And paint that sweetly-vacant scene, When, all beneath the poplar bough, My spirits light, my soul serene,
I breathed in verse one cordial vow, That nothing should my soul inspire But friendship warm and love entire.
Dull 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 moments, ill repaid: O! from my breast that season rase, And bring my childhood in its place.
Bring me the bells, the rattle bring,
And bring the hobby I bestrode,
When pleased, 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.”
Optima quæque dies miseris mortalibus ævi
Ah! wretched mortals we!-our brightest days On fleetest pinion fly.
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.
Pleased 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 erased from every grove
Were Delia's name and Strephon's love.
No more those bowers might Strephon see,
Where first he fondly gazed on thee;
No more those beds of flowerets find,
Which for thy charming brows he twined.
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 give his life so short a date;
And I will join my tenderest sighs,
To think that youth so swiftly flies!
WRITTEN ABOUT THE TIME OF HIS EXECUTION, IN THE YEAR 1745.
COME listen to my mournful tale,
Ye tender hearts and lovers dear!
Nor will you scorn to heave a sigh,
Nor need you blush to shed a tear.
And thou, dear Kitty, peerless maid!
Do thou a pensive ear incline;
For thou canst weep at every woe,
And pity every plaint-but mine.
Young Dawson was a gallant boy,
A brighter never trod the plain;
And well he loved one charming maid,
And dearly was he loved again.
One tender maid, she loved him dear:
Of gentle blood the damsel came;
And faultless was her beauteous form,
And spotless was her virgin fame.
But curse on party's hateful strife,
That led the favour'd youth astray
The day the rebel clans appear'd:
O had he never seen that day!
Their colours and their sash he wore,
And in the fatal dress was found;
And now he must that death endure
Which gives the brave the keenest wound.
How pale was then his true-love's cheek,
When Jemmy's sentence reach'd her ear!
For never yet did Alpine snows
So pale or yet so chill appear.
With faltering voice, she, weeping, said,
'O Dawson, monarch of my heart!
Think not thy death shall end our loves,
For thou and I will never part.
'Yet might sweet mercy find a place,
And bring relief to Jemmy's woes;
O George! without a prayer for thee
My orisons should never close.
'The gracious prince that gave him life
Would crown a never-dying flame,
And every tender babe I bore
Should learn to lisp the giver's name.
'But though he should be dragg'd in scorn To yonder ignominious tree,
He shall not want one constant friend
To share the cruel Fates' decree.'
O then her mourning coach was call'd!
The sledge moved slowly on before;
Though borne in a triumphal car,
She had not loved her favourite more.
She follow'd him, prepared to view
The terrible behests of law;
And the last scene of Jemmy's woes
With calm and stedfast eye she saw.
|