(The source of children's and of courtiers' pride!) Redress'd affronts, for vile affronts there pass'd; And warn'd them not the fretful to deride, But love each other dear, whatever them betide. Right well she knew each temper to descry; To thwart the proud, and the submiss to raise; Some with vile copper-prize exalt on high, And some entice with pittance small of praise, And other some with baleful sprig she 'frays: E'en absent, she the reins of power doth hold, While with quaint arts the giddy crowd she sways: Forewarn'd, if little bird their pranks behold, 'T will whisper in her ear, and all the scene unfold. Lo now with state she utters the command! Eftsoons the urchins to their tasks repair; Their books of stature small they take in hand, Which with pellucid horn secured are, To save from finger wet the letters fair: The work so gay that on their back is seen, St. George's high achievements does declare; On which thilk wight that has y-gazing been, Kens the forth-coming rod, unpleasing sight, I ween! Ah luckless he, and born beneath the beam To loose the brogues, the stripling's late delight! And down they drop; appears his dainty skin, Fair as the furry-coat of whitest ermilin. O ruthful scene! when from a nook obscure, His little sister doth his peril see : All playful as she sate, she grows demure; She finds full soon her wonted spirits flee; She meditates a prayer to set him free: Nor gentle pardon could this dame deny (If gentle pardon could with dames agree) To her sad grief that swells in either eye, And wings her so that all for pity she could dye. No longer can she now her shrieks command; And hardly she forbears, through awful fear, To rushen forth, and, with presumptuous hand, To stay harsh Justice in its mid career. On thee she calls, on thee her parent dear! (Ah! too remote to ward the shameful blow!) She sees no kind domestic visage near, And soon a flood of tears begins to flow; And gives a loose at last to unavailing woe. But ah! what pen his piteous plight may trace? Or what device his loud laments explain? The form uncouth of his disguised face? The pallid hue that dyes his looks amain? The plenteous shower that does his cheek distain? When he, in abject wise, implores the dame, Ne hopeth aught of sweet reprieve to gain; Or when from high she levels well her aim, And, through the thatch, his cries each falling stroke proclaim. The other tribe, aghast, with sore dismay, Attend, and conn their tasks with mickle care: Spenser. By turns, astony'd, every twig survey, See to their seats they hye with merry glee, His grievous wrong; his dame's unjust behest; And scorns her offer'd love and shuns to be caress'd. His face besprent with liquid crystal shines, If so I deem aright, transcending worth and fame. Behind some door, in melancholy thought, Mindless of food, he, dreary caitiff! pines, Ne for his fellows' joyaunce careth aught, But to the wind all merriment resigns; And deems it shame, if he to peace inclines : And many a sullen look ascance is sent, Which for his dame's annoyance he designs; And still the more to pleasure him she's bent, The more doth he, perverse, her haviour past resent. Ah me! how much I fear lest pride it be! Yet nurs'd with skill, what dazzling fruits appear! Or bard sublime, if bard may e'er be so, And this perhaps, who, censuring the design, Low lays the house which that of cards doth build, Shall Dennis be! if rigid Fate incline, And many an epic to his rage shall yield; And many a poet quit th' Aonian field; And, sour'd by age, profound he shall appear, As he who now with 'sdainful fury thrill'd Surveys mine work; and levels many a sneer, And furls his wrinkly front, and cries, "What stuff is here?" But now Dan Phoebus gains the middle skie, For well may Freedom erst so dearly won, Appear to British elf more gladsome than the Sun. Enjoy, poor imps! enjoy your sportive trade, And chase gay flies, and cull the fairest flowers; For when my bones in grass-green sods are laid, For never may ye taste more careless hours In knightly castles, or in ladies' bowers. O vain to seek delight in earthly thing! But most in courts where proud Ambition towers; Deluded wight! who weens fair Peace can spring Beneath the pompous dome of kesar or of king. See in each sprite some various bent appear! These rudely carol most incondite lay; Those sauntering on the green, with jocund leer Salute the stranger passing on his way; Some builden fragile tenements of clay; Some to the standing lake their courses bend, With pebbles smooth at duck and drake to play; Thilk to the huxter's savory cottage tend, In pastry kings and queens th' allotted mite to spend. Here, as each season yields a different store, Each season's stores in order ranged been; Apples with cabbage-net y-cover'd o'er, Galling full sore th' unmoney'd wight, are seen; And goose-b'rie clad in livery red or green; And here of lovely dye, the catharine pear, Fine pear! as lovely for thy juice, I ween: O may no wight e'er pennyless come there, Lest smit with ardent love he pine with hopeless care! See! cherries here, ere cherries yet abound, With thread so white in tempting posies ty'd, Scattering like blooming maid their glances round, With pamper'd look draw little eyes aside; And must be bought, though penury betide. The plum all azure and the nut all brown, And here each season do those cakes abide, Whose honour'd names th' inventive city own, Rendering through Britain's isle Salopia's praises known; Admir'd Salopia! that with venial pride ELEGY. Describing the sorrow of an ingenuous mind, on the melancholy event of a licentious amour. WHY mourns my friend? why weeps his downcast eye, That eye where mirth, where fancy us'd to shine? Thy cheerful meads reprove that swelling sigh; Spring ne'er enamell'd fairer meads than thine. Art thou not lodg'd in Fortune's warm embrace? Wert thou not form'd by Nature's partial care? Blest in thy song, and blest in every grace That wins the friend, or that enchants the fair? "Damon," said he, "thy partial praise restrain; Not Damon's friendship can my peace restore; Alas! his very praise awakes my pain, And my poor wounded bosom bleeds the more. "For oh! that Nature on my birth had frown'd, Or Fortune fix'd me to some lowly cell; Then had my bosom 'scap'd this fatal wound, Nor had I bid these vernal sweets farewell. "But led by Fortune's hand, her darling child, My youth her vain licentious bliss admir'd; In Fortune's train the syren Flattery smil'd, And rashly hallow'd all her queen inspir'd. "Of folly studious, e'en of vices vain, Ah vices! gilded by the rich and gay! I chas'd the guileless daughters of the plain, Nor dropp'd the chase, till Jessy was my prey. "Poor artless maid! to stain thy spotless name, Expense, and art, and toil, united strove; To lure a breast that felt the purest flame, Sustain'd by virtue, but betray'd by love. "School'd in the science of love's mazy wiles, "Then, while the fancy'd rage alarm'd her care, "To thee, my Damon, dare I paint the rest? Will yet thy love a candid ear incline? Assur'd that virtue, by misfortune prest, Feels not the sharpness of a pang like mine. "Nine envious moons matur'd her growing shame; Ere-while to flaunt it in the face of day; When, scorn'd of virtue, stigmatiz'd by fame, Low at my feet desponding Jessy lay. Till Reason's morn arise, and light them on their" Henry,' she said, 'by thy dear form subdu'd, way. * Shrewsbury cakes. See the sad reliques of a nymph undone! I find, I find this rising sob renew'd: I sigh in shades, and sicken at the Sun. "Amid the dreary gloom of night, I cry, When will the morn's once pleasing scenes return? Yet what can morn's returning ray supply, But foes that triumph, or but friends that mouru! "Alas! no more that joyous morn appears That led the tranquil hours of spotless fame; For I have steep'd a father's couch in tears, And ting'd a mother's glowing cheek with shame. "The vocal birds that raise their matin strain, The sportive lambs, increase my pensive moan; All seem to chase me from the cheerful plain, And talk of truth and innocence alone. "If through the garden's flowery tribes I stray, Where bloom the jasmines that could once allure, Hope not to find delight in us, they say, For we are spotless, Jessy; we are pure. "Ye flowers! that well reproach a nymph so frail; "Now the grave old alarm the gentler young; That bids the morn propitious smile on me. "Be but my friend; I ask no dearer name; "Force not my tongue to ask its scanty bread; "Haply, when Age has silver'd o'er my hair, " She spoke - nor was I born of savage race; "I saw her foot the lofty bark ascend; I saw her breast with every passion heave; I left her- torn from every earthly friend; Oh! my hard bosom, which could bear to leave! "- Brief let me be; the fatal storm arose; The billows rag'd, the pilot's art was vain O'er the tall mast the circling surges close; My Jessy-floats upon the watery plain! " And see my youth's impetuous fires decay; Seek not to stop Reflection's bitter tear; But warn the frolic, and instruct the gay, From Jessy floating on her watery bier!" Since Phyllis vouchsaf'd me a look, I never once dreamt of my vine: Beyond all that had pleas'd me before; But why do I languish in vain; Why wander thus pensively here? The pride of that valley, is flown; When forc'd the fair nymph to forego, My path I could hardly discern; I thought that she bade me return. The pilgrim that journeys all day Is happy, nor heard to repine. And my solace wherever I go. II. HOPE. My banks they are furnish'd with bees, Such health do my fountains bestow : My fountains all border'd with moss, Where the hare-bells and violets grow. One would think she might like to retire But I hasted and planted it there. To prune the wild branches away. From the plains, from the woodlands and groves, From thickets of roses that blow! she may not be fond to resign. I have found out a gift for my fair; I have found where the wood-pigeons breed: But let me that plunder forbear, She will say 't was a barbarous deed. Such tenderness fall from her tongue. I have heard her with sweetness unfold How that pity was due to-a dove: That it ever attended the bold; And she call'd it the sister of love. But her words such a pleasure convey, So much I her accents adore, Let her speak, and whatever she say, Methinks I should love her the more. Can a bosom so gentle remain Unmov'd when her Corydon sighs? Will a nymph that is fond of the plain, These plains and this valley despise ? Dear regions of silence and shade! Soft scenes of contentment and ease? Where I could have pleasingly stray'd, If aught, in her absence, could please. But where does my Phyllida stray? And where are her grots and her bowers? Are the groves and the valleys as gay, And the shepherds as gentle as ours? The groves may perhaps be as fair, And the face of the valleys as fine; The swains may in manners compare, But their love is not equal to mine. III. SOLICITUDE. WHY will you my passion reprove? With her mien she enamours the brave; With her wit she engages the free; With her modesty pleases the grave; She is every way pleasing to me. O you that have been of her train, But I cannot allow her to smile. For when Paridel tries in the dance And his crook is bestudded around; And his pipe- oh my Phyllis, beware Of a magic there is in the sound. 'T is his with mock passion to glow, "T is his in smooth tales to unfold, How her face is as bright as the snow, And her bosom, be sure, is as cold. How the nightingales labour the strain, With the notes of his charmer to vie; How they vary their accents in vain, Repine at her triumphs, and die. To the grove or the garden he strays, "Then the lily no longer is white; And he fancies no shepherd his peer; Let his crook be with hyacinths bound, So Phyllis the trophy despise: Perhaps I was void of all thought: She is faithless, and I am undone ; Ye that witness the woes I endure, Let reason instruct you to shun What it cannot instruct you to cure. Beware how you loiter in vain Amid nymphs of a higher degree: It is not for me to explain How fair, and how fickle they be. 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 're 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; I would hide with the beasts of the chase; Erewhile, in sportive circles round Pleas'd on his various freaks to dwell, She tells with what delight he stood She tells me how with eager speed 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, Soon would the vine his wounds deplore, No more those bowers might Strephon see, Each wayward passion soon would tear Then mourn not the decrees of Fate, |