Her voice in the concert, as now I have found,
Gave everything else its agreeable sound.
8 Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue? And where is the violet's beautiful blue?
Does ought of its sweetness the blossom beguile?
That meadow, those daisies, why do they not smile?
Ah! rivals, I see what it was that you dressed,
And made yourselves fine for a place in her breast:
You put on your colours to pleasure her eye,
To be plucked by her hand, on her bosom to die.
9 How slowly Time creeps till my Phoebe return! While amidst the soft zephyr's cool breezes I burn: Methinks, if I knew whereabouts he would tread, I could breathe on his wings, and 'twould melt down the lead.
Fly swifter, ye minutes, bring hither my dear,
And rest so much longer for 't when she is here.
Ah, Colin! old Time is full of delay,
Nor will budge one foot faster for all thou canst say.
10 Will no pitying power, that hears me complain,
Or cure my disquiet, or soften my pain?
To be cured, thou must, Colin, thy passion remove;
But what swain is so silly to live without love!
No, deity, bid the dear nymph to return,
For ne'er was poor shepherd so sadly forlorn.
Ah! what shall I do? I shall die with despair;
Take heed, all ye swains, how ye part with your fair.
ODE TO A TOBACCO-PIPE.
Little tube of mighty power,
Charmer of an idle hour,
Object of my warm desire,
Lip of wax and eye of fire;
And thy snowy taper waist,
With my finger gently braced;
And thy pretty swelling crest,
With my little stopper pressed;
And the sweetest bliss of blisses,
Breathing from thy balmy kisses.
Happy thrice, and thrice again,
Happiest he of happy men;
Who when again the night returns,
When again the taper burns,
When again the cricket's gay,
(Little cricket full of play,)
Can afford his tube to feed
With the fragrant Indian weed:
Pleasure for a nose divine,
Incense of the god of wine.
Happy thrice, and thrice again,
Happiest he of happy men.
AWAY! LET NOUGHT TO LOVE DISPLEASING. 1 Away! let nought to love displeasing, My Winifreda, move your care; Let nought delay the heavenly blessing, Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear.
2 What though no grants of royal donors, With pompous titles grace our blood; We'll shine in more substantial honours, And, to be noble, we'll be good.
3 Our name while virtue thus we tender,
Will sweetly sound where'er 'tis spoke;
And all the great ones, they shall wonder
How they respect such little folk.
4 What though, from fortune's lavish bounty,
No mighty treasures we possess;
We'll find, within our pittance, plenty,
And be content without excess.
5 Still shall each kind returning season
Sufficient for our wishes give;
For we will live a life of reason,
And that's the only life to live.
6 Through youth and age, in love excelling,
We'll hand in hand together tread;
Sweet-smiling peace shall crown our dwelling,
And babes, sweet-smiling babes, our bed.
7 How should I love the pretty creatures,
While round my knees they fondly clung!
To see them look their mother's features,
To hear them lisp their mother's tongue!
8 And when with envy Time transported,
Shall think to rob us of our joys;
You'll in your girls again be courted,
And I'll go wooing in my boys.
RICHARD BENTLEY'S SOLE POETICAL COMPOSITION.
1 Who strives to mount Parnassus' hill,
And thence poetic laurels bring,
Must first acquire due force and skill,
Must fly with swan's or eagle's wing.
2 Who Nature's treasures would explore, Her mysteries and arcana know, Must high as lofty Newton soar,
Must stoop as delving Woodward low.
3 Who studies ancient laws and rites,
Tongues, arts, and arms, and history;
Must drudge, like Selden, days and nights,
And in the endless labour die.
4 Who travels in religious jars,
(Truth mixed with error, shades with rays,) Like Whiston, wanting pyx or stars, In ocean wide or sinks or strays.
5 But grant our hero's hope, long toil
And comprehensive genius crown,
All sciences, all arts his spoil,
Yet what reward, or what renown?
6 Envy, innate in vulgar souls,
Envy steps in and stops his rise;
Envy with poisoned tarnish fouls
His lustre, and his worth decries.
7 He lives inglorious or in want,
To college and old books confined: Instead of learned, he's called pedant; Dunces advanced, he 's left behind: Yet left content, a genuine Stoic he, Great without patron, rich without South Sea.
LINES ADDRESSED TO POPE.1
1 While malice, Pope, denies thy page
Its own celestial fire;
While critics and while bards in rage
Admiring, won't admire:
2 While wayward pens thy worth assail,
And envious tongues decry;
These times, though many a friend bewail,
These times bewail not I.
3 But when the world's loud praise is thine,
And spleen no more shall blame;
When with thy Homer thou shalt shine
In one unclouded fame:
4 When none shall rail, and every lay
Devote a wreath to thee;
That day (for come it will) that day
Shall I lament to see.
1 Written by one Lewis, a schoolmaster, and highly commended by Johnson.— See Boswell.
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