding Streams be seen!
Your fringed sides with bending osiers graced!
Let Us exulting tread your margin green!
Mix the warm sigh, embrace, and be embraced!
Impart the secret dictates of our soul!
The wish, the passion, unreserved and free!
Conscious that equal choice can ne'er controul,
That perfect love, is perfect liberty.
XIV.
IT is not strange, that in my Thespia's eye
Amaze and anger should appear, when told
That gentle Doris had, without a sigh,
Resign'd her charms to Age, for worthless gold.
In all her features Delicacy reign'd;
What bright, transparent tints her cheeks o'erspread!
The snow beneath (as it that veil disdain'd)
With softest swell seem'd vanquishing the red.
Mild were her glances as the ray of Eve,
When the Lark sits and meditates his flight;
Her voice might Anguish of it's sting bereave,
Or smoothe, like Philomel, the frowns of Night.
Her sentiments proclaim'd a spotless heart,
Where dwelt the nicest sense of praise and shame;
Nature's Disciple, undisguised by Art,
She seem'd as born for Love's and Friendship's flame.
No wonder Thou, My Thespia, should'st the tale
Astonisht hear: more skill'd in Human-kind,
Versed in their failings, I myself turned pale,
Such youth, such beauty, such deceit to find.
Thou see'st how Avarice may her serpent face
Amid the flowers of female sweetness hide;
How thinking We behold each female grace,
We view the complicated mask of pride.
Hapless! who thus around Love's soaring wing
Can bind the glittering, ignominious chain;
Stop Nature's current, taint her limpid spring,
And prostitute, thro' choice, their souls for gain!
On these, Who boast a Woman's form alone,
Let not my Thespia waste a single thought!
Her's be the robe of Honour, Virtue's zone,
And fame, and generous love, and charms unbought!
Should Youth the most adorn'd with wealth combine,
My soul at ease, would not a Rival dread;
For constancy hath fix'd with rosy twine
The never-fading chaplet on her head.
Should Fate a decent competence supply,
Redundant treasure would Her be given;
Should It (while Love was granted) that deny,
For it's best gift her thanks would rise to Heaven.
The Mean, My Fair, and Abject of thy sex
Yield not the faintest light to judge of Thee;
My settled faith no jarring doubts perplex,
Thy hopes, thy fears are center'd all in Me.
E'en beneath Poverty's incumbent load,
Our hearts would glow with unextinguish'd fire;
While We together trod th' uneven road,
A groan would not be heard, a sigh transpire.
Should I be doom'd Another's flock to tend,
Without regret the change
I see
thee bear;
To Duty's humblest step, serene descend,
My love the full reward of every care.
With what reluctance, at the break of day,
Bid We adieu! How oft reverts my sight!
How do We chide the tardy Sun's delay!
And with what rapture hail the approach of night!
While Temperance pleased surveys our homely fare,
Our slender beverage while Content supplies,
Let festive Luxury cull her viands rare,
Grateful We sit, and uninvidious rise.
Then, e'er with fondness We retire to rest,
Conversing bland, Life's mingled scenes We view;
From these Delight gay-beaming warms our breast,
And those impearl our cheeks with Pity's dew.
Or not forsaken by the tuneful Nine,
With sweetest descant I the Time beguile,
Mark how my Thespia's eyes with transport shine,
Nor covet aught, but her approving smile.
The rural Matron, and the grey-hair'd Sire
Devoutly wish their Children's lot the same;
Thy prudence, meekness, neatness of attire,
My industry, and love, their precepts frame.
Oh Thespia! not the wealth of Worlds could buy
From thee a link of our soul-bracing chain;
And should Affliction, should Misfortune try
To break it's union, they would strive in vain.
Thou know'st to value Love; how incomplete
Without his aid, how small is Pleasure's store;
Without his aid, how wretched are the Great,
Favour'd by Him, what joys may bless the Poor.
XV.
HENCE rash Belief! may thy wild thoughts again
Ne'er thro' the cells of busy fancy rove!
Oblivion snatch their memory from my brain!
Nor leave a thought injurious to my Love!
But ever thus in your most pleasing dress,
Ye dear Ideas croud upon my soul!
There, each rejoicing avenue possess,
And fill with extasy the vital goal!
Place her, as now, before my mental eye
The sweet, unrivall'd, spotless, tender Fair!
Pure as the fleecy whiteness of the sky,
Gentle as breezes mild of Vernal air!
Can'st Thou not guess what torments seized my heart?
(For each soft passion, nicer sense is thine)
How thro' each nerve swift ran the venom'd smart,
When my eyes glanced along the dubious line?
Not for the Eastern Tyrant's gorgeous robe,
For all the slaves that at his feet have knelt,
Not for the wealth of all this ample globe,
Would I e'er feel again, what then I felt.
Reflection was o'erwhelm'd; It's power was lost.
Upon my brow a cold damp vapour hung;
My brain a thousand vague ideas cross'd,
Made by heart sick, and chain'd my palsied tongue.
Striving to read, my eyes their task refused;
Again I strove, and forced their straining gaze.
I thought—yet could not think I was abused—
I wish'd—but all was darkness and amaze.
Then all that I had read, or heard, or knew
Of Women's guile, and how with arts they blind
Unguarded Man, to true love, most Untrue,
Rush'd headlong in, and harrow'd up my Mind.
Can I this want of confidence forgive
To Me, who would for her thro' sultry climes,
Thro' frozen seas have pass'd? not whilest I live;
'Tis treason, perfidy, the worst of crimes.
To cast a shade o'er infamy! of vice
The bosom friend! to fix the mutual seal!
Surely Herself will ne'er be over-nice,
Who could Another's shame so well conceal.
Why did She beg the Paper from my hand,
But that it proves her conduct base and light?
With trembling earnestness behind Me stand?
Then haste away to shun my piercing sight?
It cannot be—some, cursed Mistake is here—
Yet still,
that Woman
's life confirms the deed.
Why doubt? too true alas! the grounds of fear;
If true, my wounded heart must ever bleed.
These a few thoughts, from out the many were;
Which thro' my mind with fervid motion roll'd:
Disorder, contradiction, dread was there,
And hope, quick yielding to suspicion bold.
Lo! I approach thy presence—While my knees
Can scarce support their tottering weight along,
My cheeks now glow, now on a sudden freeze,
Now pauses my weak heart, now vibrates strong.
Thy hand I press'd, but did not as before,
Feel thrilling pleasure harmonize my frame;
That magic touch alas! prevailed no more;
Emotions rose, which now I blush to name.
Then first, with ill-dissembled tenderness
I wrapp'd thy soft confusion in my arms,
No accents were prepared thy ears to bless,
My soul was firmly closed against thy charms.
Yet did I pity thee: Yes witness Heaven!
Compassion view'd thee, tho' I could not love;
I saw thee from my bleeding bosom riven!
And sunk below Me, while I soar'd above.
Yes I look'd down with pity on thy state,
As on a Cherub whom I once admired;
I loved thee not, and yet I could not hate,
Mourn'd thee guilt-spotted, but no more desired.
With hesitation my reproach began;
What rapturous pleasure did thy answer bear!
Superior joy ne'er bathed the soul of Man,
From the pure stream of bliss, and fount sincere.
Ah Fool! who would not rather have divined
Likeness of names?—Could I with mean disgrace
Thus taint that inborn rectitude of Mind,
Disclosed in each bright feature of thy face?
Could I thus stamp with guilt, sensations sprung
From thought most delicate, which shrinks afraid
From the rude breath of censure, from the tongue
Ungenerous, daring without cause upbraid?
Oh! for the honour of thy Sex, and thee,
Still be it mine my darling Fair to err!
Ne'er may thy gentle graces veil to Me,
Be innocence thy genuine character.
But be it thine to pardon, to display
Thy meekness, frankness; so shall ardent love
Tho' dimm'd awhile, shine with intenser ray,
And even time it's steadier warmth improve.
XVI.
O My soul's only Joy! My promised Wife!
For whom I breathe, for whom the stream of life
Swift courses thro' my veins! Thou generous Maid,
By Truth, and young Sincerity array'd
In unsuspecting honour! Nobly free,
Placing th' excess of confidence in Me.
Who heedless of th' insipid, prudish art,
Own'st all the genuine dictates of thy heart.
From Me no word, no action shalt thou find
To soil thy innate loveliness of Mind.
From Me thy innocence hath nought to fear,
To Me be still unboundedly sincere.
Still gaze on Me with love's complacent eye,
Still give Me tear for tear, and sigh for sigh.
In my fond bosom hide thy blushing face,
Be more than passive still to my embrace.
Dearest of Women! Oh! without controul
Indulge these finest movements of the soul!
My breast is not with vulgar passion fraught,
I glory in my dignity of thought.
Tis true, I feel within the kindling fire,
I feel the madd'ning anguish of desire.
The agonizing joy, the rapturous pain
Goads each idea of my swimming brain.
Yet this, tho' sympathising Thou appear,
To faintness, and to sickness can I bear,
Nay e'en to death itself, e'er Thou shalt see
A deed unworthy of Myself and Thee.
XVII.
HAppy the Few, who in retirement find
Those sweet delights which shun tumultuous noise!
Who feast on pleasures suited to their mind,
And barter idle shew, for solid joys!
Far from the City, and it's Revelers gay,
To shades, and bubbling springs, Love takes his flight;
He hates the scenes of their fantastic day,
And long-protracted vigils of their night.
In crouded Towns, how rarely Virtue dwells!
How seldom is the genuine Muse carest!
They range th' untainted lawns, and rural dells,
Adorn the Maid, or fire her Shepherd's breast.
And are We doom'd to this abhorr'd abode?
Forbid again, to breathe serener air?
To stray, as erst, along the secret road,
Untrod by Vice, by Vanity, and Care?
Here Avarice sits; there, bursting Reason's mound,
Impertinence rolls on her giddy tide;
With thoughtless mirth the lofty domes resound,
The streets reflect the garish rays of pride.
Should We a moment wish the din to cease,
Would I, my Thespia, frame the soothing lay,
Some worthless Visitors disturb our peace,
And force th' alluring images away.
Friendship their idle bosoms never graced,
Not to it's finer voice their nerves are strung,
Scandal and Folly regulate their taste,
And prompt the quick vibrations of their tongue.
Who, bred in Cities, view the lovely beam
Fresh darted from the Morn's expanding eye?
Till noon the Fair indulge their slothful dream,
Wake to complain, and breathe the languid sigh.
Th' important hours are then resign'd to dress,
The fancied Form of Elegance is near;
But She, far other minds intent to bless,
Seeks with Simplicity a different sphere.
In trifling Parties, Evening's ear is cloy'd
With mingled converse which no Sense can hit;
Each theme exhausted, cards supply the void,
Poor parti-colour'd Emblems of their wit.
Impell'd by Vanity, they seek the dance,
Their hair new-modell'd, or their vesture new;
With hearts unfeeling t'ward the Stage advance,
To Pity deaf, to Self-love only true.
Or turn'd Enthusiasts, Music's charms admire;
How sweetly rapt on it's harmonious wings!
Yet, no delight it's tenderest notes inspire,
Then pleased alone, when straining Discord sings.
With such as these will faithful Love remain?
Whate'er the whispering Coxcomb may protest?
Their forms, their souls, surveying with disdain,
To Pomp, and Avarice He resigns their breast.
Loathing it's shape, how shall I Vice describe?
What terrors will it's hideous aspect raise?
Thy Mind will shrink from her detested Tribe,
Nor dare behold them painted in my lays.
Here, for th' unwary, Craft inweaves his snares,
Honour's just trophies Envy's force o'erturns,
Seduction his enticing baits prepares,
And with unhallow'd flames the Matron burns.
Led by example, all her charms displaced
By education, (tho' her will She hides)
From fear, from interest, is the Virgin chaste,
While thro' her veins the subtile poison glides.
Intemperate Riot now his orgies holds,
See, abject Treachery e'en his Friend betray!
The Flatterer here his base deceptions moulds,
And there the nightly Robber prowls for prey.
And must We ever with these Inmates dwell?
Must we perforce these odious mansions choose?
Can We ne'er break pernicious custom's spell?
Oh! Form'd for love, for virtue, and the Muse?
Form'd with the warmest, best, sincerest heart?
Form'd to perceive, to act by Judgment's light?
Form'd with the purest taste, unsoil'd by art,
To urge swift Fancy on, or check her flight?
No, let Us vow, when that auspicious hour,
Expected long, together joins our fate,
To seek with Nature, her congenial bower,
Remote from envy, tumult, and debate.
Or, should our chains be too severely bound,
That no contagious atoms may infest,
With strictest watch to guard our doors around,
And thus Inclosed, escape the dangerous pest.
Meanwhile O light-plumed Youth, haste not away!
Veil not th' enchanting ardour of thy face;
Let thy eyes glistening dart the vivid ray,
With transport speak, and move with native grace.
Ah! much I fear, e'er that auspicious hour,
No more thy bloom soft-mantling will be seen,
Fading, as shrink before the Solar power
May's fragrant blossoms, and her cheerful green.
With thee must Joy, must smiling Love retreat?
Shall the quick stream which warms the heart, be cold?
Shall Sensibility desert her seat?
And Fancy's radiant visions, clouds infold?
Shall Innocence no more her blush bestow?
Tender Humanity, the pitying sigh?
No more enraptured, shall the spirits flow
At Honour's call? To Us shall Virtue die?
Forbid it all Ye Powers, whose bounteous hands
Our soul-connecting wreathe at first intwined!
Let Us rejoin your unpolluted bands,
And leave th' infected city far behind.
Still, still awhile retard the wings of Youth!
Give Us Retirement's genuine bliss to share!
Let mutual Faith, Sincerity, and Truth,
The Blameless Muse, and ardent Love be there!
XVIII.
WHO, elevated by the sacred flame
Of Poesy sublime, their Minds debase?
Spotted with indecorous deeds of shame?
And imitating Man's inferior race?
How little They the Muse's Votary know,
Who think his soul from constancy will swerve,
While the pure current whence his Numbers flow,
Each artery fills, and strengthens every nerve!
These truths, my Thespia, on thy memory seal.
Are there, who boast to join her chosen train,
Fickle and wavering, of affections frail,
Pursuing joys fantastic, light and vain?
Who stoop to vaunting Pride? Who covet gold?
Who scorn the least of Honour's generous ties?
Rude in their manners, pert, obtrusive, bold?
The Muse surveys them with indignant eyes.
No warm originality is theirs,
Genius retired, or frown'd upon their birth,
Mechanic Rhimesters, to mechanic ears,
The frigid, groveling Progeny of earth.
Idly They strive t' ascend the forked hill,
It's arduous paths, and rocks abrupt to climb,
Forever at it's base, tho' labouring still,
Then swept unnoticed down the vale of time.
Confiding in their oaths—Oh, Luckless Fair!
What woes, what tortures, follow close behind!
Unprincipled their giddy bark they steer,
It suits their native littleness of mind.
Not thus, on Whom the true Phoeboean ray
It's influence sheds; his bosom glowing bright,
Free are his numbers as the beams of day,
Ardent and chaste as that celestial light.
Should He, amid the fervid hours of Youth,
Be drawn by Pleasure's specious wiles aside,
Soon he retreats, led back by radiant Truth,
Nor e'er forsakes again his bounteous Guide.
To Fashion's mode He varies not his strain,
Nature and Taste impart their liberal rules,
No Flatterer He, no Slave to sordid gain,
And independent on the breath of Fools.
For no peculiar day, no age He sings,
The time will come when Judgment shall prevail;
For late Posterity He spreads his wings,
And lives, when marble monuments shall fail.
Firmness and Dignity possess his soul,
No wild caprice, or trifles fond, beguile;
His steady course is bent t'ward Honour's goal,
The Virtues praise Him, and the Graces smile.
How True to Fame! How tenderly alive
To Pity's soft emotions! How sincere!
How vainly the tumultuous Passions strive
Toshake his breast! They claim no empire there.
No change he knows, ne'er roves his devious eye,
On Him the Virgin's heart it's faith reclines;
He estimates a tear of Her's, a sigh,
Above Potosi's or Golconda's mines.
Doth not on Him, her every hope depend?
Shall Love, shall Innocence, repent the trust?
Can Rectitude it's deeds with Falsehood blend?
Or can the Muse's Offspring be unjust?
Haply their spurious Brood at strains like these
May scoff; and Dissipation laugh aloud:
But Nature all-consistent in her ways,
With the Sun's essence mingles not a cloud.
In the same breast She places not desires
Of adverse sort, discriminating nice;
Nor kindles strong Imagination's fires,
In the cold head, or luke-warm heart of Vice.
XIX.
FROM the first hour when I beheld the light,
No time compared with this have I survey'd,
No day e'er rose with lustre half so bright,
No minutes shone in plumes so fair array'd.
At length Adversity hath spent her store,
Or with false aim her poison'd arrows fly;
Our spirits long deprest, again can soar,
No tears but those of bliss, shall wet our eye.
O my Beloved! this day shall ever stand,
With Me, the golden period of the year;
This day good Fortune waved her potent wand,
Dispersing all the mists of doubt and fear.
Ne'er may they rise again our joys between!
Ye unexpected ties propitious prove!
Fairer, and brighter still be every scene,
Pourtray'd by tenderness, illumed by love!
XX.
This Elegy, is principally imitated from the first of Tibullus.
LET Some heap wealth with never-ceasing pain,
Try every art, and brave all ills for gain.
Let Others toil in war, whom glory charms,
Their slumbers broken by the din of arms.
Me, neither emulous of pomp or praise,
Choice to a life of indolence betrays.
Nor small the pleasure which the Country yields,
It's rills untainted, and innoxious fields.
Now from th' incircling weed the plant I free,
Now shake the ripen'd Apple from the tree;
My thriving nursery view; or lands which bear
The frugal portion of the future year;
In hope, my sheaves arranged with skill, survey,
Or homeward borne, and safely piled away.
I blush not in my hardy palm to take
The sharpen'd sickle, or collecting rake;
To turn the furrow in the loosen'd plain,
And throw with liberal hand the yellow grain.
Or when unheeded by it's careless Dam,
To foster by my fire a tender Lamb.
This is the place where life with joy is spent,
These are the haunts which cherish sweet Content.
Oh! when a vacant interspace I find,
To tread the paths, myself have taught to wind,
Where the trim hedgerows, neatly pleach'd, around
Defend my farm, and circumscribe it's bound.
To break my fence, and ramble, void of car,
Across the hills and dales, I know not where;
How struck with awe, or pleasure, should my eye
A blasted Oak unseen before espy!
Or my ear catch the song of rustic Hind
Borne on the pinions of the breathing wind!
Tho' slender are my means, nor large my store,
Yet not unhospitable is my door;
Oft shall my honest Neighbours enter there,
And own, that tho' not rich, I am sincere.
There helpless Age shall gain some small supply,
Nor lift in vain the supplicating eye.
Oh! may my fields the bursting torrent spare,
Nor sweep away the produce of the year!
Oh! wholesome be the gales which o'er them blow!
So shall my grazing flock no taintworm know:
So shall my healthy Oxen draw the plough,
My kine with well-distended udders low.
Be to my humble prayer propitious, Heaven!
Nor thus make less the little Thou hast given!
That little is enough; with that I'm blest;
And feel each wish abundantly possest.
Yes, 'tis enough; what Luxury ne'er knows,
Each eve I steep my limbs in calm repose.
Should I awake, how pleased, to lye, and hear
The raging winds without assail my ear!
And should my Thespia at the tempest start,
To strain the trembling Fair One to my heart!
Or when the wintry rain descends in streams
Then to be buried in Elysian dreams!
This be
my
lot; let Him be rich for Me,
Who dares the terrors of th' uncertain sea;
The pointed rocks, and hidden quicksands braves,
And all the fury of the winds and waves.
This be
my
lot; Content shall league with Health,
Nor give one anxious thought to pride or wealth.
My luxury; the summers fervid sun
In some o'er-arching cave, or grove to shun;
Seek the deep-shaded stream which steals along,
And pour my unpremeditated song.
When Winter drives my Cattle to the fold,
And the shrunk Aether is benumb'd with cold,
To heap the crackling fuel, and at ease
Enjoy the spreading lustre of the blaze;
Or bid my distant household Train draw nigh,
And catch the pleasure beaming from their eye.
Riches! I give them to the wind—to Me
They shine unnoticed, and my Fair to thee.
Riches! again I give You to the wind—
Say, can you add one pleasure to the Mind?
Root out the ever-withering branch of care?
Or plant one vegetative virtue there?
Wide-straying Fancy, whither dost Thou rove?
O Thespia, all these thoughts I owe to love.
From thee they spring, by thee my breast was fired,
And reason sanctifies, what love inspired.
Had not thy wishes breathed an humble life,
I might perhaps, with base diseases rife,
Have join'd the sordid throng—have dogg'd the train
Of abject Pride, and clank'd my golden chain.
Now do I know to live My Thespia, now
To live indeed, for Thou hast taught Me how.
For thee My Love, no toil would I disdain,
But vie in labour with the meanest Swain.
My Oxen join, when day begins to peep,
Or on the lonely mountain feed my sheep;
And while my arms thy gentle form surround,
Enjoy soft slumbers on the rugged ground.
Who on th' embroider'd couch would wish to lye,
If scornful love expand his sleepless eye?
Ah! wretch! soft melody's enchanting strain,
The downy pillow tempts repose in vain.
Let Vanity in empty shew delight,
To glitter in the Gazer's wondring sight;
Let proud Ambition to the court repair,
There the mean brow of servile flattery wear,
Cringe to some worthless Pander every hour,
Creep on the dirty ground, to rise to power.
Let Avarice looking on his tumid store,
Exulting lift his head, and curse the Poor;
Thou fill'st my every wish, and while the fire
Of life shall burn, no other shall transpire.
E'en at the last, Thou still my sight shalt bless,
And my weak hand shall strive thy hand to press.
How wilt Thou mourn, and droop thy pensive head,
When on my bed of death I shall be laid!
Yes, Thou wilt mourn, my pale, cold limbs embrace,
And bathe with ineffectual tears my face.
Thou hast no flinty heart which cannot feel,
Thy bosom is not braced with chains of steel.
With streaming eyes see Me inhumed in clay,
Nor force shall tear thee from my grave away.
Yet Oh! thy cheeks at that dread moment spare,
Nor rend the flowing tresses of thy hair!
Tho' torn from thee by Death's relentless will,
My conscious soul shall fondly view thee still.
Meantime let Love be ours; too soon will spread
The sable cloud round each devoted head.
Too soon Old Age steals on, whose frosted hair
Forbids the genial blandishments to share.
Now let the Fugitive be our's! for now
On our flush'd cheeks sits well his fervent glow.
Now it becomes to mix th' endearing scene,
And scatter sweet protervity between.
Far be the bustling World! it's trivial joys,
It's fame, it's wealth, it's honours, I despise.
XXI.
HATH the flaming Car of day
Roll'd it's annual course away,
Since my Thespia to my arms
Yielded first her Virgin charms?
Since the meekly-blushing Fair
Whisper'd softly in my ear,
Anxious grief and doubt are flown,
Take Me, I am all thy own?
Yes, the rapid hours are past,
Fled with more than winged haste.
Swift indeed is Pleasure's tread,
Swift Ye Hours of joy Ye fled.
Ever-enchanting! Ever-new!
Still with fondest look I view
The gentle beams which from thy heart
Thro' thy eyes expressive dart.
Still I feel a Lover's fire,
Tenderest thoughts, and warm desire;
The bridal Graces round thee play,
Young, Unconscious of decay.
Hence reproach, and satire vain!
Fools may feel the galling chain.
Freedom for Us the garland wove,
Connecting Hymen, close with Love.
Doth possession render less
The sweet zest of happiness?
How with pity We behold
The groveling soul, and slaves of gold!
XXII.
I Call no Virgin of the Nine,
I bend not low at Fancy's shrine,
To truth alone these strains belong,
She guides my pen, and prompts my song.
O Thespia, Time, which can controul
The wilder fervours of the soul,
Before whom falsehood stands confest,
Of frailty the decisive test,
Hath, while the still-progressive year
Surrounded twice the solar sphere,
Added new strength to tender love,
The passion nicer spirits prove.
Hath tried thy soul, and found it right,
Hath brought new graces forth to light;
Discover'd beauties in the Wife,
Which could not bloom in single life.
How poor is Wealth, how low is Power,
Compared with thy superior dower!
Thine are the charms of Innocence,
Of unaffected, native sense,
From that, springs chaste and humorous Mirth,
And this, to Decency gives birth,
The band without whose modest tye
Mirth is unmeaning revelry.
Thine is Compassion's breath sincere,
Her gentle sigh, and generous tear.
Prudential caution, artless ease,
That sweet solicitude to please
Which never fails my soul to bless,
And renders every trouble less.
Let Fortune frown; let Friendship fade,
Disown the promises it made;
Let Flattery cringe, her baits display,
And leagued with selfish Fraud, betray.
Whatever winds across my course
Blow adverse, and whate'er their force,
Thou still shalt soothe my ruffled breast,
With thee Peace builds her Halcyon nest.
Thou wilt Content's pure joys impart,
And calm Serenity of heart.
I hate no more, by thee refined,
But only wonder at Mankind.
And tho' I know my prayer is vain,
And they are fetter'd by the chain
Of Folly, Malice, Pride and Pelf,
Wish They were happy as Myself.
XXIII.
THERE are, who think Mankind are born to rove,
By nature vagrant as th' uncertain gale,
Who laugh at vows of constancy and love,
As dreams of fancy, or a Dotard's tale.
To these, my Thespia, silence is the best,
The only answer, can be justly given;
Let them enjoy their dull unmeaning jest;
Can creeping Mists pollute the face of Heaven?
They know not real love, nor ever knew;
And bent on vulgar scenes of low delight,
Can never Virtue's genuine beauties view,
Or the true ray of pleasure mildly bright.
In fashion's bowers they flit their little day,
And eager from their souls to banish thought,
To idle dissipation homage pay,
And giddy, drink her various-mingled draught.
For them let secret Pity drop a tear,
And nobly conscious of sublimer joys,
Self-satisfied her happier fortune bear,
And leave to change and vanity their toys.
Conscious the darling Object ne'er can tire,
True love to each external good is blind,
Fixt is the wavering pinion of desire,
Thought answers thought, and Mind embraces Mind.
Who think like Us, like Us who love, to those
Can wealth or power an added pleasure give?
Their tender sympathy still stronger grows,
Till memory dies their warm affections live.
Them do their smiling Progeny amuse?
The infant race their mutual cares employ.
This gift should wisest Providence refuse,
They in each other center every joy.
Not accident or time can e'er divide
The attractive, firm, indissoluble chain,
The band which cordial Amity hath tyed,
No Power, but Death itself can break in twain.
XXIV.
London,
February,
1775.
HERE mid the giddy and the vain I rove
In cheerless solitude, nor taste of joy,
My mind retreats to those dear scenes of love,
Those scenes where pleasure reigns without alloy.
Unsatisfied from gayety I turn,
What charms has luxury or pride for Me?
Methinks I view departed Virtues Urn,
And sorrowing fix my longing thoughts on thee.
On thee, her living Image; in whose soul
Dwells every grace which harmonizes life,
Which gilds with bliss the moments as they roll,
And makes Me venerate the name of Wife.
Here mid the croud, unknowing, and unknown
I pass in gloomy sullenness along;
Each entertainment now is odious grown,
The dance insipid, tiresome is the song.
Ah! I perceive that nought on earth can please,
When wanting thee, sole object of delight,
Thy eyes emit their soft expressive rays,
And pleasure smiles, enamour'd at the sight.
Alone, I bear a dull and lifeless load,
My thoughts are moping, comfortless, and cold,
Thy presence is the warm inciting goad
Which cheers each sense, and renders fancy bold.
How wretched They! who in the mazy round
Of idle fashion urge their fruitless chace,
Who every tender sentiment confound,
And Nature's laws submit to Folly base!
Here every hour the Ideot train I spy,
The busy, fluttering, gay, unthinking Crew,
In every place they meet the sated eye,
And wanton Licence sickens at the view.
They know, my Love, no happiness serene,
Tho' in the wild pursuit their lives are spent,
They die unconscious of the soothing strain
Which charms the listening ear of sweet Content.
Mistaken Fair Ones! Idle, thoughtless Tribe!
Victims to vice, to vanity, and play!—
Say, could the World, and all its riches bribe
Thy nobler heart, my Thespia, thus to stray?
Thus to abandon the domestic scene,
Where gentlest Peace forever waves her wing?
Where Honour, Virtue, Mild affection reign,
And Hymen wears th' eternal vest of spring?
No never. Thou incircled in my arms,
Own'st every wish, and every joy compleat;
While I with rapture gazing on thy charms,
Despise the mean ambition of the great.
Ye sluggish Hours, haste, haste more swift away;
That I may fly to all my soul holds dear!
Thy banner, chaste Connubial Love display,
And guide Me safely to her breast sincere!
XXV.
YE Nymphs who tend each blooming grove
Of shady
Hants,
receive My Fair!
Oh! heed th' intreating voice of Love,
And guard her with peculiar care!
A Worthier Guest Ye never knew,
Ne'er hail'd a Soul of more unspotted hue.
If thus my Thespia tread the plain,
A favourite of the Sylvan Powers,
Or in the friendly, dome remain,
Where glide Life's pure unruffled hours,
Say, will not her reflecting Mind
Oft trace the pleasing scenes She left behind?
It will; awhile Herself She cheats,
And thinks the distant vision near,
With new-raised joy her bosom beats,
But soon it fades, and melts in air.
Wishing the real scenes to spy,
With downcast look, She checks the tender sigh.
From my own thoughts I judge of thine,
The same illusions float around,
But ah! too quickly I resign
Th' ideal form, the ideal sound,
Thy graces, like the Meteor's ray,
Thy voice, like feeble Echo's, dies away.
On Isca's margin green I rove,
Or hurry t'ward the rural Cot,
But unobserved by social Love,
The varied landscape charms Me not;
Only by thee attractive made,
Deck'd with it's beauteous tints of light and shade.
Oh! come Thou Wanderer! Pleasures beam
Now setting, shall again arise,
With Love United, pour it's stream
Of radiance, and adorn the skies.
Come Gentle Wanderer to my heart!
Return, return, my Soul's far dearer part!
XXVI.
NOW Issuing from his northern reign,
Stern Winter rushes o'er the plain,
And proudly boasts his power.
The Genius of the forest sighs,
While pensive Nature shivering lyes
Beneath her leafless bower.
Who Thespia, shall the season cheer?
Relax the rigour of the year?
And e'en in Winter's arms,
Bid Fancy place gay-blooming Spring,
And frolic Zephyr wave his wing,
In homage to her charms?
Ah, who but Love! within the breast
By his enchanting influence blest
Perennial roses grow;
Ethereal Mildness harbours there,
No furious storms, or nipping air
His sweet Enthusiasts know.
They view well-pleased a different clime,
To them a different date of time,
Another Sun belongs;
While all-unseen by vulgar eye,
Ten thousand plumed Pleasures fly,
And chaunt their vernal songs.
If haply human Passions swell,
And shake awhile their peaceful cell,
They strive with idle force:
Soon, mutual Fondness in her chains
The momentary blasts restrains,
And smiling, checks their course.
Soon as before, the lillies bloom,
Again the roses breathe perfume,
And fresher colours spread;
Again the Pleasures wave their wing,
Again their warbled transports sing,
Around the nuptial bed.
O Thespia, days and Years pass by;
The varying seasons We espy,
To Us no change is known;
With Us perpetual verdure blows,
For Us with constant beauty glows
A Season of our own.
XXVII.
SAY, can the Muse with all her magic power
Tho' every grace attends her fairy train,
Tho' She hath cull'd each bloom which decks the bower
Of Elegance, to ornament her strain.
Can She the soul of Hymeneal Love,
Can She its tender sympathies pourtray?
While Harmony expands her wings above,
And Passion yields to Friendship's steadier ray?
Ah no! 'tis Her's, the suffering Lover's tears,
His feverish hopes, and wild desires to paint,
His giddy transports, jealous doubts, and fears,
But who can trace the charms of full Content?
The soft complacence of the conscious heart
Mocks the rude touches of Poetic Art.
XXVIII.
THO' I have broke by force the dazzling spell,
No longer by its bright illusions sway'd,
Tho' plunged in action, I have bid farewell
To soothing Fancy, to each tuneful Maid.
Yet at thy call I take a transient view,
And for a moment seek the Muses' shrine,
Fresh-blooming chaplets on their Altar strew,
To their enchantments deaf, but ruled by thine.
Yes, witness Nuptial Love! No other Power
Could now evoke the long-forgotten strain,
With glancing sun-beam cheer the clouded hour,
And urge Me to their roseate paths again.
With thee I trace each lawn, each meadow green;
Thy voice, is that, of reason, science, truth;
With thee I visit each Ideal scene,
The rapture-breathing haunts of early Youth.
Well-pleased the Son of Venus I behold,
Well-pleased behold Him aim his thrilling dart,
And generous Ardour scorning sordid gold,
And Faith ingenuous linking heart to heart.
And adverse Fate prepared to break the tye,
But idly-striving with malicious hand,
And Perseverance with intrepid eye,
And Hope gay-waving her ethereal wand.
And Hymen with a fragrant garland crown'd
By the soft fingers of the graces wove,
Scattering profuse a thousand blessings round,
And holding converse sweet with smiling Love.
With smiling Love still converse sweet He holds;
To no ideal scenes We need repair,
The Muse's hallow'd shrine his wing infolds,
And the Bard offers his just homage there.
His be the chaplets! his the Votive lay!
Let others dwell on thoughts of past delight;
He gilds the beams of this auspicious day,
And sheds o'er all the Fane his influence bright.
This morn to gratulate, for many a year
May I with joy awake the slumbering lyre!
My Numbers which to Thespia first were dear,
Will at her bidding reassume their fire.
I ask not fame, Misjudging Croud begone!
The Muse ye vilify sings not for You.
She sings for Thespia, and from her alone
Expects the palm to constant passion due.
XXIX.
Bath,
December
20, 1778.
YE Nymphs! Who o'er these mystic springs preside,
Which the laborious search of Art deride,
By whom alone is traced their winding course,
Who know each seed impregnating their source,
And whether chymic heat, or real flame
Preserves their warmth, thro' countless years, the same.
Great is your Virtue, and with praises due
Hygeia oft hath tuned the lyre to You.
But Oh! Ye Chaste-breath'd Harmonies! whose sway,
And gentle impulse Minds select obey;
Who in the softer, purer heart reside,
Each thought refine, and each emotion guide,
Who from that seat expel intruding care,
And bid serene complacence harbour there,
Bid Patience spread her wing, Ethereal Guest,
And charm the sullen passious into rest,
Without your aid, how vain the boasted waves
Would issue from their subterraneous caves!
In vain the Nymphs would cause them still to flow,
Steam in the Bath, or in the Chrystal glow.
Say then my Thespia, shall not I e'erlong,
The blue-ey'd Sisters hail with grateful song?
Who to these streams (no doubt inspired by Heaven)
Such matchless force, and energy have given?
Yes, Pristine Health must soon again be Mine;
For all the mental Harmonies are thine.
XXX.
O Thou! who climb'st at morn the mountain high,
Viewing th' impurpled East with joyful eye,
Thence with light step descending to the vale,
Imbibest with extasy the breezy gale!
Or piercing thro' some covert yet untried,
Beating the moist, o'er-hanging boughs aside,
Still movest delighted on with nimble pace,
The sprinkled dew-drops glittering in thy face,
Listening the brook which idly brawls along,
And every plumed Warbler's matin song!
Or when the burnish'd Car by Phoebus roll'd,
Darts more intense it's rays of liquid gold,
Beneath some ivy-fringed cave reclined,
Fancy's bright Visions rushing on thy Mind,
With spirits bland, nursed by the genial Powers,
Soothest with melodious notes the sultry hours!
Nor less when each gay verdant scene is lost,
And Winter shoots his darts of polar frost,
With Exercise thy Sister, pleased, to brave
The Winds fierce issuing from their stormy cave!
Fleet o'er the smooth and ice-bound lake to skim,
While the blood glows in every active limb!
To follow where the Hounds direct their speed,
Urging o'er hill and dale the rapid Steed!
Or by the social blaze, with cheerful breast
Prompting the tale of mirth and frolic jest,
The rural laugh which springs from heart-felt glee,
The sprightly dance, and artless minstrelsy!
Hygeia! Fairest Nymph of Dian's train!
Ah! why by Me so long pursued in vain!
I see thee not, when beams Morn's purple light,
When shines the Sun with mid-day fervour bright,
I meet thee not upon the mountain's brow,
In the wild woodland, or the vale below,
Nor by the pratling brook with osiers crown'd,
Nor in the cave with flaunting ivy bound;
And when the Minstrel sings with heart-felt glee,
To Him confest, thy charms are hid from Me.
Hygeia! Fairest Nymph of Dian's train!
Ah! why by me so long pursued in vain!
Yet sometimes at a distance, I survey,
But dim, and thro' a cloud, thy paler ray.
I snatch the lucid interval, and soar
Awhile with swift-wing'd Fancy as of yore;
The Muses invocate, with zealous prayer,
Nor unpropitious do the Muses hear;
Till the cloud thickening, veils thy beams in Night,
Fancy prone sinks from her aerial height:
Pain whets his stings, their torpid force prevails,
The venom spreads, the mental ardour fails.
Still fly Hygeia! drooping Fancy fly!
A sacred Power there is, forever nigh.
Love, in thy shape My Thespia, stands unmoved;
Love ne'er deserts what once it truly loved.
Sickness still more forbids it's bonds to start,
And pity softens more it's tender heart:
A gentler, but more strong attraction reigns;
And milder energies new-brace it's chains.
While then My Thespia's looks each care beguile,
While in her presence pain and languor smile,
While on the mind She pours an healing balm,
And binds it's tempests in an Halcyon calm,
Awakens hope, and banishes despair,
And tho' I feel, yet teaches Me to bear;
Still fly Hygeia! Thou too Fancy fly!
A strengthening soul-inspiring Power is nigh.
Let That, her influence; This, her strains refuse;
Thou shalt be Health my Thespia, Thou the Muse.
XXXI.
AT least in plumes unborrow'd, I present
These Elegies of Love to Thespia's eye;
She hates with Me the florid ornament,
And gawdy Muse, whose strains her soul belie.
To Thespia only, and the Few, whose taste
Accords with Her's, the tender lays belong.
Life's real scenes, domestic, simple, chaste,
Form for the Vulgar no attractive song.
Envy might hasten to depreciate fame;
And Critics sneer with many a low-bred jest,
Join with their groveling wit, her spotless name,
Studious t' affect with pain her modest breast.
They might perhaps with base illiberal art
Each weaker number cull, (for who can build
The perfect rhime?) and from the excepted part,
Pronounce the Whole with faults unseemly fill'd.
Or hating Living Worth, some Author dead
Produce; his sainted page contrast with mine;
And think the wreathe must fade upon my head,
Because his laurels, spite of Malice, shine.
Not thus, They would aver, Tibullus wove
His gentle song to Delia's matchless praise;
Not Hammond thus, the favour'd Priest of Love,
Taught by each Grace, pour'd his mellifluous lays.
Their Muse, no doubt, entire Perfection crowns,
No little lapse, no flaw we can espy.—
Insensible are They to Envy's frowns,
They do not live t' offend Detractions' eye.
No Bard I seek to rival in my strain;
As Nature dictated, the Roman wrote;
Hammond in elegant and easy vein,
Hath sweetly copied what Tibullus thought.
As Nature dictated with sovereign will,
So rose my thoughts, so flow'd my easy lay.
The quick sensations fly from tardy skill,
Yet Elegance may move as swift as They.
For with the Sentiment, th' Expression springs,
From the same lucid chamber of the Mind.
Coarseness it's speed must check, retract it's wings,
And hovering ound, long strive to be refined.
But Thespia smiles—She all the verse inspired;
Form'd each idea, sees each feeling true.
Love is the only Judge to be desired,
Where only Love the genuine portraits drew.
Hence then away, Ye mean Invidious Bands!
And the vile Croud, which iterates your voice!
These strains, my Thespia, shall escape their hands;
Such is thy purer wish, and such my choice.
Some Friends Alone, our faithful loves shall read,
Consentient Minds, who cannot, will not blame;
From Envy, from each grosser passion freed,
Whose thoughts are hallow'd, whose esteem is Fame.
Passages in the First & Second Elegy of Tibullus, alluded to Page 73.
I.
DIVITIAS alius fulvo sibi congerat auro,
Et teneat culti jugera magna soli:
Quem labor assiduus vicino terreat hoste,
Martia cui somnos classica pulsa fugent.
Me mea paupertas vitae traducit inerti.
Ipse seram teneras maturo tempore vites
Rusticus, et sacili grandia poma manu.
Nec spes destituat, sed frugum semper acervos
Praebeat.—
Nam veneror, seu stipes habet desertus in agris,
Seu vetus in trivio florida serta lapis.
Sed canis aestivos ortus vitare sub umbra
Arboris, ad rivos praetereuntis aquae.
Nec tamen interdum pudeat tenuisse bidentem,
Aut stimulo tardos increpuisse boves.
Non agnamve sinu pigeat, foetumve capellae
Desertum oblita matre referre domum.
At vos exiguo pecori furesque lupique
Parcite.—
Parva seges satis est, parvo requiescere lecto,
Si licet, et solito membra levare toro.
Quam juvat immites ventos audire cubantem
Et dominam tenero continuisse sinu!
Aut gelidas hybernus aquas cum fuderit Auster,
Securum somnos, imbre juvante, sequi!
Hoc mihi contingat, sit dives jure, furorem
Qui maris, et tristes ferre potest pluvias.
O quantum est auri pereat—
Te spectem suprema mihi cum venerit hora,
Et teneam Moriens deficiente manu.
Flebis, et arsuro positum Me, Delia, lecto,
Tristibus et lacrymis oscula mista dabis.
Flebis: non tua sunt duro praecordia serro
Vincta, nec in tenero stat tibi corde silex.
Illo non juvenis poterit de funere quisquam
Lumina, non virgo sicca referre domum
Tu Manes ne laede meos, sed parce solutis
Crinibus, et teneris Delia parce genis.
Interea dum fata sinunt jungamus amores;
Iam veniet tenebris mors adoperta caput.
Iam subrepet iners aetas, neo amare decebit,
Dicere nec cano blanditias capite.
Nunc levis est tractanda Venus, dum frangere postes
Non pudet, et rixas inseruisse juvat.
Ferte et opes; ego composito securus acervo
Despiciam dites.
II.
IPSE boves mea si tecum modo, Delia, possim
Iungere, et in folo pascere monte pecus.
Et te dum liceat teneris retinere lacertis,
Mollis et inculta sit mihi somnus humo.
Quid Tyrio recubare toro sine amore secundo
Prodest, cum fletu nox vigilanda venit?
Nam neque tum plumae, nec stragula picta soporem,
Nec sonitus placidae ducere possit aquae.