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 You've heard a Cyprian's softest prayers; 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 In gently dropping dews descend; 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 The bard shall grateful tribute pay, 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 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, For something still beyond enough 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 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. ONCE was I fam'd, an awful sage, A skull, hour-glass, &c. 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, To those who knew, and therefore lov'd her most. AN EPITAPH, HERE lies a youth (ah, wherefore breathless lies!) 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 HER Comic vein had every charm to please, Oft, on the scene, with colours not her own, 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 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 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? "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- MILD as the opening morn's serenest ray, -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, "Strive not to oppose the stream, Caught the flame, and grasp'd the spear: Day advanc'd: and ere the Sun Fflamdwyn never can sustain Eager, hurrying, breathless, pale, Trembling as they told the tale. Child of sorrow, child of pain, If till all-subduing death Close these eyes, and stop this breath, My grateful songs to Urien's praise! Which clog the springs of life, to them I sing, Hail, unown'd youths, and virgins unendow'd! a Saxon general, supposed to be Ida, king of Nor-The passing coaches, or th' officious hand Of sportive link-boy wide around him dash'd M. Nor blush that hence your origin we trace: Let others meanly chant in tuneful song What though the pitying passenger bestows Seen in our streets the wither'd hands of age But you of younger years, while vigour knits First in the dark'ning streets, when Autumn sheds Nor ever may your hearts elate with pride mands Shrinks from the evening breeze? Nor has she now, Why should the weeping Muse pursue her steps 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. But Fate reserv'd her for more dreadful ills: Dazzled with splendour, giddy with the height In cold indifference, and a newer face 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 |