Imágenes de páginas
PDF
EPUB

While the shrill tenant of the fun-burnt blade,
(A poet he, and finging all his trade)

Tears his fmall throat, I brave the fultry ray,
And deep-embower'd, efcape the rage of day.

Thrice bleft the man, who, fhielded from the beam,

Sings lays melodious to the facred ftream;

Thrice blefs'd the stream, who views his banks of flow'rs, Crown'd with the Mufe's or imperial tow'rs,

Whofe limpid waters as they onwards glide,

See humble ofiers nod, or threat'ning fquadrons ride.

Health to my friend, and to his partner, peace,
A good long life, and moderate increase ;
May Dulwich garden double treasures share,
And be both Flora and Pomona's care.
Ye Walton naiads, guard the fav'rite child,
Drive off each marfh-born fog; ye zephyrs mild,
Fan the dear innocent; ye fairies, keep
Your wonted distance, nor difturb his sleep;
Nor in the cradle, while your tricks you play,
The changeling drop, and bear our boy away.
However chance may chalk his future fate,
Or doom his manhood to be rich or great,
Is not our care; oh, let the guiding pow'r
Decide that point, who rules the natal hour;
Nor fhall we feek, for knowledge to enrich,
The Delphic tripod, or your Norwood witch.

* The grasshopper.

M 3

But

But Tucker doubts, and "if not rich," he cries,
"How can the boy reward the good and wife?
Give him but gold, and merit ne'er fhall freeze,
But rife from want to affluence and cafe:
The Guido's touch shall warm his throbbing heart,
The patriot's buft fhall speak the fculptor's art;
But if from Danae's precious fhow'r debarr'd,
The Muse he may admire, but ne'er reward."

All this I grant; but does it follow then,
That parts have drawn regard from wealthy men ?
Did Gay receive the tribute of the great?
No, let his tomb be witnefs of his fate :
For Milton's days are too long past to strike ;
The rich of all times ever were alike.

See him, whofe lines in a fine frenzy roll,"
He comes to tear, to harrow up the foul;
Bear me, ye pow'rs, from his bewitching sprite,
My eye-balls darken at excefs of light;

How my heart dances to his magic ftrain,

Beats my quick pulfe, and throbs each bursting vein.
From Avon's bank with ev'ry garland crown'd,
'Tis his to roufe, to calm, to cure, to wound;
To mould the yielding bofom to his will,
And Shakespear is inimitable ftill:

Opprefs'd by fortune, all her ills he bore,"
Hear this, ye Muses, and be vain no more.

7

Nor

*

Nor fhall my Spenfer want his fhare of praise,
"The heav'n-fprung fifters wove the laureat's bays;
Yet what avail'd his fweet defcriptive pow'r,
The fairy warrior, or inchanted bow'r?

Tho' matchlefs Sidney doated on the strain,
Lov'd by the learned † fhepherd of the main,
Obferve what meed his latest labours crown'd,
Belphæbe fmil'd not, and ftern Burleigh frown'd.
If ftill you doubt, confult fome well-known friend,
Let Ellis fpeak, to him you oft attend,

Whom truth approves, whom candor calls her own,
Known by the God, by all the Mufes known.

Where tow'r his hills, where ftretch his lengths of vale,
Say, where his heifers load the fmoaky pail?
Oh may this grateful verfe my debt repay,
If aught I know, he fhew'd the arduous way;
Within my bofom fann'd the rifing flame,

Plum'd my young wing, and bade me try for fame.
Since then I fcribbl'd, and muft fcribble ftill,

His word was once a fanction to my will

And I'll perfift till he refume the pen,

1;

Then shrink contented, and ne'er rhyme again.

Yet, ere I take my leave, I have to say, That while in sleep my fenfes wafted lay,

* He was rewarded with lands in Ireland, which he loft in the rebellion of the earl of Definond. He came over to England to folicit a recovery of them; but having attended long in vain, finished his days in grief and difappointment.

Sir Walter Raleigh.

M 4

Queen flizabeth.

The

Te waking foul, which sports in fancy's beam,
Work'd on my drowfy limbs, and form'd a dream;
Then to my lines a due attention keep,

For oft when poets dream, their readers fleep.

On a wide champain, where the furges beat
Th' extended beach, then fullenly retreat,
A difmal cottage rear'd its turfy head,
O'er which a yew her baleful branches spread;
The owl profane his dreadful dirges fung,
The paffing bell the foul night-raven rung;
No village cur here bay'd the cloudlefs moon,
No golden funshine chear'd the hazy noon,
But ghofts of men by love of gold betray'd,
In filence glided thro' the dreary shade.
There fat pale Grief in melancholy state,
And brooding Care was trusted with the gate,
Within, extended on the cheerless ground,
An old man lay in golden fillet bound;
Rough was his beard, and matted was his hair,
His eyes were fiery red, his fhoulders bare;
Down furrow'd cheeks hot tears had worn their way,
And his broad fcalp was thinly strew'd with grey!
A weighty ingot in his hand he preft,

Nor feem'd to feel the viper at his breast.

[ocr errors]

Around the caitif, glorious to behold,

Lay minted coinage, and hiftoric gold *;

High sculptur'd urns in bright confusion stood,
And ftreams of filver form'd a precious flood.

*Medals.

On

On nails, fufpended rows of pearls were seen,
Not fuch the pendants of th' Ægyptian queen,
Who (joy luxurious fwelling all her foul)
Quaff'd the vast price of empires in her bowl.

As feas voracious fwallow up the land,
As raging flames eternal food demand,
So this vile wretch, unblefs'd with all his ftore,
Repin'd in plenty, and grew fick for more;
Nor fhall we wonder when his name I tell,
"Twas Avarice, the eldeft born of hell.

But, hark! what noife breaks in upon my tale, Be hufh'd each found, and whisper ev'ry gale; Ye croaking rooks your noisy flight fufpend, Guefs'd I not right how all my toil would end? My heavy rhymes have jaded Tucker quite; He yawns-he nods-he fnores. Good night, good night.

ON THE WINTER SOLSTICE.

M.D.CC.XL.

BY DR. AKENSIDE.

THE radiant ruler of the year

At length his wint'ry goal attains,

Soon to reverse the long career,
And northward bend his golden reins.

Prone

« AnteriorContinuar »