What cheering fcents these bord'ring banks exhale!
How loud that heifer lows from yonder vale!
That thrush how fhrill! his note fo clear, fo high, 35
He drowns each feather'd minstrel of the sky.
Here let me trace beneath the purpled Morn
The deepmouth'd beagle and the sprightly horn,
Or lure the trout with welldiffembled flies,
Or fetch the flutt'ring partridge from the skies. 40
Nor fhall thy hand difdain to crop the vine,
The downy peach or flavour'd nectarine,
Or rob the beehive of its golden hoard,
And bear th' unbought luxuriance to thy board.
Sometimes my books by day fhall kill the hours, 45
While from thy needle rise the filken flow'rs,
And thou by turns to ease my feeble fight
Refume the volume and deceive the night.
Oh! when I mark thy twinkling eyes oppreft,
Soft whifp'ring let me warn my love to rest,
Then watch thee charm'dwhile flecp locks ev'ryfense,
And to fweet Heav'n commend thy innocence.
Thus reign'd our fathers o'er the rural fold,
Wife, hale, and honeft, in the days of old,
Till courts arose where fubftance pays for show, 55
And fpecious joys are bought with real wo.
See Flavia's pendants large, well spread and right;
The ear that wears them hears a fool each night.
Mark how th' embroider'd col'nel sneaks away
To fhun the with'ring dame that made him gay. 69
That knave to gain a title loft his fame;
That rais'd his credit by a daughter's shame:
This coxcomb's riband cost him half his land,
And oaks unnumber'd bought that fool a wand.
Fond man, as all his forrows were too few,
65
Acquires ftrange wants that Nature never knew,
By midnight lamps he emulates the day,
And fleeps perverse the cheerful funs away;
From goblets high-embost his wine must glide,
Round his clos'd fight the gorgeous curtain flide, 70
Fruits ere their time to grace his pomp muft rife,
And three untafted courfes glút his eyes:
For this are Nature's gentle calls withstood,
The voice of confcience and the bonds of blood;
This wisdom thy reward for ev'ry pain,
And this gay glory all thy mighty gain :
Fair phantoms woo'd and fcorn'd from age to age
Since bards began to laugh or priests to rage,
And yet, juft curfe on man's afpiring kind!
Prone to ambition, to example blind,
Our children's children fhall our steps purfue,
And the fame errours be for ever new.
Mcan-while in hope a guiltless country swain,
My reed with warblings cheers th' imagin'd plain.
Hail, humble Shades! where truth and filence dwell;
Thou noify Town and faithlefs Court! farewell; 86
Farewell ambition, once my darling flame,
The thirst of lucre and the charm of fame;
In life's by-road, that winds thro' paths unknown,
My days tho' number'd shall be all my own:
Here fhall they end, (O! might they twice begin)
And all be white the Fates intend to spin.
WITH A PRESENT OF FLOWERS.
THE fragrant painting of our flow'ry fields,
The choiceft ftores that youthful Summer yields,
Strephon to fair Elifa hath convey'd,
The sweetest Garland to the fweetest maid!
O cheer the Flow'rs, my Fair! and let them reft
On the Elyfium of thy fnowy breast,
And there regale the smell and charm the view
With richer odours and a lovelier hue.
Learn hence, nor fear a flatt'rer in the Flow'r,
Thy form divine and beauty's matchless pow'r : 10
Faint near thy cheeks the bright carnation glows,
And thy ripe lips outblush the op'ning rose;
The lily's fnow betrays lefs pure a light,
Loft in thy bofom's more unfully'd white;
And wreaths of jafmine shed perfumes beneath
Th' ambrofial incenfe of thy balmy breath.
Ten thoufand beauties grace the rival pair;
How fair the Chaplet and the Nymph how fair!
But ah! too foon thefe fleeting charms decay,
The fading luitre of one haft'ning day;
This night fhall fee the gaudy Wreath decline,
The rofes wither and the lilies pine.
The Garland's fate to thine fhall be apply'd, And what advanc'd thy form shall check thy pride. Be wife, my Fair! the present hour improve, Let joy be now, and now a waste of love;
Each drooping bloom fhall plead thy juft excufe, And that which fhew'd thy beauty fhew its ufe. 28
TO GILFRED LAWSON, ESQ.
As Damon Chloe's painted form furvey'd
He figh'd and languish'd for the jilting fhade,
For Cupid taught the artist-hand its grace,
And Venus wanton'd in the mimick face.
Now he laments a look fo falfely fair,
And almoft damns what yet resembles her;
Now he devours it with his longing eyes,
Now fated from the lovely phantom flies,
Yet burns to look again, yet looks again and dies.
Her iv'ry neck his lips prefume to kifs,
And his bold hands the swelling bofom prefs;
The fwain drinks in deep draughts of vain defire,
Melts without heat and burns in fancy'd fire.
Strange pow'r of Paint! thou nice creator Art!
What love inspires may life itself impart.
Struck with like wounds of old Pygmalion pray'd,
And hugg'd to life his artificial maid.
Clafp, new Pygmalion! clafp the feeming charms,
Perhaps ev'n now th' enliv'ning image warms,
Deftin'd to crown thy joys and revel in thy arms; 20
Thy arms, which shall with fire so fierce invade
'That she at once fhall be and ceafe to be a maid.
To Whitton's fhades and Hounslow's airy plain
Thou, Kneller! tak'ft thy fummer flights in vain,
In vain thy with gives all thy rural hours
To the fair villa and wellorder'd bow'rs;
'To court thy pencil early at thy gates
Ambition knocks and fleeting Beauty waits;
The boaftful Mufe of others' fame fo fure
Implores thy aid to make her own fecure:
The Great, the Fair, and if aught nobler be,
Aught more belov'd, the Arts folicit thee.
How canst thou hope to fly the world, in vain
From Europe fever'd by the circling main,
Sought by the kings of ev'ry diftant land,
And ev'ry hero worthy of thy hand?
Haft thou forgot that mighty Bourbon fear'd'
He ftill was mortal till thy draught appear'd?
|