« ПредишнаНапред »
A painted quiver on her shoulder sounds,
• Ah, Cynthia! ah--though banish'd from thy train, Let me, I let me, to the shades repair, My native shades! there weep, and murmur there!" She said, and, melting as in tears she lay, In a soft silver stream dissoly'd away. The silver stream her virgin coldness keeps, For ever murmurs, and for ever weeps; Still bears the name the helpless virgin bore, And bathes the forest where she rang'd before. In her chaste current oft the goddess laves, And with celestial tears augments the waves. Oft in her glass the musing shepherd spies The headlong mountains and the downward skies, The watery landscape of the pendent woods, And absent trees that tremble in the floods; In the clear azure gleam the flocks are seen, And floating forests paint the waves with green;
Through the fair scene roll slow the lingering streams, Then foaming pour along, and rush into the Thames.
Thou, too, great father of the British foods! With joyful pride survey'st our lofty woods; Where towering oak3 their growing honours rear, Aud future navies on thy shores appear. Not Neptune's self from all her streams receives A wealthier tribute than to thine he gives. No seas so rich, so gay no banks appear, No lake so gentle, and no spring so clear. Nor Po so swells the fabling poet's lays, Wbile led along the skies his current strays, As thine, which visits Windsor's fam'd abodes, To grace the mansion of our earthly gods : Nor all his stars above a lustre show, Like the bright beauties on thy banks below; Where Jove, subdued by mortal passion still, Might change Olympus for a nobler hill.
Happy the man whom this bright court approves, His sovereign favours, and his country loves: Happy next him, who to these shades retires, Whom nature charms, and wliom the muse inspires, Whom humbler joys of home-felt quiet please, Successive study, exercise, and ease. He gathers health from herbs the forest yields, And of their fragrant physic spoils the fields; With chymic art exalts the mineral powers, And draws the aromatic souls ot flowers: Now marks the course of rolling orbs on high; O'er figur'd worlds now travels with his eye; Of ancient writ unlocks the learned store, Consults the dead, and lives past ages o'er : Or wandering thoughtful in the silent wood, Attends the duties of the wise and good, T observe a mean, be to himself a friend, To follow nature, and regard his end; Or looks on heaven with more than mortal eyes, Bids his free soul expatiate in the skies, Amid lier kindred stars familiar roam, Survey the region, and confess her home!
Such was the life great Scipio once admir'de
Ye sacred Nine! that all my soul possess,
flow): I seem through consecrated walks to rove, I hear soft music die along the grove: Led by the sound I roam from shade to shade, By godlike poets venerable made : Hiere his first lays majestic Denham sung; There the last numbers flow'd from Cowley's tongue O early lost! what tears the river shed, When the sad pomp along his banks was led! His drooping swans on every note expire, And on liis willows hung each muse's lyre.
Since fate relentless stopp'd their heavenly voice,
Here noble Surrey felt the sacred rage,
In the same shades the Cupid3 tun'd his lyre,
Oh wouldst thou sing what heroes Windsor bore,
Let softer strains ill-fated Henry mourn, And palms eternal flourish round his urn. Here o'er the martyr-king the marble weeps, And, fast beside him, once-fear'd Edward sleeps: Whom not th' extended Albion could contain, From old Belerium to the northern main, The grave unites; where ev'n the great find resto And blended lie th' oppressor and th'opprest!
Make sacred Charles's tomb for ever known
In that blest moment from his oozy bed
Grav'd on his urn appear'd the moon, that guides
High in the midst, upon his urn reclin'd
• Hail, sacred peace! hail, long-expected days, That Thames's glory to the stars shall raise ! Though Tyber's streams immortal Rome behold, Though foaming Hermus swells with tides of gold, From heaven itself though sevenfold Nilus flows, And harvests on a hundred realms bestows; These now no more shall be the muses' themes, Lost in my fame, as in the sea their streams. Let Volga's banks with iron squadrons shine, And groves of lances glitter on the Rhine; Let barbarous Ganges arm a servile train, Be mine the blessings of a peaceful reign. No more my sons shall dye with British blood Red Iber's sands, or Ister's foaming food: Safe on my shore each unmolested swain Shall tend the flocks, or reap the bearded grain: