Ah! too plain that streaming eye
Speaks my lov'd Sabina's pain;
Vain the voice of festive joy,
Sorrow waits the lover's train! Too weak, alas! the pow'rful bowl, To cure the sickness of the soul.
AWAY! nor talk of flow'ry chains, Of soft distress, and pleasing pains; But learn this useful truth from me, That Pleasure dwells with Liberty.
Me, raptur'd, let the Muses lead,
To wander careless o'er the mead;
Or soft repos'd beside the stream,
To taste the wild, poetic dream!
Let glowing fancy paint the scene
Of airy Pindus, ever green;
Around the Delian God, in state,
Let all his tuneful vot'ries wait.
And, see! where Sappho sits alone; Her flowing robe, her loosen'd zone, Th' ambrosial scent her locks diffuse, Distinguish well the Lesbian muse.
A rosy smile o'erspreads her face, Her mien assumes a softer grace; She waves her snowy hand and see! My gentle lyre, she points to thee.
She takes, she tunes, my trembling lyre,
And swelling, lo! the notes aspire!
She strikes the chords, and all around
List'ning echoes drink the sound.
But, ah! how treach'rous does she prove,
She sets the yielding strings to love;
And now alas! my rebel lyre
Will only sound to soft desire.
Nor Philomela's liquid throat,
Nor dear Amintor's softer note,
Oh, charmer of the Lesbian plains!
Can equal thy melodious strains.
When in thy bright, enchanting page,
I view the tender, am'rous rage;
The melting lines my bosom move,
And all my yielding soul is love.
And sure my raptur'd notes have art,
To melt the stubborn, marble heart;
To wake the soft consenting glow,
Ev'n in Amintor's breast of snow!
If magic numbers can controul
His native cruelty of soul.!
Ah! bring the silver-sounding lyre,
To wake the gentle, young desire.
Harmonious songstress, I no more
Will Cytherea's pow'r adore;
Since such dissolving numbers prove
That Sappho is the queen of love.
THE Lesbian lute no more can charm,
Nor when my once panting bosom warm;
No more I breathe the tender sigh:
Nor when my beauteous swain appears,
With down-cast look, and starting tears,
Confess the lustre of his eye.
With freedom blest, at early dawn,
I wander o'er the verdant lawn,
And hail the sweet returning spring;
The fragrant breeze, the feather'd choir,
To raise my vernal joys conspire,
While Peace and Health their treasures bring.
Come, lovely Health! divinest maid!
And lead me thro' the rural shade:
To thee the rural shades belong!
"Tis thine to bless the simple swain;
And, while he tries the tuneful strain,
To raise the raptur'd poet's song.
Behold the patient village hind!
No cares disturb his tranquil mind,
By thee and sweet Contentment blest;
All day he turns the stubborn plain,
And meets, at eve, his infant train,
While guiltless pleasure fills his breast.
Oh, ever good and bounteous! still,
By fountain fresh, or murm'ring rill,
Let me thy blissful presence find!
Thee, Goddess! thee, my steps pursue,
When careless of the morning dew,
I leave the less'ning vales behind.
Он, far remov'd from my retreat
Be Av'rice, and Ambition's feet!
Give me, unconscious of their pow'r,
To taste the peaceful, social hour.
Give me, beneath the branching vine,
The woodbine sweet, or eglantine,
While ev'ning sheds its balmy dews,
To court the chaste inspiring Muse!
Or, with the partner of my soul,
To mix the heart-expanding bowl.
Yes, dear Sabina! when with thee,
I hail the Goddess, Liberty;
When joyous thro' the leafy grove,
Or o'er the flow'ry mead, we rove;
While thy tender bosom shares
Thy faithful Delia's joys and cares;
Nor pomp, nor wealth, my wishes move,
Nor the more soft deceiver, Love.
ON THE DEATH OF DAVID HUME.
SILENCE, ye growling wolves and bears,
And hear the song of Russel *!
Hark! how upon Parnassus' hill
This bard kicks up a bustle !
He calls the Muses lying jades,
A pack of venal strumpets :
And reason good; for none of them
The death of David trumpets.
But say-shall Shakspeare's Muse bedew
This David's leaden urn?
Or at his tomb, O Milton! say,
Shall thy Urania mourn?
Shall gentle Spenser's injur'd shade
For him attune the lay?
No! none of these o'er his cold grave
Shall strew one sprig of bay.
* Russell's Elegy on the death of D. Hume.
|