Imágenes de páginas

Alas! from the day that we met,

What hope of an end to my woes ? When I cannot endure to forget

The glance that undid my repose. Yet time may diminish the pain :

The flower, and the shrub, and the tree, Which I rear'd for her pleasure in vain,

In time may have comfort for me. The sweets of a dew-sprinkled rose,

The sound of a murmuring stream, The peace which from solitude flows,

Henceforth shall be Corydon's theme. High transports are shown to the sight,

But we are not to find them our own;
Fate never bestow'd such delight,

As I with my Phyllis had known.
O ye woods, spread your branches apace;

To your deepest recesses I fly;
I would hide with the beasts of the chase;

I would vanish from every eye. Yet my reed shall resound through the grove

With the same sad complaint it begun ; How she smil'd, and I could not but love;

Was faithless, and I am undone!



'Twas in a land of learning,

The muses' favourite city,
Such pranks of late
Were play'd by a rat,

As-tempt one to be witty.
All in a college study,

Where books were in great plenty ;
This rat would devour
More sense in an hour,

Than I cou'd write-in twenty.

Corporeal food, 'tis granted,

Serves vermin less refin'd, Sir;
But this, a rát of taste,
All other rats surpass’d;

And he prey'd on the food of the mind, Sir. His breakfast, half the morning,

He constantly attended; And when the bell rung For evening song,

His dinner scarce was ended!
He spar'd not ev'n heroics,

On which we poets pride us ;
And would make no more
Of king Arthur's, * by the score

Than all the world beside does.
Jn books of geo-graphy,

He made the maps to flutter:
A river or a sea
Was to him a dish of tea :

And a kingdom, bread and butter.
But if some mawkish potion

Might chance to over-dose him,
To check its rage,
He took a page

Of logic—to compose him-
A trap in haste and anger,

Was bought you need not doubt on 't;
And, such was the gin,
Were a lion once got in,

He could not, I think get out on't.
With cheese, not books, 'twas baited,

The fact I'll not belye itSince none-l'll tell you thatWhether scholar or rat

Mind books, when he has other diet.

* By Blackmore.

But more of trap and bait, Sir,

Why should I sing, or either? Since the rat, who knew the slight, Came in the dead of night,

And dragg'd them away together :
Both trap and bait were vanish'd,

Through a fracture in the flooring;
Which, though so tiim
It now inay seem,

Had then a dozen or more in.
Then answer this, ye sages !

Nor deem a man to wrong ye, Had the rat which thus did seize op The trap, less claim to reason,

Than many a skull among ye? Dan Prior's mice, I own it,

Were vermin of condition ; But this rat who merely learn'd What rats alone concern'd,

Was the greater politician. That England's topsy-turvy,

Is clear from these mishaps, Sir; Since traps we may determine, Will no longer take our vermin,

But vermin take our traps, Sir. Let sophs by rats infested,

Then trust in cats to catch 'em ; Lest they grow as learn’d as we, In our studies; where, d' ye seė,

No mortal sits to watch 'em.
Good luck betide our captains;

Good luck betide our cats, Sir :
And grant that the one
May quell the Spanish Don,

And the other destroy our rats, Sir.

• Written at the time of the Spanish depredations, WRITTEN AT AN INN AT HENLY.

To thee, fair freedom! I retire,

From flattery, cards, and dice, and din ;
Nor art thou found in mansions higher

Than the low cot, or humble inn.
"Tis here with boundless power I reign;

And every health which I begin,
Converts dull port to bright champaigne;

Such freedom crowns it at an inn.
I fly from pomp, I fly from plate!

I fly from falsehood's specious grin;
Freedom I love, and form I hate,

And choose my lodgings at an inn.
Here, waiter! take


Which lacqueys else might hope to win;
It buys, what courts have not in store,

It buys me freedom at an inn.
Whoe'er has travellid life's dull round,

Where'er his stages may have been,
May sigh to think he still has found

The warmest welcome at an inn.


Wuile blooming spring descends from genial skies,
By whose mild influence instant wonders rise ;
From whose soft breath Elysian beauties flow;
The sweets of Hagley, or the pride of Stowe;
Will Lyttleton the rural landscape range,
Leave noisy fame, and not regret the change?
Pleas'd will he tread the garden's early scenes,
And learn a moral from the rising greens?

There, warm'd alike by Sol's enlivening power,
The weed, aspiring, emulates the flower:
The drooping flower, its fairer charms display'd,
Invites, from grateful bands, their generous aid :
Soon, if none ch th' invasive foe's designs,
The lively lustre of these scenes declines !

'Tis thus the spring of youth, the morn of life,
Rears in our minds the rival seeds of strife.
Then passion riots, reason then contends;
And, on the conquest, every bliss depends :
Life from tbe nice decision takes its hue :
And blest those judges who decide like you !
On worth like theirs shall every bliss attend :
The world their favourite, and the world their friend.

There are, who, blind to thought's fatiguing ray,
As fortune gives examples, urge their way :
Nor virtues foes, though they her paths decline,
And scarce her friends, though with her friends they

In her's or vice's casual road advance
Thoughtless, the sinners or the saints of chance !
Yet some more nobly scorn the vulgar voice;
With judgment fix, with zeal pursue their choice,
When ripen'd thought, when reason born to reign,
Checks the wild tamults of the youthful vein ;
While passions lawless tides, at their command,
Glide through more useful tracts, and bless the land.

Happiest of these is he whose matchless mind,
By learning strengthen'd, and by taste refin'd,
In virtue's cause essay'd its earliest powers;
Chose virtue's paths, and strew'd her paths with:

The first alarm’d, if freedom waves her wings :
The fittest to adorn each art she brings :
Lov'd, by that prince whom every virtue fires,
Prais'd by that bard whom every muse inspires :
Blest in the tuneful art, the social fame;
In all that wins, in all that merits fame :

'Twas youth's perplexing stage his doubts inspir'd,
When great Alcides to a grove retir'd.
Through the lone windings of a devious glade,
Resign'd to thought, with lingering steps he stray'd;

« AnteriorContinuar »