And sketch with care the muse's bower,
Where Isis rolls her silver tide;
Nor yet omit one reed or flower
That shines on Cherwell's verdant side
If so thou may'st those hours prolong,
When polish'd Lycon join'd my song.
The song it 'vails not to recite
But sure, to sooth our youthful dreams,
Those banks and streams appear'd more bright
Than other banks, than other streams :
Or, by thy softening pencil shown,
Assume thy beauties not their own!
And paint that sweetly vacant scene,
When, all beneath the poplar bough,
My spirits light, my soul serene,
I breath'd in verse one cordial vow:
That nothing should my soul inspire,
But friendship warm, and love entire.
Dall to the sense of new delight,
On thee the drooping muse attends;
As some fond lover, robb'd of sight,
On thy expressive power depends;
Nor would exchange thy glowing lines,
To live the lord of all that shines.
But let me chase those vows away
Which at ambition's shrine I made;
Nor ever let thy skill display
Those anxious nioments, ill repaid:
Oh! from my breast that season raze,
And bring my childhood in its place.
Bring me the bells, the rattle bring,
And bring the hobby I bestrode;
When, pleas'd in many a sportive ring,
Around the room I jovial rode:
Ev'n let me bid my lyre adieu,
And bring the whistle that I blew.
Then will I muse, and pensive say,
Why did not these enjoyments last?
How sweetly wasted I the day,
While innocence allow'd to waste!
Ambition's toils alike are vain,
But ah! for pleasure yield us pain.
HEALTH, capricious maid!
Why dost thou shun my peaceful bower, Where I had hope to share thy power, And bless thy lasting aid?
Since thou, alas! art flown,
It 'vails not whether muse or grace,
With tempting smile, frequent the place:
I sigh for thee alone.
Age not forbids thy stay;
Thou yet might'st act the friendly part; Thou yet might'st raise this languid heart; Why speed so swift away?
Thou scorn'st the city air;
I breathe fresh gales o'er furrow'd ground,
Yet hast not thou my wishes crown'd,
O false! O partial fair!
I plunge into the wave;
And though with purest hand I raise
A rural altar to thy praise,
Thou wilt not deign to save.
Amid my well-known grove, Where mineral fountains vainly bear Thy boasted name, and titles fair, Why scorns thy foot to rove?
Thou hear'st the sportsman's claim;
Enabling him, with idle noise,
To drown the muse's melting voice,
And fright the timorous game.
Is thought thy foe? adieu,
Ye midnight lamps! ye curious tomes,
Mine eye o'er hills and valleys roams,
And deals no more with you.
Is it the clime you flee?
Yet, 'midst his unremitting snows,
The poor Laponian's bosom glows;
And shares bright rays from thee.
There was, there was a time,
When, though I scorn'd thy guardian çare,
Nor made a vow, nor said a prayer,
I did not rue the crime.
Who then more blest than I?
When the glad school-boy's task was done,
And forth, with jocund sprite, I run
To freedom and to joy?
How jovial then the day!
What since have all my labours found,
Thus climbing life, to gaze around,
That can thy loss repay?
Wert thou, alas! but kind,
Methinks no frown that fortune wears,
Nor lessen'd hopes, nor growing cares,
Could sink my cheerful mind.
Whate'er my stars include;
What other breasts convert to pain,
My towering mind shall soon disdain,
Should scorn-Ingratitude!
Repair this mouldering cell,
And blest with objects found at home,
And envying none their fairer dome,
How pleas'd my soul should dwell ;
Temperance should guard the doors; From room to room shall memory stray, And ranging all in neat array, Enjoy her pleasing stores
There let them rest unknown, The types of many a pleasing scene: But to preserve them bright or clean, Is thine, fair queen! alone.
"Optima quæque dies miseris mortalibus ævi
A TEAR bedews my Delia's eye,
To think yon playful kid must die;
From crystal spring, and flowery mead,
Must, in his prime of life, recede!
Erewhile, in sportive circles round
She saw him wheel, and frisk, and bound;
From rock to rock pursue his way,
And on the fearful margin play.
Pleas'd on his various freaks to dwell,
She saw him climb my rustic cell:
Thence eye my lawns with verdure bright,
And seem all ravish'd at the sight.
She tells, with what delight he stood,
To trace his features in the flood:
Then skipp'd aloof with quaint amaze;
And then drew near again to gaze.
She tells me how with eager speed
He flew, to hear my vocal reed;
And how with critic face profound,
And stedfast ear, devour'd the sound.
His every frolic, light as air,
Deserves the gentle Delia's care;
And tears bedew her tender eye,
To think the playful kid must die.—
But knows my Delia, timely wise,
How soon this blameless era flies?
While violence and craft succeed;
Unfair design, and ruthless deed!
Soon would the vine his wounds deplore,
And yield her purple gifts no more;
Ah soon, eras'd from every grove
Were Delia's name, and Strephon's love.
No more those bowers might Strephon see,
Where first he fondly gaz'd on thee;
No more those beds of flowerets find,
Which for thy charming brows he twin'd.
Each wayward passion soon would tear
His bosom, now so void of care;
And, when they left his ebbing vein,
What, but insipid age, remain?
Then mourn not the decrees of fate,
That gave his life so short a date
And I will join thy tenderest sighs,
To think that youth so swiftly flies!
I TOLD my nymph, I told her true,
My fields were small, my flocks were few;
While faultering accents spoke my fear,
That Flavia might not prove sincere.
Of crops destroy'd by vernal cold,
And vagrant sheep that left my fold:
Of these she heard, yet bore to hear ;
And is not Flavia then sincere?
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