Page images
PDF
EPUB

HYMN TO VENUS,

ON A GREAT VARIETY OF ROSES BEING PLANTED ROUND HER COTTAGE.

Te, dea, te fugiunt venti, te nubila cali Adventumque tuum; tibi suaves Dædala tellus Summittit flores.......... Lucret.

O VENUS, whose inspiring breath

First waken'd Nature's genial power, And cloth'd the teeming Earth beneath With every plant, with every flower, Which paints the verdant lap of Spring, Or wantons in the Summer's ray; Which, brush'd by Zephyr's dewy wing,

With fragrance hails the opening day; Or, pour'd profuse on hill, on plain, on dale, Reserves its treasur'd sweets for evening's softer gale!

To thee, behold, what new delights
The master of this shade prepares!
Induc'd by far inferior rites,

You've heard a Cyprian's softest prayers;
There, form'd to wreaths, the sickly flower
Has on thy altars bloom'd and died;
But here, around thy fragrant bower,

Extends the living incense wide;

From the first rose the fost'ring zephyrs rear, To that whose fainter blush adorns the dying year.

Behold one beauteous flower assume

The lustre of th' unsullied snow! While there the Belgic's softer bloom

Improves the damask's deeper glow; The Austrian here in purple breaks,

Or flaunts in robes of yellow light; While there, in more fantastic streaks,

The red rose mingles with the white', And in its name records poor Albion's woes, Albion that oft has wept the colours of the rose!

Then, Venus, come; to every thorn
Thy kind prolific influence lend;
And bid the tears of eve and morn

In gently dropping dews descend;
Teach every sunbeam's warmth and light
To pierce thy thicket's iumost shade;
Nor let th' ungenial damps of night

The breeze's searching wings evade, But every plant confess the power that guides, And all be beauty here where beauty's queen presides.

So shall the master's bounteous hand
New plans design, new temples raise
To thee, and wide as his command
Extend the trophies of thy praise.
So daily, nightly, to thy star

The bard shall grateful tribute pay,
Whether it gilds Aurora's car,

Or loiters in the train of day;

And each revolving year new hymns shall grace Thy showery month, which wakes the vegetable

race.

I York and Lancaster roses.

IN A HERMITAGE,

AT THE SAME PLACE.

THE man, whose days of youth and ease
In Nature's calm enjoyments pass'd,
Will want no monitors, like these ',
To torture and alarm his last.
The gloomy grot, the cypress shade,
The zealot's list of rigid rules,
To him are merely dull parade,
The tragic pageantry of fools.
What life affords he freely tastes,

When Nature calls resigns his breath; Nor age in weak repining wastes,

Nor acts alive the farce of death.

Not so the youths of folly's train,
Impatient of each kind restraint
Which parent Nature fix'd, in vain,
To teach us man's true bliss, content.

For something still beyond enough
With eager impotence they strive,
Till appetite has learn'd to loathe
The very joys by which we live.
Then, fill'd with all which sour disdain
To disappointed vice can add,
Tir'd of himself, man flies from man,
And hates the world he made so bad.

INSCRIPTION FOR A COLD BATH.

WHOE'ER thou art, approach.-Has med'cine fail'd? Have balms and herbs essay'd their powers in vain? Nor the free air, nor fost'ring Sun prevail'd

To raise thy drooping strength, or soothe thy pain?

Yet enter here. Nor doubt to trust thy frame
To the cold bosom of this lucid lake.
Here Health may greet thee, and life's languid flame,
Ev'n from its icy grasp, new vigour take.

What soft Ausonia's genial shores deny,

May Zembla give. Then boldly trust the wave: So shall thy grateful tablet hang on high, And frequent votaries bless this healing cave.

INSCRIPTION ON AN OAK,

AT ROMELY, IN DERBYSHIRE.
THE OAK IS SUPPOSED TO SPEAK.

ONCE was I fam'd, an awful sage,
The silent wonder of my age!
To me was every science known,
And every language was my own.
The Sun beheld my daily toil,
I labour'd o'er the midnight oil,
And, hid in woods, conceal'd from view
Whate'er I was, whate'er I knew.

A skull, hour-glass, &c.

[blocks in formation]

ON THE TERRACE, AT NUNEHAM, OXFORDSHIRE.

THIS tree was planted by a female hand,

In the gay dawn of rustic beauty's glow; And fast beside it did her cottage stand, [snow. When age had cloth'd the matron's head with To her, long us'd to Nature's simple ways,

This single spot was happiness complete; Her tree could shield her from the noon-tide blaze, And from the tempest screen her little seat. Here with her Collin oft the faithful maid

Had led the dance, the envious youths among: Here, when his aged bones in earth were laid, The patient matron turn'd her wheel, and sung. She felt her loss; yet felt it as she ought,

Nor dar'd 'gainst Nature's general law exclaim; But check'd her tears, and to her children taught That well-known truth, "their lot would be the same."

Though Thames before her flow'd, his farther shores

She ne'er explor'd; contented with her own: And distant Oxford, though she saw its towers, To her ambition was a world unknown. Did dreadful tales the clowns from market bear Of kings, and tumults, and the courtier train, She coldly listen'd with unheeding ear, [reign. And good queen Anne, for aught she car'd, might The Sun her day, the seasons mark'd her year,

She toil'd, she slept, from care, from envy free, For what had she to hope, or what to fear,

Blest with her cottage, and her fav'rite tree? Hear this, ye great, whose proud possessions spread O'er Earth's rich surface to no space confin'd; Ye learn'd in arts, in men, in manners read, Who boast as wide an empire o'er the mind, With reverence visit her august domain;

To her unletter'd memory bow the knee: She found that happiness you seek in vain, Blest with a cottage, and a single tree.

Here living sweets around her altar rise,
And breathe perpetual incense to the skies.
Here too the thoughtless and the young may tread,
Who shun the drearier mansions of the dead;
May here be taught what worth the world has known,
Her wit, her sense, her virtues, were her own;
To her peculiar-and for ever lost

To those who knew, and therefore lov'd her most.
O, if kind pity steal on virtue's eye,
Check not the tear, nor stop the useful sigh;
From soft humanity's ingenuous flame.
A wish may rise to emulate her fame,
And some faint image of her worth restore,
When those, who now lament her, are no more.

AN EPITAPH,

HERE lies a youth (ah, wherefore breathless lies!)
Learn'd without pride, and diffidently wise.
Mild to all faults, which from weak nature flow'd;
Fond of all virtues, wheresoe'er bestow'd.
Who never gave, nor slightly took offence,
The best good-nature, and the best good sense,
Who living hop'd, and dying felt no fears,
His only sting of death, a parent's tears.

EPITAPH IN WESTMINSTER-ABBEY.

TO THE

MEMORY OF MRS. PRITCHARD,

THIS TABLET IS PLACED HERE BY THE VOLUNTARY SUBSCRIPTION OF THOSE WHO ADMIRED AND ESTEEMED HER.

SHE RETIRED FROM THE STAGE, OF WHICH SHE HAD LONG
BEEN THE ORNAMENT, IN THE MONTH OF APRIL ONE
THOUSAND SEVEN HUNDRED SIXTY-EIGHT, AND DIED AT
BATH IN THE MONTH OF AUGUST FOLLOWING, IN THE
FIFTY-SEVENTH YEAR OF HER AGE.

HER Comic vein had every charm to please,
'Twas Nature's dictates breath'd with Nature's ease.
Ev'n when her powers sustain'd the tragic load,
Full, clear, and just, th' harmonious accents flow'd;
And the big passions of her feeling heart
Burst freely forth, and sham'd the mimic art.

Oft, on the scene, with colours not her own,
She painted vice, and taught us what to shun:
One virtuous track her real life pursued,
That nobler part was uniformly good,
Each duty there to such perfection wrought,
That, if the precepts fail'd, th' example taught.

INSCRIPTION

ON

THE PEDESTAL OF AN URN,

ERECTED IN THE FLOWER-GARDEN AT NUNEHAM, BY G. S. HARCOURT, AND THE HONOURABLE ELIZABETH VERNON, VISCOUNT AND VISCOUNTESS NUNEHAM.

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF FRANCES POOLE, VISCOUNTESS PALMERSTON.

HERE shall our ling'ring footsteps oft be found,
This is her shrine, and consecrates the ground.

'This tree is well known to the country people by the name of Bab's tree. It was planted by one Barbara Wyat, who was so much attached to it, that, on the removal of the village of Nuneham to

ON THE LATE

IMPROVEMENTS AT NUNEHAM,

THE SEAT OF THE EARL OF HARCOURT.

DAME Nature, the goddess, one very bright day, In strolling through Nuneham, met Brown in her way:

where it is now built, she earnestly entreated that she might still remain in her old habitation. Her request was complied with, and her cottage not pulled down till after her death,

"And bless me," she said, with an insolent sneer, "I wonder that fellow will dare to come here. What more than I did has your impudence plann'd? The lawn, wood, and water, are all of my hand; In my very best manner, with Themis's scales, I lifted the hills, and I scoop'd out the vales; With Sylvan's own umbrage I grac'd ev'ry brow, And pour'd the rich Thames through the meadows below." [mand

"I grant it," he cry'd; "to your sov'reign comI bow, as I ought.-Gentle lady, your hand; The weather's inviting, so let us move on; You know what you did, and now see what I've done. I, with gratitude, own you have reason to plead, That to these happy scenes you were bounteous indeed :

My lovely materials were many and great! (For sometimes, you know, I'm oblig'd to create) But say in return, my adorable dame,

To all you see here, can you lay a just claim? Were there no slighter parts which you finish'd in haste,

Or left, like a friend, to give scope to my taste?
Who drew o'er the surface, did you, or did I,
The smooth-flowing outline, that steals from the eye1,
The soft undulations, both distant and near,
That heave from the lawns, and yet scarcely appear?
(So bends the ripe harvest the breezes beneath,
As if Earth was in slumber and gently took breath)
Who thinn'd, and who group'd, and who scatter'd
those trees,

Who bade the slopes fall with that delicate ease, Who cast them in shade, and who plac'd them in light,

Who bade them divide, and who bade them unite?
The ridges are melted, the boundaries gone:
Observe all these changes, and candidly own
I have cloth'd you when naked, and, when overdrest,
I have stripp'd you again to your boddice and vest;
Conceal'd ev'ry blemish, each beauty display'd,
As Reynolds would picture some exquisite maid,
Each spirited feature would happily place,
And shed o'er the whole inexpressible grace.

"One question remains. Up the green of yon steep,

Who threw the bold walk with that elegant sweep? -There is little to see, till the summit we gain; Nay, never draw back, you may climb without pain, And, I hope, will perceive how each object is caught, And is lost, iu exactly the point where it ought. That ground of your moulding is certainly fine, But the swell of that knoll and those openings are

mine.

The prospect, wherever beheld, must be good, But has ten times its charms, when you burst from this wood, ["Hold! A wood of my planting."-The goddess cried, 'Tis grown very hot, and 't is grown very cold :' She fann'd and she shudder'd, she cough'd and she sneez'd,

Inclin'd to be angry, inclin'd to be pleas'd,

The first two words in this couplet have identical rather than corresponding sounds, and therefore only appear to rhyme. This defect, however, may easily be removed by transposing the two verses, and reading them thus:

That sweet-flowing outline, that steals from the view, Who drew o'er the surface, did I, or did you? M.

Half smil'd, and half pouted-then turn'd from the view,

And dropp'd him a courtesy, and blushing withdrew.

Yet soon recollecting her thoughts, as she pass'd, "I may have my revenge on this fellow at last: For a lucky conjecture comes into my head, That, whate'er he has done, and whate'er he has said, The world's little malice will balk his design: Each fault they call his, and each excellence mine"."

TO LADY NUNEHAM,

NOW COUNTESS OF HARCOURT,

ON THE DEATH OF HER SISTER, THE HONOURABLE CATHE-
RINE VENABLES VERNON, JUNE, MDCCLXXV.

MILD as the opening morn's serenest ray,
Mild as the close of summer's softest day,
Her form, her virtues, (fram'd alike to please
With artless grace and unassuming ease)
On every breast their mingling influence stole,
And in sweet union breath'd one beauteous whole.
Oft, o'er a sister's much-lamented bier,
Has genuine anguish pour'd the kindred tear:
Oft, on a dear-lov'd friend's untimely grave,
Have sunk in speechless grief, the wise and brave.

-Ah, hapless thou! for whose severer woe Death arm'd with double force his fatal blow, Condemn'd (just Heaven! for what mysterious end?) To lose at once the sister and the friend 3!

THE

BATTLE OF ARGOED LLWYFAIN1. MORNING

rose; the issuing Sun Saw the dreadful fight begun; And that Sun's descending ray Clos'd the battle, clos'd the day.

Although the personification of Nature has been common to several poets, when they meant to compliment an artist that rivalled her, yet the idea of making her behave herself like that most unnatural of all created beings, a modern fine lady, must be allowed to be a thought both very bold and truly original, and the poet has, I think, executed it with much genuine humour. M.

3 The first six lines of this elegant elegiac poem are inscribed on a neat marble tablet, (similar to that of Mrs. Pritchard's monument in Westminster Abbey) which is placed in the chancel of the parish church of Sudbury in Staffordshire, and the four following added, instead of what is here personally addressed to the present lady Harcourt. This fair example to the world was lent, As the short lesson of a life well spent ; Alas, how short! but bounteous Heav'n best knows When to reclaim the blessings it bestows.

M.

The following is a translation of a poem of Taliessin, king of the bards, and is a description of the battle of Argoed Llwyfain, fought about the year 548, by Godden, a king of North Britain, and Urien Reged, king of Cumbria, against Fflamdwyn,

Fflamdwyn pour'd his rapid bands,
Legions four, o'er Reged's lands.
The numerous host, from side to side,
Spread destruction wild and wide,
From Argoed's summits, forest-crown'd,
To steep Arfyndd's 3 utmost bound.
Short their triumph, short their sway,
Born and ended with the day!
Flush'd with conquest Fflamdwyn said,
Boastful at his army's head,

"Strive not to oppose the stream,
Redeem your lands, your lives redeem,
Give me pledges," Fflamdwyn cried.
"Never," Urien's son replied.
Owen, of the mighty stroke,
Kindling, as the hero spoke,
Cenau 5, Coel's blooming heir,

Caught the flame, and grasp'd the spear:
"Shall Coel's issue pledges give
To the insulting foe, and live?
Never such be Britons' shame,
Never, till this mangled frame
Like some vanquish'd lion lie,
Drench'd in blood, and bleeding die."

Day advanc'd: and ere the Sun
Reach'd the radiant point of noon,
Urien came with fresh supplies.
"Rise, ye sons of Cambria, rise!
Spread your banners to the foe,
Spread them on the mountain's brow:
Lift your lances high in air,
Friends and brothers of the war;
Rush like torrents down the steep,
Through the vales in myriads sweep;

Fflamdwyn never can sustain
The force of our united train."
Havoc, havoc rag`d around,
Many a carcass strew'd the ground:
Ravens drank the purple flood,
Raven plumes were dyed in blood;
Frighted crowds from place to place

Eager, hurrying, breathless, pale,
Spread the news of their disgrace,

Trembling as they told the tale.
These are Taliessin's rhymes,
These shall live to distant times,
And the bard's prophetic rage
Animate a future age.

Child of sorrow, child of pain,
Never may I smile again,

If till all-subduing death

Close these eyes, and stop this breath,
Ever I forget to raise

My grateful songs to Urien's praise!

[blocks in formation]

Which clog the springs of life, to them I sing,
And ask no inspiration but their smiles.

Hail, unown'd youths, and virgins unendow'd!
Whether on bulk begot, while rattled loud

a Saxon general, supposed to be Ida, king of Nor-The passing coaches, or th' officious hand
thumberland. It is inserted in Jones's Historical
Account of the Welch Bards, published in 1784,
and is thus introduced by the author: "I am in-
debted to the obliging disposition and undiminished
powers of Mr. Whitehead, for the following faithful
and animated versification of this valuable antique."
To this commendation from Mr. Jones, who cer-
tainly could judge best of the fidelity of the ver-
sion, and with whom I agree as to the other epithet,
I have only to add, that I think no critic will deal
candidly, who, in estimating the poetical merit of
this piece in general, shall compare it with those
imitations which Mr. Gray made of the Scaldic
odes. The wild mythology of the Edda, to which
they perpetually allude, gives them a charm pe-
culiar to themselves, and sets them above what he
himself has produced from Cambro-British origi-
nals.

Of sportive link-boy wide around him dash'd
The pitchy flame obstructive of the joy;
Or more propitious to the dark retreat
Of round-house owe your birth, where Nature's reign
Revives, and emulous of Spartan fame
The mingling sexes share promiscuous love;
And scarce the pregnant female knows to whom
She owes the precious burthen, scarce the sire
Can claim, confus'd, the many-featur'd child.

M.

[blocks in formation]

Nor blush that hence your origin we trace:
'T was thus immortal heroes sprung of old
Strong from the stol'n embrace: by such as you
Unhous'd, uncloth'd, unletter'd, and unfed,
Were kingdoms modell'd, cities taught to rise,
Firm laws enacted, freedom's rights maintain'd,
The gods and patriots of an infant world!

Let others meanly chant in tuneful song
The black-shoe race, whose mercenary tribes
Allur'd by halfpence take their morning stand
Where streets divide, and to their proffer'd stools
Solicit wand'ring feet; vain pensioners,
And placemen of the crowd! Not so you pour
Your blessings on mankind. Nor traffic vile
Be your employment deem'd, ye last remains
Of public spirit, whose laborious hands,
Uncertain of reward, bid kennels know
Their wonted bounds, remove the bord'ring filth,
And give th' obstructed ordure where to glide.

What though the pitying passenger bestows
His unextorted boon, must they refuse
The well-carn'd bounty, scorn th' obtruded ore?
Proud were the thought and vain. And shall not we
Repay their kindly labours, men like them, ́
With gratitude unsought? I too have oft

Seen in our streets the wither'd hands of age
Toil in th' industrious task; and can we there
Be thrifty niggards? Haply they have known
Far better days, and scatter'd liberal round
The scanty pittance we afford them now.
Soon from this office grant them their discharge,
Ye kind church-wardens! take their meagre limbs
Shiv'ring with cold and age, and wrap them warm
In those blest mansions Charity has rais'd.

But you of younger years, while vigour knits
Your lab'ring sinews, urge the generous task,
Nor lose in fruitless brawls the precious hours
Assign'd to toil. Be your contentions, who

First in the dark'ning streets, when Autumn sheds
Her earliest showers, shall clear th' obstructed pass;
Or last shall quit the field when Spring distils
Her moist'ning dews, prolific there in vain.
So may each lusty scavenger, ye fair,
Fly ardent to your arms; and every maid,
Ye gentle youths, be to your wishes kind;
Whether Ostrea's fishy fumes allure,
As Venus' tresses fragrant; or the sweets
More mild and rural from her stall who toils
To feast the sages of the Samian school.

Nor ever may your hearts elate with pride
Desert this sphere of love; for should ye, youths,
When blood boils high, and some more lucky chance
Has swell'd your stores, pursue the tawdry band
That romp from lamp to lamp-for health expect
Disease, for fleeting pleasure foul remorse,
And daily, nightly, agonizing pains.
In vain you call for Esculapius' aid
From Whitecross-alley, or the azure posts
Which beam through Haydon-yard: the god

mands

Shrinks from the evening breeze? Nor has she now,
Sweet Innocence, thy calmer heart-felt aid,
To solace or support the pangs she feels.

Why should the weeping Muse pursue her steps
Through the dull round of infamy, through haunts
Of public lust, and every painful stage
Of ill-feign'd transport, and uneasy joy?
Too sure she tried them all, till her sunk eye
Lost its last languish; and the bloom of health,
Which revell'd once on beauty's virgin cheek,
Was pale disease, and meagre penury.
Then, loath'd, deserted, to her life's last pang
In bitterness of soul she curs'd in vain
Her proud betrayer, curs'd her fatal charms,
And perish'd in the streets from whence she sprung.

FATAL CONSTANCY:

OR, LOVE IN TEARS.

A SKETCH OF A TRAGEDY IN THE HEROIC TASTE.

Sed vetuere patres quod non potuere vetare. Ovid.

ADVERTISEMENT.

THE following sketch of a tragedy, though interrupted with breaks and et cæteras (which are left to be supplied by the fancy of the reader) is neverde-theless a continued soliloquy spoken by the hero of the piece, and may be performed by one actor, with all the starts, graces, and theatrical attitudes in practice at present.

More ample offerings, and rejects your prayer.
And you, ye fair, O let me warn your breasts
To shun deluding men: for some there are,
Great lords of counties, mighty men of war,
And well-dress'd courtiers, who with leering eye
Can in the face begrim'd with dirt discern
Strange charms, and pant for Cynthia in a cloud.
But let Lardella's fate avert your own.
Lardella once was fair, the early boast
Of proud St. Giles's, from its ample pound
To where the column points the seven-fold day.
Happy, thrice happy, had she never known
A street more spacious! but ambition led
Her youthful footsteps, artless, unassur'd,
To Whitehall's fatal pavement. There she ply'd
Like you the active broom. At sight of her
The coachman dropp'd his lash, the porter oft
Forgot his burthen, and with wild amaze
The tall well-booted sentry, arm'd in vain,
Lean'd from his horse to gaze upon her charms.

But Fate reserv'd her for more dreadful ills:
A lord beheld her, and with powerful gold
Seduc'd her to his arms. What cannot gold
Effect, when aided by the matron's tongue,
Long tried and practis'd in the trade of vice,
Against th' unwary innocent! Awhile

Dazzled with splendour, giddy with the height
Of unexperienc'd greatness, she looks down
With thoughtless pride, nor sees the gulf beneath.
But soon, too soon, the high-wrought transport sinks

In cold indifference, and a newer face
Alarms her restless lover's fickle heart.
Distress'd, abandon'd, whither shall she fly?
How urge her former task, and brave the winds
And piercing rains with limbs whose daintier sense

If any young author should be ambitious of writing on this model, he may begin his preface, or his advertisement, which is the more fashionable term, by observing, that "it is a melancholy contemplation to every lover of literature, to behold that universal defect of science which is the disgrace of the present times." He may then proceed to assert, "that every species of fine writing is at its very lowest ebb; that the reign of **** was what might properly enough be styled the golden age of dramatic poetry; that since that happy era genius itself has gradually decayed, till at length, if he may be allowed the expression, the effœta vires of nature, by he knows not what fatality, seem quite exhausted."

In his dedication, if to a lord; the proper topics are his lordship's public spirit, the noble stand which he made in the cause of liberty, but more particularly his heroic disinterestedness in hiding from the world his own spirited performances, that those of inferior authors might have a chance for

success.

If to a lady; after the usual compliments of wit, beauty, elegance of taste, and every social virtue, he must by no means forget, that like Prometheus he has endeavoured to steal fire from Heaven; and that the finest and most animated touches in the

character of Lindamira are but faint copies of the perfections of his patroness.

He may take hints for his prologue from the following lines:

Critics, to night at your dread bar appears
A virgin author, aw'd by various fears.

« PreviousContinue »