No more the morn, with tepid rays, With sighs we view the hoary hill, The snow-topt cot, the frozen rill. No music warbles through the grove, No vivid colors paint the plain; No more with devious steps I rove Through verdant paths now sought in vain. Aloud the driving tempest roars, Congeal'd, impetuous show'rs descend; Haste, close the window, bar the doors, Fate leaves me Stella, and a friend. In nature's aid let art supply my With light and heat little sphere; Or mirth repeat the jocund tale; When mirth's gay tale shall please no more; Nor music charm, though Stella sings; Nor love, nor wine, the spring restore. EVENING now from purple wings Sheds the grateful gifts she brings; Brilliant drops bedeck the mead; Cooling breezes shake the reed, Shake the reed, and curl the stream Silver'd o'er with Cynthia's beam; Near the chequer'd lonely grove, Hears and keeps thy secrets Love. Stella, thither let us stray Lightly o'er the dewy way, Phoebus drives his burning car Hence, my lovely Stella, far; In his stead, the queen of night Round us pours a lambent light; Light that seems but just to show Breasts that beat, and cheeks that glow. Let us now, in whisper'd joy, Evening's silent hours employ; Silence best, and conscious shades, Please the hearts that love invades ; Other pleasures give them pain, Lovers all but love disdain." The Natural Beauty. To Stella. DR. JOHNSON. WHETHER Stella's eyes are found Fix'd on earth or glancing round, If her face with pleasure glow, If she sigh at others' woe, If her easy air express Conscious worth or soft distress, Stella's eyes, and air, and face. Charm with undiminish'd grace. If on her we see display'd Pendant gems, and rich brocade; If her chintz with less expense Flows in easy negligence; Still she lights the conscious flame, Still her charms appear the same: If she strikes the vocal strings, If she's silent, speaks, or sings, If she sit, or if she move, Still we love, and still approve. Vain the casual, transient glance, Which alone can please by chance, Beauty which depends on art, Changing with the changing heart, Which demands the toilet's aid, Pendant gems and rich brocade. I those charms alone can prize Which from constant nature rise, Which nor circumstance nor dress E'er can make or more or less. The Vanity of Wealth. DR. JOHNSON. Where mirth and temperance mix the bowl; Thus taste the feast by nature spread, In vain the varied work would shine The heart once caught should ne'er be freed? DR. JOHNSON. To LYCE, an elderly Lady. In all the pomp of heaven ! Her teeth the night with darkness dyes, eye, Pause at this tomb where HANMER's ashes lie: His various worth through varied life attend, And learn his virtues while thou mourn'st his end. His force of genius burn'd in early youth With thirst of knowledge and with love of truth ; His learning, join'd with each endearing art, Charm'd every ear, and gain'd on every heart. Thus early wise, th' endanger'd realni to aid, His country call'd him from the studious shade: In life's first bloom his public toils began, At once commenc'd the senator and man. In business dext'rous, weighty in debate, Thrice ten long years he labor'd for the state. In every speech persuasive wisdom flow'd, In every act refulgent virtue glow'd; Suspended faction ceas'd from rage and strife, To hear his eloquence, and praise his life. Resistless merit fix'd the Senate's choice, Who hail'd him Speaker with united voice. Illustrious age! how bright thy glories shone, When HANMER fill'd the chair, and ANNE the throne! Then when dark arts obscur'd each fierce debate, When mutual frauds perplex'd the maze of state, post, Nor wish'd to glitter at his country's cost: And recollected toils endear'd the shade; SONNETS BY WARTON. Written at Wynslade, in Hampshire. WYNSLADE, thy becch-capt hills, with waving grain Mantled, thy chequer'd views of wood and lawn, Whilom could charm, or when the gradual dawn 'Gan the grey mist with orient purple stain, Or evening glimmer'd o'er the folded train: Her fairest landscapes whence my Muse has drawn, Too weak to try the buskin's stately strain. Too free with servile courtly phrase to fawn, Yet now no more thy slopes of beech and corn, Nor views invite, since he far distant strays With whom I trac'd their sweets at eve and morn, From Albion far, to cull Hesperian bays; In this alone they please, howe'er forlorn, That still they can recall those happier days. On Bathing. WHEN late the trees were stript by winter pale, Watching the hunter's joyous horn was seen. But since, gay-thron'd in fiery chariot sheen, Summer has smote each daisy-dappled dale ; She to the cave retires high-arch'd, beneath The fount that laves proud Isis' tow'red brim THOU noblest monument of Albion's isle! Whether by Merlin's aid, from Scythia's shore To Amber's fatal plain Pendragon bore, Huge frame of giant hands, the mighty pile, T'entomb his Britons slain by Hengist's guile*: Or Druid priests, sprinkled with human gore, Taught 'mid thy massy maze their mystic lore: Or Danish chiefs, enrich'd with savage spoil, To Victory's idol vast, an unhewn shrine, Rear'd the rude heap; or, in thy hallow'd round, Repose the kings of Brutus' genuine line: Ör here those kings in solemn state were crown'd: Studious to trace thy wondrous origin, Written after seeing Wilton-House. FROM Pembroke's princely dome, where mimic Art Decks with a magic hand the dazzling bow'rs, Its living hues where the warm pencil pours, And breathing forms from the rude marble start, How to life's humbler scene can I depart? My breast all glowing from those gorgeous tow'rs, In my low cell how cheat the sullen hours? Vain the complaint: for Fancy can impart (To Fate superior, and to Fortune's doom) Whate'er adorns the stately storied hall: She, 'mid the dungeon's solitary gloom, Can dress the Graces in their Attic pall; Bid the green landscape's vernal beauty gloom; And in bright trophies clothe the twilight wall. My rustic Muse her votive chaplet brings; Unseen, unheard, O Gray, to thee she sings, While slowly pacing through the church-yard dew, At curfew-time, beneath the dark green yew, Thy pensive Genius strikes the moral strings; Or, borne sublime on Inspiration's wings, Hears Cambria's bards devote the dreadful clue Of Edward's race, with murders foul defil'd. Can aught my pipe to reach thine ear essay? No, bard divine! For many a care beguil'd By the sweet magic of thy soothing lay, For many a raptur'd thought, and vision wild, To thee this strain of gratitude I pay. On King Arthur's Round Table at Winchester. WHERE Venta's Norman castle still uprears Its rafter'd hall, that o'er the grassy foss In marks obscure, of his immortal peers. And fade the British characters away; To the River Lodon. AH! what a weary race my feet have run, One of the bardish traditions about Stonehenge. Beneath the azure sky, and golden sun, Where first my muse to lisp her notes begun! pure No more return to cheer my evening road! Nor with the Muse's laurel unbestow'd. The Pilgrim and the Peas. A true Story PETER PINDAR. A BRACE of sinners, for no good, Were order'd to the Virgin Mary's shrine, Who at Loretto dwelt, in wax, stone, wood, And in a fair white wig look'd wondrous fine. Fifty long miles had those sad rogues to travel, With something in their shoes much worse than gravel; In short, their toes so gentle to amuse, That Popish parsons for its powers exalt The knaves set off on the same day, But very different was their speed, I wot: The other limp'd as if he had been shot. One saw the VIRGIN Soon-peccavi criedHad his soul whitewash'd all so clever; Then home again he nimbly hied, Made fit with saints above to live for ever. In coming back, however, let me say, He met his brother-rogue about half-way, Hobbling with outstretch'd bum and bending kuces, Damning the souls and bodies of the peas: His eyes in tears, his cheeks and brows in sweat, Deep sympathizing with his groaning feet. "How now," the light-toed, whitewash'd pilgrimm broke, "You lazy lubber?" "Odds curse it!" cried the other, "'tis no My feet, once hard as any rock, [joke: "Are now as soft as blubber. "Excuse me, Virgin Mary, that I swear- "What Pow'R hath work'd a wonder for your toes; Whilst I just like a snail am crawling, Now swearing, now on saints devoutly bawling, Whilst not a rascal comes to ease my woes? How is't that you can like a greyhound go, Merry as if that nought had happen'd, burn ye?". Why," cried the other, grinning, "you must know, That, just before I ventur'd on my journey, A Country Bumpkin and Razor-seller. PETER PINDAR. A FELLOW in a market town, And offer'd twelve for eighteen pence; As every man would buy with cash and sense. A country bumpkin the great offer heard,Poor Hodge, who suffer'd by a broad black beard, That seem'd a shoe-brush stuck beneath his nose: With cheerfulness the eighteen pence he paid; And proudly to himself in whispers said, "This rascal stole the razors, I suppose. "No matter, if the fellow be a knave: Provided that the razors shave, It certainly will be a monstrous prize." So home the clown with his good fortune went, Smiling, in heart and soul content, And quickly soap'd himself to ears and eyes. Being well lather'd from a dish or tub, Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub, Just like a hedger cutting furze; 'Twas a vile razor! then the rest he triedAll were impostors-"Ah!" Hodge sigh'd, "I wish my eighteen pence within my purse." In vain to chase his beard, and bring the graces, He cut, and dug, and winc'd, and stamp'd, and swore; Brought blood, and danc'd, blasphem'd, and made wry faces, And curs'd each razor's body o'er and o'er. His MUZZLE, form'd of opposition stuff, So kept it-laughing at the steel and suds. Hodge, in a passion, stretch'd his angry jaws, Vowing the direst vengeance, with clench'd claws, On the vile CHEAT that sold the goods. "Razors!-a damn'd, confounded dog!Not fit to scrape a hog;" Hodge sought the fellow, found him, and be gun "Perhaps, Master Razor-Rogue, to you 'tis fun, That people flay themselves out of their lives: | But now what rhetoric could assuage "Friend," quoth the razor-man, "I'm not a As for the razors you have bought, Upon my soul I never thought That they would shave.” "Not think they'd shave!" quoth Hodge, with wond'ring eyes, And voice not much unlike an Indian yell; "What were they made for then, you dog?" he cries: "Made!" quoth the fellow with a smile "" to sell." The Bald-pated Welshman and the Fly. Qui non moderabitur iræ, A SQUIRE of Wales, whose blood ran higher ray, He fum'd, he rav'd, he curs'd, he swore, Sought the next tree's protecting shade; Vie with smooth beaux, and ladies' pages: The furious squire, stark mad with rage? Thus much he gain'd by this adventurous deed; MORAL. Let senates hence learn to preserve their state, And scorn the fool, below their grave debate, great. Let him buz on, with senseless rant defy Let cranes and pigmies in mock-war engage, AT Jenny Mann's, where heroes meet, Cheering his reins before the fire Like that he chaf'd and fum'd with ire. Humph! 'tis "Your servant, Colonel Horner." Why should not coxcombs mind their own?" As thus he rav'd with all his might (How insecure from fortune's spite, Alas, is ev'ry mortal wight!) |